Tell Tale: Short Stories

The production of a platinum credit card seemed to be more than enough to satisfy the accounts manager.

“Thank you,” said Buchan, as he handed back the card. “And may I ask when you expect the transfer to take place?”

“Sometime in the next few weeks,” replied Arthur, “but I will ask Mr. Dunbar, the bank’s senior vice president, who has handled my account for the past twenty years, to give you a call.”

“Thank you,” said Buchan, making a note of the name. “I look forward to hearing from him.”

Arthur walked slowly back to his hotel feeling the meeting couldn’t have gone much better. He collected his case from his room, and returned to reception.

“I hope you enjoyed your stay with us, Mr. Macpherson,” said the receptionist, “and

it won’t be too long before we see you again.”

“In the not too distant future, I hope,” said Arthur, who settled his bill in cash, left the hotel, and asked the doorman to hail a taxi.

When he was dropped off at the station, Arthur joined another queue, and purchased a first-class return ticket to Ambrose. He sat alone in a comfortable carriage watching the countryside race by as the train traveled deeper and deeper into the Highlands, skirting several lochs and pine forests, which he might have enjoyed had he not been going over the most crucial part of his plan.

To date, everything had run smoothly, but Arthur had long ago accepted the real hurdle that still needed to be crossed would be when he came face to face with Mr. and Mrs. Laidlaw for the first time.

On arrival in Ambrose, Arthur climbed into the back of another taxi, and asked the driver to take him to the best hotel in town. This was greeted with a chuckle, followed by, “You’ve obviously never visited these parts before. You have two choices, the Bell Inn or the Bell Inn.”

Arthur laughed. “Well then, that’s settled. And can I also book you for ten o’clock tomorrow morning?”

“Yes, sir,” said the driver cheerfully. “Would you prefer this car, or I also have a limousine?”

“The limousine,” said Arthur, without hesitation. He needed the Laidlaws to realize who they were dealing with.

“And where will we be going?” the driver asked, as they drew up outside the Bell Inn.

“Ambrose Hall.”

The driver turned and gave his passenger a second look, but said nothing.

Arthur walked into the pub, where the bar doubled as the reception desk. He booked a room for the night, and told the landlord he couldn’t be certain how long he would be staying, not adding, because if the front door of Ambrose Hall was opened by Mr. Macpherson, he’d be on the next flight back to Toronto.

Once Arthur had unpacked, taken a bath, and changed his clothes, he made his way back downstairs to the bar. The few locals stared at him disapprovingly, assuming he was an Englishman, until he opened his mouth, when their smiles returned.

He ordered cock-a-leekie soup and a Scotch egg, delighted to find that although the regulars continued to view him with suspicion, the landlord seemed quite happy to chat, especially if it was accompanied by the offer of a wee dram.

During the next hour and after nearly emptying a bottle of wee drams, Arthur discovered that no one in the town had ever met Mr. Macpherson, although, the landlord added, “the shopkeepers have no complaints, because the man always pays his bills on time and supports several local charities”—which Arthur could have listed. He noted the words “pays” and “supports,” so certainly the landlord thought Macpherson was still alive.

“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 …