Avalon: The Return of King Arthur Page 8

“I expect he wanted to ask about her recipe,” James suggested when he had gone.

  “He wouldn’t be the first,” Caroline replied knowingly.

  “It’s true,” Lord Donald observed, placidly spooning cherry sauce from his plate. “That girl is an inspired cook. She could have a job in any of London’s top restaurants just like that.”

  “You’re lucky to have her,” James said, making conversation. “How long has she been with you?”

  “Forever,” replied Donald. “She’s our daughter.”

  “Then you’re doubly lucky,” James told him. “She’s a lovely young woman.”

  “And absolutely indispensable to my work. The average citizen has no idea just how much government goes on behind the scenes. Why, a Member of Parliament is always entertaining someone or other. Isobel takes all the fuss and bother out of it, and allows me to get on with the business at hand. Don’t know what I’d do without her.”

  Talk turned to Scotland then, and mutual acquaintances, whereupon Cal and Isobel emerged from the kitchen — Cal with a tray of cups, and Isobel with a cafetière and a pot of cream. “What did you think of the torte, Daddy?” she asked, pausing to give her father a peck on the cheek.

  “Delightful, my dear, as ever.”

  Isobel put down the cafetière and relieved Cal of the tray. He resumed his place, and she poured the coffee, distributing the cups around the table. Taking one for herself, she settled beside Cal and announced, “Calum keeps horses for hunting. He’s invited all of us to come up over the holidays to go riding.”

  “You’d be most welcome,” Cal told them. “It is a magnificent estate, and there are miles of bridle paths — some of them have never been used by anyone but James and me. It would be a pleasure to show you.”

  The Rothes declared it a wonderful invitation, and agreed to give it their full consideration. But at the mention of the estate, James felt his heart sink; pleasantly distracted by the company, he’d forgotten that particular burden for a while. He listened dully as Cal recited the splendors of Blair Morven; the Rothes seemed more than mildly interested.

  Finally, to James’ relief, Caroline called it a day. “You gentlemen must excuse me. I’m bushed, and I’m going to bed.” To her husband, she said, “If you have any sense at all, you’ll allow our guests to get some sleep. It’s been a long day, and I expect they are exhausted.”

  Donald stood and downed the rest of his coffee in a gulp. “My lovely wife is right, gentlemen. It’s late, and I have kept you from your beds long enough. I expect I’ll see you at breakfast?”

  “I expect so,” James said, getting to his feet. “Rhys said he’d call for us at half past eight tomorrow.”

  Cal rose somewhat reluctantly, and both guests thanked their hosts for a smashing dinner. On the upstairs landing, James wished the lord and lady of Kenzie House a good night, and went into his room. The last thing he heard as he closed the door was Calum asking what time breakfast would be in the morning, and, “Will Isobel be there?”

  Cal needn’t have worried. Isobel was very much present at breakfast the next morning. A solid night’s sleep had put James in a hopeful frame of mind, and he joined a well-scrubbed Cal — already halfway through a plate of kippers and eggs, and a carafe of coffee — at the table in the breakfast room.

  “Get here early to beat the crowd, did we?” he asked.

  “Morning, James,” Cal replied blithely. “Sleep well?”

  “Like a stone.” Indicating Cal’s half-finished plate, he said, “That looks good.”

  “It’s marvelous. Isobel’s eggs are like no others—”

  “I’ll bet.” James poured some coffee into his cup and sipped it tentatively.

  The young woman herself materialized a moment later, looking delectable in a long blue-green and yellow flower-print skirt, and a green floppy wool jumper with an oversize roll-top neck which slid this way and that to reveal a pretty neck and throat. She greeted James nicely and asked what he would like.

  “The kippers look good,” he replied, “and Cal tells me the eggs are simply to die for.”

  “I never said that!” Cal shot him a dirty look across the table.

  She laughed, and the sound of her voice brightened the early-morning November gray. “Kippers and eggs it is,” she said, “and more coffee.”

  “A man could grow to love it here,” sighed Cal when she had gone.

  “I think one man already has.”

