“And the object in this case is the rest of the Corregidor money.”
“Yeah. Stolen that night of the transfer to the USS Trout in 1942.”
Jamie let out a low whistle as McLaren continued. “Harvester learns about the money stash. Right now I don’t know from whom—maybe that’s not immediately important. Maybe King Roper’s getting antsy because he’s firmly and permanently ensconced in Wakefield Prison and he wants his gang to have the money. So King Roper gets word to a member of his gang, tells him about his dad’s diary. Maybe King actually has the diary, left it with a mate. I don’t know, but King knows where the diary is. His chum can’t decipher the hiding place so he needs help. Maybe this chum contacts Lanny or Jean MacNab—after all, they’re friends. One of them knows Harvester, knows he’s pals with Lanny and Jean, figures Harvester’s a detective who’s a tad on the shady side of things, can solve puzzles—”
McLaren paused for Jamie’s choice words, then continued. “So they let Harvester have a chance at deciphering it. Pal Harvester proves not to be such a brilliant detective after all. He becomes another statistic in the group who can’t figure out where George Roper hid the money, so Harvester gets me up to Scotland to find it for him.”
The silence that met McLaren’s scenario was as deafening as if Jamie had yelled into the phone. The radiator gurgled and clanked out heat and outside a dog yapped.
“It makes sense,” Jamie finally said, his words coming haltingly and low. “And it’s a backhanded compliment to you, Mike.”
“Harvester never gave me the time of day when we were in the job together. I’m astonished he honestly thinks I’m of the caliber to solve his little conundrum.”
“Just don’t get a swelled head.”
McLaren touched his scalp wound and grimaced. “Little chance of that.”
“I was trying to think of another set-up that would fit with everything you’ve told me, Mike, and nothing really works.”
“So I’m not round the twist with this one.”
“Unless I’m with you and we’ll be roommates in Bedlam, I can’t see it.”
“I don’t know if that brings me comfort or unease.”
“Whichever it is, don’t do anything rash. You have my mate’s phone number, don’t you…Ross Gordon?”
“Your sergeant friend, yes.”
“Don’t be a hero. Use him.”
McLaren assured Jamie he would and rang off. He grabbed his car key and sunglasses, slipped into his jacket and cap, and left the guesthouse. There had to be more to this saga, perhaps another note. Even if the clues were planted, they were authentic. It served King Roper and Charles Harvester no good at all if they faked anything. The real diary, perhaps supported by a letter or second clue, would give him another hint at the treasure’s location. And it made no difference if King hadn’t been born at the time of the diary entry. George Roper could’ve planned ahead and hidden the wealth for the child he hoped to have. McLaren had to find out.
The interior of his car resembled the inside of a refrigerator, having sat in the shade for more than twenty-four hours. He tugged his muffler more firmly around his neck and turned on the motor. He let it run for a minute before flipping on the heater. It warmed the enclosed space while he looked at a map of the area.
Approximately four miles from the village, Loch Voil and Loch Doine met at the narrow outflow of the latter. A tarmac road on the north side of the lochs would bring him close to this strip of water. The other alternative was to walk from the village and across the boggy land, as he had last night.
He exhaled loudly, not pleased with either way. The first route would probably give him a good bathing up to his neck; the second would merely dampen his boots and calves. His choice was a faster, closer, and wetter route or one that was slower, farther, and drier.
The radio personality announced the upcoming song and McLaren turned the knob, cutting off the banter. He eased out of the parking space, drove west, out of the village, and followed the shorelines of the two lochs.
The Buddhist retreat, Ledcreich, mutely announced the meeting of the two lochs. He drove past the establishment, recalling that it, as were other buildings, was put to the torch in 1746 as the Duke of Cumberland’s troops repressive tactic at the end of the Jacobite rising. He let the historical image of flaming homes and fleeing villagers slip from his mind and parked off the road, leaving his car there and retracing his steps.
