Avalon (4 page)

“I know you stand to inherit the gillie’s lodge and two hundred acres of good meadow and pine forest if the adjudication upholds your claim.”

“You’re not a solicitor, are you?”

“I have been many things,” the stranger answered. Again James got the distinct impression the man was immensely older than he seemed. “But I think I would remember if I was ever a solicitor.” He shook his head slowly, almost wearily. “No, no, I’m not a lawyer of any stripe. I am simply what one might call a student of the land.”

“What do you know that could help me?”

The old man’s eyes flicked towards him. “Ah” — he smiled quickly — “you are a practical man. I like that. I like that very much. We shall get on well together, I think.”

“I’m waiting.”

“I think I can convince the proper authorities of the truth of your right to the estate.”

James stared at the strange man beside him. As ludicrous as the claim sounded, it was said with such authority he believed Embries completely. “I can’t pay you,” he told him. “Legal fees are costing me an arm and a leg as it is.”

“Then I will make a bargain with you,” Embries said. “I will help you with your problem, and you will help me with a little problem of my own.”

“But you’re not going to tell me what that is, right?”

“Not just yet.”

James frowned. “How did I know you were going to say that?”

“It is not a trap, I assure you. A bargain in good faith. It just so happens I cannot tell you any more until you know me better.”

“Why?”

“Because I greatly fear you would not believe me.”

“I don’t believe you anyway, so you might as well tell me now.”

Embries laughed, and it seemed to James the old fellow had not laughed in a long, long time. “No, my friend,” he remarked, “that would not be bargaining in good faith.”

“You’ve got to give me something to go on.”

“Very well,” the old man conceded. “I will tell you this much: your affairs and mine are much more closely linked than you might imagine.”

“Don’t tell me
you
have a claim on the estate, too.”

“No.” Embries shook his head. “The estate is yours. Never doubt it.”

“Thanks.”

“All of it, I mean. The entire estate — not just the two hundred acres bequeathed to your father. Blair Morven belongs to you, James Stuart, to you alone. The castle and outbuildings, the timber plantation, all the houses and cottages, the farms, the loch, the church, the family treasures — art, silver, and furniture. Everything. It is all yours.”

“In my dreams.”

“In reality.”

James regarded the old man beside him. What in God’s name, he wondered, was he doing sitting out on a windy hilltop in the dead of night talking nonsense with a half-crazy tramp?

Fascinating as it all was, the game, whatever it might be, had worn James’ patience thin. He stood. “It’s been interesting. Fascinating,” he said contemptuously. “Thanks for the information. I’d love to stay and chat; I really would. But I’ve got chores in the morning, and — gosh, is that the time? — I must be going. Mind you don’t trip over your cape on the way home.”

“Silence!” hissed the old man. The whole world recoiled at the intensity of the command. Even the beacon fire obeyed; the flames dimmed, as if shrinking inward upon themselves.

Embries stood, rising from the rock as if he were an angry god about to blast an irksome mortal with a thunderbolt. He shook back his tattered cloak, and James could have sworn he heard the ruffled clap of raven’s wings. The old man stepped nearer and seemed to grow taller with each step; his narrowed eyes took on a cold, forbidding aspect.

It seemed to James that the years, which had clung so tightly to the old fellow’s frame, simply fell away and that he was staring into the face of a man who, while not exactly young, could not be called elderly. Despite the white hair, the eyes that held his were sharp as blades, undimmed by age or time —
beyond
both age and time — wary, worldly, and wise. What is more, they had become an unnatural shade of gold, like a wolf’s eyes or those of a hawk.

Raising the crook in his hand, Embries made a swirling gesture in the air. The wind answered the motion with a gust which fluttered the flames and sent smoke billowing over them both. James smelled it — and was once more a soldier, standing on a hilltop with smoke in his nostrils and a weapon clutched tightly in his hand.

“I will not be mocked!” Embries spat.

James stared in dread fascination at the transformed visage before him. In it, he saw the same primitive wildness he had seen once or twice in the faces of the Afghan rebels he had captured and interrogated. Whatever else he was, the man before him was as much a zealot as any of them, James thought, and probably just as deranged.

