An Ancient Strife

by Michael Phillips

  Even as Andrew sat reading about Scotland’s famous Queen Margaret—and as Leigh Ginevra Gordon stewed about her room a mile away trying to convince herself to walk down to the village and see him—Paddy Rawlings sat before the computer in her London flat, wading through more Internet files than she could keep straight in her mind. Her friend Bert had given her enough leads and pointed her in so many new directions that she almost felt she was starting over.

  “Okay,” she said to herself, “half the solving of any crime is establishing links, even if on the surface they don’t seem to mean anything. So what were they both doing in Liverpool in 1967, two years before the foundation of World Resources, Ltd.?”

  She clicked back to the file she had put together, with Bert Fenton’s help, on Eagon Hamilton, then perused the screen, continuing to think aloud.

  “Born Ireland, Queens University Belfast, various student organizations . . .”

  She read through the list again.

  “ . . . came to Liverpool summer of 1964 . . . returned to Belfast, graduated Queens 1965. No apparent IRA links. Returned to England after graduation. Took up residence in Liverpool . . . elected to Commons at age 31, in 1975 . . . rose in prominence . . . leader of Liberal Democratic Party at time of death . . .”

  She sat back, shaking her head. If something was there, she wasn’t seeing it.

  “All right, Bert, let’s see if I can do what you taught me . . . let’s look into the backgrounds of some of the other principle players. We’ll start with our old friend Larne Reardon and see where it leads us . . .”

  An hour later Paddy had two detailed newly created personnel files printing out and had now begun to gather information for a third. Fenton had taught her well. She was beginning to move through the Internet like a pro.

  “What’s this?” she suddenly exclaimed. “Born . . . Glasgow!” She would never have expected that. “So the loyal Thatcherite was a Scot. But that didn’t necessarily make him a closet nationalist,” she said to herself. “Especially in that nothing during his entire political life has given any hint in such a direction . . . but still, it’s an intriguing fact.”

  She waited as more information came up.

  “Moved to England with mother at age three . . . educated University of Manchester—”

  Suddenly Paddy’s eyes lit up.

  “What?” she said. “Is that the same . . .”

  She turned to grab the printouts recently completed on Hamilton and Reardon and compared them with what she was looking at on her screen. Suddenly she realized she had a lot more research to do, perhaps a trip to the London Library . . . and another Internet session with Bert!

  She was getting close to what Andrew had asked for—a solid connection between the two men and World Resources, Ltd.

  She couldn’t stop now!

  Twelve

  The following morning about ten-thirty, a diminutive young woman known to everyone for miles walked with determined stride down the hill from the imposing stone edifice of her home, red hair bouncing in the sunlight, toward the village of Ballochallater. Her two companions, the terriers Faing and Fyfe, took frequent detours to investigate interesting smells, but she marched straight to Craigfoodie, Mrs. Stirrat’s bed-and-breakfast, still not sure what she intended to do when she actually got there.

  Whether she would yell at him and call him a liar or apologize for her rudeness the day before at not seeing him—neither possibility had exactly focused itself in her brain. She only knew she had to do something.

  “Guid day to ye, Mistress Stirrat,” she said when the proprietress opened the door. “I’m here t’ see one o’ yer guests.”

  “If ye’re meanin’ the Englishman, lassie,” replied the rotund woman, “ye’re twa hoors late. He’s gane back t’ England.”

  Ginny stood staring, her face growing as red as the top of her head.

  “And why’d ye let ’im go then?” she cried. “Didna ye ken I wanted t’ talk t’ him!”

  She turned and stormed away, wiping at her eyes as she went, angrier now with Andrew than she had been before.

  Not imagining for a moment that he was the object of a new round of consternation in the north, this time for his absence rather than his presence, Andrew drove the now-familiar route across southern Scotland and arrived back in Cumbria around noon.

