Chapter One
Jean Fairbairn sat on the stone window sill of her office,
if hardly in command at least in admiration of all she
surveyed.
The bloodstained walls of Edinburgh Castle loomed over a
shopping mall. The dour medieval houses of the old town
turned their backs on the sprightly Regency facades of the
new. Car parks overlooked cemeteries. Businesspeople
carrying cell phones and brief cases threaded their way
among tourists dawdling over their maps, all pretending
not to see the homeless.
Edinburgh itself, Jean thought with a smile, was the
protagonist of native son Robert Louis Stevenson’s Dr.
Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. It was an appropriate place for her
to either find herself or lose herself, depending on her
mood of the moment. And right now her mood was upbeat,
confident, eager to explore. She must be getting in touch
with her feline side, and not only in posture.
"You’ll have me barring the window," said a voice behind
her. "We can’t have you falling out and scaring away the
paying customers."
Jean looked around to see Miranda Capaldi, her friend of
twenty years and business partner of four months, peering
into the room. Jean’s smile grew into a grin. "Funny how
the tourist brochures never show the throngs of tourists.
It’s quantum travel. The act of looking at the sites
changes the nature of the sites you look at."
"Oh aye. The cafe up at the Castle is serving iced tea.
Seems you Yanks can’t leave home without bringing your bad
habits along with you. That much for their authentic
Scottish experience." Laughing, Miranda strolled across to
the window and sat down on the other half of the sill.
Jean gathered in her denim skirt, not that Miranda’s
svelte figure needed much room. The subtle fragrance of
her Chanel moderated the odors of diesel and frying food
rising from the street four stories below. Jean’s perfumes
usually evaporated into a brown sludge, sour with
reproach, before she remembered to use them. Speaking of
odors, she said, "Two hundred years ago people were
emptying chamber pots out this very window. If tourists
want authenticity...."
"Authenticity? Not a bit of it. They come here chasing
romantic fantasies. Like you, I’m thinking."
"Me? I’m a hard-bitten old cynic. Look at the articles I
was doing for the magazine even before I moved here, about
legends hitting the road and blowing a tire. Playing
reality off illusion."
Miranda cocked a tweezed eyebrow.
"Okay, okay." Jean raised her hands in surrender. "I
wouldn’t have moved here if I didn’t think the grass was
greener or the tartan brighter, whatever. It’s merciful
fantasy that keeps you going. Still, I maintain that
anyone who moves to Scotland in January isn’t chasing
illusions, romantic or meteorological."
"Oh aye, the winter was dreadful, right enough. But look
now, a May afternoon with sunshine enough to warm the
cockles of your heart."
Yes, just as the sunlight transformed Edinburgh’s
Calvinist grey to cosmopolitan color, some similar alchemy
was going on in that part of Jean’s psyche known
as "heart", whether that included the ambiguous "cockles"
or not. Home is where the heart is, she thought. Heart of
Midlothian. My heart’s in the Highlands. Queen of. . . .
"Is living here what you were expecting, then?" Miranda,
as always, cut to the chase.
"Scotland is. Owning half the magazine is. Living alone,
that still seems strange."
"Just you wait, you’ll meet someone new."
"No way," stated Jean. That was the last thing she needed,
another man to complicate the life she’d gone to such
lengths to simplify.
Miranda’s other brow rose to meet its mate, but she held
her tongue. A soft knock on the door announced Gavin, the
teenager who minded the reception desk. "Ms. Fairbairn,
you’ve got a visitor."
An elderly gentleman peered around Gavin’s shoulder. His
diction betrayed his national origin south of Hadrian’s
Wall. "I wasn’t quite sure I should call in, I suppose I
should have rung for an appointment. . . ."
"Come on in." Jean stood up.
Miranda sauntered away, her murmured "I’ll leave you to
it, then," pierced by a curious backward glance.
"Good of you to see me. I’m George Lovelace, Leicester
University, retired." The old man extended his hand.
