Powerstone (16 page)

‘Just a short stroll now,’
Drummond encouraged. He had walked slowly, but Meigle knew that he was
impatient to increase his stride. Although climbing Ben Vrackie was a major
expedition for Meigle, Jamie would consider it a casual jaunt, a warm-up for
greater things. He scanned the loch for ducks, nodded as a coot bustled away
from the bank and allowed Drummond to move in front.

Meigle sighed. There was always
something sad about leaving a hill. This meeting of the Society bothered him,
for the full responsibility descended on his shoulders, and at his age he was
not sure if he could cope. His whole world might alter before he returned to Vrackie.
So might the world of everybody in the Society. He checked the path, to see
Drummond watching him with his deceptively mild eyes and Kenny rolling along
with his hands deep in his pockets, humming. Maybe he was not so alone. That
was the essence of the Society; a supportive group of varied talents dedicated
to one objective.

Rebuilt at the height of Victorian
Scottish Baronialism, Tummel House was only a couple of miles from Pitlochry.
Set in nearly a hundred acres of informal and formal gardens, its profusion of
bartizans, towers and turrets overlooked the town and enjoyed splendid views
across the River Tummel to the Perthshire hills. The house and its predecessors
had belonged to James’s family since the early 1530s, when King James V had
rewarded an earlier Drummond for military support on a Border expedition.

At first Meigle had thought to
book a hotel for the Society conference, but on reflection he had decided that
Drummond’s house was more private and certainly large enough. With the Society
paying for the catering and equipment, the only problem would be some
disruption to James’s family, but James solved that by sending them to
Paris
for the weekend.

Meigle had worded the invitations
in person, and had insisted that everybody foregather beneath the portraits and
hunting trophies in the great hall. He knew only some of them, and this was the
first full gathering for nearly seventy years, so there would be many
introductions to make.

‘All right,
Sandy
?’ Drummond was at his side,
looking every inch the country gentleman with his tweed suit and tie beneath
the walnut brown face.

‘All right, Jamie.’ Despite his
years of experience in chairing board meetings, this event was going to be
difficult. Things were always more serious when the subject matter was close to
one’s heart.

He stood outside the varnished
doors, glanced at Drummond, took a deep breath and entered. The Society stood
in small knots, engaged in the awkward, desultory conversation of strangers.
There were men dressed with the casual ease of the truly wealthy, and men
uncomfortable in off-the-peg suits that were probably only released from the
wardrobe for weddings and funerals. There were women in faded denims and cheap
jackets and women whose power clothes would impress the least impressionable of
City merchants. All they had in common was the topic of their conversation as
they discussed every possibility that they could conceive for their presence in
Tummel House.

Meigle moved easily from group to
group, reacquainting himself with people that he had met only once or twice
before but knew well from their membership papers, renewing friendships with
men or women that he had known since childhood and gripping the hand of new
members.

‘I am Sandy Meigle,’ he said,
looking hard into the eyes of a middle-sized man with a Hunting MacPherson
tartan kilt and the most determined chin that he had ever seen.

‘Lachlan MacPherson,’ the man
crushed Meigle’s hand enthusiastically, ‘from
Halifax
.’

Meigle disengaged his hand. ‘Good
to have a Nova Scotian here,’ he said. ‘How is the timber business nowadays?’

MacPherson grinned widely. ‘Fine,
Mr Meigle, just fine.’

‘You are very welcome, but the
name’s
Sandy
. We’re all friends here.’ Meigle
moved on, paying particular attention to the younger faces. He had met most
members individually, but never collectively, and recognised the newcomers from
family portraits and the photographs that were an essential prerequisite of
membership. He crossed the floor to greet the tall young man at Drummond’s
side.

‘Andrew, man you’ve grown.’

Andrew Drummond was as tall as his
father, but perhaps three inches broader in the shoulder. ‘Mr Meigle. You’re
looking well.’

