Tell Tale: Stories

1

Arthur Dunbar studied Mr. S. Macpherson’s account with some considerable satisfaction, bordering on pride. His eyes returned to the bottom line: $8,681,762. He checked it against last year’s figure, $8,189,614. An increase of 6 percent, and one mustn’t forget that during the past year his client had spent $281,601 on personal expenditure, which included all his household bills, and a quarterly payment to a Mr. and Mrs. Laidlaw, who, Arthur assumed, must be his long-serving staff.

Arthur leaned back in his chair, and not for the first time thought about the man who hailed from Ambrose in the Highlands of Scotland. When Arthur had first been given the responsibility of handling the account, some eighteen years ago, all his predecessor had told him was that a man, not much older than Arthur was at the time, had turned up at the bank and, having made a fortune on the railroad, deposited $871,000 in cash, and announced he was going home to Scotland.

It made Arthur smile to think that anyone who turned up with $10,000 in cash today would be subject to an investigation by their recently formed money-laundering team, and if they didn’t tick all the boxes, their file would be handed over to the Toronto police’s special investigation squad.

Arthur had long ago stopped trying to fathom why Mr. Macpherson still did business with the National Bank of Toronto, when there were so many Scottish banks that were just as competent and considerably more convenient. But as he had conducted his affairs in an exemplary fashion for the past twenty-five years, the subject no longer arose, and in any case, NBT wouldn’t have wanted to lose one of their most important customers.

Although Arthur knew very little about his client other than that they both shared the same heritage, one thing he had learned over the years was that he was unquestionably a shrewd, intelligent businessman. After all, he had multiplied his original investment tenfold, while at the same time withdrawing enough money to live an extremely comfortable lifestyle. In fact, only once in the past eighteen years had he failed to show a profit, despite stock market collapses, changes of governments, and countless skirmishes around the globe. He appeared to have no vices, and his only extravagance was purchasing the occasional painting from Munro’s, a fine art dealer in Edinburgh — and then only if it was by a Scottish artist.

Arthur had long ago accepted he didn’t have Mr. Macpherson’s flair for finance, but he was quite happy to sit at the feet of the master and when any new instructions came, he would invest a portion of his own money in the same shares at a level no one would have noticed. So when the bank’s senior vice president checked his own account at the end of the quarter, it stood at $243,519. How he would have liked to thank Mr. Macpherson in person, because retirement was fast approaching for Arthur, and with his little nest egg and a full pension, he looked forward to ending his days in a degree of comfort he felt he had earned.

If there was a Mrs. Macpherson there were no clues to suggest it, so Arthur rather assumed that, like him, his client was a bachelor. But like so many mysteries surrounding the man, he didn’t know for sure, and assumed he never would.

However, something had been worrying Arthur about the account for some weeks, though he couldn’t put a finger on it. He opened the file again and noted the figure, $8,681,762, before checking every entry meticulously. But all seemed to be in order.

He then studied each check that the different individuals and companies had presented during the past month, before checking them against the entries in the ledger. Every one tallied. All the usual household expenses and utility bills, food, wine, gas, electricity, even Hudsons, the local newsagent. But he still felt something wasn’t quite right. And then, in the middle of the night, it hit him like a thunderbolt. Less, not more.

On arrival at the bank the following morning, the first thing Arthur did was to take Mr. Macpherson’s ledger out of the bottom drawer. He turned the pages back to the previous quarter, and was able to confirm the most recent bills were considerably less than those for any other quarter. Had they been considerably more, Arthur would have spotted it immediately, and become suspicious. The fact that they were less, aroused his interest. The only entry that remained consistent was the monthly banker’s order for his long-serving retainers, Mr. and Mrs. Laidlaw.

He leaned back in his chair and wondered if he should inform the manager of this break in routine, but decided against it for two reasons. It was coming up to quarter day, when he would receive his new instructions from Mr. Macpherson, and with it no doubt a simple explanation as to why the bills had fallen, and second, he didn’t care much for the new manager of the bank.

There had been a time, not so very long ago, when Arthur had considered the possibility of being appointed manager himself, but his hopes were dashed when that position was filled by a Mr. Stratton from their Montreal branch, who was half his age, but a graduate of McGill and the Wharton Business School. Arthur on the other hand had, to quote his late father — a former sergeant in the Seaforth Highlanders — risen through the ranks, and quite recently acquired the title of senior vice president. However, everyone in banking circles knew there were several vice presidents, and you only became the senior VP because everyone else had retired and you were next in line. “Buggins’s turn,” as his father would have described it.

Arthur had applied to be the manager of one of the bank’s smaller branches a couple of times, but hadn’t even made the shortlist. On one occasion he’d overheard a member of the panel say, “Dunbar’s a good enough chap but simply isn’t officer material.”

He had also considered leaving NBT to join one of their rivals, but quickly discovered he wouldn’t be starting at the same salary, and he certainly couldn’t hope to be offered the same pension plan as he was entitled to after so many years of loyal and devoted service. After all, in eighteen months’ time he would have been with the bank for thirty years, which meant he could retire on two-thirds of his current salary; less than thirty years, and it would only be half. So he only had to cling on for another eighteen months.

Arthur turned his attention back to the pile of checks on his desk, and was about to go over them once again, when the phone rang. He picked it up and immediately recognized the cheerful voice of Barbara, Mr. Stratton’s secretary.

“Mr. Stratton wondered if you could pop around and see him when it’s convenient—” code for as soon as possible — “as there’s something he’d like to discuss with you fairly urgently—” code for now.

“Of course,” said Arthur. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

He disliked being summoned to the manager’s office because it was rarely, if ever, good news. Last time Stratton had called for him was when he needed a volunteer to organize the Christmas party, and the responsibility had ended up taking hours of his spare time without any remuneration, and gone were the days when he could hope that one of the girls from the typing pool would go home with him later that evening.

