Legend of the Celtic Stone

by Michael Phillips

  Paddy stared down at the worn oak table. An awkward minute passed. Slowly she became aware of a form approaching and taking up a position in front of her. She looked up. There stood the filthy apron.

  “What’ll ye have, miss?” said the man, looking and sounding none too pleased at the prospect of another customer.

  “I’ll, uh . . . I’ll have a Guinness,” replied Paddy. It was the only name she could think of. She doubted they served Fetzer Barrel Select Chardonnay in this place.

  Without acknowledgment, he turned and walked back to the counter. He returned a minute later with a gigantic glass filled with some kind of dark brown liquid, nearly black in this light, topped with an inch and a half of creamy tan foam. He set it in front of Paddy and departed.

  Trying to look nonchalant, as if she came down to the pub for a beer or two every day, Paddy reached for the glass, lifted it to her lips, and downed a healthy glug. She choked and broke into a fit of coughing.

  Ugh! she exclaimed to herself. What kind of foul stuff was that! If this was Guinness, why was it so famous? Who could drink it?

  A few glances and snickers crept around the room. But they were brief. Soon everyone was about their business again. As her eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, Paddy again raised the glass to her mouth, this time sipping at the foam and glancing about as she pretended to drink. She spotted Reardon seated at the far end, apparently waiting for someone. If he had noticed her, he was paying no attention now.

  Behind her the door opened again. A shaft of light pierced the smoky haze, then disappeared as the door banged shut.

  A man walked across the floor and sat down beside Reardon.

  Two

  Andrew Trentham drove slowly from Carlisle back toward Derwenthwaite. His mind was full . . . not only of his experience on Iona, but also of what had just taken place in the hospital with his mother.

  Talking to her like that had been awkward and difficult. And yet . . . what had happened in those few moments between them was nearly as miraculous as her sudden recovery.

  Suddenly he realized—if not for the first time in his life, then with an awareness that went deep into new places within him—that he loved his mother . . . really loved her with all the affection a son should feel. He had always loved her. But her weakened condition and his honest confession had unlocked new reservoirs of feeling in his heart that had been shut away for years under the twin burdens of expectation and disapproval.

  He felt such great relief.

  A gigantic burden had been lifted from his shoulders that he had been carrying all his life. He knew he was at last free from having to be anyone but the person God had made him to be . . . and to become.

  A silent tear slowly crept down his cheek.

  I don’t know what to say, God, he whispered, except thank you. Thank you for hearing my prayers. And thank you for my mum, and what I now realize she means to me.

  Three

  Several long minutes passed in O’Faolain’s, during which Paddy made very little progress toward emptying her tall pint of stout. She continued sipping at its edges, trying not to grimace. The foam was nearly gone. There was nothing to do now but actually drink some of the dark brown mud. The fat, aproned man again approached, looking down at her with a bemused expression.

  Did she want anything else?

  Paddy shook her head and attempted a smile. He nodded without further word, then ambled off toward his other patrons.

  From somewhere at the far end of the pub, the form of another woman now emerged from the shadows and sat down to join Reardon and the other man. The woman’s blond hair seemed out of place here, thought Paddy. She continued staring absently.

  Wait—it couldn’t be. . . .

  Suddenly recognition dawned. She knew that face!

  What was she doing here?

  Andrew Trentham shot into her mind. Maybe he would know!

  She rose and left the pub. Now she was sure something was up! Outside she hurried to the phone booth that stood near the front door. She fumbled through her handbag for her address book, then quickly rang the number she had managed to obtain for Andrew Trentham’s flat.

  She heard the phone ring twice. “Hello, this is Andrew Trentham,” she heard his voice answer. “I’m away right now but would appreciate your leaving—”

  No! she wailed in exasperation. Not a machine! I hate answering machines! Now is one time I don’t want a recording!

  She hung up and thought for a minute. There was only one thing to do—go back and see if she could hear anything from Reardon’s table. If she couldn’t get hold of Trentham, she would have to figure this out alone.

