an
excerpt from...
Double Treasure
by William Stewart
CHAPTER 1
The treasure hunt started with John Grant finding a book in a secret compartment of his desk. It was a simple, three drawer, oak desk, with a drop-down front, and brass handles. On the inside of the flap, which rested on two pull-out stays, was etched a circle, roughly three inches in diameter, divided into quadrants. On the right hand side of the inside desk was scratched, 'John Kinnard 1715'.
The old-fashioned doorbell jangled as Madeline Chappell burst through the front door of 'Hampshire Antiques', in Jewery Street, Winchester, one morning in January 1997. Shaking the rain off her umbrella, she threw a Sotheby's catalogue on the counter. 'Look!' She pointed at the open page. Her face like thunder. 'That's the desk. After all that research, and we missed it. Damn and blast!'
Gerald Chappell snatched up the catalogue and examined the offending item. His furious expression mirrored his wife's. 'How did we miss it? I ask you! Someone will pay for this. We never received that catalogue from Sotheby's. Bloody incompetence!' Their heads bent over the catalogue, lying on the glass-topped counter, under which were displayed several pieces of jewellery, with expensive price tags on them. 'Hampshire Antiques' was known to be pricey.
'We must do something, Gerald.' Her anger and frustration were in danger of causing her to break the Limoge cup and saucer she had picked up to put on a shelf behind her.
'Quite! But what? And for goodness sake, calm down. We don't want any breakages. Go and make some coffee, or something.' Gerald Chappell, tall and lanky, with a mop of bright red hair, and wearing thick spectacles which emphasised his eyes, peered again at the catalogue, and sighed. They had been tracking this particular desk for three years; now where was it? 'She'll have to do some sleuthing, he muttered as he walked into the back room for coffee, 'she's good at that.'
John spent six weeks climbing in the Highlands, during the summer vacation, making his home with his cousin, Bob Grant and his wife, Cath. It was there, in the bleakness of the Cairngorms, in a lodge, where he had a dream that was to start him on the road to healing. And in a curious way, that dream heralded the start of the search for the treasure.
John dreams he is a royal person, in a small room in a castle, a room he shares with Margaret. He seeks out the priest, who bows. They sit side by side in the chapel attached to the castle.
'My son,' the priest says, 'I know how a shadow haunts you. You desire to be free of its power, yet you know not how.'
'Within my heart, Father,' John replies, 'I have cherished a bitter spirit against God. So if my heart is to know freedom, I must seek forgiveness.' The priest reaches out and lays his hand on John's head.
The dream changes. He is standing near another castle, side by side with the ruins of a big church or an abbey. He knows he should recognise it, but it is unclear. He is standing with the priest. The side of the castle drops steeply away. He sees a chapel in the castle, with Margaret lying in it as if she was asleep. Then he sees a magnificent bird being engulfed in flames. Never had be seen such a bird with feathers of gold, red, green and blue. It rises from the ashes and takes to the wing; the ashes drop from it. The priest picks some ashes from the fire and idly sprinkles them on the stream and together they watch them drift. He says, still looking at the water, 'Soon they will be swallowed up and lost in the deeper, wider waters of the sea. Lost, changed, yes, but not destroyed, Never destroyed.'
Still in his dream, John starts to weep, and his tears fall on Margaret's face. He hopes she will wake. A noise woke him; his own sobs. His pillow is wet with tears.
It was ages before he got back to sleep, but he woke in the morning refreshed and feeling more at peace with himself than he done for ages. It was around midday before he recalled the dream; though he wasn't sure if it was a dream. Was it a vision?
Sitting on a rock high up the mountain, in the clear light, with his rucksack beside him, and his stick resting across his knees, and his feet covered with springy heather, just breaking into bloom, he looked over the valley. What was the meaning of the dream? Margaret, obviously, but more than that; something to do with monasteries? The tears started to fall. But they were different tears; for he was aware that they were touching four years of bitterness and anger. The words about being lost, changed but not destroyed, coupled with the vision of the Phoenix suddenly filled him with a tremendous joy, so much that he shouted and laughed. A pair of grouse took fright and flew away squawking. John returned to Southampton feeling that he was starting to live again.