  “So, what happens today?” Cal asked, changing the subject.

  “Today we find out what all the fuss is about,” James replied, and finally revealed to Cal what Embries had said about owning the whole of Blair Morven.

  “Get away with you!”

  “I’m serious. That’s what he said.”

  “Man, who is this Embries — your fairy godfather?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I thought he was someone your solicitor put you on to. How’d you meet him anyway?”

  “I’ll tell you, but you have to promise not to hoot.”

  “I nivver hoot,” Cal insisted.

  Isobel returned with James’ breakfast, and an apology. “Mother sends her regrets that she isn’t able to see you two this morning. Daddy likewise. It’s complicated.” She frowned. “But they both hope to catch up with you before you leave.” She poured some more coffee, and left.

  “You were telling me how you met your pointy-headed friend,” Cal prompted.

  James rehashed the details of his curious meeting with the mysterious Embries. Cal listened, growing increasingly incredulous as the story unfolded.

  “Let me get this straight,” he said when James finished. “Some loony you’ve met wandering around in the heather in the middle of the night calls you up and says ‘Come to London,’ and you drop everything and flit off to the city without anything more to go on than ‘he seemed to know what he was talking about’ — is that right?”

  “Crudely, yes.”

  “Good,” concluded Cal, “I was afraid I missed something.”

  “He was the one who said I should bring a friend with me.”

  “Figuring, no doubt, that there ought to be at least one brain between us.”

  “You had to be there,” James told him. “It was pretty uncanny.”

  “I’m sure it was.” Cal looked at his friend, shaking his head slowly.

  “It hasn’t turned out so bad,” James said, indicating their surroundings. “You would never have met Isobel if we hadn’t come.”

  “That’s beside the point,” Cal grumped. “I knew this had more than a whiff of snark hunt about it.”

  “If you knew so much, why’d you agree to come along?”

  “And let you go waltzing off to London alone?” He smiled suddenly. “I’m no’ as irresponsible as you are, Jimmy. Anyway, you played the I-need-you-Cal card and that trumped the lot.”

  “I appreciate this.”

  “I know.”

  Gulping down the last of his coffee, James pushed back from the table as the doorbell rang. “That’ll be Rhys. Ready?”

  “Oh, aye,” said Cal. “I’ll just give Isobel a wee hand with these.” He picked up a couple of plates and headed for the kitchen door.

  Rhys, punctual to a fault, was standing in the foyer, waiting for his passengers. James greeted him, and said, “Cal’s right behind me.”

  A few moments later they stepped outside to a bright if chilly day. There was water pooled on the pavement and street, and drops of water blistered the mirror-smooth finish of the black Jaguar waiting at the foot of the steps. The sky, however, was brilliant blue, and a watery winter sun streamed through the mostly bare branches. “Where are we going?” Cal asked as Rhys opened the rear door for his passengers.

  “St. James’s Palace,” came the reply. Rhys closed the door, and took his place at the wheel. “Would you mind fastening your seat belts, please?”

  It was a friendly safety tip, and one which James and Cal might have done well to h
eed — psychologically speaking.

  Eight

  They settled back and watched the city slide silently past the windows as the car sped along Pall Mall towards their destination. The Palace of St. James, like nearly all royal properties, had been appropriated by the Government on behalf of the nation. Under the terms of royal devolution, the former residents had returned the buildings and lands to the public which had, after all, paid for them in one way or another. As if to underscore the point, the Government had turned the palaces and apartments of the royals into offices for civil servants. Only two properties remained outside direct Government control: Buckingham Palace, which had been abandoned by King Edward’s predecessors some years before devolution began in earnest; and the Balmoral estate in Scotland.

  Buckingham Palace was leased to a private corporation that maintained it as a venue for special State functions but primarily as a tourist attraction, selling tickets for tours. There was still a changing of the guard, but the soldiers and marching band were hired. The contract had a good few years to run, although it was assumed that when the lease expired, Buckingham Palace would go the way of Kensington, Windsor, Sandringham, Hampton Court, St. James’s, and the other stately piles already devolved. As for Balmoral, always much the favorite of the royals of yesteryear, the King had been allowed to keep that — as long as he paid taxes on it like any upright citizen. A fellow had to have some place to live, after all.

