All that had happened more than a month ago. Her star had shone brightly for a week or two. But none of the suspects in the theft had been apprehended. Reardon and noted druid Amairgen Cooney Dwyer were both still missing, as well as the others who had taken her captive at the druid compound before Mr. Trentham had arrived to rescue her.
And the related case—the murder of former MP and LibDem Leader Eagon Hamilton—remained unsolved. Paddy knew Luddington was working feverishly to scoop her by being the first to uncover the next big piece of the puzzle.
Paddy feared her career would be right back where it was before—stalled and going nowhere—if she didn’t come up with a dramatic scoop pretty soon.
Her thoughts, as they often did, drifted to the man responsible for drawing her into all this in the first place.
Andrew Trentham, Hamilton’s surprise successor to the helm of the Liberal Democratic Party, had been at home and out of touch ever since her return to London. He had telephoned two weeks ago to see how she was getting on, but their conversation had been brief.
She could hardly think of him as Mister Trentham now. After their harrowing experience together in Ireland and their drive back through southern Scotland to his Cumbrian home—when he had spoken so personally about his quest for his Scottish roots—she knew he would always be her friend. He was that sort of man, once he let you get to know him—warm and personal, even vulnerable in a way. She realized he sometimes had to guard that side of himself because of the public fishbowl he lived in. He had been cautious with her at first too, the politician and journalist sparring with one another, each wondering what motives the other was hiding.
But all that was behind them now. Journalists weren’t supposed to worry about the feelings of public figures. But she was thinking less and less like a journalist these days when it came to Andrew Trentham.
Andrew had become her friend, and she liked to think he considered her a friend as well. He would make some lucky woman a great husband someday.
Paddy allowed herself a moment of melancholy at the thought. If only everyone could be so . . . She shook her head to shake off the gloom and forced her thoughts in other directions. She glanced toward her coffee table, where sat the two Scottish history books Andrew had lent her, insisting that she read them.
Paddy smiled. Andrew could get anyone interested in the tales and legends of Scottish history, she thought, if they listened to him for five minutes. The ancient Picts . . . St. Columba . . . the maiden of Glencoe. According to Andrew, the men and women of Scotland’s past were as alive today as ever.
And she had to admit, she had found everything she read as captivating as promised. The other day she had bought a CD, a collection of Scottish ballads drawn from the poems of Robert Burns, at the Scotch House in Knightsbridge. Every time she listened to it, the haunting, mystical music penetrated a little more deeply into her soul.
Was she being infected by the Scottish bug, as Andrew called it? Maybe he was on to something after all. What if it turned out that she had Scottish ancestry too!
Gradually Paddy’s thoughts returned to the more pressing matters before her. Actually, she reflected, no one really knew whether the two crimes—the theft of the Stone and the murder of Hamilton—were related. But it seemed so.
One thing was clear, Paddy said to herself, if she was going to get anything, she was going to have to uncover it on her own.
Four
Harland Trentham rode slowly up the slopes of the Skiddaw mountain near his home on one of the prized horses of his stables, which included thoroughbreds as well as a half dozen other specialty breeds. Halfway up, he paused to gaze down upon his family home, Derwenthwaite Hall. From this height he could easily see the layout of the ancient gray stone house and stables, the treelined drive, the well-kept but unfussy gardens, the green paddocks where spring foals chased each other about. Behind the kitchen he spotted their cook bending over the wheel-shaped herb garden—a basket on her arm. Then the kitchen door opened and his wife emerged. She walked over to meet the other woman, her gait purposeful but halting. Harland watched as the two of them conversed in the sunshine—discussing dinner, no doubt.
For long minutes he sat gazing down, transfixed by the beauty and comfort of the scene. How could he have taken it all for granted for so long? he wondered. Here he was in his sixties, and thinking for the first time about so many things . . . like roots. Was his wife’s stroke of a month before responsible for his new outlook? Or was it his son’s sudden interest in their family’s Scottish lineage? Who could say? And it didn’t matter, really. Each had done its part to turn his thoughts a little more inward.
And his old friend Duncan MacRanald had certainly been influential as well. Harland had neglected his boyhood friendship with the Scots shepherd too long, and he was grateful to Andrew for helping him renew it and discover its importance.
He was proud of Andrew, thought Trentham. Not merely because of all his accomplishments, of who he was in the public eye, but because he was a young man with the right kinds of priorities, who valued the right kinds of things.
He loved his wife more now too. He had not been much of a praying man throughout most his life. But he had prayed more this last month than ever before. And the fact that Waleis was recovering more rapidly than their doctor expected had caused him to think twice about more things than just prayer.
Harland turned his head back toward the hillside before him and urged his mount on in the direction of Duncan’s cottage. He had been listening to the old Scottish sheepherder’s stories for several weeks now, along with Andrew, and was ready for another round. After all, if the family was indeed of Scottish extraction, as was clear, then as a branch of the ancient Gordon clan tree he ought to know more about it.