Gerald Chappell, (Jerry to his mates; he had few real friends. He only had contact with people who owed him, or to whom he owed something) and Madeline were an oddly-assorted couple. Brought up in London's East End, he was street-wise, having lived most of his forty-five years by his wits. Dropping out of school on his sixteenth birthday, with no qualifications except a well-developed cunning, and an ability to read and write, he dodged from job to job, his doubtful practices keeping him just ahead of the Law.
His barrow in the area of Oxford Circus Underground, was merely a front for trading in stolen goods. He had one major weakness – horse racing. So as fast as he earned money, he lost it. That is, until one miraculous day, when he was thirty, when he won a quarter of a million on the pools. That changed his life for ever, and, doubtfully, for the better. He moved out of London to salubrious Winchester, chosen because it was on the main line to London, and on a fast road to the north.
It was in Winchester he met Madeline. Madeline, ten years younger than Gerald, was a sophisticated, public-school educated lady; Gerald was instantly smitten when he knocked her off her feet running to catch the same train. If there was one thing Gerald had learnt, that was how to charm. His profound apologies, smiles and offers of assistance, removed any acrimony Madeline may have felt. They shared a compartment to London, and talked.
Madeline's father, though now dead, had been a Brigadier, and his only child had been assured of the best of everything, that is until he died. Then it was that mother and daughter found out that father had gambled away a small fortune, and even the house was mortgaged to the hilt.
Living the life of paupers, in a tiny flat, which was all they could manage killed mother within six months, and Madeline was left to fend for herself. Two things she had in her favour: her astonishingly good looks, and her decidedly upper-class accent. She had inherited her father's height and slim build and her mother's good looks and, above all, her bright, auburn hair; hair that shone in the sun like gold, and she wore it long, and when she walked, heads turned in appreciative looks. She spurned make-up, other than the faintest touch of lipstick. She was the sort of woman whom women longed to be like.
When her mother died, Madeline was already working in the antique business. That was another gift from her parents; she knew about antiques, although almost all of the family pieces were sold to pay off the creditors. To add a certain hint of mystery, Madeline adopted a faintly European accent, which added a certain charm to her conversation. 'My mother was Polish,' she lied to people who asked, adding, so as to avoid awkward follow-on, 'but I never learned the language, and mother never liked to speak about the horrors of the war.' Within a short time Madeline, specialising in period furniture, was earning huge commissions in the 'Gerard Street Galleries', just of Piccadilly. Within a year of her mother's death, Madeline had moved to Winchester, with the idea of opening a gallery. She had been there six months, commuting daily to London, when she was, quite literally, swept off her feet by Gerald.
'Antiques, you say?' Mmm! I'm interested.' For since his win, and his change of life-style, he had become involved in the finer things of life. Not that he really changed, for he still carried on certain activities, that now he had money, made transactions all the more lucrative. 'I'm looking for something to invest some money in. Antiques might interest me.' Before they reached Waterloo, they had made a date; and before the month was out they had moved in with each other; and before the year was out they were married. Six months after that they bought 'Hampshire Antiques.'
With still a week to run before the start of term, John decided to write out in full his Highland dream. When he had finished, his eyes focused on the circle on the desk, wondering why it was there. He looked to the right, at the scratched 'John Kinnard, 1715.' Idly he let his fingers trace the outline of the words. Was it imagination, or did his fingers detect a movement in the wood?
He pushed harder, and although it was only slight, there definitely was movement. His pulse quickened, and his thoughts took flight. Was he about to unearth a treasure? A quick measurement showed that there was a good inch difference in the width of the two sides of the desk. He knocked both sides; the right side sounded hollow.