Jean took it. "No problem."
While many old men had a handshake that felt like an empty
glove, his was firm, almost fierce. He stood so ramrod
straight his ivory-headed walking stick must be not
support but swagger stick. Maybe his gray regimental
moustache, thick glasses, and tweed suit—sturdy old-
fashioned tweed, not today’s lighter fabric—boded less an
hour of polite boredom than an interesting new story-quest
to complement the day’s sunlit affirmations.
"Please, sit down. What can I do for you?" Adjusting her
own glasses, Jean maneuvered around the corner of the desk
and into her chair.
Lovelace took the other chair in the room, a straight-
backed number that belonged in a collection of torture
devices, and looked vaguely around at Jean’s books and
papers before looking somewhat less vaguely at her. "Miss
Fairbairn. Dr. Fairbairn, rather."
Her doctorate had been awarded to Jean Inglis. Just
because the marriage was over didn’t mean the degree
wasn’t valid. Still, she defaulted to, "It’s Jean."
"I’ve been enjoying your articles in Great Scot, er, Jean.
Fine magazine, that. Miss Capaldi has made a good fist of
bringing it to life again. It was one of my childhood
favorites, Scotland being another world to me as a lad in
the Home Counties. Happy days, those, when I’d play at
William Wallace or Arthur and his knights or Bonnie Prince
Charlie in the heather. Not that we had heather in
Orpington."
Jean had seen Orpington. It was a suburb of London teeming
with industrial parks and traffic. She suspected Lovelace
would not agree with those who thought the change meant
progress.
"Well now." He leaned forward, focusing. "I most
especially enjoyed your article about Prince Charles. Not
the present one, of course. The Young Pretender, the
Bonnie Prince of the 1745 rebellion. History creates
different versions of such figures, doesn’t it?"
"Like running them through a hall of mirrors."
"Quite right. That’s how history is transmuted to legend.
Not that I mean to disparage legend. As you said yourself,
legend is the yeast that makes history rise. Nice turn of
phrase, that."
Miranda had wanted to edit out that flight of verbosity.
Jean decided Lovelace was a charming old gentleman.
"I understand," he went on, "that you had a most
distinguished career at a university in America."
Her biography was printed in the back of the magazine. The
fact that her academic career was dead, buried, and
eulogized was not. She said neutrally, "I taught British
history for almost twenty years. What’s your field?"
"Eighteenth-century literature, specializing in first
editions, ephemera, arcana, curiosa, and marginalia."
"Love letters, diaries, political pamphlets, penny
dreadful novels, and menus from the Titanic—well, not in
the eighteenth century. Menus from the Bounty, maybe.
Historical gossip columns."
"Very much so. Fascinating, but quite tiring to the eyes,
which is why I took to watching birds. I spent many a
holiday in the Western Highlands, and finally moved house
there. Stationed at Achnacarry for a time during the war,
don’t you know. That was a shocker, coming to such rough
country after my youth in Kent. Although that’s the point
of commando training, to toughen you up. They used live
fire in those days, mind you, none of this limp-wristed
please and thank you business you see today. But our backs
aren’t against the wall today, thank God. We lost too many
young people then, too many who gave their todays for our
tomorrows. . . Well, I’m sure old soldiers since Marathon
have been uttering the same sentiments."
"It comes with the territory, yes."
"So does my bewilderment with today’s culture, I suppose.
Music, clothes, the telly—not mine to criticize, though.
Must keep up with the times. But oh dear, this modern
food, a few stunted vegetables in a pool of muck with some
contrived bit of protein perched on top. What happened to
the good honest chop, potato, and veg, I ask you?"
He shouldn’t ask Jean. She was grateful for the
proliferation of exotic foodstuffs like nachos and curries
on menus all over Scotland, let alone in sophisticated
Edinburgh. But food, like humor, was a very personal
subject.