Meigle shook his hand and pointed
to the collection of decanters, bottles and glasses that stood on a side table.
‘The drink is free, Andrew. Covered by Society funds.’

‘The Society must have plenty
money to spare then,’ Andrew said frankly, ‘for there are a lot of thirsty
people here.’ He widened his eyes that seemed an even more youthful copy of his
father’s. ‘I don’t really know much about this Society that I seem to have inherited,’
he said. ‘Dad hasn’t told me much.’ He deepened his voice in a bad copy of his
father’s brisk bark. ‘You’re too young yet. Plenty of time for that.’

Drummond’s frown could not hide
the pleasure in his eyes.

‘Your father is quite right,’ Meigle
said solemnly. ‘But you’ll learn more today. In the meantime, mingle freely.
We’re all friends as well as members.’

Andrew grinned. ‘I wouldn’t mind
making friends with that member there,’ he nodded toward a confident looking
woman in a flowing blue dress.

‘Another new face.’ Meigle watched
the woman for a minute, mentally searching through his photographs. ‘If you
would excuse me?’

‘I am Sandy Meigle,’ he thrust out
his hand to the woman. ‘The chairman of this Society.’

‘Doctor Eileen Wallace.’ Her grip
was firm and cooler than her intense grey eyes. Experience had taught Meigle
that he could find out a lot by examining the eyes and mouth of a person. The
eyes were said to be a window into the soul, but people fashioned their own
mouth. Eileen’s lips were held tight, suggesting a resolute personality.

‘You are very welcome, Eileen.’

‘I prefer Doctor Wallace, on first
acquaintance.’ Eileen’s gaze did not waver. ‘And I would like to know what this
meeting is all about.’

Meigle smiled. ‘I quite understand
that, Dr Wallace, but everything will be revealed in the fullness of time.’ He
could place her now. Dr Eileen Wallace, the daughter of Mr and Mrs Wallace of Stonehaven.
She was born into the Society from her mother’s side, the late Emily Wallace,
nee Rutherford.

‘I hope so, Mr Meigle.’ Eileen did
not drop her eyes as Meigle moved on, winking to Andrew.

‘Good luck with that one,’ Meigle
whispered, and Andrew grinned.

‘I like a challenge.’

‘
Sandy
!’ Drummond slid up, his brogues silent on the marble
floor. ‘Everything is set up in the ballroom.’ He ushered Meigle to a huge room
where rows of seats faced a platform intended for a dance band. ‘I’ll get them
moving.’

Drummond had directed the members
of the Society to their seats before Meigle mounted the three steps to the
platform. He expected the stir of interest as he entered, and lifted a hand in
acknowledgement to the nods of respect and recognition. Checking that everybody
was present, Meigle took his place in front of the white screen that stretched
across two of the room’s tall windows.

He waited until the murmur of
conversation died, pushed the button that closed the curtains behind him, and
raised the level of lighting. The twin chandeliers emitted a soft glow, light
that permeated into every corner of the room and highlighted the original oil
paintings that graced the muted colouring of the walls. Drummond walked to the
double doors, ensured that they were shut and stood with his back to them,
facing Meigle across the room.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Meigle
started in the traditional manner, ‘members of the Society. If only because we
have never all met in the same place before, you know how unusual this
gathering is. For that same reason, you will realise that it must be
important.’

He surveyed the faces. ‘You are
all welcome, especially
Lachlan
, Andrew and Dr Eileen Wallace.’
Extending his hand in their direction, he invited them to stand. ‘As the next
generation, you do not yet know the responsibilities that will be heaped on
your shoulders. You are about to learn.’

There was a ripple of laughter
from the older members, and one or two began to clap, or stand and hold out
their hands to
Lachlan
, Andrew and Doctor Wallace. Meigle
allowed the noise level to rise as the new members were received into the
Society. He hid his satisfaction as Andrew and Doctor Wallace leaned across to
formally introduce themselves to each other, and nodded as Drummond lifted a
single finger. Of the three,
Lachlan
seemed most pleased to acknowledge his membership, grinning broadly to
everybody that shook his hand. That was how things should be. Only when the
members sank back into their seats did Meigle continue.

