by Francis - TO THE HILT

Moreover, as Himself pointed out, the hilt had been given as thanks and appreciation for hospitality, horses and provisions. The facts were well attested. Prince Charles Edward, on his long retreat northwards (after his nearly successful campaign to win the English crown) had stayed for two nights at Kinloch Castle, had been comforted and revictualled, his retinue rested and re-horsed, for which services he had passed on to the then earl the hilt of his ceremonial sword, the blade having been earlier snapped off short in an accident.

The sword had never been used in nor intended for battle: it was too heavy and too ornate, a symbol of power and pomp only. The Prince, his dreams shattered like the blade, had left it behind and ridden on towards Inverness, to what proved to be his army's last decisive defeat at Culloden.

The Prince, tougher in flight, had famously escaped across Scotland to the Western Isles, making it safely back to France. The Earl of Kinloch, not so lucky, had been beheaded by the English for his allegiance (like poor fat old Lord Lovat) but had by then passed the splendid hilt to his son, who passed it to his son, and so on down the generations. It had become known as the 'Honour of the Kinlochs', and Himself, the present earl, though he had had to cede his castle, had finally won a declaration in the courts (still disputed) that the hilt, for his lifetime at least, belonged to him .

Since he had 'disappeared' the hilt, the castle had been further robbed of a display of Highland artifacts: shields, claymores and brooches. Himself, in residence in London at the time of that break-in, had made sarcastic remarks about bureaucrats being hopeless custodians of treasures. Ill-feeling flew like barbs in the air. The castle's bruised administrators were now hell-bent on finding the hilt, to prove that Himself was no better at guarding things than they were.

Under guise of rewiring and refurbishing the castle, including Himself's wing, they were inching with probes everywhere, determined on uncovering the cache. All they had wrung out of Himself was a promise that the Honour of the Kinlochs had not left his property. The ill-feeling and the search went on.

Jed having decanted me at the private wing's seldom-locked door I went inside and found my uncle in his dining-room, dressed in tweeds despite the early hour and pouring coffee from a pot on the sideboard.

He gave me, as always when we met after an interval, the salutation of my whole name, to which I replied with old and easy formality.

'Alexander.'

'My lord.'

He nodded, smiled faintly, and gestured to the coffee.

'Breakfast?'

'Thank you.'

He took his cup over to the table and began eating toast. Two places had been laid at the table, and he waved me to the free one.

'That's laid for you,' he said. 'Your aunt stayed in London.' I sat and ate toast and he asked me if I'd had a good journey.

'I slept all the way.'

'Good.'

He was a tall man, topping me by at least four inches, and broad and large without looking fat. At sixty-five he had grey hair showing a white future, a strong nose, heavy chin and guarded eyes. His physical movements tended to be uncoordinated and clumsy; his mind was as tough and solid as an oak. If it were true that he'd told Ivan he would trust me with his life, then the reverse in general was also true, but like many good men he tended to trust too many people, and I wouldn't have staked my life on his absolute silence, even though any indiscretion would have been unintentional.

He said, spreading marmalade, 'Jed told me what happened at the bothy.'

'Boring.'

He wanted me to tell him in detail what had happened, so I did, though with distaste. I told him also about Ivan giving me the power of attorney, and my experiences in Reading.

He drank three cups of coffee, stretching as if absently for slice after slice of toast.

Eventually I asked him calmly, 'So do you have the King Alfred Gold Cup? Is it here?'

He answered broodingly, 'I did tell Ivan you were good at hiding things.'

'Mm.' I paused. 'Probably someone heard you.'

'God, A?

I said, 'I think it was the chalice, not the hilt, that those men were trying to find at the bothy. I also think they hadn't been told precisely what they were looking for. They kept saying "Where is it?" but they didn't say what they meant by it . I thought at the time they meant the hilt, because I didn't know Ivan had given you the Cup, but also it seemed possible they were simply fishing for anything I valued.' I sighed. 'Anyway, I'd say now the it was definitely the Cup.'

He said heavily, 'Jed said they'd hurt you badly.'

'That was Tuesday. Today's Saturday, and I'm fine. Don't worry about it.'

'Was it my fault?'

'It was the Finance Director's fault for running off with the brewery's cash.'

'But mine for suggesting you to Ivan.'

'It's history.'

He hesitated. 'I still have to decide what to do with that damned lump of gold.'

I did not make instant glad-eyed offers to keep it safe.

He listened to my silence and gave me a rueful shake of the head.

'I can't ask it of you, I suppose,' he said.

Next time you'll scream … There would be no next tune.

I said, 'Patsy has told a few people that I already have the Cup. She's saying I stole it from the brewery.'

'But that's nonsense!'

'People believe her.'

'But you've never been to the brewery. Not for years, anyway.'

I agreed. 'Not for years.'

'Anyway,' said my uncle, 'it was Ivan himself who took the Cup out of the brewery, on the day before his heart attack. He told me he was feeling deeply upset and depressed. His firm of auditors - what's that chap's name… Tollright? - were warning him he was on the point of losing everything. And you know Ivan… he was worried both about his workpeople losing their jobs and about himself losing face and credibility. He takes his baronetcy and his membership of the Jockey Club very seriously… he could not bear having his whole life collapse in failure.'

'But it wasn't his fault.'

'He appointed Norman Quorn to be Finance Director. He says he no longer trusts his own judgment. He's taking too much guilt onto his own shoulders.'

'Yes.'

'So when he could see bankruptcy and disgrace ahead, he simply walked out with the Cup. Sick at heart was the phrase he used. Sick at heart.'

Poor Ivan. Poor sick heart.

I asked, 'Did he take the Cup to Park Crescent? Is that where you collected it from?'

My uncle half laughed. 'Ivan said he was afraid it would be as accessible in Park Crescent as in the brewery. He wanted to keep it out of any asset-pool and he didn't want to leave a paper-trail, like renting a bank vault, so he left it… you'll laugh… he left the treasure in a cardboard box in the cloakroom of his club. Left it in the care of the door-keeper.'

'Hell's teeth.'

'I fetched it from his club. Gave the doorman a thank you. Brought the Cup up here, in my car. James and I drove up here together as usual, you see. The family flew up, of course.'

James was his eldest son, his heir.

'I didn't tell James what I'd got,' Himself observed thoughtfully. 'James doesn't understand the word secret.'

James, a friendly fellow, liked to talk. Life, to my cousin James, was mostly a lark. He had a pretty wife and three wild children, 'all away sailing this week,' explained Himself, 'when they should be back at school.'

My uncle and I left the dining-room and walked outside round the whole ancient complex, as he liked to do, our feet quiet on the sheep-cropped grass.

'I asked Ivan how much the King Alfred Cup was actually worth,' he said. 'Everyone tends to refer to it as priceless, but it isn't, of course. Not like the hilt.'