Turning the angle-poise lamp full on the signature, John examined it through a magnifying glass, and once again pushed. Yes, there was movement, but something was jamming any real shift. Peering more closely he saw what could be four joints stuck with what looked like glue. If his pulse was jumping before, it was now definitely up several notches, as he ran into the garage for a sharp knife, then carefully scraped away what was certainly glue, light-brown and powdery. When all four sides had been scraped clean, he held his breath and tried sliding the panel. Nothing, except that slight movement. His breath escaped in an exasperated, 'Phew', as he just let his hand rest on the inscription. Then it moved! He had been pushing in a sliding movement, what it needed was a pushing inward movement.
The nine inch square of wood moved inward with a jerk, then came to rest. He tried sliding it to the left. It moved quite easily. His mouth was dry with excitement, as he turned the light into the cavity. There just a few centimetres in front was a second panel. In its centre was the same four quadrant design that was on the desk-top. By now his fingers were trembling so much he could scarcely control them. He ran his fingers over the design, to find that the points of the quadrants were raised.
Puzzle! What did it mean? The only thing he could think of was the cardinal points of the compass. Why the raised points? A closer look through the magnifying glass showed that, like the front panel, the circle had been glued in.
Before continuing, he needed a drink, so while the kettle boiled, he thought. If his mind did several fantastic somersaults, perhaps it was understandable! If there was anything there, had whatever was in there lain undiscovered? What secrets was the desk about to reveal? Any fantasy about gold or treasure in the accepted sense seemed rubbish, not hidden in that small compartment! But what was it?
The hot coffee calmed his racing thoughts and trembling fingers, and he returned to the task with renewed vigour. The glue on the inner panel took ages to scrape away, and he was sweating with exertion and steaming with frustration by the time the circle was clear.
Now what? He argued this way: If it is the four compass points, then if I turn it from the North... he tried. No luck. He tried turning it anti-clockwise. Nothing. Clockwise? Nothing. Yet he did feel a slight movement. He leaned back in his chair and glowered at the panel, feeling a mixture of frustration and curiosity. His look wandered to the circle on the desk-top. Picking up the magnifying glass he took a closer look. His heart jumped, for he saw something for the first time; The East cardinal had one dot on it, West had two dots, North had three, and South had four. That suggested a sequence.
'But I've done that,' he muttered. But no! he had started more logically, by moving from the North. Putting his finger on the East point, he gently turned it round clockwise towards the South. It moved! His pulse quickened again. He continued turning – West, then North. By this time the sweat was trickling down his collar. He loosened his shirt neck. He turned the light more fully on to the panel, then, holding his breath, slowly moved the circle back through East, 180 degrees to South. There was a click and the whole panel dropped forward on a hinge. He gasped and shivered at the same time.
There, neatly wedged against the back of the space, obviously created for it, was a package. Reverently and with trembling hands, he pulled it out and held it, aware that he was holding a part of history that had probably lain hidden for two and a half centuries. John felt he knew what it must have been like to discover Tutankhamun.
Tears pricked his eyes as he examined it, turning it over and over, hardly daring to open it. The parchment covering, with no writing on it, was held together with rough string that he took to be jute, and the knot was sealed with red wax, with the initials J. K. and the date, 8.8.1745. He noted that this was a few days before Bonny Prince Charlie landed at Glenfinnan.
Carefully he cut the string so as to leave the seal intact, and eased string and seal away. Then he laid the package flat on the desk and smoothed out the crackling parchment. His heart was pounding and racing like a steam engine. Whatever it was inside was covered in a piece of linen, stitched round. Conscious that even this held some part of history, he painstakingly cut away the tiny stitches. When the linen was removed and laid on top of the parchment, he held a small brown, leather-covered book, about five inches by seven. On its front cover was engraved in gold (or something that looked like gold) the same circle that was on the desk and had led him to the book. His legs started to tremble so much he had to sit down. He took several deep breaths, wondering if he was about to discover a map that would lead him to treasure hidden on an island. He shook himself out the Robert Louis Stevenson fantasy and opened the book.