The happiest of these occasions was when Barbara had joined the bank, and they had what might be described as a fling. He found they had so much in common, even enjoying the same passion for classical music, although he still couldn’t understand why she preferred Brahms to Beethoven. And the biggest regret in Arthur’s life was that he didn’t ask her to marry him. When she married Reg Caldercroft in accounts, he ended up as best man.

He closed the Macpherson file and placed it in the top drawer of his desk, which he locked. He left his room and walked slowly down the corridor, knocked on the manager’s door and received a curt “Come” in response. Something else he didn’t like about Mr. Stratton.

Arthur opened the door and entered a large, well-furnished office, and waited to be told he could sit down. Stratton smiled up at him and pointed to the chair on the other side of his desk. Arthur returned the smile, equally insincere, wondering what voluntary chore was about to be thrust upon him.

“Good morning, Arthur,” said the young man.

“Good morning, Mr. Stratton,” replied Arthur, who had once addressed him as Gerald when he first took over as manager, only to be told, “not during working hours.” And as they never met socially, it was also the last time he had addressed the manager by his Christian name.

“Arthur,” he said, the same smile. “I’ve had a letter from head office that I felt I ought to share with you, remembering that you are the bank’s senior vice president and our longest-serving member of staff.”

What’s he after? was Arthur’s first thought.

“I have been instructed to make cutbacks on staff. The figure they are insisting on,” Stratton said, looking down at a letter on his desk, “is ten percent. And the board are recommending we start by offering senior staff the opportunity to take early retirement.”

To make way for younger people who they will only have to pay half the salary, Arthur wanted to say, but kept his counsel.

“And of course, I thought you might consider this an ideal opportunity, after your little scare last year.”

“It wasn’t a scare,” said Arthur, “and I was off work for four days. The only four days in nearly thirty years with the bank,” he reminded Stratton.

“Indeed, most commendable,” said Stratton. “But don’t you think these things are sometimes a warning?”

“No, I do not,” said Arthur. “I’ve never felt fitter, and as you well know, I only need to serve another eighteen months to qualify for a full pension.”

“I realize that,” said Stratton, “and please don’t think I’m not sympathetic. But my hands are tied.” He looked down at the letter, clearly trying to place the blame on someone else. “I’m sure you’ll appreciate the problem I’m facing...”

“It’s me who’s facing the problem, not you,” said Arthur, bolder than he’d ever been in the past.

“And the board asked me to say,” said Stratton, “how much they appreciate the long and dedicated service you have given the bank. And I feel sure you’ll be pleased to know they have agreed that a farewell party should be thrown in your honor, along with an appropriate gift to mark your remarkable service to the National Bank of Toronto.”

“A cocktail party with crisps, peanuts, a glass of vin ordinaire, and a gold-plated watch. Thanks very much. But I’d rather have the full pension I’m entitled to.”

“And I want you to know, Arthur,” said Stratton, ignoring the outburst, “how hard I fought in your corner, but the board... well, I feel sure you know what they’re like.”

Actually Arthur didn’t have any idea what they were like. In fact if a member of the board had passed him in the street, he doubted if they would recognize him.

“But I did manage one small coup on your behalf,” continued Stratton, the same insincere smile returning to his face. “I got you a stay of execution.” And from the look on the manager’s face, he clearly regretted the words the moment he’d uttered them, but it didn’t stop him charging on. “While everyone else will have to leave by the end of the next quarter, six months at the most, you can retain your position as the senior VP for another year.”

“Just six months before I would have scraped over the line,” said Arthur with considerable feeling.

“I did the best I could given the circumstances,” insisted Stratton. “And will be writing to you in the next few days, setting out the finer details.” The manager hesitated for a moment before adding, “I was rather hoping, Arthur, I might rely on you to brief other senior colleagues of the board’s decision. You’re so good at that sort of thing.”

Arthur rose from his place with as much dignity as he could muster, and said calmly, “Go to hell, Gerald. You can do your own dirty work for a change.” He gave the manager the same ingratiating smile, and left without another word.

Once Arthur was back in his office, he swore out loud, something he hadn’t done since the Toronto Maple Leafs lost to the Montreal Canadiens during the last minute of extra time in the Stanley Cup.

He paced aimlessly around his little office for some time before he finally sat down and began to write a letter to Mr. Macpherson explaining why someone else would be handling his account in the future.

A fortnight passed, but there was no reply from Ambrose Hall. This surprised Arthur, because if there was one thing he knew about his most esteemed customer, it was that he was never less than courteous and unfailingly punctilious.

The bank’s senior VP continued to double-check his mail every morning, but there was still no response to his letter. Even more out of character, when quarter day appeared on the calendar, the usual long typewritten letter detailing Mr. Macpherson’s investment instructions and any other requirements he expected the bank to carry out during the next three months did not appear.

It was while Arthur was trying to get to sleep that the only other possibility for Mr. Macpherson’s uncharacteristic behavior crossed Arthur’s mind. He sat bolt upright and didn’t sleep that night.

Nevertheless, it was still another fortnight before Arthur would accept that the “only other possibility,” had become a probability. But it wasn’t until he’d opened a letter from Mr. Stratton confirming the day of his retirement and his pension details, that the first dishonest thought crossed Arthur Dunbar’s mind in twenty-eight years of service to the National Bank of Toronto.

However, Arthur was, by nature, a cautious man, so he allowed the dishonest thought to mature for a while before he even considered a provisional plan — and then only in his mind.