  She walked back inside and took her seat. Unfortunately the pint of stout was waiting for her. She wondered if the man with the apron had any 7-Up. Her stomach was feeling funny.

  Paddy strained to listen. From the back somewhere a fourth man now joined them.

  Several minutes went by. She could make out very little, only the subdued sound of their voices through the drone of pub noises.

  All of a sudden Paddy’s brain cleared with revelation. What was she thinking? He had said he was going on recess! Andrew Trentham wasn’t in London at all. He was at his estate in Cumbria!

  Hastily she fumbled in her purse for the tiny book. Yes . . . there it was! She rose and again hurried out to the phone booth.

  She was more glad than ever that she’d asked Bert to track down these numbers. She hadn’t anticipated needing them quite so soon!

  She picked up the receiver and began hurriedly punching in the numbers from her book.

  Four

  Andrew drove slowly up the familiar drive to Derwenthwaite Hall, his home since childhood.

  A nostalgic feeling swept through him, almost as if he had not been here in years. He had actually been gone less than three days. But so much had changed in that brief time.

  In no hurry, Andrew walked toward the great stone house, pausing briefly to gaze upon it, then continued to the front door. He walked inside. In the front entrance hung the pictures of the family, just as they had for years. How different was his response to the four faces on this day.

  His heart filled with love for his father and mother as their images stared down at him from the wall. Tenderness welled up within him to see his mother next to Lindsay. A new compassion came with it. What his mother must have gone through . . . the pain, the agony of loss.

  God, he silently said, hardly pausing to think how easy and natural praying had suddenly become, I am sorry for not understanding before now how hard it was for her. Give us back the years we lost, each perhaps being afraid to open up to the other. Don’t take her yet. Give me time to be a true son to her, and give her time to learn to be a true mother. Free her, God, from whatever shackles of guilt and disappointment and regret have bound her all these years and prevented her being what perhaps deep down she always wanted to be toward me.

  Gradually into Andrew’s ear intruded the sound of the telephone ringing from the other room. . . .

  Five

  Larne Reardon, Member of Parliament, of ancient Irish descent though apparently a loyal Britisher throughout his professional life, had been speaking in low tones to his three associates-errant for some time. He had scarcely glanced about the pub since his arrival or taken notice of its other patrons.

  Though most of Reardon’s parliamentary colleagues were aware of his Irish roots, none of them possessed an inkling how deep his true loyalties, kept secret all these years, actually went. They would have been shocked to learn that he had connections high in the IRA as well as in certain Irish druidic circles and that he had been more than peripherally involved in a number of incidents that he had decried from the floor of the Commons along with his fellow parliamentarians.

  This present mission was nearly done. Whether it would result in his public exposure and thus a sudden needful modification of career path—that much was uncertain at this point. But it was not his future that was presently on
the minds of the two men and one woman at the table with him at this moment, but their own.

  “It’s payoff time, Reardon,” one of the men was saying. “You said it would be today.”

  “The delivery has been made, Malloy,” replied the MP. “We have to be patient with these people.”

  “We’ve been patient for a long time! Now, where is the bloke?”

  “He’ll be here. Believe me, the money will—”

  Reardon stopped abruptly.

  Suddenly his attention came instantly into focus across the room at the just-vacated table where a half-empty pint still sat.

  “Did any of you notice that woman who was sitting over there a minute ago?”

  The two men followed Reardon’s eyes, then shook their heads.

  “Now that you mention it,” said the young woman with them, “there was something familiar about her. I do think I’ve seen her before.”

  “I was afraid of that. Go get her, Malloy,” said Reardon, now in an urgent tone. “You too, Fogarty. Find out what she’s up to. Don’t let her get away from here. If she recognizes any of us, we could be in big trouble.”

  The two jumped up and strode quickly toward the front door.