  He remained at Derwenthwaite for several days, visited Duncan MacRanald once more, then continued south to London. By now the autumn was well advanced, and though the opening of Parliament was still several weeks away, he could no longer put off important planning for the new session and the press of his duties as leader of the Liberal Democratic Party.

  On the final leg of his trip, Andrew’s mobile phone rang.

  “Andrew . . . Paddy—where are you?”

  “On the M1 between Nottingham and Leicester.”

  “Hold on to your hat—when can you get here?”

  “To your place—three hours, maybe four depending on London traffic. What’s up?”

  “I may have the connection we’ve been looking for—predating the current political lineup that’s had us so bewildered. If you look at it only with today’s political eyes, it all seems backward, like we said. But if you go back thirty-five years—it all makes sense. . . .”

  “I think I’m going to have to see this in person,” he told her. “I’ll be there as soon as I can!”

  Planning to stop briefly by his office on his way to Paddy’s, Andrew drove along the Millbank, where he spotted a dark maroon automobile ahead of him. It pulled into the gated entrance to the Palace of Westminster. For a moment Andrew thought of following it, but decided to continue on. As he drove past toward the Norman Shaw building, however, he looked to his right as the gates began to close. From a quick glance he couldn’t make out whether it was a BMW or not, but the similarity to the vehicle he had seen in Scotland was striking.

  Three hours and forty minutes after her call, Paddy excitedly met Andrew at her door. They went straight to her computer desk, where Paddy had printouts of the three personnel files she had prepared spread in readiness.

  “Look,” she said, pointing to each in turn. “All three were members of the same organization at university—S.E.E.D.”

  “What in the world—”

  “The Society to End English Domination of the UK. Ever heard of it?”

  “No, I haven’t,” replied Andrew, smiling. “Sounds like some daft student group. What’s it all about?”

  “I did some more digging,” said Paddy. “It was a left-wing group popular in the sixties, now defunct. It was tied in with some of the African nationalistic movements, especially in Rhodesia—very anti-British.”

  “How active was it in the UK?”

  “Scattered university campuses. Not particularly influential.”

  “Considering devolution, maybe they were just ahead of their time.”

  “They tried to generate the same kind of interest in autonomy for Wales, Northern Ireland, and Scotland,” Paddy went on, “as was stirring in Africa at that time. If Tanganyika, Kenya, and Rhodesia could throw off English rule, why not Wales and Scotland? That was their basic philosophy anyway, simplistic as it sounds. But it wasn’t a movement that gained much traction in the UK. But here’s the interesting thing—they advocated violence to a certain degree, and the theft of artifacts as necessary symbolic acts to secure the statehood they sought.”

  Andrew let out a low whistle. “What about our three men?” he asked.

  “Well, Reardon wasn’t involved at first. As you can see, his university years don’t jibe with the others. He came into it later. But these two—”

  Paddy picked up the two printouts for emphasis.

  “—both attended a conference of the group in ’67, in Liverpool no less. As far as I can tell, that was their first meeting. And—get this!—they stayed on for a few days afterward together . . . apparently talking plans and strategies for their mutual goals of seeing Northern Ireland and Scot
land, in particular, and Wales to a lesser degree, become free and sovereign nations again.”

  “Wow, Paddy—dynamite work!”

  “They met on and off several times. Then, just two years later, World Resources, Ltd., came into being, with its oil interests in the North Sea.”

  “You obviously think all this has continued on until today. So what is your conjecture about their motives now?”

  “This is where I really start guessing,” admitted Paddy. “But I think there’s a certain logic to my progression, so just bear with me . . . now, Scotland has one of the world’s newest parliaments, and Scotland is being given VIP treatment as a result. So if, as the SNP hopes, Scotland eventually achieves national sovereignty, then entry into the EU could follow, which would mean greatly increased status for Scotland on the world stage. That status would be all the greater if Scotland controls a major portion of European oil reserves—and given the oil fields in the north, that certainly appears likely. So whoever controls Scotland would have genuinely serious clout, might even be a bigger player in the EU than the British prime minister.”