During the following month, he continued to clear every check that was presented in his client’s name, as well as Mr. and Mrs. Laidlaw’s monthly banker’s order deposited to their joint account at the Bank of Scotland in Ambrose. However, when a new checkbook arrived from the printers, Arthur did not send it on to Mr. Macpherson, but locked it in the top drawer of his desk.

He felt confident that would elicit an immediate response if...

Arthur kept rereading the letter that had landed on his desk. It was hand delivered by Mr. Stratton’s secretary, and was short and to the point.

It is with much regret...

Nowhere in the letter were the words “sacked” or “made redundant,” because they had been replaced with wishing him a happy retirement, and how much he was looking forward to continuing working with him for the next ten months. Arthur swore for the second time that year.

The rest of the month passed without incident, although no letter was forthcoming from Mr. Macpherson. The staff party was considered a great success by everyone except Arthur, who was the last to leave, and spent Christmas alone.

Arthur checked his calendar: January 7, and he still hadn’t received any further communication from Mr. Macpherson, although he was aware any payments would soon come to an end, because he hadn’t issued a new checkbook for the past quarter. But then Arthur was in no hurry, because he still had another nine months to work on his exit strategy, as befitted a banker who believed in the long game.

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 long 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 enjoy 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.”

“That’s what gave you away,” said Arthur.

“Will we go to jail?” asked Mrs. Laidlaw.

“Not if you carry out my instructions to the letter,” said Arthur as he stood up. “Is that understood?”

“I don’t care about going to jail,” said Laidlaw, “but not Morag. It wasn’t her fault.”

“I’m afraid you’re both in this together,” said Arthur. Mrs. Laidlaw began to shake again. “Now I want to see Mr. Macpherson’s study.”

The Laidlaws both looked surprised by the request, but quickly led Arthur out of the drawing room and up a wide sweeping staircase to a large comfortable room on the first floor that had been converted to an office.

Arthur walked across to a desk that overlooked the hills of Arbroath. He was surprised to find not a speck of dust on the furniture, only perpetuating the myth that their master was still alive. The Laidlaws stood a few paces back, as their unwelcome visitor sat down at the desk. A flicker of a smile crossed Arthur’s lips when he spotted the Remington Imperial typewriter on which Mr. Macpherson had written so many letters to him over the years.

“Would you like a cup of tea, sir?” asked Mrs. Laidlaw, as if she were addressing the master of the house.

“That would be nice, Morag,” said Arthur. “Milk and one sugar, please.”

She disappeared, leaving her husband almost standing to attention. Arthur opened the top drawer of the desk to find a stack of used checkbooks, the stubs filled in with Macpherson’s familiar neat hand. He closed the drawer and took out a piece of Ambrose Hall headed notepaper, and slipped it into the typewriter.

Arthur began to write a letter to himself, and after he’d typed “Yours sincerely,” he pulled the page out and read it, before turning to Laidlaw. “I want you to read this letter carefully and then sign it.”

Laidlaw couldn’t hide his surprise long before he finished reading the letter. But he took the quill pen from its holder, dipped it in the inkwell, and slowly wrote “S. Macpherson.” Arthur was impressed, and wondered how long it had taken Laidlaw to perfect the forgery, because he’d never spotted it. He took an envelope from the letter rack, placed it in the machine, and typed:

He placed the letter in the envelope and sealed it, as Mrs. Laidlaw returned carrying a tray of tea and shortbread biscuits. Arthur took a sip. Just perfect. He placed the cup back on its saucer and set about writing a second letter. When he had finished, he asked Laidlaw to once again add the false signature, but this time he didn’t allow him to read the contents.

“Post one today,” said Arthur. “And this one a week later,” he added, before passing both envelopes across to Laidlaw. “If the second letter arrives on my desk within a fortnight, I shall return in a few weeks’ time. If it doesn’t, your next visitor will be a police officer.”

“But how will we survive while you’re away?” asked Laidlaw.

Arthur opened his briefcase and took out three checkbooks. “Use them sparingly,” he said, “because if I consider you have overstepped the mark, the check will not be cleared. Is that understood?” They both nodded. “And you’ll also need to order some more writing paper and envelopes,” continued Arthur, as he opened the drawer. “And stamps.”

Arthur was just about to close the drawer when he spotted some documents tucked away in a corner. He pulled out Mr. Macpherson’s old passport, his birth certificate, and a will, and could feel his heart hammering in his chest. The three finds supplied him with a wealth of information that might prove useful in the future, and he finally discovered what the S. stood for. Macpherson’s passport also revealed that he was sixteen years older than Arthur, but given the blurriness of the old photograph he felt he could get away with it. But he would still need to order a replacement before he returned to Toronto. He placed the passport, birth certificate, and the will in his briefcase and locked it. He stood up and began to walk toward the door. The Laidlaws followed obediently in his wake.

“Mrs. Laidlaw, I want all the dust sheets removed, and the house returned to the state it was in when Mr. Macpherson was still in residence. Spare no expense, just be certain to send me every bill, so I can double-check it,” he added, as they walked downstairs together.

“By the time you return, Mr. Dunbar, everything will be just as you would expect it,” she promised.

“As Mr. Macpherson would expect it,” Arthur corrected her.

“Mr. Macpherson,” she said. “I’ll prepare the master bedroom so it will be just like old times.”

“Is there anything else you’d like me to do, sir?” asked Laidlaw when Arthur reached the bottom of the staircase.

“Just be sure to post those two letters, and carry on as if Mr. Macpherson was still alive, because he is,” said Arthur, as Laidlaw opened the front door.

When Jock saw them coming out of the house with Hamish Laidlaw clutching on to his hat, and no longer holding a gun, he jumped out of the car, ran around, and opened the back door so his fare could climb in.

“Where to, sir?” said Jock.