Lovelace’s watery blue eyes blinked rapidly. "I’m
rambling. Old men have a tendency to ramble. Too many
memories stored in the gray matter, I expect, can’t quite
lay your hand on the point of the exercise."
"I’m still with you," she assured him, although as yet she
had no idea where they were going.
"Well then." Reaching inside his jacket, he produced a
flat white box and set it on the desk. He whisked away the
lid like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat.
Good Lord. Jean’s eyes bulged. Without looking away, she
fumbled for the desk lamp and turned it on.
Inside the box, on a bed of white cotton, lay a massive
coin. Its surface blazed a fiery gold. Every mound and
furrow of the face stamped on it was finely etched, the
double chin, the long, sloping forehead.
From a long way away Lovelace’s voice said, "Have a look
at the reverse."
She reached out, mentally slapped her own hand, and
instead opened the desk drawer where she kept her supply
of tissues—in Edinburgh in the spring you soaked the rain
up through your feet and blew it out your nose.
The tissue covering her fingertips, Jean gingerly picked
up the coin. Yes, it was heavy, and even through the
tissue ice-cold. On the back was a design of the Palace of
Versailles, every window so finely detailed she expected
to see Madame de Maintenon pull aside the drapes.
She turned the coin face-up again. The words surrounding
the haughty, regal visage—grace a dieu—yes, they were in
French. Exhaling through pursed lips, she settled the coin
back into its cotton bed and looked up. "That’s a Louis
D’or. King Louis XIV in gold."
Lovelace was staring at her, no longer blinking. "An
excellent specimen. Almost three hundred years old, and
bright as the day it was minted."
"You must have found this in Lochaber or Moidart."
He managed a thin, asymmetrical smile. "Well done! But
then, a scholar like you would know where Bonnie Prince
Charlie’s French gold was hidden."
"I don’t know exactly. No one does, which is just the
point, isn’t it? You’ve found a clue." Jean beamed on the
old man. Oh yes, this promised to be a very exciting
story, a historical treasure hunt, no less. "So as a child
you played at being the Bonnie Prince on the lam, and as
an adult you find a coin that has to have come from his
lost hoard. That’s karma for you. Fate."
Did he shudder at that? Or did he just droop wearily over
his hands knotted atop the walking stick? "Especially when
you consider how often I double-timed it through that same
area as a youth. Although having bullets whistling past
one’s ears is hardly favorable to prospecting."
"Now, though, you walk slowly around watching birds, and
turn up a needle in a haystack."
"I wasn’t searching for the coin," he said, still talking
to his own hands, his diction slurred. "You’ll excuse me
if I don’t reveal just where I found it."
The coin glowed like a good deed in murky world. Many a
bad deed had been done for just that glow. Was Lovelace
worried that bad deeds would follow his discovery? If so,
then why not just chuck the coin into his desk
drawer? "You’ve come to the press with this," Jean pointed
out.
Abruptly Lovelace sat up straight, as though bracing
himself to some unpleasant duty. His gaze was so direct
she almost expected him to start barking orders like a
drill sergeant. In spite of herself she shrank against the
back of her chair. Was it something I said?
"I’ve come to you, Jean, because I’d like for you to help
me have the coin declared treasure trove. I’m a widower,
so have only myself to support on my pension, but a bit of
the ready wouldn’t go amiss—the taxes nowadays, some
inheritance for the grandchildren."
She managed to lean into his fixed look, like swimming
against a current, and said, "I’m not up on the laws of
treasure trove, but I know a curator at the new Museum who
is. I’ll set up an appointment for you."
"Thank you, but no. I’d much prefer you take the coin
there yourself."
"Oh." Jean didn’t exactly frown, but her eyebrows
tightened. "Well yes, I can do that. There’s really no
need, though, they’re very discreet."
"I would greatly appreciate your seeing to the matter."
Funny how he was no longer discursive, but as direct as
though he’d rehearsed his spiel before he got here.