‘As a reminder, this Society has
existed for many centuries, in many different forms. We adapt to suit the era
in which we live, but our function remains the same. We are here to help each
other through life, but our primary reason for existence is to ensure the
security of the Clach-bhuai.’

As he had expected, Andrew and
Lachlan
looked mystified. It was unlikely
that either had ever heard the name before. Andrew looked to his father, who
gave a solemn nod, while Doctor Wallace straightened her back and looked
attentive. She held up a hand.

‘May I ask a question?’

‘Of course,’ Meigle believed in
encouraging the young. ‘But I will explain everything.’

‘Is that not rather an outmoded
concept?’

Meigle knew the background and
occupation of every member of the Society. He was aware that Eileen Wallace was
a lecturer in Celtic Studies at an
Aberdeen
university. ‘To which concept do you refer?’

‘The name Clach-bhuai is Gaelic,’
Doctor Wallace spoke with all the authority of her education, ‘and it could
mean Stone of Power or Powerstone. I presume that you are referring to the
Stone of Destiny, which, despite the colourful legends, most experts believe to
be a chunk of Scottish sandstone with no mystical powers whatsoever.’

Meigle allowed the murmur to die
down. He could see that Andrew Drummond was looking intently at Doctor Wallace.
No doubt he was calculating his chances of impressing such a knowledgeable
woman. ‘Your translation is correct, Dr Wallace. The name is Gaelic, although
of an archaic form, and it can mean either Powerstone or Stone of Power.
However the object in question has no connection with the Stone of Destiny.’

Doctor Wallace lowered her eyes,
obviously unsettled.

‘Nevertheless, I thank you for
your point. It is always good to meet somebody with independent knowledge.’ Meigle
glanced at Drummond, who took his cue nicely and smiled over to Eileen.

‘That’s the ticket, Dr Wallace;
keep the old man on his toes!’

The resulting laugh removed most
of Doctor Wallace’s embarrassment. When Meigle saw Andrew lean across to speak
with her, he thought that the incident had passed without rancour.

‘Our stone is rather smaller than
the Stone of Destiny,’ Meigle continued. ‘For you members who know this story
already, please forgive me for blethering on. For those members who know
something of it, please bear with me, and for those newcomers to the Society,
please listen with great attention.’

Further dimming the lights, Meigle
flicked the switch of a projector and an image of the Honours of Scotland
appeared on the large screen at his back. ‘These are the Scottish Crown
Jewels,’ he said. ‘They comprise the Crown, the Sword of State and the Sceptre.
There are also a number of rings and the Mace.’

As most of the members leaned
back, Andrew and Doctor Wallace fidgeted slightly in their seats. Meigle
continued. ‘Beautiful, are they not? Mediaeval workmanship of the highest
quality. Nobody is exactly sure of the age of the crown but we know that an
Edinburgh
jeweller named Mosman reworked it
for King James V in 1540. The Sword of State and the Sceptre were both Papal
gifts, dating from 1507 and 1494 respectively. In themselves, each is
intrinsically priceless and historically invaluable. All have survived war and
raid. When Cromwell invaded in 1650, the Honours were smuggled to safety from
Dunottar
Castle
, by the wife of the minister of Kineff.’

Meigle fixed his eyes on Doctor
Wallace. ‘She was a member of the Society.’

Doctor Wallace looked up. Her eyes
were remorseless.

‘When the
Union
of the Parliaments occurred in
1707, one clause of the document stipulated that the Honours were never to
leave
Scotland
. To ensure that the
Westminster
parliament kept its word, the
Society persuaded the powers of the time to lock them up in the Castle. They
remained there, safe, for over a century. Only when the Society deemed that
Westminster
might be trustworthy after all,
did Walter Scott, another member, reveal their existence.’