“The station,” Arthur said, as he looked out of the window to acknowledge the Laidlaws waving, as if he were already the master of Ambrose Hall.

During the flight back to Heathrow, Arthur studied Mr. Macpherson’s last will and testament line by line. He had left generous legacies to the Laidlaws, while no other individual was mentioned. The bulk of the estate was to be divided between several local organizations and charities, the two largest amounts being allocated to the Scottish Widows and Orphans Fund, and the Rehabilitation of Young Offenders Trust. Did those simple bequests, Arthur wondered, explain why the young Scot had set sail for Canada, and ended his days as a recluse in a remote part of his homeland?

Arthur knew the passport and birth certificate could prove useful if he was to go ahead with the deception, but had already decided that when he died, the executors would find the will exactly where Mr. Macpherson had left it.

On arrival back at Heathrow, Arthur took a train to Paddington and a taxi on to Petty France. Once he’d entered the building, he spent some considerable time filling in a long form, something he was rather good at.

After double-checking every box, he joined a slow-moving queue, and when he eventually reached the front he handed the document to a young lady seated behind the counter. She studied the application carefully, before asking to see Mr. Macpherson’s old passport, which Arthur handed over immediately. He’d made only one subtle change, 1950 had become 1966, while his own photograph had replaced the original one. She was clearly surprised not to have to make any corrections on his application form, or ask for further information. She smiled up at Arthur and stamped APPROVED.

“If you come back tomorrow afternoon, Mr. Macpherson,” she said, “you’ll be able to pick up your new passport.”

Arthur thought about making a fuss as he had a flight booked for Toronto that night, but simply said, “Thank you,” as he didn’t want to be remembered.

Arthur checked into a nearby hotel, where he spotted a poster advertising a performance of Schubert’s Fifth, to be given at the Festival Hall by the Berlin Philharmonic under their conductor, Simon Rattle.

He was beginning to think the trip couldn’t have gone much better.

3

Arthur picked up the phone on his desk and pressed a button that would put him through to the manager’s office.

“Barbara, it’s Arthur Dunbar.”

“Welcome back, Arthur. Did you have a nice time in Vancouver?”

“Couldn’t have been better. In fact I’m considering moving out there when I retire.”

“We’ll all miss you,” said Barbara. “I’m not sure how the place will survive without you.”

“I’m sure it will,” said Arthur, “but when are you expecting Mr. Stratton back?”

“He and his wife flew to Miami on Friday. He’ll be away for three weeks, so there couldn’t be a better time for us to rob the bank.”

“And run away together,” laughed Arthur. “Toronto’s answer to Bonnie and Clyde! Still, while I’m the senior officer, could you keep me briefed if anything important arises?”

“Of course,” said Barbara. “But as you well know, not a lot happens in August while so many customers are away on holiday. But I’ll give you a buzz if anything comes up.”

Arthur checked his post every morning, but it wasn’t until the sixth day that the first of the two letters landed on his desk. Arthur didn’t rest on the seventh day, now he felt confident that the Laidlaws were keeping their side of the bargain. He picked up the phone and pressed another button.

“Standing orders,” said a voice he recognized.

“Steve, it’s Arthur Dunbar. I’ve just received a letter from Mr. Macpherson, and he’s instructed the bank to raise Mr. and Mrs. Laidlaw’s monthly allowance.”

“I wish someone would do that for me,” said Steve.

“I’ll send down a copy of the letter for your files,” said Arthur, ignoring the comment. “And can you make sure that everything is in place for the September payment.”

“Of course, Mr. Dunbar.”

The second letter took a little longer to arrive, and Arthur even wondered if the Laidlaws had changed their mind, until the post boy delivered an envelope postmarked Ambrose on Monday morning, leaving him only five working days to complete the next part of his plan. But like a good Boy Scout, Arthur was well prepared.

He checked his watch. Buchan would still be at his desk for at least another couple of hours, but he needed to make an internal call before he contacted Edinburgh. He picked up the phone, pressed another button, and waited until the head of accounts came on the line.

“Have you seen a copy of the Macpherson letter, Reg, that I sent down to your office earlier this morning?”

“Yes I have,” replied Caldercroft, “and I’m sorry, Arthur, because you must be disappointed after all these years.”

“It was bound to happen at some time,” said Arthur.

“But sad that it’s just when you’re leaving. Will you get in touch with Mr. Macpherson and try to persuade him to change his mind?”

“Not much point,” said Arthur. “He hasn’t done so for the past twenty years, so why would he now?”

“I’m sure you’re right,” said Caldercroft. “But shouldn’t we wait until Stratton gets back, and see how he wants to play it?”

“I’m afraid the new banking laws don’t allow us that luxury,” said Arthur. “If a client requests to move his account, we must carry out their wishes within fourteen days, and as you can see, the letter is dated the eleventh.”

“Perhaps we should call Mr. Stratton in Miami, and alert him to the situation?”

“You call him if you want to, Reg...”

“No, no,” said Caldercroft. “You’re in charge during the manager’s absence, so what do you want me to do next?”

“Gather up all Mr. Macpherson’s bonds, stocks, and any other financial instruments, and courier them to a Mr. Buchan at RBS in Edinburgh, who appears to be the person he’s appointed to take over the account. I’m just about to phone Buchan and find out when it will be convenient to complete the transfer. I’ll keep you briefed.” He put the phone down.

Arthur took a deep breath and checked over his script one more time before he picked up the phone again and asked the switchboard operator to get him a number in Edinburgh. He waited to be put through.

“Good morning, Mr. Buchan, my name is Arthur Dunbar, and I’m the senior VP at the National Bank of Toronto.”