The first page contained these words, written in a beautiful copperplate hand:
Learned Dissertation of the Influence between Astrology and Religion. Written by John Kinnard of Westerhouse started 1740 ended 1745.
John stared at the title in sheer unbelief. Questions hammered at his mind, like pistons. If the contents were as innocuous as this, why lock them away? He knew that there had been fierce dispute in the churches about astrology and magic, and that some churchmen at that time still gave some credence to it. That explanation did not satisfy him. Was it coincidental that the work had been completed and, presumably, locked away, just before the '45 Rebellion? Flicking through the book, the parchment pages were covered in close writing, some of it in Latin, some in Scots. John was glad that both languages were not foreign to him. But he felt deflated – no map.
The first six pages consisted of an Introduction, which read: (The original spelling and punctuation have been left, and some words have been simplified).
'It has been my desire to expound the above topic since 1715 when I read in the Good Book how the Star led the wise men from the East to the West.'
John stopped reading here. Surely he's got that wrong? he thought. Turning to the Bible, he read the account in Matthew, where the wise men came to Jerusalem from the east. So, John thought, I suppose he was correct. He pulled over a sheet of paper and made some notes. The doubt still niggled, but he read on.
'Hereinafter I shall refer to this dissertation as my "Work" although I have no means of knowing if it will ever be completed. So I set out first of all to make some detailed notes bearing in mind the injunction of the Word of the Lord; To hide one's treasure deep within the heart. Should I be graciously permitted I shall complete this and present it to my university at St. Andrews. Or I may donate it for safekeeping in Cross Church, for I look upon my years in Dundee with deep affection, and consider those years as the very centre of my work. In the event of my not being able to see this through, I instruct my dearest wife to keep hidden what I have written within the secret place, and to search diligently for someone who will complete what I have been privileged to start. It is my dearest wish that what I write herein may not remain a sealed book to whomsoever happens upon it. Yet, in order to work to completion you must divest yourself of many hindrances; and of thoughts and ideas that would cloud your mind to unravelling the truth. You must learn to trust your own observations and that sense within you which may fly in the face of what you have already learned. If you have no real knowledge of the heavens and of the Creator then your task will be irksome and fraught with difficulties.
'He who would understand the meaning of this dissertation must be prepared to seek for the treasure within. Every thinking man must see that nothing can be accomplished without a perfect knowledge of the heavenly bodies, or of the influence they exert. This quest may take a lifetime; it may take part of a lifetime but however long it will not be accomplished without understanding what the Lord has said in His Good Book. The most holy Book is a treasure house, a storehouse of the most precious treasure of gold and jewels beyond price; it is mine, it is yours for the understanding thereof. I beseech you to ever hold before you that all great things proceed from God; and in your own quest remember this one thing; you are but a channel as I have been. God does not reveal His secrets to the ignorant nor to the proud, but to those who search, as did the one who searched for the Pearl of Great Price. Thus if you wish to possess the treasure of which I write, you must search with patience and persevere with determination, so that you may learn the secrets and plumb the depths.
'Finally in this meagre introduction I wish to draw attention to how God ordained that all things work together. In the world of nature, there is a constant striving for harmony and balance. In the circulation of water for example all four elements play a part; in the body all parts work together to proclaim in the words of the Psalmist, "How fearfully and wonderfully we are made." So in this study, there is a constant balancing of all parts, for the one dual purpose; the glory of God the Father, and for the realisation of the wonderful treasure. In His Holy Word, in Numbers 24, verse 17, God says, "I shall see him, but not now: I shall behold him, but not nigh: there shall come a Star of Magen, and a Sceptre shall rise out of Israel. Within two Stars, there is nothing to be added."'
Once again John stopped reading. He considered his knowledge of the Bible to be fairly sound, but there was something about that verse that didn't ring true. Turning to the reference he read, 'I shall see him, but not now: I shall behold him, but not nigh: there shall come a Star out of Jacob, and a Sceptre shall rise out of Israel, and shall smite the corners of Moab, and destroy all the children of Sheth.'