The neck of land between Loch Doine and Loch Voil could easily be boggy in the summer, he thought, glancing at the iced-over rushes and pockets of water. But most of the ground now was frozen, with an occasional patch of marsh still marginally soggy. Even when his boots broke through a thin layer of ice and he sank into the watery soil, the wetting was only ankle-deep. It was an easy route compared to the chilly swim he’d envisioned if the ford had been deeper.
He walked toward the loch, in the direction of the farm where he’d stopped yesterday, and entered the Tuarach, the low-lying ground where the cottage stood.
Sunlight spilled over the hilltop and the rose and indigo of the eastern sky became whitewashed with azure and milky hues. He put on his sunglasses, noted the time on his watch, and trudged eastward around the lower edge of Loch Voil. The sun had cleared the mountain range, and yellow-tinted light fell softly on the clumps of grass. Farther west, a kestrel hovered over a patch of ground. McLaren passed a high plateau in the distance and judged he had walked a quarter of the length of the loch. He looked for the village, now hardly visible on the loch’s eastern end. The snow was nearly gone, but patches were pockmarked with his boot prints.
The wind shifted, blowing across the loch and bringing the biting cold he remembered from the previous night. He continued eastward, pulling up the collar of his jacket, and hunched his shoulders as he bent forward slightly. His breath puffed into the air in frosty clouds, rising overhead before they vanished in the sunlight.
The trek to the cottage was neither as long or as arduous as last night’s. Daylight and drier clothes made the way more tolerable, and quicker. He strode up to the dwelling, his breathing accelerating. He was strangely pleased to be there again.
It didn’t stem from connecting with Donald MacLaren, either.
McLaren walked over to the fireplace and moved the rest of the logs in the woodpile, stacking them on the other side of the room. No silver coin, notebook, or other object presented itself. He ran his hand over the stone mantelpiece but it was clean. He walked around the three walls, pushing and prodding the stones, hoping a loose one would fall and reveal a cache. He got on his knees and shifted the stone slabs in the fireplace. Behind one of those forming the inner hearth he found a scrap of paper.
He unfolded it. He’d left the notebook back in his room, so he had nothing to which he could compare it, but the paper seemed to match. The handwriting also seemed similar. He scanned the entry, tucked it into his jacket pocket, and replaced the stone. Then he smoothed soil over the stone’s surface and pushed it between the edges where it touched other stones. He placed a handful of dry grass and several twigs on the stone and lit it, watching it until it burnt out. Satisfied the hearth looked used and undisturbed—a nice touch to keep Harvester wondering if McLaren had retrieved the paper—he made his way back to the guesthouse.
After he showered and changed into dry clothes, he again read the entry on the sheet of paper, this time more slowly.
Roar not! Music soothes the savage breast though rudeness raves round you. Your future is here, a comfort at night or winter.
McLaren sank back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. What the hell did music and rudeness and roaring have to do with that diary entry about the USS Trout and The Rock? Was he on the wrong track? Was this latest piece of doggerel something separate, penned by another hand? If so, why had it been secreted under the hearthstone? Why would anyone hide something like that?
He got up and filled the electric teakettle with water, turned it on, and slapped a teabag into
one of the mugs on the coffee table. While the water heated, he looked at the hand-penned map again. Perhaps George Roper had written something more on it. He held it up to the lamplight, staring at every centimeter of the paper, but he could make out nothing. He passed the map slowly over the steam from the kettle, thinking something had been written in disappearing ink and would reveal itself when heated. Nothing emerged from the paper.
The kettle whistled and McLaren poured the boiling water into the cup. He let the teabag steep while he examined the actual map paper. It was pristine. No tears or holes marred the page. It looked as if it could’ve been drawn yesterday, or preserved under glass all those years. Evidently George Roper had taken care over the map, wanting it to last. Then why was there a pen mark under the legend Braes of Balquhidder?
He glanced at the rest of the map. No other stray line of ink marred its surface. Was the mark a clue, a sort of underline calling attention to the Braes? If so, what was he supposed to learn from the title of that region? It was a large area to search, a hill range north of Balquhidder village, if that was the action the cryptic clue implied.