“Good morning, Mr. Dunbar,” said his opposite number. “I’ve been expecting your call. I had a visit from a Mr. Macpherson a couple of weeks ago, and he said you’d be in touch.”

“Indeed,” said Arthur, “although we will be sorry to lose Mr. Macpherson, a most valued client, but pleased he’ll be moving to our partner bank in Edinburgh. And to that end,” said Arthur, trying to sound pompous, “I have already given instructions to send all the necessary paperwork to you by courier, which I anticipate should be dealt with by the end of the week.”

“Thank you, said Buchan, “and when will it be convenient for you to transfer Mr. Macpherson’s current account?”

“Would Thursday morning suit you? Around this time.”

“That should be fine. I’ll make sure everything is in place to receive the funds on Thursday afternoon, and may I ask roughly how much we should be looking out for?”

“I can’t be certain of the exact figure,” said Arthur, “because I won’t know the dollar — sterling exchange rate until that morning. But it will certainly be in excess of four million pounds.”

There was no response, and Arthur even wondered if they’d been cut off. “Are you still there, Mr. Buchan?”

“Yes, I am, Mr. Dunbar,” Buchan eventually managed. “And I look forward to hearing from you again on Thursday.”

Mr. Stratton returned from his holiday the following Monday, and had only been in his office for a few minutes before he called for the senior vice president.

“Why didn’t you try and contact me in Miami?” were his first words as Arthur entered the room.

“As you can see,” said Arthur, placing his own typewritten letter on the desk, “Mr. Macpherson’s instructions couldn’t have been clearer, and as I have no way of contacting him other than by post, there wasn’t a lot I could do.”

“You could have held things up, even flown to Scotland to see if you could get him to change his mind, which I would have approved.”

“That would have been pointless,” said Arthur, “as he had already visited RBS in Edinburgh and instructed a Mr. Buchan to carry out the transfer as expeditiously as possible.”

“Which I see you did last Thursday.”

“Yes,” said Arthur. “We just managed to complete the transaction within the time stipulated by the new government regulations.” Stratton pursed his lips. “However, a little coup I thought you would appreciate,” continued Arthur, enjoying himself, “the Toronto end handled the exchange from dollars into pounds sterling, earning the bank some seventy three thousand one hundred forty-one dollars.”

“A small compensation,” said Stratton begrudgingly.

“How kind of you to say so, Gerald.”

Arthur spent his last month making sure everything was in apple pie order, no more than his mother would have expected, so by the time Reg Caldercroft moved into his office and took over as the new senior vice president, Arthur had only one responsibility left: preparing a farewell speech for his retirement party.

“I think I can safely say,” said Mr. Stratton, “that few people have served this bank more conscientiously, and certainly none longer, than Arthur Dunbar. Twenty-nine years, in fact.”

“Twenty-nine years and seven months,” said Arthur with some feeling, and several of the longer-serving staff stifled a laugh.

“We’re all going to miss you, Arthur.” The insincere smile returned to the manager’s lips. “And we wish you a long and happy retirement when you leave us to join your family in Vancouver.”

Loud “hear, hears” followed this statement.

“And on behalf of the bank,” continued Stratton, “it’s my pleasure to present you with a Rolex Oyster watch, and I hope whenever you look at it, you will be reminded of your time at the bank. Let’s all raise a glass to our senior vice president, Arthur Dunbar.”

“To Arthur,” said over a hundred voices, as they raised their glasses in the air, which was quickly followed by cries of “speech, speech!” from the guests. They all fell silent when Arthur walked up to the front and took Stratton’s place.

“I’d like to begin,” said Arthur, “by thanking those people, and in particular Barbara, for organizing such a splendid party, and to all of you for this magnificent gift. And to you, Gerald,” he said, turning to face the manager, “I must say it will be quite hard to forget who gave me the watch, when engraved on the back is the inscription, ‘To Arthur, from all his colleagues at NBT.’” Everyone laughed and applauded as Arthur strapped the watch on his wrist. “And if any of you should ever find yourself at a loose end in Vancouver, do please look me up.” He didn’t add, but should you do so, you won’t find me.

Arthur was touched by how warm the applause was when he rejoined the guests.

“We’ll all miss you,” said Barbara.

Arthur smiled at the bank’s biggest gem. “And I’ll miss you,” he admitted.

4

Arthur left the bank at six o’clock on quarter day. He took the bus back to his small apartment and packed up all his belongings before spending his last night in Toronto.

The following morning, after handing over the keys to his apartment to the janitor, he took a cab to the airport. He only made one stop on the journey, when he donated four packed suitcases of his past to a grateful volunteer worker at the local Red Cross shop.

After checking in at the domestic terminal, Arthur boarded the midday flight for Vancouver. On arrival on the west coast, he collected his only suitcase from the carousel, and took a shuttle bus across to the international terminal. He waited in line before purchasing a business-class ticket to London, which he paid for with the last of his Canadian dollars. By the time Arthur boarded the plane he was so exhausted he slept for almost the entire flight.

When he landed at Heathrow and had passed through Customs, he once again transferred to terminal five and purchased a ticket to Edinburgh, also with cash. Arthur checked the departure board, and although he had an hour to spare, he made his way slowly across to gate 43. He stopped at every lavatory en route, locked himself into a cubicle, ripped out one page of his Canadian passport, tore it into little pieces, and flushed it down the toilet.

By the time Arthur reached the check-in desk, all he had left of his old passport was the cover. Mr. Dunbar dropped it into the bottom of a waste bin outside McDonald’s.

“Will all passengers...”

Mr. Macpherson stepped onto the plane.

On arrival in Edinburgh, Arthur took a taxi to the Caledonian Hotel and checked in.

“Welcome back,” said the desk clerk, as he checked his credit card against the customer’s reservation. He handed him a room key and said, “You’ve been upgraded, Mr. Macpherson.”

