The Girl with the Phony Name (21 page)

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Authors: Charles Mathes

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“Not really.”
“But don't keep me in suspense. What was Robbie doing in America?”
“Selling insurance.”
Catriona burst into laughter.
“What's so funny?” asked Lucy, annoyed.
“It's just so hard to picture Robbie selling anything. He was so tongue-tied, so shy. Is he still so handsome?”
“He's dead,” said Lucy.
“Oh, dear,” said Catriona.
Lucy took the obituary clipping out of her wallet and handed it to the woman.
“You can see he was very successful,” said Lucy bitterly. “He was a member of the Golden Circle. I guess that meant he sold a lot of insurance.”
“Yes, I see.”
“I suppose I should be proud of him,” said Lucy, nibbling a cookie.
“Yes,” said Catriona, handing back the clipping. “Only there's just one thing.”
“What's that?” said Lucy.
“This isn't Robert MacAlpin.”
“W
hat happened to Mr. Wharrie?” asked Lucy, looking at the peaceful figure snoring softly in the backseat of the long, black sedan.
“I'm afraid our laddie finally discovered his tolerance level for fine whiskey,” chuckled Angus MacLean, pushing his cap up on his head and cranking at the unfamiliar gearshift.
Lucy had returned from MacDonald Castle an hour before and had taken a hot bath and changed, but now it looked like their dinner plans would have to be postponed. Lucy didn't really mind. After what she had learned from Catriona MacDonald, she didn't feel much like celebrating anyway.
“Is he all right?” asked Lucy, concerned. Wharrie let out a snort.
“Nothin' that a night's sleep and a kipper in the mornin' willna fix,” said MacLean. “Get in and we'll take him home. If I can get this infernal contraption to work, tha' is.”
“Maybe I better drive,” Lucy said. License or not, she trusted her driving more than MacLean's. He looked sober enough but had the same white flecks in the corners of his eye that he had had yesterday at the Fairy's Egg.
“Dinna ye relish a wee drive over mountain roads with a droonken one-eyed man at the wheel?”
Lucy smiled.
“Suit yourself,” MacLean shrugged, moving out of the driver's seat.
Lucy hadn't driven a car with a manual transmission for years, and it felt strange having the steering wheel on the right side of the car. Finally she succeeded in engaging the gears and pulled out of the Manor Lodge driveway onto the road toward Dumlagchtat.
“We'll have our wee celebration tomorrow,” said MacLean lazily. “You'll be stayin' tha' long, won't ye?”
“Sure.”
At least she wasn't hungry, having eaten two slices of Catriona MacDonald's tea cake and several cookies. After this morning's hangover, Lucy was surprised her appetite had returned at all.
MacLean shut his eye and seemed to doze off. Lucy tried to enjoy the drive, memorizing the stark countryside, the crumbling stone fences, the tall grass, the endless sky. Driving on the wrong side of the road didn't turn out to be much of a problem, since the road was virtually one lane. It was past seven o'clock in the evening, but the sun wouldn't go down for hours. It had been a very long day.
Though Catriona MacDonald's story left no room for doubt that Lucy was Barbara Fingon's daughter, it had left many questions unanswered. If the man Lucy had killed in New York wasn't Robert MacAlpin, then who was he? Was her father still alive after all? Why had he deserted Barbara Fingon?
The Canadian, Julius Fingon, troubled Lucy as well. Why had he wanted to buy the Fingon brooch? How had he even heard of it? Why did he destroy Dumlagchtat Castle?
“Take that steep road there, next to the sea,” said MacLean, apparently not asleep after all. Lucy followed his directions.
“I finally talked with the MacDonalds this afternoon,” she said as the road began to climb.
“Yes, I know,” said MacLean.
“You do?” she said, surprised.
“Well, I know ye went to the castle. Ranald found yer room key on the seat and dinna want ye to worry. We called. Desk clerk said Lord MacDonald's car ha' picked ye oop.”
MacLean dug into his pocket and produced the key.
“Thanks,” said Lucy, relieved. MacLean tucked the key into her pocket. The drive was getting steeper and there was
no guardrail. The cliff seemed only inches away from the road. Lucy's hands were beginning to ache from gripping the wheel. The car had no power steering.
“So,” said MacLean, “did ye learn anything from the MacDonalds?”
