“I’m not,” I said. “And I’m sorry about your grandmother. The truth is, though, that she may have done as well as she could on the deal. It was a fake. I suppose you know that.”
“A fake?” he said. “It is not.”
“Yes,” I said. “It was.”
“It is!” he said. “What do you mean by was? Don’t you mean is?”
“I mean it’s gone. It has been destroyed. Whatever it was, it is no longer.”
“No!” he exclaimed. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m afraid I am. I’m sorry about your grandmother. Trevor shouldn’t have done that, but it wasn’t the genuine article.”
“But it was!” he said again.
“Several people were fooled by it,” I said. “Several of us,” I added. I was going to have to learn to live with this.
“We won’t know now, will we? Who destroyed it?” he said.
“A man by the name of Blair Baldwin. Trevor sold it to him, and I guess he was a little peeved when he found out it was a fake.”
“I’ll kill him,” the man said.
“Kill whom?” I said. Like Trevor, his’s‘s sounded more like sh, which reminded me of Sean Connery once again, but there the resemblance stopped. He was neither old nor young, maybe forty, rather thin and pale, and in his khaki pants complete with bicycle clips, which added a comical twist, he looked kind of harmless. I didn’t think he was the killing sort.
“Maybe both of them,” he said. “Or maybe not.” He looked completely dejected.
“I’m Lara,” I said. “I really am sorry about your grandmother and this whole business.” You have no idea how sorry, I thought.
“Percy,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. “Are you going to open it?” he asked pointing at the envelope.
There was a note inside scribbled on lined paper. Hen— the note began. I was liking this hen business less and less all the time. I know you’re mad at me. But I’ve had a spot of bother lately, and lo and behold there’s a way out. I’m not going to let this opportunity pass me by. Don’t bother looking for me. I’ve too much of a head start. Cheers, Trev
“What does he say?” Percy asked.
“I have no idea what he’s talking about,” I said. “But it is very irritating. I think we need to find him. Did you look closely upstairs?”
“He’s not there. Nobody’s here. Can I read it?” he asked, pointing at the letter.
“Be my guest.”
“Is this all there is?” he asked when he’d finished. “Nothing else in the envelope?”
“Nothing,” I said. “He’s here somewhere you know. How carefully did you look upstairs?”
“There’s nobody up there,” he replied. “Anyway, that letter sounds as if he’s taken off to parts unknown.”
“He’s here,” I repeated. “Unless you broke in here.”
“I did not!” Percy said indignantly. “The door was unlocked.”
“So he’s here,” I said. “Believe me, antique dealers do not leave their stores unattended, even for two minutes. I mean stuff gets stolen even when we’re there.”
“Maybe he wanted it to look as if he were coming right back,” Percy said.
“He hasn’t left,” I said, pointing to the envelope with my name on it. “See, no stamps. He’d have mailed this first.”
“I thought you said he asked you to pick it up,” Percy said.
I hate it when I trip over my own lies. “Neither of us is exactly innocent. Come on,” I said. Percy looked chagrined and meekly followed me up the stairs. There we opened every seaman’s chest and blanket box, armoire and credenza, or at least I did. I peered behind the large pieces, under the beds. No Trevor.
While I was doing this, Percy kept opening and closing drawers in a most annoying way, and then rechecking every place I looked. “He’s not hiding in a drawer, Percy,” I said.
“Oh,” he said. “I know. I was just checking for clues.”
“Downstairs,” I sighed. We did the same search on the main floor. Still no Trevor.
“I told you,” Percy said. “He’s not here.”
“I expect there’s a basement,” I said.
“Okay,” he sighed. “I’m game if you are.”
The door that led to the basement was locked, but it didn’t take long to find the key in Trevor’s desk. A nasty open staircase with no railing led down to a rather dark and dingy place. I was a woman on a mission, though, so down I went, followed closely by Percy. The place was just generally unpleasant, damp and vaguely sewerlike, and it looked pretty empty except for a worktable with a broken chair on it, several mousetraps in the corners and cobwebs here and there. I was regretting this excursion very much, but wasn’t going to admit it. There was nothing of interest in the first room, nor in the second, even behind the furnace. In the third room, the light switch didn’t work.
“I don’t want to go any farther,” Percy whined. “I don’t think he’d stay down here. Anyway, it smells bad. Let’s go back.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Percy, it’s just a basement. There was a flashlight on the shelf in the first room. Go and get it.” He did what he was told. The flashlight wasn’t much to speak of, but I stepped into the room anyway and swung the beam around.
Trevor was there, not that I got any satisfaction from being right. I may not have known what that self-serving gibberish in Trevor’s letter was all about, but I was reasonably sure that having an axe buried in what was left of his skull was not what he’d meant by head start.
Chapter 2
My family traces its roots in Orkney back almost a thousand years to one Bjarni, son of Harald, also known as Bjarni the Wanderer. Bjarni came from a good family in Norway and journeyed to Orkney during the time of Earl Sigurd the Stout, who gave him land in Tankerness. Bjarni, you see, was Earl Sigurd’s man, a warrior as well as a farmer. In Orkney, in those days, there were three social classes: the wealthy and powerful earls who inherited their estates; free farmers and warriors of which Bjarni was one; and thralls or serfs who worked the land. Bjarni spent the winters in Orkney, but every summer, he joined Sigurd’s raiding parties to Caithness, the Hebrides, and as far away as Ireland. They were looking for booty, of course, but also for land, trying to extend the power of the earls of Orkney throughout the British Isles. There’s a story about Sigurd, that his Irish mother, a sorceress, made him a magical raven banner: whoever carried the banner would die, but victory would go to the man before whom it flew. It was in Ireland that Sigurd died, and it’s said he himself was carrying the banner.
True or not, it was then Bjarni’s fortunes changed. Sigurd had four sons in all, but one of them, who would later be Earl Thorfinn the Mighty, one of the greatest earls of Orkney, was still a lad at the time. The other three, Sumarlidi, Brusi, and Einar took over Orkney when Sigurd died. They were a fractious lot, especially Einar, known as Wry-Mouth, and not disposed to share the land equally. As often happened in those days the competition turned bloody.
Rivalries both within families and without were intense in those days, and power changed hands often, making it rather easy to find oneself on the wrong side of a political struggle. And so it was with Bjarni. Bjarni sided with Earl Brusi in the dispute over the control of Orkney and killed Thorvald the Stubborn, one of Einar’s men, in the struggle. While Bjarni offered to make a settlement over the killing of Thorvald, and to hold a great feast in the earl’s honor, Einar, a hard man, was not disposed to accept it. Men of goodwill interceded on Bjarni’s behalf, but to no avail. Einar’s men came for him and burned down his house, but Bjarni, having been warned of the attack, was able to make his escape with the help of some like-minded men.