Shaw Berkely was arrested at Heathrow, and despite protestations regarding his health and cries for consular aid, was escorted back to Edinburgh, where Rebus was waiting, brisk and definitive, in Interview Room A of Great London Road Police Station.
Berkely’s mother had died two months before. She had never told him the truth about his birth, spinning instead some story about his father being dead. But in sorting through his mother’s papers, Shaw discovered the truth — several truths, in fact. His mother had been in love with Walter Scott, had become pregnant by him, but had been, as she herself put it in her journal, “discarded” in favour of the “better marriage” provided by Margaret Winton-Addams.
Shaw’s mother accepted some money from Scott and fled to the United States, where she had a younger sister. Shaw grew up believing his father dead. The revelation not only that he was alive, but that he had prospered in society after having caused Shaw’s mother misery and torment, led to a son’s rage. But it was impotent rage, Shaw thought, until he came across the love letters. His mother must at some point have stolen them from Scott, or at least had come out of the relationship in possession of them. Shaw decided on a teasing revenge, knowing Scott would deduce that any black-mailer in possession of the letters was probably also well informed about his affair and the bastard son.
He used the tour party as an elaborate cover (and also, he admitted, because it was a cheap travel option). He brought with him to Britain not only the letters, but also the series of typed notes. The irony was that he had been to Edinburgh before, had studied there for three months as part of some exchange with his American college. He knew now why his mother, though proud of the scholarship, had been against his going. For three months he had lived in his father’s city, yet hadn’t known it.
He sent the notes from London — the travel party’s base for much of its stay in England. The exchange — letters for cash — had gone ahead in the Cafe Royal, the bar having been a haunt of his student days. But he had known his final note, delivered by hand, would tempt Sir Walter, would lead him to the top of the Scott Monument. No, he said, he hadn’t just wanted Sir Walter to see him, to see the son he had never known. Shaw had much of the money on him, stuffed into a money belt around his waist. The intention had been to release wads of money, Sir Walter’s money, down onto Princes Street Gardens.
“I didn’t mean for him to die... I just wanted him to know how I felt about him... I don’t know. But Jesus,” — he grinned — “I still wish I’d let fly with all that loot.”
Rebus shuddered to think of the ramifications. Stampede in Princes Street! Hundreds dead in lunchtime spree! Biggest scooroot ever! No, best not to think about it. Instead, he made for the Cafe Royal himself. It was late morning, the day after Berkely’s arrest. The pub was quiet as yet, but Rebus was surprised to see Dr. Jameson standing at the bar, fortifying himself with what looked suspiciously like a double whisky. Remembering how he had left the doctor in the lurch regarding Sir Walter’s body, Rebus grinned broadly and offered a healthy slap on the back.
“Morning, Doc, fancy seeing you in here.” Rebus leaned his elbows on the bar. “We mustn’t be keeping you busy enough.” He paused. There was a twinkle in his eye as he spoke. “Here, let me get you a stiff one...” And he laughed so hard even the waiters from the Oyster Bar came to investigate. But all they saw was a tall, well-built man leaning against a much smaller, more timid man, and saying as he raised his glass: “Here’s to mortality, to old mortality!” So all in all it was just another day in the Cafe Royal.
Never Knew He Had It in Him
by Simon Winchester
© 1993 by Simon Winchester
Simon Winchester is the Asia Pacific Editor for Condé Nast Traveler and the author of some notable non-fiction including Pacific Rising: History, Geology, and Politics of the Pacific Rim. His most recent work is fiction, a novel entitled Pacific Nightmare, published by Birch Lane Books. We are pleased to welcome him to EQMM with an offbeat tale about a posthumous hero...
They had gone at least ten miles down the turnpike, heading east, before Gwen first said something about the package. Until then everyone had kept a dignified, rather strained silence about it. Once in a while they had turned to look at it, not quite believing what they had been told. And the package itself had been sitting there on the backseat of the Ford, looking innocent enough, bouncing slightly on the Naugahyde.
Each time they went over a bump, and it jounced against the urn, it clinked in a dull metallic way. Otherwise, when the car was riding smooth, it just lay on the folds of the seat, its eccentric lumpiness softened a bit by the brown paper wrapping, but outlined in other parts by the tightly tied string. If they looked carefully they could see an old address label, but because of the creases all that was legible were some odd letters and numbers, “al Parlo,” said one line, then “3 Henre” and “sburg Pe.” Of course, had they the inclination they could have worked it out: Tate’s Funeral Parlor. 2133 Henredon Drive. Greensburg, Pennsylvania.
But frankly they were not so much bothered about the provenance of the wrapping paper. They knew that well enough, having driven from the selfsame parlor these fifteen minutes. What they were more concerned about — infinitely more concerned about — was what exactly was wrapped inside the paper. Which specific point Gwen addressed, more or less directly, with her first remark — one which students of the few recorded witticisms of the Morgan family would long remember as a classic.
“I just didn’t know he had it in him,” was what Gwen said. And then, as if remembering how lightly her words might be taken on any subsequent retelling of the story, added, rather breathlessly, “I mean — he never said anything. The doctor never told us. He never complained or nothing.” And then, the funeral of Gramps having been a customarily sad occasion, she burst into tears, and for the next few miles sobbed silently into her handkerchief. A thin snow began to fall, blowing from the east. Jerry switched on the wipers, and after a few more minutes, the lights.
Henry Allen’s death had been long and slow, though mercifully, he assured everyone, it was not very painful for him. He had been seventy-six, and had put up what Dr. Markham, in a gesture to Gwen, had said was a “good fight — as always.” There were a few relatives down for the funeral — Henry’s only son, Gwen’s father, had died long ago, and there were few others of that generational layer. Henry himself had been a widower for these past thirty years. There were just the two granddaughters, Gwen and Amy, and their husbands. Gwen’s mother had remarried and moved to New Zealand, and was rarely seen.
But that all being said, the service was far from being thinly attended. To underline Henry’s renown as a fighter, what with his Purple Heart and his battle ribbons, the entire 423rd Chapter — Greensburg, Ligonier, and Latrobe — of the VFW had been on hand at the ceremony. A hundred and three gnarled old combatants, men who had fought with Henry in the Pacific and, most notably, in Korea forty years before, had stood to attention in the cold outside the little Three Falls crematorium and saluted their farewells to a fallen comrade.
Gwen had been delighted. They had never called her to tell her they planned to send Gramps off in such style. The men had just turned up, in a couple of Bluebird buses. She had been almost moved to tears more than once during the service, and afterwards, as she said her goodbyes. Many of the old soldiers, she noticed, had dabbed their eyes throughout the ceremony, though as Jerry was to remark later that night, it was probably more because of the bitter easterly wind than for any special grief. Soldiers, he said, are case-hardened about death and dying: anyone, he said, who makes it out of the theater and into the streets dies luckier than most. The old boys of the 423rd saw in Henry an example of their common good fortune, relatively speaking.