“Think me a fool. Think me mad. Think what you will, but never mock me.”

“I’m sorry,” James blurted. The apology was genuine. “But you have to admit this is more than a little crazy. I mean” — he flapped a hand vaguely at their surroundings — “all this.”

“If
all this
troubles you, when next we meet it will be in more conventional surroundings,” Embries assured him tartly. His voice had lost none of its bitter edge. “Good night, Captain Stuart.”

Embries turned and began walking away down the hill, leaving James staring after him.

“Look, let’s walk back to the road together,” James called. “You can’t go wandering around out here at night — it’s dangerous. You could fall and break your neck or something, and —”

He closed his mouth. He was talking to himself. Embries had already disappeared.

James legged it back to the highway and found his vehicle as he had left it. The plum-colored Range Rover was gone, however, and there were no lights to be seen on the road in either direction. He looked back at the hilltop. The beacon fire had dwindled to a mere ruddy glow of embers, and even that was quickly fading.

It started to rain as James climbed into his car. He flipped the key in the ignition, gunned the engine to life, and switched on the headlights and windscreen wipers. As he did so, he noticed a small white card stuck under the blade on the driver’s side. He opened the door, reached around, and retrieved the card. It read simply M. EMBRIES, and gave a London telephone number.

Shoving the card into his jacket pocket, he executed a two-point turn in the middle of the road and rattled off into the night. All the way home he could not help thinking,
What if the old bird is right? Impossible as it seems, what if Blair Morven really does belong to me
?

What a night
, James thought wearily as his vehicle rolled to a stop on the gravel drive behind Glen Slugain Lodge. The old gillie’s cottage — which he was desperately trying to keep from being swallowed up along with the rest of the late Duke’s much-disputed estate — was his home. As he got out of the vehicle, his eye fell on the cardboard box containing his all-but-forgotten night’s work.

“No rest for the weary,” he sighed, then retrieved the box and entered the back door of the cottage, passing through the short entryway and into the kitchen. He dumped the case on the kitchen table, and stood for a moment, glaring at it, strongly tempted to forget the whole thing and call it a day.

He could call the solicitor in the morning, he thought, and plead for another day to sort through the files. In light of the National Tragedy and all, Hobbs would probably understand. Then again, since James had begged Hobbs to get him the files in the first place and everyone was doing him a huge favor just to let him have them overnight, he decided he’d better give them a quick glance, at least.

Slipping off his jacket, he made himself a big mug of strong instant coffee, dragged out a chair, and sat down. Drawing the box across the table, he untied the string and lifted off the lid. Inside were assorted files, legal envelopes, official-looking documents bound in black ribbon, a faded green accounts book, and various paper-clipped bundles of papers — all of which he had to examine in the hope of turning up a scrap of evidence which would help establish his claim to the lodge and land.

The problem, as James had come to understand it, was that the Duke of Morven — not the one who had recently died in Australia but the one his father had served: the one who had given the property to James’ parents in recognition of his father’s service as gamekeeper and factotum — had made application for a transfer of property but had somehow neglected to deed it properly. The old Duke died intestate, and the estate passed to an ailing Aussie cousin who had no interest in it and in fact had never once bothered to come and see the place.

Unfortunately, this elderly cousin had passed away in Sydney, and before clear lines of ownership of the lodge property could be established, James’ parents had also died — within a fortnight of each other. To complicate matters further, the Australian cousin’s holdings had fallen to a consortium of property speculators who had hired a development firm to press forward their plan for transforming Blair Morven into a retirement spa and golf condominium resort for well-heeled oldsters.

This was a gross oversimplification of the problem, to be sure. Indeed, the whole thing had become so tangled in legal obscurities involving the two countries that even the Aberdeen firm of solicitors which had handled the old Duke’s affairs for five generations confessed bafflement. On the off chance that some small but highly significant fact was being overlooked, James had implored them for a last trawl through their archives — the results of which had produced the assortment of documents before him.