“Thank you,” said Arthur, who was shown up to a small suite on the sixth floor, to be greeted with a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket, and a handwritten note of welcome from the manager. He gave the bellboy a handsome tip.

Once he’d unpacked, he called Mr. Buchan and made an appointment to see him later that afternoon. Following a light lunch in the brasserie, Arthur took a stroll along Princes Street and arrived outside the bank with a few minutes to spare.

“How nice to see you again, Mr. Macpherson,” said Buchan, leaping up from behind his desk when Arthur entered the account manager’s office.

“It’s nice to see you too,” said Arthur, as the two men shook hands.

“Can I offer you a tea or coffee?” asked Buchan once his client was seated.

“No, thank you. I only wanted to check that my bank in Toronto had carried out the transfer, and there hadn’t been any problems.”

“None that I’m aware of,” said Buchan. “In fact, the transfer couldn’t have gone more smoothly, thanks to Mr. Dunbar, and I’m looking forward to representing you in the future. So can I ask, Mr. Macpherson, is there anything you require at the moment?”

“A new credit card and some checkbooks.”

“Can I suggest our gold club card,” said Buchan, “which has a daily credit limit of one thousand pounds, with no security checks, and I’ve already put in an order for some new checkbooks, which should be with us by Monday. Would you like me to forward them on to Ambrose Hall?”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Arthur, “as I intend to spend a few days in Edinburgh before I return to Ambrose. So perhaps I can drop in on Monday and pick them up.”

“Then I’ll put a foot on the pedal and make sure they’re ready for you to collect by then.”

“And my old NBT card?” asked Arthur.

“We’ll cancel that when we hand over the new one on Monday. Do you have enough cash to see you through the weekend?”

“More than enough,” said Arthur.

Arthur left the bank and began walking back down Princes Street. What he hadn’t told Buchan was that he intended to do some shopping before he headed for Ambrose, and even take in a concert or recital. In fact he dropped into four shops on his way back to the hotel, and purchased three suits, six silk shirts, two pairs of Church’s shoes, and an overcoat in the sale. Arthur had done more shopping in three hours than he’d previously managed in three years. As he continued down Princes Street, Arthur stopped to look at the painting in the window of Munro’s, a Peploe of a bowl of fruit that he much admired. But he already had half a dozen of his own. In any case, he decided it might not be wise to enter the gallery where Mr. Macpherson had purchased so many pictures in the past, so he continued on his way back to the hotel.

After a cold shower and a change of clothes, Arthur made his way down to the hotel dining room, where he enjoyed an Aberdeen Angus steak with all the trimmings, and a bottle of red wine he had read about in one of the color supplements.

By the time he’d signed the bill — he nearly forgot his name — he was ready for a good night’s sleep. He was passing Scott’s Bar on his way to the lifts when he turned and saw her image in the mirror. She was sitting on a stool at the far end of the bar sipping a glass of champagne. Arthur continued on toward the lifts, and when one opened, he hesitated, turned around, and began walking slowly back toward the bar. Could she really have been that attractive? There was only one way he was going to find out. In any case, someone had probably joined her by now.

A second look, and he was even more captivated. She must have been about forty, and the elegant green dress that rested just above her knees only convinced Arthur she couldn’t possibly be alone. He strolled up to the bar and took a seat on a stool two places away from her. He ordered a drink, but he didn’t have the nerve to even glance in her direction, and certainly wouldn’t have considered striking up a conversation.

“Are you here for the conference?” she asked.

Arthur swung round and stared into those green eyes before murmuring, “What conference?”

“The garden centers annual conference.”

“No,” said Arthur. “I’m on holiday. But is that why you’re here?”

“Yes, I run a small garden center in Durham. Are you a gardener by any chance?”

Arthur thought about his flat in Toronto where he’d had a window box, and Ambrose Hall, that couldn’t have been less than a thousand acres.

“No,” he managed. “Always lived in a city,” he added, as she drained her champagne. “Can I get you another?”

“Thank you,” she said, allowing the barman to refill her glass. “My name’s Marianne.”

“I’m Sandy,” he said.

“And what do you do, Sandy?”

“I dabble in stocks and shares,” he replied, taking on the persona of Macpherson. “And when you said ‘run,’ does that mean you’re the boss?”

“I wish,” she said, and by the time Marianne’s glass had been refilled three times, he’d discovered she was divorced, her husband had run away with a woman half his age, no children, and she had planned to go to the Schubert concert at the Usher Hall that night only to find it was sold out. After another drink, he even found out she didn’t consider Brahms to be in the same class as Beethoven. He was already wondering how far the journey was from Edinburgh to Durham.

“Would you like another drink?” he asked.

“No, thank you,” she replied. “I ought to be getting to bed if I’m still hoping to make the opening session tomorrow morning.”

“Why don’t we go up to my suite? I have a bottle of champagne, and no one to share it with.” Arthur couldn’t believe what he’d just said, and assumed she’d get up and leave without another word, and might even slap his face. He was just about to apologize, when Marianne said, “That sounds fun.” She slipped off her stool, took his hand and said, “Which floor are you on, Sandy?”

In the past, Arthur had only dreamed of such a night, or read about it in novels by Harold Robbins. After they’d made love a third time, she said, “I ought to be getting back to my room, Sandy, if I’m not going to fall asleep during the president’s address.”

“When does the conference end?” asked Arthur, as he sat up and watched her getting dressed.

“Usually around four.”

“Why don’t I try to get a couple of tickets for the Schubert concert, and then we could have dinner afterward.”

“What a lovely idea,” said Marianne. “Shall we meet in reception at seven tomorrow evening?” She giggled. “This evening,” she added, as she bent down and kissed him.