Most of it is correct, John thought, but why change 'Star out of Jacob' for 'Star of Magen'? And where does he get the bit about the two stars? John knew he would have to keep an open mind, for his instinct told him that it was not an error, and if it was not an error, then it must mean something. He read on:
'It is my hypothesis that in the beginning, God created the seven planets which influence the behaviour of mankind. He also created the wheel that encircles the earth, upon which wheel he placed twelve houses. God's laws do not change; season follows season; from Spring to Winter; from sowing to harvesting. The creation of God, the Author of all things, is founded upon four elements: first, fire; second, air; third, water, and fourth, air. Everything in the material universe, including humankind, can be divided into solid (Earth), liquid (Water) and Vapour (Air), and these three are transformed the one into the other by the fourth element, Fire (energy), and collectively they are referred to as the Cardinalae. The creative fire of God, started the whole process.
'This brief introduction shows that the four elements function strictly in their set order. When God created the earth out of chaos it is said that the four elements sang four different hymns of joy, and that from this paean of praise, all other songs were born.
'God heralds the coming of his Beloved Son in the Holy Star. Two such stars can be traced which encompass the heavenly bodies.
So endeth the Introduction.'
'Well!' John exclaimed aloud, leaning back in his chair (John often talked to himself when deep in contemplation, and had done so more since Margaret's death), 'that's a puzzle, to be sure. Talk about cryptic clues!' So engrossed had he been, and because the angle-poise was still on, he hadn't realised it was now dark! Neither had he realised that his stomach was crying out for attention.
Too late to start cooking now, he folded up the parchment and the linen cover and put them in the desk, then put the book back in its hiding-place, then got into the car and drove to the nearest restaurant. By the time he returned, he was whacked, and he crawled into bed.
The following day, almost before he had finished breakfast, the secret compartment was open and he was rereading the Introduction. He looked more closely at the word 'East' and saw that it was overwritten, thus making it stand out. Was this accidental, or a clue? His eyes focused on the quadrant circle on the desk, and in a flash he knew it wasn't accidental; the inner panel had been opened by moving from east to west! 'There!' he shouted. 'The first clue solved. Start with the east' Little did he realise just how many more clues would need to be solved or the dangers that lay ahead, before the end.
Then came a period of struggle of interests; he was due back at the university in a few days time, and there was work to be done before then. At the same time, he felt really drawn to the 'Work' and desperately wanted to get stuck into it. He made a decision.
1998 was to be his Sabbatical year. Until that moment he had no idea how he would spend it, or even if he would take it. Time, he had said to people, would hang drearily on his hand. Now the prospect of a year out, filled him with great excitement. Reading, researching, visiting Scotland! His spirits soared sky-high. His intuition told him that he would be travelling quite a lot, if he was to solve the mystery. He was not wrong! It was with deep reluctance that he replaced the 'Work' in its compartment, and he started to address the pressing issues of History in the Dark Ages, for a new set of students.
Soon after they married, Gerald and Madeline Chappell were visiting Dundee. Not on holiday, but business – big business. For about ten years Gerald had organised the theft of quality cars from all around the South of England. Within minutes, and invariably before the owners knew their car had been stolen, it was being driven, hell-for-leather up the motorway to Dundee. There lived a certain Bobby Henderson, whose respectable garage fronted a more sinister back-room.
Within hours, the stolen cars emerged with completely new identities to be whisked across to the Continent. Gerald introduced Madeline to this lucrative operation, and she took to it like the proverbial duck. 'She may look nice and sweet,' Gerald said to Bobby, the first time he and Madeline met, 'but don't be fooled, she's got a bitter centre.'
Gerald and Madeline were in the pub listening to two locals talking about ghosts. 'Aye, Jock,' said one, 'I widnae like to be up West Hill the nicht.'
'And why's that, Billy?'
'Ye ken what the date is?'
'Aye, I ken.' (it was November 28th)
'And ye ken aboot the ghost of Sir John, and the treasure?'