  She pointed to the third printout she had prepared. “And that is how I think our friend here decided to play his cards. He hopes to become one of the most powerful men in Europe—first through oil, then through Scottish statehood.”

  “You obviously think he planned to leave Parliament in London eventually?”

  “I think he would make a break at some point, going back to the land of his birth in hopes of becoming Scotland’s first prime minister when and if that day comes.”

  Andrew shook his head, trying to take it all in.

  “Your scenario is pretty out there, Paddy,” he said, “but . . .”

  His voice trailed off.

  “Guesswork, like I said,” added Paddy. “But it seems to make sense—that is, if all the pieces of his scheme fell together.”

  “And Hamilton?” said Andrew.

  “Again, I’m only guessing . . . but I wonder if the recent changes in Scotland threw some kind of glitch into what they had been planning. Who knows, maybe the Stone theft isn’t connected—but if it is, there might have been a falling out over that. Or over something we don’t know about yet . . . something Hamilton got cold feet about going through with . . . or even some kind of a love triangle.”

  Immediately Andrew thought of Blair, alias Fiona. With her lively gold hair and elegant smile, she was certainly capable of turning any man’s head. He ought to know!

  “And by falling out,” continued Andrew, “you are hinting at a possible motive for murder?”

  “I suppose that’s what it boils down to,” nodded Paddy.

  “In any event, you’ve uncovered enough that it’s about time to see Inspector Shepley again,” said Andrew. “Whether it means anything or not, these links are too strong to ignore.”

  “Give me one more day,” said Paddy, “to see if I can learn anything more.”

  “All right. One more day. But then I’m going to Shepley.”

  Thirteen

  Two mornings later, about nine-thirty, the telephone rang in Andrew’s flat.

  “Mr. Trentham, it’s Alastair Farquharson,” began the voice Andrew recognized immediately. “I wasna certain which number t’ ring ye at . . .”

  “You guessed right, Mr. Farquharson,” he said. “You caught me just as I was heading out the door. Is something up?”

  “Do ye mind the danger I told ye aboot?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m no sure, Mr. Trentham, but Ginny an’ her father was jist by my blacksmith’s shop not ten minutes ago t’ tell me they were leavin’ fer the Shetlands.”

  “The Shetlands!” exclaimed Andrew. “Why?”

  “The laird said a solicitor rang frae Aberdeen sayin’ he needed him t’ sign some papers aboot his land—that some kind o’ what he called on-site inspection was required afore signin.’ It sounded a mite oot o’ the ordinary t’ me.”

  “Yes, hmm . . . I see what you mean,” said Andrew seriously. “I can understand your concern. But I’m not sure I understand why Miss Gordon went with him.”

  “They said the solicitor said that gien the land came t’ Ginny in time—an’ it would when the laird died—then she’d hae t’ inspect it eventually, so she might jist as well du it noo so he wouldna hae t’ trouble her again.”

  “Hmm . . . I suppose that makes some sense.”

  “But, Mr. Trentham,” Alastair went on, “what made me run straight doon t’ the telephone at the post t’ ring ye, was that jist as they left Ballochallater in the laird’s wee Vauxhall, I saw that same dark car comin’ along the road, then followin’ them north on the A93, but keepin’ a ways back so it wouldna be seen.”

  “The BMW!”

  “Cudna say fer certain, Mr. Trentham. But its back windows were the kind ye canna see through. I’m thinkin’ it’s nae good, Mr. Trentham.”

  Andrew thought a moment.

  “Is Mrs. Gordon still at home?” he asked.

  “Ay.”

  “Get what you can from her about the exact location of the property. Ring me back on my mobile telephone—do you still have my card?”

  “Ay.”

  “Good—call me. Meanwhile, I’m on my way to Scotland Yard.”