He fixed his tea and sipped it while he peered more closely at the map. He saw a small dot near the end of the word ‘Balquhidder.’ A thin, short line of ink extended up from the dot. Was it another stray pen mark? He angled the map under the lamplight. It looked deliberately made, for the line ended firmly without trailing off. Further more, the dot was larger than a simple dot from a pen. It looked drawn on.
It also looked like a quarter note.
He set his cup down and moved to the stronger light at the window. Daft! Was he inventing meanings, looking for clues where there were none? What did a musical note have to do with The Rock or silver pesos or the Braes of Balquhidder?
But it did. He closed his eyes, suddenly afraid and excited, envisioning the sheet music for the old folk song. He’d just sung it yesterday as he drove to the village.
He hurried over to the bed and grabbed the scrap of paper he’d found beneath the hearthstone. The words popped out at him as though they’d been underlined or written more boldly.
ROAR not! Music soothes the savage breast though RUDENESS RAVES ROUND you. Your future is here, a comfort at NIGHT or WINTER.
He slowly sang the third verse, pausing as his eyes locked on the pertinent words in the message.
When the rude wintry win’
idly raves round our dwellin’,
An’ the roar o’ the linn
on the night-breeze is swellin’
Sae merrily we’ll sing
as the storm rattles o’er us,
till the dear shieling ring
wi’ the light liltin’ chorus.
He laid the paper on the bed. Did the message refer to a shieling on the Braes of Balquhidder? He supposed there could be one or two left, remnants of another century. Was that what the map and the message meant? The bulk of the silver stolen from the Trout waited in a shieling on the Braes? And the note drawn on the map was a hint that the Braes referred to the song as well as to the land.
Chapter Twelve
His tea grew cold as he thought through the song and the map marks from a different angle, but the paper scrap didn’t mesh with anything but the song. At least nothing he could think of.
He emptied the teacup’s contents into the sink, put on his jacket, and left his room.
The air held the bite of an advancing storm but McLaren didn’t notice. He strolled around the village, hoping to talk to an older resident. He had to know if any shieling still existed in the area. He also needed to know about Frank, George Roper’s wartime mate.
Several villagers were out. He could distinguish them from the tourists by their conversation topics and the workday tools they carried. McLaren bypassed anyone under the age of sixty-two. If any coins had been secreted in the area in 1962, any very young child seeing that might not remember. Someone ten years old in ’62 might reasonably recall a stranger lingering in the area.
McLaren fought the urge to take the easy way out, to talk to owners of the tearoom or hotel or bed-and-breakfasts. Even if they were the correct age, he didn’t want to supply them with fuel for gossip or alert them to his business. So he wandered back to the farm at which he’d inquired yesterday. The same elderly man was there, in the courtyard this time. He wore the same gray cloth jacket and blue cloth cap. His khaki-colored wellies were dark and stained with mud. He looked up as McLaren approached.
“Good day, sir.” McLaren picked up one of the gloves that lay on the ground and handed it to the man. The leather seemed as old as its owner: dry and stiff from overwork. “I wonder if you could spare me a few minutes.”
The man eyed McLaren, perhaps to see if he’d changed clothes since yesterday. He removed his cloth cap and wiped his forehead with his jacket sleeve. “What are ye needin’, then?”
“I wonder if there are any old shielings in the area.”
“Shielings? Why would ye be wantin’ to know about a shieling?” The man’s voice was wary, as though suspecting a trick. “Are you inclined to do a bit o’ wild campin’? Ye just got cleaned up, man.” A hint of a smile played around the corners of his lips, then vanished as he scratched his chin. “Aye, I mind one or two o’ them still standin’. That cottage where ye spent the other night, now, it’s not a shieling, aye?”
“Yes. Am I correct in assuming it’s Donald MacLaren’s cottage? Donald mor nan mart?” He added the Celtic nickname that translated to Big Donald of the cattle. It never hurt to reveal a bit of insider knowledge.