At the mention of 'treasure' the visitors tuned in their radar-like ears. Madeline leaned over. 'Excuse me, gentlemen,' she said in her softly seductive, accented voice, 'I overheard you talking about ghosts just now, did I not?' Billy nodded. 'I'm interested in old legends of these parts. Do you mind if we join you. Gerald, darling, get these two gentlemen some more – beer is it?'
So they settled down, and suitably oiled and flattered to have been called 'gentlemen' by an obviously well-heeled lady, Billy and Jock expanded, leaning forward so that the four heads were conspiratorially closer. The story Billy told was that the ghost of the Laird of Westerhouse, Sir John Kinnard always appeared this night to make sure the Jacobite treasure was kept safe.
'Aye,' said Billy, 'up West Hill, it is, and that's whaur they say the treasure is.' When asked if he could take them up, he shook his head with fearsome vigour. 'No, I'll not. I'm no' daft!' He half-closed his eyes, as he said, 'For a price, I'll draw ye a map, though.'
'How much,' said Gerald.
'A hundred.'
'Twenty-five,' said Gerald.
'Seventy-five, said Billy.
'Fifty.'
'Sixty,' said Billy.
'Done!' They shook hands.
With much screwing up of eyes, and licking of end of pencil, Billy drew a detailed map of West Hill, including John o' West Hill's cave, where a hermit once lived; the cave was once the site of a fort. The Chappells felt their skin tingling. The whole story had a ring of authenticity about it – but!
'How is it nobody's found the treasure, Billy,' Madeline asked, sliding over another pint.
'Well, they have, see. Wee bits o' it. But there are very strange tales telt aboot ghosties. But you dinna look as if ghosties wid scare you.' Billy was as good a con merchant as either of his listeners, who, by now were well and truly hooked. Gerald handed over the money; Billy handed over the map, with directions how to get to West Hill.
Although that search, and many others since, did not reveal any treasure, they found evidence to corroborate some parts of Billy's tale, so they went on looking.
Madeline was the researcher, and it was on one of her visits to Dundee, searching through the City archives, where she found a letter, written by Sir John to his kinsman, Sir Peter Douglas, dated January 1745. She returned to Winchester and slapped the photocopy of the letter in front of Gerald. 'Read that!' she said, excitement making her forget her accent.
Dear Peter
This year must see the Fiery Cross summoning the faithful to The Cause. We have waited for this time with great expectations, and for good or ill, we must seize the opportunity. We, you and I, and others, await the Call of C. E. S., and this time we must succeed, and restore the Stewart Throne. To contemplate failure is too sad, yet I must, for I have certain obligations to The Cause, as my father before me, as you well know.
My Work is completed and is in the secret place. I am writing this letter now, on the very desk which you and I explored when we were boys, and discovered its secret. Do you remember how thrilled we were? This desk has served me well. What I, and my father before me have collected from far and near is safe. Only you and I know the secret of the cave and the desk.
Should I not survive, then I instruct you to take action. If neither of us survives, then it rests with God, for I have done my part. If I do not see you before, I shall see you on the field of battle.
We await the Fiery Cross.
Your faithful friend
John Kinnard.
'Well done! Madeline.' Gerald straightened up, and kissed her. 'Now to get at that desk.' He poured them a whisky and they toasted their progress.
The months between September 1997 and July 1998 flew by, without John being able to devote much time to the 'Work', simply because he was too busy at the university. How he fretted! Every time he sat at the desk (his favourite work-place) his eyes wandered to the 'hidey-hole'. There were times when he weakened and took the book out, but it was not for serious study. Every time he handled it, it did something to him. Sometimes, in spite of everything else, he would sit and just gently rub the leather binding, perhaps hoping that a genie would suddenly appear and lead him to the treasure. That did not happen, of course, yet he was aware that something happening in his spirit; too fuzzy to put into precise words, but as if something was being communicated to him. This was 'thinking time', and he did a lot of that when walking to and from the university, or trekking over the mountains on holiday.