He picked up a paper-clipped bundle, slipped off the clip, and unfolded the first page; it was an old grant of fishing rights pertaining to the River Dee which ran through part of the estate. Glancing at the signatures, he recognized his father’s tight scrawl. As gillie — that peculiarly Scottish blend of manservant, guide, and gamekeeper which had evolved over time into the position of estate foreman — his father had signed many of these sorts of things: bills, applications, letters, and such, dealing with the day-to-day affairs of Blair Morven.

Tossing the first bundle aside, he picked up another and opened it. After a cursory glance, he took up three or four others and flipped through them. They were a collection of affidavits and warrants, written in obscure legalese, regarding a series of surveys of the property which had been carried out long ago when the old Duke had applied for a permit to grow and export timber.

Next was a brown cardboard file folder full of letters — all of them from various tenants discussing changes in the rent, requesting new machinery or fencing, and similar concerns. Other than the cost of rental property three and four decades ago, James learned nothing to his advantage and quickly added the folder to the stack.

He picked up the accounts book and discovered that it was not, as the printed cover professed, a record of rents and expenses: it was a shooting diary. Every organized hunting trip that had taken place on the estate for twenty years had been documented: not only how many deer were shot but also each hare, fox, and squirrel, each pheasant, quail, grouse, and dove… as well as the location, the weather conditions — strong breeze out of the northeast, dry; or, no wind, mist, and light rain — and the names of the people making up the shooting party. Each entry, and there were hundreds, was recorded in the same neat hand — a woman’s, he thought — which seemed odd: ordinarily, it would have been the gillie’s job to keep such a journal for the laird.

Engrossing as it was, James saw nothing in the book of remote help to him now, so he chucked it onto the growing heap with the hopeless feeling that this was indeed going to take all night and that he might as well get some sleep and call the office in the morning. As he reached to scoop up the pile and put it back in the box, he happened to glimpse the edge of a photograph protruding from the pages of the accounts book he had just discarded.

Opening the book, he slid out the photo. It was a picture of one of the Duke’s shooting parties. In it, six men posed behind four deer and several dozen hare arrayed before them on the ground; three of the men knelt to hold up the heads of the deer, and the remaining three stood behind them with their hunting rifles slung over their arms. One of the men holding a rifle was James’ father, the other was the old Duke himself, and between them was the man James knew as Embries.

In his surprise, he almost dropped the book. Gripping the photo as if it might escape, he brought it nearer to his face. There was no doubt whatever — the same tall, almost gaunt physique, the same stark white hair, the same long-fingered hands and pale eyes staring out from the glossy scrap of paper — it was the man he had met on the hilltop little more than an hour ago.

The uncanny coincidence gave James a queer feeling in the pit of his stomach; he reached for his coffee and took another drink, wishing it were whisky instead. The photo was old. Judging from the youthful appearance of the Duke and his father it was twenty-five years old at least, maybe even thirty, yet Embries appeared not to have aged a whit in the intervening years.

James opened the accounts book to the page where he’d found the photo, and saw an entry from 17 October. It informed him that on a warm, partly sunny day with the wind gusting ten to twenty miles per hour out of the northwest, four deer and twenty-seven hare had been killed by six men: Sir Cameron Campbell; Sir Herbert Fitzroy; Dr. Stephen Harms; his father, John Stuart; Duke Robert himself; and one listed only as M. Embries.

Remembering the business card he had retrieved from the windscreen, he reached over and dug it out of the pocket of his jacket. He stared at the name…
Embries
. An unusual name — at least, unusual enough for there to be no mistaking that, appearances aside, the man he had met on the hilltop and the man in the photograph were one and the same.

Intrigued now, his senses quickened by an immediate adrenaline rush, he carefully put the accounts book to one side and placed the photo and card atop it. He dug into the box again and brought out another sheaf of bound documents, untied them, and spread them out. It was a jumble of bits and pieces the like of which petty officials everywhere revel in: an old tax notice; a quitclaim for a highway widening scheme; an application for a firearm permit; his father’s discharge papers from his old regiment, the King’s Own Royal Highlanders. Stapled to this last was a brittle, faded copy of a medical form filled out in John Stuart’s name, listing such things as eyesight, vaccinations, and blood type. James glanced quickly at the other documents, which contained equally mundane and uninteresting information, and impatiently swept them aside.