  Fourteen

  Andrew Trentham walked into Scotland Yard and proceeded straight to Inspector Shepley’s office. The inspector glanced up from his desk and knew instantly from the expression on the MP’s face that something was up.

  “Trentham,” he said with a nod.

  “I may have the missing link,” said Andrew. “The name behind the whole thing—the one that ties the loose ends of this case together.”

  “Let’s have it,” said Shepley eagerly.

  “You won’t believe it when I tell you.”

  “Try me,” said Shepley.

  “I can’t even bring myself to say it aloud,” said Andrew.

  He took a slip of paper from the inspector’s desk and wrote down two words. He handed it across to the inspector.

  “You have to be joking!” exclaimed Shepley as he looked at it. “Do you have facts?”

  “I admit it’s mostly conjecture,” said Andrew. “But when you put everything together, there are just a few too many coincidences.”

  Andrew now pulled from his vest pocket the printout Paddy had prepared listing the connections. He unfolded it and handed it across the desk to Shepley, who perused it seriously.

  “All right,” said Shepley, “you have my attention. But if I make a move and we’re wrong about this, it could cost me my job.”

  “And mine,” added Andrew seriously.

  A brief silence fell as they pondered the implications, not only for themselves but for the country.

  “There are two facts I would like you to look into that will confirm to me that we’re on the right track,” said Andrew at length. “One, the current stock holdings of World Resources, Ltd. We hadn’t gotten that far yet with our Internet search.”

  “All right,” said Shepley, making notes as Andrew spoke. “And the second?”

  “I would like to know what kind of automobile the Right Honorable Gentleman drives.”

  “That one’s easy,” answered Shepley. “It’s the envy of everyone around here who pulls parliamentary duty—a splendid custom BMW.”

  “And the color?” asked Andrew.

  “A specially mixed very dark maroon.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” said Andrew. “In that case, Inspector, I think you had better find out where my Right Honorable Colleague is at this minute.”

  Shepley picked up his telephone and made the call. Andrew waited, listening.

  “And when was that?” asked the inspector after a few questions had gone back and forth. He listened briefly.

  “Right . . . I see . . . thank you very much.”

  He put down the receiver and glanced up at Andrew.

  “According to his office,” he said, “it
seems our friend left London late yesterday afternoon.”

  “Did they say where he was going?”

  “They didn’t know for certain, said he was a little vague . . . but somewhere in the north.”

  Andrew rose. “Inspector,” he said, “how fast can you get us on a plane to the Shetlands?”

  “The Shetlands?”

  “I think that’s where we’ll find the answers to this whole thing . . . that is, if we’re not too late.”

  Fifteen

  As their plane for Lerwick rose in the sky, Andrew sat back and tried to relax.

  His mind filled with images of Ginny, just as it had been filled for weeks now in unguarded moments. Ginny racing past him on her horse, her bright hair a flag in the wind. Ginny bouncing lightly across the heath with her little dogs at her heels. Ginny businesslike in her white veterinary smock or her grungy work clothes, yet managing somehow to look like a little girl dressed up in a doctor’s costume.

  He smiled without even knowing it, then frowned as he imagined what might be happening to her. Whatever danger she and her father were in, he couldn’t prevent the nagging idea that it might have been avoided if he had handled things differently.

  But what was done was done. They had to do what they could now to help. He just hoped they were in time.

  Behind him in the plane sat half a dozen agents from Scotland Yard, as well as Inspector Shepley.

  Whatever was going on up there in the Shetlands, there was nothing he could do to help now. All he could do was wait—and worry—until they arrived.

  Thoughts of Ginny brought with them remembrance of the eleventh-century Scottish King named Malcolm, whose impetuous Celtic nature seemed as fiery as Ginny’s, though not nearly so beguiling.

  He pulled out the book he had brought with him. Maybe reading would help him get his mind off the danger Ginny and her father might be in. He had put off finishing the story ever since the evening at Craigfoodie in Ballochallater. Since then, he hadn’t felt the right mood come over him to get back into it.