Something else was happening, something starting with the dreams of the previous year. It would be totally untrue to say he was over Margaret's death, but the pain was easing, although at times, like on her birthday, or their anniversary, great waves of pain washed over him. What was slowly happening was the bitterness was being replaced by a sort of peace, and he felt it was something to do with the book in the hidey-hole.
If the period between was his thinking time, it was also a time of gradual awareness; a time when the contents he had but scanned, had sunk into his unconscious and were working out their own meanings. The evidence of this lay in the fleeting images he had, often just when dropping off to sleep. One image, or rather several, concerned churches, and just as it was in his dream of the year before, there was often a bell tolling. Linked with this were figures of monks. As he thought about this, it did not seem surprising, for the subject of the 'Work' was Religion. Anyhow, he had to wait. He would no doubt like to think he was content to wait, but that would be untrue! For as he admitted to friends, he fretted – quite often.
What he did, though, just after the New Year was write to Sotheby's. Their reply told him that the desk had come from the estate of a Mrs Catharine Finlayson of Prospect Park, West Sussex. The only details they could give were that Mrs Finlayson inherited the estate from her aunt, Mrs Kinnard-Angus, widow of Mr Edward Kinnard-Angus, formerly of Jamaica. The names certainly tied in with what was on the desk and in the book.
About a month after speaking to Sotheby's, he had a 'phone call, from them. 'Professor Grant? my name is Madeline Chappell. Are you the gentleman who spoke to us recently for information about the Kinnard family? John said he was. 'Oh, good. We have been contacted by the British Museum who are trying to trace any record of what happened to Sir John's writings. Knowing you bought the desk, we naturally put two and two together, and wondered...'
John thought quickly, and as taken as he was with this lady's charming way, and her intriguing accent, he was wary. 'Miss Chappell, I'm truly sorry, but I cannot stop right now. If you give me your number, I'll ring you later. May I?'
She hesitated for just about the right length of time, then said, carefully. 'Oh, I'm a freelance and I'm ex-Directory. I'm sure you understand about numbers. I'll have to get in touch with you. But thank you for your help. When is the best time to ring you back?'
'This evening?'
She never did.
Within a few days John received another 'phone call, this time from a man, named Joe, with a modified London accent, who said he was buying up old furniture, particularly Scottish desks; did John have anything like that? John always said he was not a suspicious man – normally – but there was something too coincidental about this inquiry. He fobbed him off with a half-truth, saying that he had no interest in such desks, but if he left his telephone number he would keep Joe in mind. Joe rang off without replying. John was too busy to give it any more thought, but had he, much of what happened later would have made sense.
'I'm sure he's got something,' the Chappells agreed between themselves. We need to get hold of it.
By the time the summer term was half-way through, most of the academic arrangements had been finalised and John's year's teaching plans had been handed over. His sister Mary, with her family were coming from America to stay in his house for a year, while Glen, her husband, was on Sabbatical from his university. Bob and Cath invited John to stay with them in Stirling. This suited John very well; Stirling being fairly central to the whole of Scotland. Talking things over with Bob, Bob had said, 'Look, John, take my advice, and get that book into a safe place. OK? You can't be too careful.'
So John took the book in one day, and left it in his desk to be photocopied later. He had been gone about an hour when he remembered he had left the drawer unlocked. On coming into his office, he caught a flurry of skirt, as his temporary secretary hastily moved away from his desk, gathering up some papers as she went. He locked the drawer, and later copied the book, then went to the bank and deposited it for safe-keeping.
Usually the photocopier in the department worked well, but for some reason on that day it played up, and he had to throw away some bad prints. He was later to regret this carelessness, just as he regretted telling a few 'trusted' people about his holiday.
Why Stirling? Why Scotland? This was a chance, for he had no sure knowledge that the search would be confined to Scotland. However, reason told him that travel in the mid-1700s was fairly primitive, so if it had involved travel, then it would probably be limited. At least that was his hypothesis. As it turned out, it was only partly accurate.
Copyright © 2000 William Stewart