  Six

  Mr. Trentham . . . Mr. Trentham . . . it’s Patricia Rawlings . . .” came the unexpected and imperative voice on the line when Andrew answered the phone.

  “Miss Rawlings!” said Andrew in an incredulous but pleasant voice, “how in the world did you find me here?”

  “Never mind,” replied Paddy. “I’ll apologize for that later.”

  “I am right in the middle of a bit of a family situation. If you’re working on a story, I’m afraid—”

  “Please, Mr. Trentham,” interrupted Paddy, “just listen.”

  At last Andrew realized that her insistent voice carried a worried tone.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “You’ve got my attention.”

  “I’m in a phone booth outside a pub in Ireland,” Paddy began.

  “Ireland—you mean Northern Ireland?”

  “No, I mean Ireland—southwest of Dublin. I followed your friend Larne Reardon here.”

  “You . . . followed Reardon? But—”

  “He’s mixed up in something, Mr. Trentham. I’m sure of it. How well do you know him?”

  “We’re not close friends, if that’s what you mean. But why on earth would you be following Larne?”

  “That’s why I’m calling, Mr. Trentham. I think he’s involved with the theft of the Stone of Scone.”

  “What—Larne!” exclaimed Andrew. “Surely, Miss Rawlings—”

  “And he’s not alone. Remember that woman we saw in the Horse Guards restaurant—the one you went up and spoke to?”

  “I remember.—What’s this all about, Miss Rawlings?”

  “She’s here, Mr. Trentham . . . she’s with Reardon.”

  “Blair? I’m sure you’re mistaken. I spoke with her only a few days ago.”

  “It’s the same woman, Mr. Trentham—I tell you, she’s here with Reardon.”

  “I had no idea they were acquainted. I admit I am surprised, though I’m not sure I see anything so nefarious in it. And I still do not see why any of this is your concern, Miss Rawlings. Or mine, for that matter.”

  Even as he spoke, however, Andrew recalled Blair’s words—I’m leaving in a few hours—and her reluctance to tell him anything about her destination.

  “There are two others here with them,” Paddy was saying. “They look like IRA types if ever I saw them. To answer your question—it is your concern because you know them both. You’re an important man. You’re the only one who can help. I don’t know who else to turn to. If they are mixed up in the—”

  Suddenly Andrew heard a cry of pain.

  “Ouch . . . hey!” exclaimed Paddy’s voice, “—what are you doing . . . stop!”

  A scuffling followed.

  “Andr—!” came a cry, instantly muffled. The line went silent.

  Now Andrew was genuinely worried.

  After several seconds another voice came on the phone—a masculine and angry voice.

  “I don’t know who you are,” it said. “But if you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep out of it. Otherwise, this bird’s dead.”

  The next instant the phone clicked into silence.

  Seven

  The June sun was already climbing high in the sky, though it was not yet even eight in the morning.

  Andrew stood as far forward on the upper deck of the ferry as he could get. He had left the seaside town of Stranraer on the first ferry of the day and would soon arrive in Larne, just north of Belfast. When buying his ticket, the name of the small city suddenly brought to mind Larne Reardon’s Irish roots. All night since Paddy’s call, he had tried to tell himself there was some innocent explanation for what she had seen. Now he began to wonder if her suspicions might contain more merit than he first thought.

  After checking her incoming number through his telephone’s Caller ID, Andrew spent a good part of the previous evening on the phone to London, trying to get the precise origin of her call. It hadn’t been easy, but at last he had nailed it down to a public phone booth outside a pub called O’Faolain’s Green near Carlow in southeast Ireland—as Paddy had said, southwest of Dublin.

  The instant he heard the name of the pub he remembered it from Scotland Yard’s investigation. He also recalled that he had mentioned it to Larne Reardon, who said he had never heard of the place. If what Paddy had said was true and Reardon was there, then Larne either had just discovered that particular pub . . . or had lied to him.

  Whatever this was all about, thought Andrew, it was beginning to have a serious feel.

