Tell Tale Read online

When no instructions came from Mr. Macpherson by the end of the following quarter, Arthur decided he must either be too ill to communicate, or he was dead. He considered his next move most carefully. He thought about writing to Mr. Macpherson concerning a recent dividend he’d received from the Shell Oil Company, asking if he wanted to accept payment, or to take up their offer of new shares. After considerable thought, he didn’t send the letter, as he feared it might alert Mr. and Mrs. Laidlaw to the fact that someone at the bank was becoming suspicious.

  Arthur decided he would wait for the checks to run out before he made his next move, and every time a new checkbook arrived from the printers, he placed it in his top drawer along with the others.

  Patience paid off, because the Laidlaws finally gave themselves away. When the last four checks were sent to be cleared, Arthur noted that the sums were becoming larger and larger, and he made a bold decision that, despite the account still having over $8 million in cash, stocks, and bonds, he would “bounce” the final check made out to Cooks Travel for a package holiday for two in Ibiza. He waited for an irate letter from Mr. Macpherson demanding an explanation, but none was forthcoming, which gave Arthur the confidence to put the second part of his plan into action.

  2

  WHENEVER ANYONE AT the bank asked Arthur where he was going for his summer holiday, and not many people did, he always replied, “I will be visiting my sister in Vancouver.” However, by the time it came for him to leave for his summer vacation, he not only had a sister, but a whole family in place: Eileen and Mike, who worked in local government, and a niece and nephew, Sue and Mike Jr. Not very imaginative, but when you haven’t lied for twenty-nine years, your friends and colleagues have a tendency to accept everything you tell them.

  During the next month, Arthur continued to invest Mr. Macpherson’s fortune in an orderly, if somewhat conservative fashion, keeping to a well-trodden path. At the same time, he withdrew small amounts of cash each week from his personal account, until he had a little over $3,000 locked away in his top drawer, not unlike a bridegroom preparing for his wedding.

  On the Monday morning a week before he was due to go on holiday, Arthur placed the cash in his lunch box and headed off for his favorite bench in the park. However, on the way he dropped into the Royal Bank of Canada, where he waited in line at the currency counter, before changing his dollars into pounds.

  During the Tuesday lunchbreak, he made a further detour, to a local travel agent, where he purchased a return flight to Vancouver. He paid by check, and when he arrived back at the bank, left the ticket on the corner of his desk for all to see, and if anyone mentioned it, he once again told them all about his sister Eileen and her family in Vancouver.

  On the Wednesday, Arthur applied for a new credit card on Mr. Macpherson’s behalf, and issued an order to cease any trading on the old one. A bright, shiny black card appeared on his desk forty-eight hours later. Arthur was ready to carry out stage two of his plan.

  He had carefully chosen the dates he would be away from the office, selecting the two weeks before Mr. Stratton was due to take his annual leave.

  Arthur left the bank just after six on Friday evening, and took the usual bus back to his small apartment in Forest Hill. He spent a sleepless night wondering if he’d made the right decision. However, by the time the sun eventually rose on Saturday morning, he was resolved to go ahead with his plan and, as his father would have said, “let the devil take the hindmost.”

  After a leisurely breakfast, he packed a suitcase and left the flat just before midday. Arthur hailed a cab, an expense he normally wouldn’t have considered, but then for the next few days everything he did would be out of character.

  When the cab dropped him off at the domestic terminal, Arthur went straight to the Air Canada desk and traded in his return flight to Vancouver for a one-way window seat at the back of a plane destined for London. He paid the difference in cash. Arthur then took the shuttle bus across to the international terminal, where he was among the first to check in. While he waited to board the aircraft, he sat behind a large pillar and, head down, remained hidden behind the Toronto Star. He intended to be among the first on, and the last off the plane, as he hoped it would cut down the chances of anyone recognizing him.

  Once he’d fastened his seat belt, he made no attempt to strike up a conversation with the young couple seated next to him. During the seven-hour flight, he watched two films, which he wouldn’t have bothered with back at home, and in between pretended to be asleep.

