Loch

Chapter 11

Drooping lavender flowers in window boxes and hanging baskets partially obscured the illuminated sign that marked Maggie Dickson’s Whisky and Ale House, a tiny pub on Grassmarket Square. This busy, yet picturesque section of Edinburgh’s Old Town featured pubs, shops, clubs, and hotels. Tourists mingled with locals going about their daily business. Here amidst buildings from the sixteenth century all the way up to recent vintage, Maddock felt the weight of history and truly appreciated how young his own country of origin was by comparison.

“You can check out the architecture later,” Bones said, nudging Maddock with his elbow. “I need a drink.” Leaving the sunny, crowded street, they headed inside.

The atmosphere inside the pub was exactly what Maddock expected — upbeat and noisy without being raucous. Chandeliers which hung from the painted ceiling shone down on dark wooden tables and darker wainscoting. Framed photos, neon signs, and football banners adorned the walls. Above the bar, a match played out on a widescreen television set.

“I’m not a soccer fan, but this works for me,” Bones said. “Food smells good, too.”

They paused to let a server pass by. The man carried two identical dishes — a coiled length of sausage atop mashed potatoes inside some sort of pastry.

“Never mind,” Bones said. “That looks like a bowel movement. People really put that stuff in their mouths?”

Maddock laughed. “Suit yourself. I haven’t eaten all day.”

They made their way through the crowd and back to the area set aside for dining. Maddock immediately spotted a lanky, grey-haired man with thick glasses waving them over.

“You must be Maddock and Bonebrake. I’m Alban Calderwood.” The man offered a liver-spotted hand to shake. Maddock took it and found Calderwood’s grip was firm.

“Thank you for meeting us, Professor Calderwood,” Maddock said.

“Any friend of Andrew Wainwright is a friend of mine. How is the old wankpuffin, anyway?”

Bones snorted a laugh. “I don’t know what a wankpuffin is, but I’m stealing that one.”

“It’s a name I was never permitted to call my students. At least, not to their faces.”

Maddock grinned. “We haven’t visited Wainwright in a few years, but he sounded good on the phone.” A retired professor and a descendant of the famed explorer Percy Fawcett, Wainwright had once helped Maddock and Bones in their search for a lost city in the Amazon.

“The telephone is the best way to experience Wainwright,” Calderwood said. “That way, you don’t have to look at his nose and ear hair, or risk being buried beneath a falling stack of books.”

“I need to buy you a drink,” Bones said. “What’s good here? I saw a Guinness sign.”

Calderwood’s mouth twisted as if he’d just sucked a lemon. “Trust me; you want an Innis and Gunn. Best drink on tap here.”

Bones bought a round for the table, and they settled in. Maddock found the ale quite to his liking. A hint of bitterness when it touched his tongue, but a fruity aftertaste with a touch of caramel.

“Nice,” he said.

“It’s really got an oaky afterbirth.” Bones looked expectantly at his drinking companions, who exchanged puzzled looks. “It’s a line from… oh, never mind.” He took another swallow and looked around. “Tell me, who was Maggie Dickson? I saw a sign but didn’t read it.”

Calderwood winced. “You remind me of my students. ‘Didn’t read the chapter, Sir. I figured you were going discuss it anyway, so why bother?’”

“That’s me,” Bones agreed. “Except I’d have a chick read the chapter and give me the high points before class.”

“Stop it.” Laughing, Calderwood raised his hand to silence Bones. “You’re bringing back unpleasant memories.” He drained his glass and set the empty mug on the table. “Back to your question. Among other things, Grassmarket Square was a place where executions were held. Maggie Dickson was accused of drowning her own baby and was sentenced to hang. Her sentence was carried out in the Grassmarket. She was pronounced dead, but on her way to be buried, the wagon driver heard a knocking on the wooden coffin.”

Maddock raised his eyebrows. “Oops.”

Calderwood nodded. “They removed the lid to find Maggie very much alive. According to the law of the day, it was God’s will that she live, so she was set free. The locals gave her the nickname Half Hangit’ Maggie.”

