The Iron Lance (13 page)

January 12, 1899: Edinburgh, Scotland

I was born in the Year of Our Lord 1856, in the tidy industrial town of Witney in Oxfordshire, to parents of good old Scottish blood. My father, who had left his beloved Highlands to further the family interests in the wool trade, eventually put the business on a solid footing, hired a manager and moved back north to “God's ane countrie,” as he liked to call it.

Thus, on the cusp of my sixth year of life, I was yanked, roots and all, from the humming bustle of a prosperous Cotswold town, and transplanted to a rude hamlet in what to my inexperienced eye appeared a drizzly, heather-covered moor in the remote Scottish wilds. Surrounded by sheep and gorse, I began my education in the tiny village school where I found both the teachers and my fellow classmates not only brusque to the point of rudeness, but incomprehensible. I spent the whole of my first year's lessons in a state of teary agitation, vowing at the end of each day never to return to that accursed school.

It fell to my patient grandmother to soothe my schoolboy woes. “Nivver fret, laddie buck,” she would say. “All will be well in God's good time.” She was right, of course. I finished my schooling and graduated from St. Andrews University, having
pursued a double course of study in History and Classics.

Favoring a life of professionary indolence over the blustery routine of a work-a-day wool purveyor like my father, however prosperous and thriving, I hastily signed on as a clerk at one of Edinburgh's reputable legal firms, and was plunged straight away into an amiable, yet tedious, drudgery copying drafts and opinions, writs and grants and summary judgments, for my learned superiors. After a few weeks of this occupation, I began to suspect that the life I had chosen did not suit me as closely as I had imagined. I began to drink—only in moderation, and only after hours with others of my ilk—frittering away my evenings with good talk, cheap whisky, and cheaper cigars in one of Auld Reekie's many excellent pubs—which would have horrified my dear old Gran no end. Still, I was young, unattached, and reckless. My needs were simple, and easily met. One of my fellow scribes and imbibers, it soon transpired, was an inveterate walker who thought nothing of sailing off down the road to one distant destination or another with nothing more than a stout stick and half-a-sixpence. He was a true Son o' the Heather through and through, and gloried in the name Alisdair Angus McTavot. A splendid fellow, Angus—he detested the name Alisdair and would allow no one to use it in his presence—possessed an absolutely infectious enthusiasm, and I soon found myself tramping around the damp countryside with him at week's end and holidays.

We spent many a squall huddled in the doorway of a cow byre waiting for the rain to move off, and as happens on such occasions, we began to speak of our families. It turned out that the McTavot clan enjoyed some tenuous connections with the lapsed Scottish aristocracy. His father was a baronet, whatever that is, and though the title was no longer a sinecure for great wealth, there was yet a modicum of prestige to be wrung from it. If noth
ing else, his uppercrusty heritage had given Angus a taste for pomp and tradition of an obscure kind. He revelled in all manner of old fashioned notions, and indulged a penchant for the arcana of Celtic history, especially as it touched primitive royalty.

It was through Angus that I was introduced to the Ancient and Honorable Order of the Highland Stag—otherwise known as a gentleman's club. In its prime, the Old Stag, as it was affectionately known to its intimates, boasted such illustrious members as Cameron Brodie and Arthur Pitcairn Grant, and such notorious brigands as Drummond “Black” Douglas, and Judge Buchanan. Sir Walter Scott was an honorary member, as was Robert Louis Stevenson, and Captain Lawrie of Krakatoa fame. Although still eminently respectable, the club had come down somewhat in latter years and no longer attracted the blue-bloods and patricians in the numbers it once boasted—which, I suppose, is how Angus and I were able to gain entrance. Some few of our legal brethren were also members, as it was considered a good way for a young man of discreet ambition to advance himself.

I found in the Old Stag a refuge from the increasingly dissipate life of the smoking and drinking set. It was easier in many ways to beg off an invitation to a Friday night's binge with a smile and a “Love to, chaps, but I've a do at the club. Sorry.”