“I did, in fact,” said Lucy and briefly outlined the revelations concerning Robert MacAlpin.
“Verra curious, indeed,” said MacLean when she had finished.
“Do you remember Dr. Fraser mentioning a Canadian named Julius Fingon who owns Dumlagchtat Castle?” said Lucy.
“Aye.”
“Well, Julius Fingon once tried to buy the Fingon brooch.”
“Lord MacDonald knew this?”
“His daughter Catriona told me. She was best friends with my mother.”
“So what do you intend to do, then?” said MacLean quietly. The cliffs were very high up now. The ocean breakers were barely audible against the rocks far below.
Lucy shrugged. “I guess I'll have to see this Julius Fingon after all. I don't know if there's any connection between him and the real Robert MacAlpin, but …”
“Pull over to the side, Lucy,” said MacLean.
“Is something wrong?”
“Please, chust pull over.”
Lucy pressed down on the brake. The car came to a gentle stop on the deserted road. MacLean reached over, switched off the ignition, and removed the key.
“Ye canna see Julius Fingon, Lucy,” he said.
“Why not?” said Lucy. “Why did we stop?”
“Ye chust canna, tha's all.”
Lucy stared at the man. His face was ashen. His hand was trembling.
“It's nae good,” MacLean mumbled. “There's nae point to it anymore.”
“What's wrong, Angus?” said Lucy, concerned. “Please tell me what's bothering you.”
He looked up and spoke in a low voice.
“I havna been telling you the truth, lass. I havna been telling you the truth at all.”
“About what?”
“Aboot things tha' happened long ago. It's a complicated tale, one I'm not proud of.”
“We don't seem to be going anywhere,” said Lucy, trying to smile reassuringly. MacLean began to speak, staring out over the sea with his single eye.
“'Twas thairty years ago,” he said. “I was doin' wha' I be doin' all the time since—sittin' in the Fairy's Egg, drinkin' my whiskey, borin' everyone with my stories.”
“I don't think your stories are boring, Angus,” said Lucy. MacLean seemed not to hear.
“A stranger coom in,” he went on. “A huge, angry-lookin' man, he was, an American by his accent. The lads wouldna ha' naught to diu with him, but I stairts talking about local matters, chust like I done wi' you. Well, we have a few whiskeys and after a while the man says he's a collector of antiquities, Pictish brooches in particular.”
“Pictish brooches!” exclaimed Lucy.
“Aye,” nodded MacLean. “The man dinna look like no collector to me but I was eager to show off mi knowledge, so I says, ‘Diu ye know then the famous Fingon brooch tha' be pairt of an ancient treasure?'”
“‘Know it?' he replies. ‘I've been tryin' to buy it off Laird Fingon for years, only he willna sell. I'd pay five thousand pounds to the man who brought me the Fingon brooch. No questions asked.'
“I almost fell out of mi chair. Five thousand pounds was a fortune thairty years ago, Lucy, and I ha' dreams. I knew wha'
the man was suggestin' and I knew tha' such a opportunity would not coom my way again.
“‘If the Fingon brooch was somehow to coom into my hands,' I says to him, ‘where might I be able to find ye?'
“‘I ha' business in London,' says he, ‘but I'll be back one month from this day. Bring the Fingon brooch to me here and ye shall ha' your money.'
“The next day I paid a call on a friend of mine, Hugh Grimmon. Hugh was from Dumlagchtat and knew the ways of Fingon Castle. He was also more experienced in these matters than I was, having had several run-ins with the law afore. I told Hugh I'd split the five thousand pounds with him if he would help me break into the castle. I was dead serious. I even bought this billy for the caper.”
MacLean reached into his pocket and took out the club he had threatened Fraser with that morning. Lucy shivered, astonished at the thought of this old, gentle soul concocting such a plan.
“Hugh had a better idea,” continued MacLean. “He had heard that a friend of his, a groom at the estate, was lookin' to raise some money so's he could run away with Laird Geoffrey's daughter.”
“Robert MacAlpin?” said Lucy, intrigued.
“Aye.” MacLean nodded. “So Hugh and me, we goes to MacAlpin's wee cottage, the same place where we took Fraser t'other nicht, and we offer the lad five hundred pounds to persuade Barbara Fingon to get us the brooch.