“See you then,” he said, and by the time the door had closed, Arthur had fallen into a deep contented sleep.

When Arthur woke the following morning, he couldn’t stop thinking about Marianne, and decided to buy her a present and give it to her at dinner that evening. But first he must get two tickets, the best in the house for a show that was obviously sold out, and then ask the desk clerk which he considered was the finest restaurant in Edinburgh.

Arthur had a long shower, and found himself humming the aria from Mendelssohn’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. He continued to hum as he put on a new shirt, new suit, and began to think about what sort of present Marianne would appreciate. Mustn’t be over the top, but shouldn’t leave her in any doubt he considered last night so much more than a one-night stand.

He went to his bedside table to pick up his wallet and watch, but they weren’t there. He opened the drawer, and stared at a copy of Gideon’s Bible. He quickly checked the table on the other side of the bed, and then the bathroom, and finally his new suit that was strewn on the floor. He sat on the end of the bed for some time, unwilling to accept the truth. He didn’t want to believe such a divine creature could be a common thief.

He reluctantly picked up the phone by the side of the bed and dialed Mr. Buchan’s private number at the Royal Bank of Scotland. He sat there in a daze until he heard a voice he recognized on the other end of the line.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” said Arthur, “but I’ve lost my credit card.”

“That’s not a problem,” said Buchan. “Happens all the time. I’ll cancel it immediately and your new one will be ready for collection on Monday morning. If you need some cash in the meantime, just pop in and I’ll arrange it.”

“No, I’ve got enough to get me through until Monday,” said Arthur, not wanting to admit that his money had also been stolen.

Arthur went downstairs for breakfast, and wasn’t surprised to discover that there was no garden centers conference, and no one called Marianne registered at the hotel. When he left the Caledonian to go for a walk after breakfast, it was back to window shopping and he even spotted the ideal present for Marianne. It didn’t help. And when he passed the Usher Hall on the way back, there was already a queue for returns. At least that was true.

It was a long weekend of walks around the ancient city, hotel food, and watching B movies in his room that he’d already seen. When he walked past Scott’s Bar on Saturday night and saw an attractive young blonde sitting alone, he just kept on walking.

By Monday he’d exhausted the hotel menu as well as the films of the week and just wanted to return to Ambrose Hall and begin his new life. The only surprise was that he still couldn’t get Marianne out of his mind.

5

By the time Arthur had packed his bags on Monday morning, he’d decided the loss of a couple of hundred pounds and a watch he’d never cared for, was a fair exchange for the best night he’d ever had in his life.

He checked his watch. It wasn’t there. Arthur smiled for the first time in days. Once he’d seen Buchan, he would take the first train to Ambrose and try to forget the whole incident, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to. He was feeling a little better by the time he left the hotel to keep his appointment with Mr. Buchan, and when he walked into the bank, his secretary was standing in the hall waiting to greet him. A gesture, he realized, that was only extended to the most important customers.

“I hope you had an enjoyable weekend, Mr. Macpherson?” she said, as she accompanied Arthur through to Mr. Buchan’s office.

“Yes, thank you,” he replied politely, as she opened the door and stepped aside to allow him to enter.

Arthur froze on the spot when he saw Mr. Stratton seated on the right of Mr. Buchan, with a large burly man he didn’t recognize seated on his left.

“Sit down, Dunbar,” said Stratton, as the door closed behind him.

Arthur obeyed the manager’s order as if they were back in Toronto, but said nothing.

“It wasn’t difficult for me to work out what you’ve been up to for the past year,” said Stratton, “and at least we caught up with you before you could do any real damage. We have Chief Inspector Mullins of the Edinburgh city police to thank for that,” he added, revealing who the third person was.

Arthur still didn’t speak, although he would have liked to ask the policeman how long his sentence was likely to be, but satisfied himself with, “How did you find out?”

“The watch,” said Chief Inspector Mullins matter-of-factly. “‘To Arthur, from all his colleagues at NBT.’ Once we’d cracked NBT, the rest was easy. And after she’d described you as a nice gentleman with a mid-Atlantic accent, one call to the bank and Mr. Stratton even told us he’d presented you with the Rolex Oyster.”

“And Marianne, how did you catch her?”

“She tried to buy a train ticket to Durham with your credit card, but fortunately Mr. Buchan had already canceled it.”

“And as far as I can tell,” said Stratton, taking over, “you’ve only spent two thousand seven hundred eighty-two dollars of Mr. Macpherson’s money. However, that doesn’t include the seventy three thousand one hundred forty-one dollars the bank will have to return to Mr. Macpherson’s private account, following the abortive exchange rate deal.”

“And a further forty nine thousand one hundred twenty-four pounds,” said Buchan, “that will have to be charged to NBT after converting the four million pounds back into dollars.”

“Mr. Buchan has already supplied me with all the share certificates, bonds, and other financial instruments that I will be taking back to Toronto later today, and once I return, Mr. Macpherson’s account will be repaid in full. So with a bit of luck, he will never find out what happened. However,” Stratton continued, “you have cost the National Bank of Toronto one hundred twenty three thousand four hundred sixty-eight dollars, not to mention the irreparable damage you might have caused to the bank’s reputation had this story ever got out. But, thanks to the cooperation of the Edinburgh police, to whom we will be eternally grateful,” continued Stratton, nodding in the chief inspector’s direction, “if you will agree to cover any costs, they will not press charges.”

“And if I don’t?” said Arthur.

“As a senior banking officer, in a position of trust,” said Chief Inspector Mullins, “you could be looking at six to eight years in a Scottish prison. I would’nae recommend it, laddie,” he paused, “given the choice.”