So it was that I found myself sitting alone in the smoking room one rainy Friday night. It had just passed eight, and most of the other members had gone through to dinner by the time I arrived, so I had the place to myself. I was nursing a pre-prandial single malt, while waiting for a very late Angus, when a tall, distinguished-looking fellow in a quietly expensive suit sat down in the leather armchair directly opposite me. He had a newspaper with him, but it remained folded on his lap while he passed a perfunctory eye over my rather ordinary person.

I assumed he was waiting for me to offer my name—a thing routinely expected of younger members, as it allows the elder a chance to vet the newcomers without waiting for a proper introduction. No offense is taken; we are all
members
, after all. Before I could present myself, however, he said, “Excuse me, I have no wish to intrude, but you are a friend of young McTavot, I believe.”

“Precisely,” I replied. “Indeed, the very fellow I am waiting for now.”

“Yes,” said the stranger, “he will be detained a few minutes. I thought we might take the opportunity to talk.”

This aroused my curiosity, I confess.

“Allow me,” said the man, extending a gold cigar case towards me.

I selected one of the fellow's panatellas, thanked him, and sat back. “You know Angus, I take it?” I inquired, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Know his father,” answered the man. “I knew your father, as well. A fine, upstanding man he was, too. Admired him tremendously.” He struck a match to light his cigar. “I don't mind telling you that I miss him very much.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” I said, “but I think you might have me mistaken for someone else. You see, my father is still very much alive—at least, he was last time I checked.”

The man froze, the match hovering in the air. His eyes grew keen as he looked me up and down. “Good Lord! William Murray still alive? I attended his funeral…or thought I did.”

The mistake came clear. “William was my
grandfather
,” I explained. “Thomas is my father.”

The man slumped back in the chair as if he had been walloped on the jaw. He waved out the match, and stared at me, lost, his eyes searching.

“Oh, I
am
sorry,” he said, coming to himself once more. “I seem to have got myself into something of a muddle. You are his grandson…Of course! Of course you are. Do forgive me. It is, I fear, one of the burdens of old age. Truly, it is all I can do to remember which century I am in, let alone which year.”

“Think nothing of it,” I offered. ‘Happens to me all the time.”

He lit another match, touched the tip of his cigar, and puffed thoughtfully. “Thomas…yes, of course,” he murmured to himself. “How silly.” He extended the box of matches to me.

“You knew my grandfather, then.” I selected a match, struck it, and occupied myself with my smoke, giving him time to reply as he would.

“Not half as well as I should have liked,” he answered. “Met him once or twice at business functions, social wrangles, and the like. William was the friend of a friend, you see.” He paused, puffed, and added, “McTavot was more in my circle of influence.”

“I see.” We talked of the McTavots and he asked me how Alisdair and I had come to be acquainted. I explained that we labored in the same law firm, and how Angus had taken me under his wing and introduced me to some of Edinburgh's finer points. “I'd never have known about the Old Stag, if not for him,” I concluded.

“That's much the best way,” the gent replied amiably. “Friends of friends.”

Angus arrived in a lather just then, bursting into the room, shaking rainwater all over the expensive leather upholstery. “Dreadfully sorry,” he apologized. “I've been trying to get a cab for a half hour. The least little whiff of rain and they all run for cover. I'm soaking. What's this?” He picked up my glass, sniffed, and bolted down the contents. “Whew!” he puffed out his cheeks. “That's better.”

“Sit down,” invited the old gent. “Care for a smoke?”

“Thanks.” He took one of the slim cigars, lit it, and said, “I see you two have met. Good.” He rubbed his hands together. “I'm starved.” To the older gent, he said, “We were about to go in to dinner. Would you care to join us? There's haggis stalking the moors tonight, I'm told.”

The tall gentleman stood. “Very kind of you, but I'm afraid I've made other arrangements this evening. Some other time, perhaps.” He bade us both good evening and walked away, quiet and confident, like a cat having got the cream.

“What a strange man,” I remarked, when he had gone.

“Pembers?” wondered Angus. “Why do you say that?”