The man nodded, the smile now in his eyes. “That was a long time back, the 1750s. But the houses stood. Had to. Ye’ve come up agin’ a wee bit o’ our bleak weather and a bit o’ wind. So ye should know what a Highland winter can do, even to tree and rock.” He stared at the Braes rising north of the loch. “Wind, rain and ice can pick at a mountain, wear it down to a gorge or flat land. Can it not do the same with a dwellin’? That’s certainly not as strong or solid as yonder ben.”
“You’re saying that no shielings have survived in this area.”
“I’m not sayin’ that. I’m sayin’ that there are very few left. The modern folk dinnae follow the sheep or cattle to the summer pastures as they did. They’ve no use for the shieling. They stay put in their own comfy houses. But ye’ll find one up on Creag Mac Ranaich.”
McLaren glanced back at the village. “That’s north of Balquhidder, isn’t it?”
“Aye. ‘Bout a half-day walk if ye were hikin’ to the top o’ the ben. But ye’re just wantin’ the shieling. It’s no more than an hour’s walk. Not that hard, even for a city dweller.” The man paused and eyed McLaren’s boots and jacket. “Ye’ll do.”
“Is the building easily seen? Do I have to wander off the track to spot it?”
“It’s not along the path. Ye’ll have to go a bit to your left.”
“Will I know the spot when I come to it?”
The man shook his head. “But ye’ll find the burn. Ye’ll be followin’ a line o’ fence posts. They’ll stop at the beginnin’ o’ the forest. Two hundred yards on, there’s a wee path windin’ to the left, into the forest. A muckle rock sits there. Take that path into the forest and cross o’er the burn. On the other side o’ the burn is your shieling.”
“That’s the only one in the area, then.”
“Aye. There’s another farther north, near Ben Nevis and Benalder Forest, but Creag Mac Ranaich’s got the only hut hereabouts.”
McLaren said this one sounded like it would fit his needs.
“You’re the third man who’s asked me about the shieling.”
“Yes? When was this?” He smiled to show his disinterest. He didn’t want to alert the man into thinking the shieling was important.
“Oh, I’d say the first was in the early 1960s.”
McLaren felt his heart pound in his throat. “How are you so certain about the early ’60s? That’s fifty years ago.”
“I remember it wa
s 20 February, 1962. And I can be sure because 20 February is my birthday and that American astronaut John Glenn orbited the earth. He was the first Yank. Read about it in the newspaper. I always thought that was amazin’.”
McLaren did a quick mental calculation. The diary entry was February 1962. George Roper hinted at a generous souvenir, which strongly hinted at the Corregidor money. That money could be hidden in a shieling in the area. “Is it usual for tourists or visitors to do hiking in the winter? I assume that’s what that man had in mind if he asked.”
“Not so many in February, but we get a few. If it’s warm or we havenae had much snowfall we tend to get more. The less serious walkers, ye understand.”
“He was a tourist, then?”
“At first.”
“At first?”
“Aye. He came that day, stayed a while and hiked the ben. Stayed in the village. He left after several days—I dinnae remember how long—but came back in June two years later, when he took up residence in the village.”
“He lived here?” McLaren wasn’t expecting that.
“Toward the end o’ the glen. In a small house. Not so grand, I’m thinkin’, as the one he had in the city. Nothin’ grand like the big house in the village proper. Your grandfather’s home,” he added, showing he still remembered McLaren’s connection.
“You knew this for a fact?”
“No. But he had an air about him, like he expected the world to hand him things. Like he had money and was used to gettin’ what he wanted. A way of talkin’ to ye, if ye understand. I never saw the inside o’ his house, but a mate o’ mine did. Said it was full o’ fancy furniture and knick knacks that must’ve cost more than my farm. Of course he couldnae work. Formally, I mean. Hold down an outside job.”
“Why not?”
“He was a Yank. He was friendly enough but kind o’ kept to himself. Never worried about money, lived well enough despite no regular job. But he had nice clothes and a car and stood a few rounds each week at the local. If ye’d asked me about him I’d have remembered straight away. Had a strange surname. Papadakis. Greek, I reckon. Nice laddie, though. Did his bit in the war. Army, I think.”
An Unfolding Trap Page 16