Mr. Stratton stood up and walked down from the other end of the table and handed over a check made out to the bank for $123,468. All it needed was a signature.

“But that would almost clean me out.”

“Perhaps you should have thought about that in the first place,” said Stratton, handing him a pen.

Arthur reluctantly signed the check, accepting that the alternative, as Mullins had so subtly pointed out, wasn’t that attractive.

Stratton retrieved the check and placed it in his wallet. He then turned to the chief inspector and said, “Like you, we will not be pressing charges.”

Mullins looked disappointed.

Typical Stratton, thought Arthur. Make sure you cover your own backside, and to hell with everyone else. Arthur even wondered if the board would ever be told what had really happened. But Stratton hadn’t finished. He picked up a carrier bag from under his chair, and emptied a pile of Canadian dollars onto the table in front of Arthur.

“Your account has been closed,” he said, “and the bank is no longer willing to do business with you in the future.”

Arthur slowly gathered up the neat cellophane packages, aware that he would even be paying for Stratton’s first-class flight back to Toronto. He dropped the money into the carrier bag.

“And what about my watch, Chief Inspector?” said Arthur, turning to face Mullins.

“Mrs. Dawson comes up in front of the magistrate at ten o’clock tomorrow morning, so you can collect it any time after that, but not until she’s been sentenced.” He smiled at Arthur for the first time.

“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to appear as a witness for the Crown?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

Arthur smiled back. “You suppose correctly, Chief Inspector. I wouldn’t, even if you’d made it a condition.”

Mullins frowned as Arthur rose from his place, and quietly left the room; no smiles, no handshakes, and certainly no one accompanied him to the front door. He left the bank in a daze and began to make his way slowly back to the hotel, not certain what to do next.

He’d only gone about a hundred yards along Princes Street, when he spotted a sign on a window in neat black letters, Henderson & Henderson, Attorneys at Law.

6

When the defendant took her place in the dock, she looked tired and vulnerable.

A court officer rose and read out the charges. “Marianne Dawson, you come before the court on three charges. One: that you stole a credit card from a Mr. Macpherson, and attempted to use it to purchase a rail ticket to Durham. How do you plead to this charge, guilty or not guilty?”

“Guilty,” said the defendant, almost in a whisper.

“The second charge,” continued the officer, “is that you did steal a sum of around two hundred pounds from the said Mr. Macpherson. How do you plead, guilty or not guilty?”

“Guilty,” she repeated.

“And the third count is that you did steal a Rolex Oyster watch also from the same gentleman. How do you plead, guilty or not guilty?”

Marianne looked up and facing the magistrate said quietly, “Guilty.”

The chairman of the magistrates stared down into the well of the court and asked, “Is the defendant represented?”

A tall, distinguished-looking man, dressed in a pinstriped suit, white shirt, and black tie, rose from the bench and said, “I have the privilege of representing Mrs. Dawson.”

The Justice of the Peace was surprised to find one of Edinburgh’s leading advocates appearing before him on such a minor case.

“Mr. Henderson, as your client has pleaded guilty to all three charges, I presume you will be offering a plea in mitigation?”

“I most certainly will, sir,” he said, tugging the lapels of his jacket. “I would like to start by bringing to the attention of the court that Mrs. Dawson has recently experienced a most acrimonious divorce, and despite the family division awarding her maintenance payments, her husband has made no attempt to fulfill his responsibility, even after a court order was issued against him. Until recently,” continued Mr. Henderson, “Mrs. Dawson held a senior management position at the Durham Garden Centre, until it was taken over by Scotsdales, and she was made redundant. I feel sure the Bench will also take into consideration that this is a first offense, other than a parking fine some four years ago. However, Mrs. Dawson is not only extremely remorseful, but determined to pay Mr. Macpherson back every penny she owes him, just as soon as she can find a job. I would finally like to point out that until today, Mrs. Dawson enjoyed an unblemished reputation as an upright citizen, which I hope the Bench will take into consideration before passing sentence.”

“I am grateful to you, Mr. Henderson,” said the justice. “Please allow me a few moments to consult with my colleagues.”

Henderson bowed, as the chairman and his two colleagues discussed the case among themselves, before coming to an agreement.

The chairman turned back to face the defendant.

“Mrs. Dawson,” he began, “despite learned counsel’s moving plea in mitigation, someone in your position must have been well aware they were breaking the law.” Marianne bowed her head. “So I am left with no choice but to sentence you to six months in prison, which will be suspended for two years. However, should you appear before me again, I will not hesitate to issue you with a custodial sentence. But on this occasion, I shall order you to pay a fine of two hundred pounds.” He switched his attention back to Mr. Henderson, and asked, “Is the defendant able to pay this sum?”

Mr. Henderson turned around and looked toward the back of the courtroom where his client was seated. Arthur nodded.

7

Arthur took a piece of headed paper from the letter rack on his desk and placed it in the typewriter.

There was a knock at the door, and Arthur stopped typing. “Come in.”

Morag popped her head round the door and said, “I just wondered what you and Mrs. Macpherson would like for lunch? I still have some of that game pie you’re rather partial to.”

“Perfect,” said Arthur, “but not too much. Mrs. Macpherson has already chastised me for putting on weight.”

“And Mrs. Macpherson also asked me to remind you that you’re going into Edinburgh this evening for some concert.”

“Not some concert, Morag, Beethoven’s Third at the Usher Hall.”

“Will there be anything else, sir?”

“Yes, I’m just finishing off a letter to Mr. Stratton, so could you ask Hamish to come up? I’d like him to drive into the village and post it.”

“Of course, sir.”

Arthur returned to the letter.

There was a knock on the door and Laidlaw walked in.

“You asked to see me, sir?”

“Yes, Hamish. Just a signature.”