  St. James’s, that fine old red-stone monstrosity built by Henry VIII for Anne Boleyn, had received a much-needed general refurbishment; its ruddy facade had been scrubbed until the stonework fairly glowed in the early winter light. Even the giant clock high up in the six-storey gatehouse gleamed a wintry white and gold.

  The black Jaguar rolled to a halt at a red-and-white striped barrier, where an armed guard waved the car through. After parking in the courtyard between two wings of the building, Rhys led James and Cal through a second security gate and metal detector, then into a veritable rabbit warren of rooms, corridors, offices, and reception areas large and small, down many flights of steps, and along an underground passageway which delivered them eventually to a tiny vestibule presided over by a steely-eyed woman with bright red lipstick; her hair was scraped tightly to her head, and her stark white blouse was an old-fashioned variety with a high, starched collar.

  “Mrs. Garrison,” said Rhys, “this is Mr. Stuart.” The woman nodded, regarding James narrowly. “And Mr. McKay.” Cal beamed placidly at the woman. “Mrs. Garrison,” Rhys explained, “is Embries’ administrative assistant. I will leave you in her capable hands.”

  “Good morning.” The prim woman rose at once to take their jackets. “He is expecting you.” The way she said it made James think she was talking about the Almighty. “He said to bring you in directly.” Indicating the door behind her, she said, “This way, gentlemen, please.”

  Embries’ assistant conducted them through a short, book-lined entryway to another door, knocked once, and, without waiting for an answer, pushed it open. They were ushered into a windowless office about the size of a single-car garage. The entire space was wholly occupied with books, books, and more books — overflowing the floor-to-ceiling shelves that lined every wall. As many as there were, they shared three traits in common: all without exception were thick, dark, and old — reeking with age, in fact, giving the close room the distinct odor of an antiquarian bookshop. There were no filing cabinets, no credenza, no tables, telephones, keyboards or computers — the universal clutter of offices the world over.

  The man himself was sitting at a great antique wooden desk, looking officious and efficient in a severe black suit and waistcoat. His white hair was carefully combed, and his long hands folded as, head down, he scanned a document atop the tidy stack before him. His manner, appearance, and surroundings were so at odds with the way James had last seen him, he doubted for a moment whether it was the same person.

  Then, as James and Cal moved into the room, Embries slowly raised his head and regarded them each with his pale, knowing eyes, and all doubt vanished. This, James knew, was the same man he had met on the hilltop two nights ago.

  Embries smiled and stood, holding out a slender hand in greeting. “Welcome, and thank you for coming on such short notice.” Turning to Cal, he said, “And you must be…”

  “Calum McKay — Cal, please — at your service.” Cal’s massive paw reached out in a handshake that seemed to rock Embries in his shoes.

  “Indeed!” exclaimed Embries with an air of satisfaction that intrigued James instantly. “Indeed,” he repeated, and James decided Embries more than approved of his friend.

  “This is some ritzy office block you have here,” James remarked.

  “One of the benefits of royal devolution,” Embries answered, freeing his hand from Cal’s grip. “Even old warhorses like me get a decent office now. It’s small, I know, but it’s private, and I much prefer it that way.” He paused, regarding his visitor keenly. “I trust you got on with Lord and Lady Rothes reasonably well?”

  “Very well. Charming people, and most hospitable.”

  “Good eats,” Cal added. “And a fantastic cook.”

  “Ah, yes” — Embries smiled — “the splendid Isobel. Well, I do apologize for my absence last night. It was unavoidable. But, as it has some slight bearing on the work before us today, I think you’ll forgive me.”

  Eager to get down to business, James said, “And what is that work, exactly?”

  “You are forthright. I like that. It will allow me to be forthright, too.” He drew a straight chair away from the wall for Cal’s use, and motioned James to join him on the other side of the desk. “Sit,” he directed, indicating his vacated chair. “I have prepared some documents for your perusal.”