“‘I willna,' MacAlpin says. ‘Isna honest,' he says. We offer him a larger share, but still the lad refuses. Then he says, ‘Tha' man from Nova Scotia put you oop to this, dinna he?'
“‘Wha' man?' says I.
“‘The one Barbara told me aboot,' says MacAlpin. ‘The one who wrote Laird Geoffrey and offered ten thousand pounds for the brooch. Julius Fingon.'”
“Julius Fingon!” said Lucy.
“Aye.” MacLean nodded. “Julius Fingon. Suddenly everything
made sense to me. It wasna an American I ha' talked with, but a Canadian. And I knew why he wanted the brooch. Hugh understood, too, of course. Everyone on Lis has heard the stories about the Fingon treasure.
“‘Dinna ye see, lad?' Hugh says to MacAlpin. ‘We dinna have to settle for a few thousand pounds. Julius Fingon is after the Fingon treasure. The brooch must be the key to it—or else why would he be willin' to pay so much? If we get him the brooch, then he'll ha' to give us a share of the treasure itself!'
“‘Barbara is all the treasure I want,' says the lad, gettin' hot under the collar.
“‘You still need money to take her away,' says Hugh.
“‘I already ha' all the money I need. I dinna want any pairt of yer foul scheme. Now get out afore I call the sheriff constable on ye.'
“Hugh grabs MacAlpin by the shirt and stairts shouting at him. MacAlpin pushes him away. Hugh strikes the lad with his fist. MacAlpin falls backwards. It happened so quick, Lucy, chust a matter or seconds. Hugh is standin' over MacAlpin, yellin', but the lad doesna move. He ha' hit his head on the hearthstone. He was dead. It was an accident, lass. I swear.”
Lucy stared, unable to speak. MacLean was telling her that he and his friend had killed her father thirty years ago. Thirty years ago! MacLean continued, his eyes moist.
“We dragged the body oot back behind the cottage and dug a hole to hide wha' we ha' done. Then Hugh remembered wha' the lad had said about havin' all the money he needed to run away with Barbara Fingon.
“‘It must be in the cottage,' says Hugh. ‘Let's go look for it.'
“I refused. I was sick from wha' we done already. Hugh shrugged and went inside to find what he could steal. I'm coverin' the lad with earth when I hear voices. I put down my shovel and go to the window to see wha's happenin'. There
in the cottage with Hugh is a young lass, a young lass that looked chust like you, Lucy.”
“Barbara Fingon?” asked Lucy, numb.
“Aye,” replied MacLean. “I couldna make out all the words, but she was sayin' something like, ‘Nae, it's not true! I dinna believe you!' and Hugh is answerin', ‘I swear, Miss Fingon. Robbie changed his mind. He couldna face ye. Tha's why he ha' me come here to tell ye.'
“‘My faether had something to do with this, dinna he?' says the girl. ‘Did Laird Geoffrey pay Robbie to go away?'
“I can see that Hugh dinna ken what to do, tha' he's makin' it all oop as he went along. He chust stands there silent.
“‘Tell me! Tell me!' she shrieks, and then she slaps him across the face.
“‘You Fingons aire all alike,' Hugh says back, and I was feared he would kill her, too. But suddenly she storms oot of the cottage and runs back toward the castle.
“‘What will we diu now?' says I, rushin' in.
“‘We make it all come true,' says Hugh, cool as can be, and shows me Robbie MacAlpin's strongbox.”
“What was in it?” said Lucy evenly. Hugh Grimmon's accusation—You Fingons are all alike!—was still ringing in her ears.
“Three hundred eighty pounds,” said MacLean. “And Robbie MacAlpin's passport. Hugh was the same height and build as MacAlpin. He said he'd take the money and the passport and leave the country. Said I ha' to help him, or he'd swear I struck the blow. Said everyone would think the lad ran away. And tha's wha' happened.”
“Then the man who tried to kill me in New York was the same man who killed my father,” said Lucy softly.
“Tha's right,” said MacLean, nervously rubbing the short billy club still in his fist. “It was Hugh Grimmon.”
Lucy sat dumbfounded.
“The way I figure,” MacLean went on sadly, “when Hugh
heard tha' you ha' found a Celtic brooch with the word
Dumlagchtat
tha' had been missing for thirty years, he guessed it wa' the Fingon brooch. He probably couldna believe his luck. If it wa' genuine, then he knew where to sell it.”

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