Twenty minutes later, the elder Trentham approached the stone crofter’s cottage at the corner of the Derwenthwaite estate that his own father had essentially given MacRanald’s father many years prior.
Duncan, who had been outside with his few sheep, saw him coming from a good distance off, and was waiting for his arrival at his cottage with a hearty greeting.
Five
That same night, as Harland Trentham and Duncan MacRanald and most of the United Kingdom slept, the people of Auckland, New Zealand—half a world away and twelve hours ahead of Greenwich mean time—were gathering to cheer the arrival of King Charles III. It was the new King’s first state visit to Australia and New Zealand since his coronation. Though no longer linked formally to the British Empire, New Zealanders remained loyal to the royal house that had once ruled them. Despite the chill of the southern hemisphere winter, they had turned out in droves for the processional through Newmarket.
Not everyone in the crowd, however, shared in the enthusiasm of the occasion. One man in particular, a newcomer to the city, had no interest in the motorcade, or in the King either for that matter. But the processional had overtaken him as he left his hotel for the appointment he had set up the evening before. His timing could not have been worse. Once engulfed by the throng, he had little choice but to wait it out.
Across the street, another expatriate who had arrived in the New Zealand city less than a year before observed the approaching motorcade, camera to his eye, snapping photographs in rapid succession as the entourage slowly rolled toward him. One didn’t get many opportunities down here for a major piece of free-lance work, and he was trying to make the most of this one that had come his way.
Six
Inspector Allan Shepley of Scotland Yard sat at his desk looking for the hundredth time at the small torn piece of paper he held between his fingers.
When it was first brought to him, he thought it a breakthrough, this scrap linking the theft of the Scottish Coronation Stone to Baen Ferguson’s place in Glencoe. But he had been able to pin nothing on the man. The Scottish MP had done nothing to show the slightest hint of complicity in the affair.
Still, Shepley intended to keep watching him. What could Ferguson be hid
ing, he asked himself for the two-dozenth time. Who else could be involved that might lead him to the missing four individuals identified by Trentham and the Rawlings woman—the druid, Dwyer, the MP, Reardon, some bloke the American woman said they called Malloy, and the blond woman known either as Blair or Fiona?
All had disappeared without a trace. Reardon and Dwyer were probably the only ones they had any chance of finding, but no one at any of the major airports, ferry terminals, ship lines, or the entrances to the Channel Tunnel had seen either of them. There was no record of their having come back into the country from Ireland. So he had nothing to go on at this point but Ferguson and this scrap of paper.
In his gut, Shepley was sure that high-ups were involved—even higher than Ferguson himself. Whether they represented the Scottish Nationalists, Irish interests, or some other point of view, he didn’t know.
He leaned back and exhaled slowly, more puzzled than ever over this high-profile case. The stolen Stone had been recovered—thanks to Andrew Trentham and his reporter friend. But although no positive links existed between the theft and Hamilton’s murder, he knew they were somehow connected. He was almost as certain that Ferguson knew more than he was telling. In this business you had to trust your gut instincts, and that’s what his were telling him.
Meanwhile, Prime Minister Richard Barraclough was badgering him for some kind of progress, if not closure, on the matter.
But as yet, Shepley had to admit, he had nothing to tell him.
1. A move, instituted by the Labour government of Tony Blair and given impetus by favorable referendums (nonbinding votes of public opinion) among the voters of both regions, to “devolve” more self-governing authority to Scotland and Wales, resulting in new parliaments and First Ministers for both regions. The overall effect is a system perhaps similar to the federal system in the United States, in which power and decision-making authority is divided between the federal government and that of the individual states. The states have significant powers, yet are still ultimately responsible to the authority of the federal government. Such parallels the newly altered regional relationships in the UK. There are those, however, who advocate far greater autonomy, even full independent nationhood and withdrawal from the United Kingdom altogether. For this vocal minority, devolution has been little more than a token gesture.
2. Member of Parliament, specifically one elected to the House of Commons.
2
Call of Ancient Roots
One
The summer in Cumbria had been a warm one. Northern England’s Lake District was inundated with its usual flood of tourists, many walkers traipsing across the dozen or more public footpaths that crisscrossed the Derwenthwaite estate. But for Andrew Trentham and his parents it had been a peaceful two months, with Andrew and his father attentive to Lady Trentham’s recuperation from her stroke.
As much as was possible for a member of Parliament who had been so visibly in the news of late, Andrew managed to distance himself from the frantic pace of what he referred to as “his other life.” It certainly didn’t take much for him to enjoy the country setting, and being at home with his father and mother.
Despite his ongoing concern about his mother’s health, he marveled at the healing that had come about in their family relationships. Not many months before, he had felt the weight of his formidable mother’s disapproval in every conversation. She herself had once been an MP, and the need to live up to her expectations had hung over him most of his life it seemed.
But something had changed in her since her illness—perhaps because so much had changed in him. At any rate, for the first time since his sister died, he felt comfortable and relaxed in her presence, felt her keen interest in his life as supportive rather than critical. He actually looked forward to his times at home.