  When the plane touched down at Heathrow the following morning, he waited patiently in line at Immigration, and by the time his passport had been stamped, his one suitcase was already circling around on the baggage carousel. Once he’d cleared Customs, he took another shuttle bus to terminal five, where he purchased a ticket to Edinburgh, which he also paid for in cash. On his arrival in the Scottish capital, another taxi took him to the Caledonian, a hotel recommended by the cabbie.

  “How long will you be staying with us, sir?” asked the receptionist.

  “Just the night,” replied Arthur, as she handed him his room key.

  Arthur feared he’d have another restless night, but in fact fell asleep within moments of putting his head on the pillow.

  * * *

  The following morning, he ordered breakfast in bed, another first. But the moment he heard nine chiming on a nearby clock, he picked up the phone on his bedside table and dialed a number he did not have to look up.

  “Royal Bank of Scotland, how can I help you?”

  “I’d like to speak to the senior accounts manager,” said Arthur.

  “Buchan,” said the next voice that came on the line. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m thinking of moving my account to your bank,” said Arthur, “and wondered if I could make an appointment to see you as soon as possible.”

  “Of course,” said the voice, suddenly sounding more obliging. “Would eleven o’clock this morning suit you, Mr.…?”

  “Macpherson,” said Arthur. “Yes, that would be just fine.”

  Arthur left the hotel just after ten thirty and, following the doorman’s instructions, made his way down Princes Street, occasionally stopping to window-shop, as he didn’t want to be early for his appointment.

  He entered the bank at 10:55 a.m., and a receptionist accompanied him to Mr. Buchan’s office. The senior accounts manager rose from behind his desk and the two men shook hands.

  “How can I help you, Mr. Macpherson?” Buchan asked once his potential new client had sat down.

  “I’ll be moving back to Scotland in a few months’ time,” said Arthur, “and your bank was recommended to me by the senior vice president at NBT.”

  “Our partner bank in Toronto,” said Buchan, as he opened a drawer in his desk and extracted some forms.

  For the next twenty minutes, Arthur answered a series of questions that he was in the habit of asking. Once the last box had been filled in, and Arthur had signed S. Macpherson on the dotted line, Buchan asked if he had any form of identity with him, such as a passport.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Arthur, “I left my passport at the Caledonian. But I do have my credit card.”

  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 lo
ng 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 …

  * * *

  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.”

  Laidlaw scurried away, leaving Arthur to e
njoy the magnificent paintings by Mackintosh, Farquharson, and Peploe that hung on every wall. Laidlaw reappeared a few minutes later with a middle-aged woman in tow. She was wearing an apron, and didn’t raise her head. It wasn’t until she stopped half a pace behind her husband that Arthur realized just how much she was shaking.

  “I know exactly what you two have been up to,” said Arthur, hoping they would believe him, “and if you tell me the truth, and I mean the whole truth, there’s just a chance I might still be able to save you. If you don’t, my next visit will be to the local police station. I’ll start with you, Mrs. Laidlaw.”

  “We didnae mean to do it,” she said, “but he didn’t leave us with a lot of choice.”

  “Hold your tongue, woman,” said Laidlaw. “I’ll speak for both of us.”

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort,” said Arthur. He looked back at Mrs. Laidlaw and played what he hoped was his trump card. “The first thing I want to know is when Mr. Macpherson died?”

  “Just a few months back,” said Mrs. Laidlaw. “I found him in bed, white as a sheet he was, so he must have passed away during the night.”

  “Then why didn’t you call for a doctor, the police, even Jock?”

  “Because we didn’t think straight,” she said. “We thought we’d lose our jobs and be turfed out of the lodge. So we waited to see what would happen if we did nothing, and as the monthly check kept arriving from the bank, we assumed no one could be any the wiser.”

  “What did you do with the body?”

  “We buried him. On the other side of the copse,” chipped in Mr. Laidlaw, “where no one would find him.”

  “We didn’t mean any harm,” she said, “but we’d served the laird for over twenty years, and not so much as a pension.”

  I know the feeling, thought Arthur, but didn’t interrupt.

  “We didn’t steal nothing,” said Laidlaw.

  “But you signed checks in his name, and also went on receiving your monthly pay packet.”

  “Only enough to keep us alive, and not allow the house to go to rack and ruin.”

  “I told him we had to keep the expenses low,” said Mrs. Laidlaw, “so they wouldn’t become suspicious.”