  He knew he had no choice but to get to Ireland as quickly as possible. Patricia Rawlings was in trouble—that much was obvious. He could call the authorities . . . but Scotland Yard had no legal jurisdiction in Ireland. And Andrew wasn’t sure he wanted to involve the Irish police just yet.

  In the end, Andrew decided to go alone, at least initially, and take his own car. Driving would be quicker than trying to find a flight and would give him greater mobility. He hoped the UK plates would be no problem. He would keep his mobile phone with him every second, with Shepley’s private number entered in memory. The instant he got in over his head, he’d have Scotland Yard, or somebody, on the phone! He was no James Bond!

  He had hardly slept all night. Unfortunately, he had to wait till morning. There were no ferries at two a.m.

  He’d driven away from Derwenthwaite at first light, stopping by the hospital in Carlisle to explain the sudden developments to his father. His mother had had a good night and was still asleep.

  “I hope to be back in England by evening, Dad,” he said as he left.

  From Carlisle he drove north into Scotland, then through southern Dumfries and Galloway to Stranraer.

  Now here he was with the Irish coastline approaching. He would head from Belfast down to Dublin, and then to the last place he knew for certain that Paddy had been.

  Once he arrived . . . well, he didn’t know what he’d do then. He’d have to improvise.

  Eight

  Several hours later Andrew pulled into the parking lot of O’Faolain’s Green.

  A red-and-white phone booth sat in front. It must be where Paddy had called him. Nothing looked sinister in the light of day. No armed IRA guards hung about. The place appeared mostly deserted, though three or four cars were parked in front.

  Andrew got out and went inside. He had dressed for the occasion in a faded plaid work shirt and old jeans. If he didn’t raise his voice, hopefully he would blend in.

  He glanced around, then sauntered to the counter and ordered a pint. The fat man gave him a thorough once-over as he set down the glass on the counter. Andrew nodded and took a sip. He perked up his ears to listen. He wanted to get the feel of the place before asking questions. Locals in places like this never liked inquisitive strangers. He stared into his glass, prete
nding to be absorbed in his own thoughts.

  Scattered voices echoed about in thick Irish accents. The sound of one old fellow came through as more eccentric than the rest. He seemed a likely candidate for further scrutiny. The voice did not exactly rise above the din, but its scratchy timbre and high pitch, punctuated by an occasional laugh, made it a voice one couldn’t help noticing. He seemed to be up on all the local gossip, though how much of it was true might have been open to question. Few of the others in the place were paying him much attention. His laughter and chatter indicated that he liked his beer robust and his stories exaggerated . . . and that he had already been enjoying the consumption of the one and the dispensing of the other for some time. After several minutes Andrew deduced him to be a semiretired farmer from Carlow.

  Casually Andrew glanced around. The fellow was not difficult to find by following the sound. His appearance matched the voice to perfection. A worn wool cap slanted down onto the top of one ear, while out of the other side of his head shot a wild mass of curling gray hair that looked as if it hadn’t split the teeth of a comb for years. His face was lined and angular and clearly spent much time in the open air. Wind and rain and sun had aged it to the rugged complexion for which his breed was noted. His companion, who had been the recipient of this day’s tales, was just rising to leave.

  Andrew turned back to the man behind the counter. “Give me a couple of Murphy’s,” he said.

  The man did so, though with a quizzical look as he drew down two more tall drafts and set them on the counter.

  Andrew picked them up, then turned and walked to the table just vacated by half the conversation he had been listening to. He set the glasses down and shoved one forward across the table.

  “Have a Murphy’s, my friend,” he said.

  “Thank ye, laddie—what’s the occasion?” replied the man. He did not wait for benefit of an answer before sending a healthy quantity of the unexpected boon down his throat.

  “No occasion,” answered Andrew. “I’m new to the area, and I like making the acquaintance of a man who knows who’s who and what’s what. The moment I walked in, I said to myself that you were just such a man.”