He attended two or three gatherings a week throughout Cumbria as his position demanded and found such meetings with his constituency all the more enjoyable because of the knowledge that the wide spaces of Derwenthwaite awaited him less than an hour away. Perhaps he enjoyed them more now too for the sense of belonging and personal roots that had made him love this place more than ever. Nor could it be denied that he was more at peace than ever in his life. For one of the first times in his thirty-eight years, he felt content with who he was and with his lot in life. Not merely content with them . . . finally thankful for them.
It felt good. He was grateful to God for the recent changes in his life, even for the pain that had been part of them.
As he crested the slope behind the house on his customary morning walk following breakfast, he glanced out northward to where Scotland lay in the distance over the Solway Firth. A similar sight on a walk not so very long ago had sent him rambling off to Duncan’s cottage and had plunged him into an adventure with this ancient land called Caledonia—an adventure from which he had still not emerged.
And now, as a result of the incredible string of circumstances that had landed him at the leadership of Parliament’s third largest party in a coalition government, the future of present-day Scotland might well rest, at least in part, on his own shoulders. For the issue of how the Scottish state would be governed and what level of self-determination would be allowed to the Scottish people was rapidly becoming a critical one in Parliament.
But he would worry about that when he returned to London. For now, his personal quest would concern itself with Scotland’s ancient past, the times when Caledonia had been a free and sovereign land.
Two
Patricia Rawlings sat at the window of her Georgian flat enjoying her morning cup of coffee and reminiscing on the day, just like this one, when she had spotted Andrew Trentham walking at the base of Primrose Hill off Regent’s Park and then had gone dashing off after him.
What a crazy thing to do! But in retrospect, she wasn’t sorry. That had been the beginning of an adventurous series of events she wouldn’t trade for anything.
She picked up her morning paper, opened it, and took a sip of coffee as she scanned the front-page headlines and photographs.
Her eyes caught sight of a photo of the King on his travels in Australia and New Zealand. Below it, the credit for the photograph jumped off the page at her.
A slow smile spread over her lips at sight of the name—a smile of pleasant nostalgia tinged with reminders of melancholy. But she didn’t have long to reminisce. Suddenly her eyes shot open, and she drew the paper toward her for closer inspection.
She jumped up, flew to her desk, and within seconds returned with a magnifying glass, which she now focused three inches above the newspaper photo, squinting through the thick glass.
It only took a second or two to make up her mind. It was him all right—there could be no mistake. Bill’s 350-millimeter Nikon lens had caught the face only slightly blurred in the crowd watching the motorcade.
Was it an incredible coincidence . . . or something more?
The next moment, Paddy grabbed the telephone from the reading stand beside her chair and was punching in the number she hadn’t called for months but still knew from memory.
It was seven in the evening of the same day when the familiar voice answered.
“Bill . . . hello.”
“Paddy!” came a surprised exclamation on the other end. “I can’t believe it. I was just thinking about you.”
“Well, here I am,” replied Paddy. There was a brief, awkward silence on both of the lines, then she continued, “Listen, I saw your photo of the Auckland motorcade in this morning’s Times.”
“They’ve run it already!”
“It’s there, your credit line beneath it. But listen—there’s someone in the crowd I’m interested in.”
“I was trying to get the King in the picture!” laughed the photographer.
“You did. It’s very good. But I need to know about someone behind him that your camera caught, I assume by accident. Are you familiar with the name Larne Reardon?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
&
nbsp; “Deputy leader of the Liberal Democratic Party. Or was, I should say. He’s sure to be ousted now. He was involved in the theft of the Stone of Scone—”
“I remember that. And you were involved too! I wanted to call, but—”
“I’ll tell you all about it someday,” interrupted Paddy. “In the meantime, I have reason to think he may also have been involved in the murder of Eagon Hamilton.”
“Whoa!”
“So . . . what’s he doing in New Zealand?”
“Haven’t a clue. You’re right—if my lens caught him, it was entirely by accident. I had no idea he was there, or even who he was if I had seen him.”
“Do you suppose you could keep an eye on him for me, and let me know what he does?”
“Uh . . . what—you mean spy on him?”
“I don’t know . . . something like that, I guess.”
“What exactly do you suggest I do?”
“Well . . . it looks like there’s a building of some kind in the photo.”
“Yeah, the Auckland Towers Hotel. The motorcade was passing in front of it.”
“Maybe he’s staying there—could you check for me, Bill?”
“What’s his name again?”
“Larne Reardon,” she answered.
“Although come to think of it,” Paddy added, “I doubt he’s using his real name.”
“I’ll see what I can do. All right, but I’m no sleuth—don’t expect much.”
“Thank you, Bill. I appreciate it.”
The line fell momentarily silent again.
“It’s good to hear your voice, Paddy,” Bill said after a moment.
“Thank you,” she replied, a slight cooling in her tone. “But I can’t go there right now.”
Another pause followed.
If Paddy could have seen the look of pain on the man’s face, she might have chosen to end the call differently. But he would respect her wishes, and therefore said nothing further.
An Ancient Strife Page 2