He must be embarrassed to admit that he needed
money. "I’ll have to tell the Museum people your name, but
they won’t pass it on. I won’t either, but still I’d like
to do something for Great Scot about the coin, maybe work
it into an article about the lost hoard."
"Yes, yes, that goes without saying. You must make your
efforts worthwhile and all. But please leave the
particulars unclear. Don’t want to cause a gold rush, we
have quite enough people beating about the area as it is,
leaving gates open, littering, frightening the
sheep. . . ." His voice ran down. So did he, bowing over
his walking stick again.
Growing more intrigued by the moment, Jean asked,"Are you
planning to look for more coins?"
"Oh, no, no, not at all."
Why not? she wondered. More coins, more money.
"This coin," he mumbled, "is worth much more as a
historical artifact than as its component gold, I expect.
I should hate to see it destroyed."
Now he was evading the issue as deliberately as he was
evading her eyes—hot cold, hot cold. She tried reassuring
him. "The Museum’s bottom line is historical value, yes.
They won’t destroy it. They’ll probably want to buy it."
"Right. This is where you can reach me, then." Lovelace
reached inside his jacket, pulled out a metal case, and
extracted the small white rectangle of a business card.
Jean took it. His hand was trembling. Did he need some
sort of special treatment beyond that provided by the
National Health Service? Was that why he needed money?
This time she did frown, hiding her expression by looking
down at the card. It was engraved with, "George Albert
Lovelace", followed by his address and phone
number. "Corpach, by Fort William. That’s a beautiful
area. What’s the name of the American millionaire who
bought the old mansion out there? Surely you’ve heard of
him."
When Lovelace didn’t answer Jean looked back up. All she
could see was the top of his head, the gray hair
meticulously parted and pomaded. "Ah yes, I’ve heard of
the man. We’ve all heard of the man. One of the local
celebrities. We get quite a few celebrities in the area,
film stars and the like. I remember Mel Gibson." He sat up
abruptly, eyes hard and somehow hurt.
Yeah, well, Jean was not a fan of Gibson’s Braveheart, but
she had a feeling that wasn’t the problem.
"If you’d be so good as to give me a receipt for the
coin," Lovelace said to the wall behind her, "I’ll leave
the matter in your capable hands."
"Sure." Might as well play along, Jean told herself. She
swivelled around to her computer, tapped out "Received
from George Lovelace one Louis D’or in excellent
condition," printed the message on the magazine’s
letterhead, signed, and dated it.
He took the paper and folded it into his pocket. "Thank
you. Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s almost time for my
train. I didn’t drive, my automobile is a bit of an old
banger and the traffic in the city is . . ."
"A circus," Jean concluded when he didn’t.
Lovelace levered himself to his feet and for a moment
stood supporting himself heavily on his stick. Then he
drew himself to attention. Mission accomplished. Nodding
gravely at Jean, even while avoiding her eyes, he started
toward the door.
Climbing back out from behind her desk, she walked
Lovelace through the hallway and past the reception
alcove. "I’ll be in touch," she told him, and opened the
door.
He stepped out onto the stair landing, then spun back
around, focused, intent. "Miss Fairbairn, Jean, I think
you should know . . ."
That was one sentence she couldn’t finish for him. "What?"
Again he blinked rapidly, bent over his stick, and turned
away. "Ah no, I beg your pardon, I shouldn’t speak out of
turn. Good day."
What the . . . But he had started down the stone spiral of
the medieval turnpike stair. Jean stood, arms crossed,
monitoring his progress down the steps by the receding pad
of his shoes and the tap of his stick. She was afraid if
she shouted after him, asking for explanations, she’d hear
the sound of a falling body. After centuries of use, the
narrow triangular treads were hollowed and lopsided, and
even at her tender age, comparatively speaking, she had
been known to catch her heel or stumble.
But no. The slam of the outside door echoed up the
stairwell, punctuating Lovelace’s departure like an
exclamation mark after a shout.