Джеффри Арчер - Tell Tale - Stories

“Came over from Canada in my father’s day,” continued the barman. “Said to have made a fortune on the railroad, but who knows the truth?”

Arthur knew the truth.

“Must be lonely up there in the winter,” said Arthur, still fishing.

“And the ice rarely melts on those hills before March,” said the barman. “Still the old man’s got the Laidlaws to take care of him, and she’s a damned fine cook, even if he’s not the most sociable of people, especially if you stray onto his land uninvited.”

“I think I’ll turn in,” said Arthur.

“Care for a nightcap?” asked the landlord, holding up an unopened bottle of whiskey.

“No, thank you,” said Arthur.

The landlord looked disappointed, but bade his guest good night.

Arthur didn’t sleep well, and it wasn’t just jet lag: after the barman’s remarks he feared Macpherson might still be alive, in which case the whole trip would have been a complete waste of time and money. And worse, if Stratton got to hear about it...

When the sun rose the following morning, which Arthur noted was quite late in this part of the world, he took a bath, got dressed, and went downstairs to enjoy a breakfast that would have been appreciated in a New York deli: porridge with brown sugar, kippers, toast, marmalade, and steaming hot coffee. He then returned to his room and packed his small suitcase, still not certain where he would be spending the night.

He came back downstairs and, on being handed his bill, discovered just how many wee drams the landlord had enjoyed. But this was not somewhere to hand over a credit card in the name of Mr. S. Macpherson. That remained in his wallet. For now, its only purpose had been to prove his identity to Mr. Buchan. Arthur settled the bill with cash, which brought an even bigger smile to the landlord’s face.

When Arthur stepped out of the hotel just before ten o’clock, he was greeted with the sight of a gleaming black Daimler.

“Good morning,” he said, as he climbed into the backseat and sank down into the comfortable leather upholstery.

“Good morning, sir,” said the driver. “Hope the car’s to your liking.”

“Couldn’t be better,” replied Arthur.

“Usually only comes out for weddings or funerals,” admitted the driver.

Arthur still wasn’t sure which this was going to be.

The driver set off on the journey to Ambrose Hall, and it quickly became clear he hadn’t visited the house for some time, and like everyone else in the town, had never set eyes on Mr. Macpherson, but he added with a chuckle, “They’ll have to call for Jock when the old man dies.”

Once again Arthur feared his client must still be alive.

The hall turned out to be a journey of about fourteen miles, during which the roads became lanes, and the lanes, paths, until he finally saw a turreted castle standing four-square on a hill in the distance. Arthur had one speech prepared, should Mr. Macpherson answer the door, and another if he was met by the Laidlaws.

The car proceeded slowly up the driveway, and they must have been about a hundred yards from the front door when Arthur first saw him. A massive giant of a man wearing a tartan kilt, with a cocked shotgun under his right arm, looking as if he hoped a stag might stray across his path.

“That’s Hamish Laidlaw,” whispered Jock, “and if you don’t mind, I think I’ll stay in the car.”

When Arthur got out, he heard the car doors lock. He began walking slowly toward his prey.

“What di ye want?” demanded Laidlaw, his gun rising a couple of inches.

“I’ve come to see Mr. Macpherson,” said Arthur, as if he was expected.

“Mr. Macpherson doesn’t welcome strangers, especially those who dinnae have an appointment,” he said, the gun rising a couple more inches.

“He’ll want to see me,” said Arthur, who took out his wallet, extracted a card, and handed it to the giant. Arthur suspected this might be one of those rare occasions when senior vice president embossed in gold below National Bank of Toronto might just have the desired effect.

While Laidlaw studied the card, Arthur watched as a moment of apprehension crossed his face, a look he’d experienced many times when a customer was asking for an overdraft, and didn’t have the necessary security to back it up. The balance of power had shifted, and Arthur knew it.

“He’s not here at the moment,” said Laidlaw, as the gun dropped.

“I know he isn’t,” said Arthur, taking a risk, “but if you don’t want the whole town to know why I’ve come to visit you,” he added, looking back at Jock, “I suggest we go inside.” He began walking slowly toward the front door.

Laidlaw got there just in time to open it, and led the intruder into the drawing room, where all the furniture was covered in dust sheets. Arthur pulled one off and let it fall to the floor. He sat down in a comfortable leather chair, looked up at Laidlaw, and said firmly, “Fetch Mrs. Laidlaw. I need to speak to both of you.”

“She wasn’t involved,” said Laidlaw, fear replacing bluster.

Involved in what? thought Arthur, but repeated, “Fetch your wife. And while you’re at it, Laidlaw, put that gun away, unless you want to add murder to your other crimes.”

Laidlaw scurried away, leaving Arthur to enjoy the magnificent paintings by Mackintosh, Farquharson, and Peploe that hung on every wall. Laidlaw reappeared a few minutes later with a middle-aged woman in tow. She was wearing an apron, and didn’t raise her head. It wasn’t until she stopped half a pace behind her husband that Arthur realized just how much she was shaking.

“I know exactly what you two have been up to,” said Arthur, hoping they would believe him, “and if you tell me the truth, and I mean the whole truth, there’s just a chance I might still be able to save you. If you don’t, my next visit will be to the local police station. I’ll start with you, Mrs. Laidlaw.”

“We didnae mean to do it,” she said, “but he didn’t leave us with a lot of choice.”

“Hold your tongue, woman,” said Laidlaw. “I’ll speak for both of us.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” said Arthur. He looked back at Mrs. Laidlaw and played what he hoped was his trump card. “The first thing I want to know is when Mr. Macpherson died?”

“Just a few months back,” said Mrs. Laidlaw. “I found him in bed, white as a sheet he was, so he must have passed away during the night.”

“Then why didn’t you call for a doctor, the police, even Jock?”

“Because we didn’t think straight,” she said. “We thought we’d lose our jobs and be turfed out of the lodge. So we waited to see what would happen if we did nothing, and as the monthly check kept arriving from the bank, we assumed no one could be any the wiser.”

“What did you do with the body?”

“We buried him. On the other side of the copse,” chipped in Mr. Laidlaw, “where no one would find him.”

“We didn’t mean any harm,” she said, “but we’d served the laird for over twenty years, and not so much as a pension.”

I know the feeling, thought Arthur, but didn’t interrupt.

“We didn’t steal nothing,” said Laidlaw.

“But you signed checks in his name, and also went on receiving your monthly pay packet.”

“Only enough to keep us alive, and not allow the house to go to rack and ruin.”

“I told him we had to keep the expenses low,” said Mrs. Laidlaw, “so they wouldn’t become suspicious.”

“That’s what gave you away,” said Arthur.

“Will we go to jail?” asked Mrs. Laidlaw.

“Not if you carry out my instructions to the letter,” said Arthur as he stood up. “Is that understood?”

“I don’t care about going to jail,” said Laidlaw, “but not Morag. It wasn’t her fault.”