“Either someone botched the execution or she had quite a strong neck,” Maddock said.

“Some believe she used her feminine wiles to manipulate the gaoler, who saw to it that the hangman engineered a weaker noose, but who can say for certain?”

“Leave it to Maddock to take a perfectly good story and analyze it to death,” Bones said.

When their meals were ready, they dug in with gusto. Maddock enjoyed steak and ale pie, while Bones went with the Monster Burger — a tower of beef, cheese, bread, and onion rings. As they dined, Maddock finally revealed the reason he’d reached out to Calderwood. He filled the professor in on the sunken U-boat, the journal, and the artifacts they’d recovered.

“I know this is a longshot, but might you have any idea what this came from?” he asked, handing over the chunk of stone recovered from the strongbox.

Calderwood put on a pair of reading glasses and examined the black rock at length. While he continued his inspection, Maddock bought everyone another round. Lost in thought, Calderwood sipped at his ale. Finally, he cleared his throat.

“You’re certain your translation of the journal entry is correct?”

“Pretty sure,” Bones said.

“It said ‘they have been sitting on a false throne?’ You’re certain of that?”

“We are,” Maddock said.

“In that case, there’s only one thing it can be.” Calderwood looked around, then lowered his voice. “The Stone of Destiny.”

Bones sat up straighter. “Hold on. That’s the stone that Scottish kings were crowned on, right?”

Calderwood nodded. “It is also known as the Stone of Scone. The English call it the Coronation Stone.” He grimaced and took a swig of ale, as if to wash the words from his mouth.

“Time for the million dollar question,” Bones said. “Do you think it’s an alien artifact, the stone Jacob used for a pillow in the Bible story, or just a meteorite?”

Calderwood managed a tight smile. “Many far-fetched legends surround the stone — its origins, its composition, where it has been kept, whether or not it has powers. We could spend all day discussing them.”

Bones smiled. “I’m down for that as long as the ale keeps flowing.”

“So, this stone is lost?” Maddock asked.

Calderwood gave a noncommittal shrug. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

“What does that mean?”

Calderwood’s face grew stern, and he adopted a lecturing tone. “In 1296, Edward the First annexed Scotland and took the stone from Scone Abbey, where it was being kept at the time, and carried it back to Westminster Abbey. There it sat for centuries, to Scotland’s shame. It was finally returned in 1996 and is now kept along with the crown jewels as Scotland’s greatest treasures.”

“So it’s not lost,” Maddock began, but Calderwood waved him into silence.

“Rumors persist that the stone that sits in the Crown Room is not the actual stone. Some say that the stone that came to Scone was not the genuine article; others say a false stone was substituted for it just ahead of the arrival of the English troops. What’s more, the stone that is in the Crown’s possession, the one that sat at Westminster Abbey and upon which English monarchs were crowned, is made of red sandstone, which has been definitively proved to be quarried near Scone. The problem is, the legends agree the stone was brought to Scone from elsewhere. And perhaps most important of all, though known only to a few scholars, the very oldest accounts describe the Stone of Destiny as being black and covered with markings.” He held up the black chunk of rock for emphasis.

“That would explain the ‘false throne’ comment,” Bones said. “The Kaiser would get a good laugh out of British royalty being crowned on a fake rock.”

Maddock took a moment to digest this new information. “Let’s assume a German spy did, in fact, break this stone off of the actual, authentic Stone of Destiny. Where should we begin looking?”

“Records show the stone was previously kept in an old fortress in Argyll and Bute in western Scotland. It’s now the site of Dunstaffnage Castle. The legends I consider most reliable hold that the real stone never left there.”

“Is Dunstaffnage near the water?” Maddock asked.

“Yes. In fact, what remains of it stands on a promontory near the coast, at Ardmucknish Bay, at the confluence of Loch Etive, Loch Linne, and the sea.”

“It’s not exactly close to where we found the sub, but if the Germans were hugging the coast, headed south…” Bones said.

“If you’re on the trail of the true stone,” Calderwood said, “Dunstaffnage is where I’d begin.”