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...
When the sun rose the following morning, which Arthur noted was quite late in this part of the world, he took a bath, got dressed, and went downstairs to enjoy a breakfast that would have been appreciated in a New York deli: porridge with brown sugar, kippers, toast, marmalade, and steaming hot coffee. He then returned to his room and packed his small suitcase, still not certain where he would be spending the night.
He came back downstairs and, on being handed his bill, discovered just how many wee drams the landlord had enjoyed. But this was not somewhere to hand over a credit card in the name of Mr. S. Macpherson. That remained in his wallet. For now, its only purpose had been to prove his identity to Mr. Buchan. Arthur settled the bill with cash, which brought an even bigger smile to the landlord’s face.
When Arthur stepped out of the hotel just before ten o’clock, he was greeted with the sight of a gleaming black Daimler.
“Good morning,” he said, as he climbed into the backseat and sank down into the comfortable leather upholstery.
“Good morning, sir,” said the driver. “Hope the car’s to your liking.”
“Couldn’t be better,” replied Arthur.
“Usually only comes out for weddings or funerals,” admitted the driver.
Arthur still wasn’t sure which this was going to be.
The driver set off on the journey to Ambrose Hall, and it quickly became clear he hadn’t visited the house for some time, and like everyone else in the town, had never set eyes on Mr. Macpherson, but he added with a chuckle, “They’ll have to call for Jock when the old man dies.”
Once again Arthur feared his client must still be alive.
The hall turned out to be a journey of about fourteen miles, during which the roads became lanes, and the lanes, paths, until he finally saw a turreted castle standing four-square on a hill in the distance. Arthur had one speech prepared, should Mr. Macpherson answer the door, and another if he was met by the Laidlaws.
The car proceeded slowly up the driveway, and they must have been about a hundred yards from the front door when Arthur first saw him. A massive giant of a man wearing a tartan kilt, with a cocked shotgun under his right arm, looking as if he hoped a stag might stray across his path.
“That’s Hamish Laidlaw,” whispered Jock, “and if you don’t mind, I think I’ll stay in the car.”
When Arthur got out, he heard the car doors lock. He began walking slowly toward his prey.
“What di ye want?” demanded Laidlaw, his gun rising a couple of inches.
“I’ve come to see Mr. Macpherson,” said Arthur, as if he was expected.
“Mr. Macpherson doesn’t welcome strangers, especially those who dinnae have an appointment,” he said, the gun rising a couple more inches.
“He’ll want to see me,” said Arthur, who took out his wallet, extracted a card, and handed it to the giant. Arthur suspected this might be one of those rare occasions when senior vice president embossed in gold below National Bank of Toronto might just have the desired effect.
While Laidlaw studied the card, Arthur watched as a moment of apprehension crossed his face, a look he’d experienced many times when a customer was asking for an overdraft, and didn’t have the necessary security to back it up. The balance of power had shifted, and Arthur knew it.
“He’s not here at the moment,” said Laidlaw, as the gun dropped.
“I know he isn’t,” said Arthur, taking a risk, “but if you don’t want the whole town to know why I’ve come to visit you,” he added, looking back at Jock, “I suggest we go inside.” He began walking slowly toward the front door.
Laidlaw got there just in time to open it, and led the intruder into the drawing room, where all the furniture was covered in dust sheets. Arthur pulled one off and let it fall to the floor. He sat down in a comfortable leather chair, looked up at Laidlaw, and said firmly, “Fetch Mrs. Laidlaw. I need to speak to both of you.”
“She wasn’t involved,” said Laidlaw, fear replacing bluster.
Involved in what? thought Arthur, but repeated, “Fetch your wife. And while you’re at it, Laidlaw, put that gun away, unless you want to add murder to your other crimes.”