  James moved around the desk, and took the offered seat. Arranged in a neat stack before him were copies of government files — all filled-in blanks, badly typed, and impenetrable jargon. The first one his eye lit upon had a title at the top which read Registration of Land Use: GA-5C. Although the title meant nothing to him, he recognized the name Robert Moray, Lord Morven, in one of the typed-in spaces, and realized it must have something to do with the estate.

  “We could spend all morning going through this collection piece by piece,” Embries said, patting the stack with the flat of his hand. “Or I could simply tell you what I have discovered and work backwards from there.”

  This more than suited James’ mood. “All right, let’s cut to the chase. Two nights ago you implied Blair Morven belonged to me. Well? Here I am. Tell me: does it?”

  “It does indeed.”

  “The whole estate?” said Cal, jumping up. “All of it belongs to Jimmy here?”

  “All of it,” confirmed Embries. “From the heather on the top of Uaimh Hill to the gravel at the end of the driveway — it all belongs to James.”

  “Man,” Cal said, his grin wide with relief and delight, “you don’t know how I have hoped someone would say that and mean it.” He grew suddenly wary. “You do mean it, Mr. Embries? There’s no catch?”

  “None whatsoever.” Embries moved to the side of the chair and leaned over the table.

  “How is that possible?” asked James.

  “By reason of the ordinary and ancient right of legal inheritance.”

  “And what makes you think that?” James asked bluntly. He had not come all the way to London to play games. “If there was even the slightest possibility of direct inheritance, I would have found out about it long ago and I wouldn’t be here now.”

  “You are not listening,” Embries replied calmly.

  “You’re not saying anything worth listening to!” snapped James irritably. “It’s all just smoke and mirrors!”

  Cal regarded his friend with mystified shock.

  “I’ve already told you a great deal,” Embries contended mildly. “Unless there is some special distribution of assets and property to be made in accordance with the last will and testament of the decease
d, the legal heirs need not be named. In fact, there need be no will at all, strictly speaking.”

  “Look, I know all this. What’s the point?” demanded James, suddenly angry with Embries for wasting his time.

  “Barring any legal impediment — such as a dispute of ownership — under Scottish law the estate would simply fall to the sole surviving heir of the Duke.”

  In his present state it took James a moment to realize what Embries had just told him. “You’re saying I’m the Duke’s heir?”

  “Great God Almighty,” croaked Cal, sitting down slowly. “So that’s the rub.”

  “The sole surviving heir to the Duke’s estate,” corrected Embries, “and therefore entitled to all his worldly goods and possessions.”

  James stared incredulously at his eccentric benefactor. “And just how do you figure that?”

  “By reason of the fact that you are the Duke of Morven’s grandson.” He said it so matter-of-factly that the full impact did not register on James at once.

  “His grandson,” James repeated dully. He felt his stomach tighten.

  “The son of his only son, to be precise.”

  Good Lord, James thought, mentally taking a deep breath; he looked at Cal, who was shaking his head in astonishment.

  Embries settled his long frame on the edge of the desk and regarded his visitors with sympathetic good humor. “I can understand that this is quite a lot to take in, but perhaps I can tell you a story which will explain.”

  James regarded the old man suspiciously. “Go on then.”

  “It starts like this,” Embries said, smoothing a wrinkle from his smart black suit. “A young nobleman — a marquess, in fact — fell in love with a beautiful young woman named Elizabeth Grant whose family were tenant farmers on his father’s estate. The Marquess’ father, the Duke, opposed the union hatefully and unreasonably. He was a man of harsh judgments and definite opinions; once he got a notion into his head, it stayed.

  “For reasons known only to himself, the Duke took an intense dislike to the lass who had captured his son’s heart. I cannot think that it was anything to do with the young woman in question; she was above reproach. It is likely that the Duke nursed a private hope that his son would marry someone of his own station, thereby increasing his fortunes in the world and restoring something of the ancient luster to the family. Then again, perhaps he merely wanted to indulge a show of power.