I told him about the misunderstanding over my father, and how he had made light of it. “The strange thing is, I had the distinct impression he really
didn't
know which century he was in, if you can believe it. He seemed completely lost for a moment. And another thing: I did not give him my name—he already knew it.”

“So? It's not exactly a secret is it?” Angus countered, pulling his watch out of his pocket for a quick glance. “Someone in the club must have mentioned it to him. Relax, Pembers is all right.”

“Pembers? Is that his name? He never said.”

“Pemberton,” McTavot informed me. “He has been a friend of the family for I don't know how long. Known him all my life, I suppose.” We started towards the door to the dining room.

“What does Pemberton do?”

“For a living?” He shrugged. “Landed gentry, I expect. Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering.”

We entered the large, dark-panelled room and I saw many familiar faces among the diners, but my attention was instantly arrested by the liberal sprinkling of women in glittery evening dress scattered among the tables. It was Ladies Night—the Old Stag hosted them on occasion—consequently, there were fewer
tables available than usual, and most of them sported lighted candles. I spied a small empty table near the sideboard, and made my way to it. Some of the older members were already at the cheese.

I made to seat myself, whereupon Angus took one look at my selection, and said, “Won't do, I'm afraid. Won't do at all. Let's try this one over here.”

He moved to a nearby table—set for four and with unlighted candles. “This one is reserved,” I pointed out as he drew out his chair.

“It is, yes,” he agreed, sitting down. “For us.”

“You reserved a table for us?”

“I did, yes. I have a surprise for you.” He gawked around the room. “I hope it hasn't got hung up somewhere.”

“I'm intrigued,” I said. “Tell me more.”

“All in good time.”

A white-jacketed waiter appeared to inform us of the evening's selections and then departed, leaving us to our contemplation of the club's estimable and extensive wine list.

“You know, there was something else,” I said, leaning forward conspiratorially.

“Something else? What are you babbling about?”

“You said you had been waiting for a cab for half an hour. That's not the kind of thing anyone else could know about, is it?”

“Not unless they were with me, naturally.”

“Naturally,” I conceded. “But Pemberton knew. He also knew I was waiting for you.”

“You must have told him.”

“On the contrary. He told
me
. ‘You are a friend of young McTavot, I believe.' He said it just like that, and I said I was waiting for you.”

“There you are, you see?”

“And then he informed me that you would be detained a few minutes, and that we might as well have a chat.”

“Well, you said yourself you were waiting for me. Anyone could see I was delayed.”

“Not
delayed
,” I told him firmly. “Detained—that was the exact word. It made me think that he had…well, arranged it somehow.”

“Nonsense,” he scoffed. “I was waiting for a cab, and trying—”

“Yes? Trying to what?”

“Never you mind,” he said evasively. “Anyway, why would old Pemberton wish to detain me?”

“So he and I could talk.”

“He could talk to you anytime he wanted,” Angus laughed. “He didn't have to
arrange
anything. You must have taken it all the wrong way.”

“Possibly,” I conceded, “although I don't see why he—”

Before I could finish, Angus shot out of his chair and stood to rigid attention, beaming like a cherub. I turned to see what he was looking at and saw two absolutely stunning young women entering the dining room. Led by the head waiter, they were causing conversations to hush and heads to turn as they passed: one dark haired and slim, the other with long auburn locks, slightly taller, and with a fuller, more rounded figure, they were gorgeous in glimmering satin. Moreover, they were making right for us.

Angus intercepted the dark-haired one in two bounds, thanking the waiter and guiding her towards the table in one sweeping motion. “Libby, darling! You look ravishing.”

So this was Libby. I had heard the name often enough—Angus was perpetually writing to this certain someone on the continent—but I had no idea she had returned from her travels, nor imagined that Angus might have known anyone of such
dazzling description. Turning to me, he said, “May I present to you, my fiancé, Elizabeth Gowan, and her cousin, Caitlin Charmody.” He smiled as the auburn lovely offered her hand to me. “Ladies, I give you my oldest and dearest friend, Gordon Murray.”