“I suppose so — seeing it’s winter and things are slowing down a bit. I have two or three hunting parties scheduled around Christmas and New Year’s.”
“Cancel them,” Embries ordered.
“Sure. You got something else in mind?”
“Oh, I do indeed. There are one or two other details to explain, but let’s just say that it would be best if you remained unencumbered for the near future.”
“For James’ sake.”
“For James, yes,” Embries assured him, “and for Britain.” His eyes took on the strange excitement once more, and it seemed to Calum as if the man before him was looking through him — or beyond him — to something he found intensely, dazzlingly fascinating. “We will do great things,” Embries said, his voice the echo of a whisper. Cal was not even sure if the old man was talking to him.
Nine
Retracing his steps through the hallways and galleries as best he could, James followed one exit sign after another until he emerged into the light of day once more. He hurried across the courtyard parking lot, and headed down the street, not looking, not caring, where he was going. He walked for a time — the brisk, agitated walk of a man with weighty and troublesome matters on his mind.
Time and his surroundings blurred around him. With every step, his mind lurched over the same strange ground — the tangled legal terrain of a score of obscure records. In his mind, James saw them as red arrows on a map, and all of them were pointing towards the same inevitable conclusion: he was not who he thought he was.
How could it be? he wondered. What did it mean?
He walked on, striking out across a busy street, heedless of the traffic. He came upon the entrance to a park, and swiftly continued in. As the tumult of his thoughts began to calm somewhat, the first questions gradually coalesced into another: why?
Why is this happening? he demanded. Why me?
Unexpectedly, James received an answer — so clear and loud he first imagined someone had spoken aloud. Because, said the voice, which sounded very much like Embries’, you were born for this.
This so surprised him that he stopped in his tracks and looked around. The pale sunlight had faded into a pewter haze overhead. The wind was colder, and a ground fog was beginning to form. Four or five pathways fanned out before him through the mostly empty park; there were few people around. The path he happened to be standing on was deserted, so he continued on, pushing his hands into his pockets and wishing he had thought to bring his coat.
To warm up, he began to jog.
His leather-soled shoes slapped the pavement hard; he could feel the jolting impact with every step. He passed some people bundled up on park benches; they regarded him with the kind of look reserved for suspicious strangers running in street clothes. James didn’t care. It felt good to run, to felt the cold air burning in his lungs. This, at least, was real, he thought. After all that he had heard in Embries’ office, he needed something tangible, something physical; he needed sweat and cold and an ache in his side and a blister on his heel to anchor him to reality once more.
The rhythm of running changed the flow of his thoughts; the questions spinning in his head grew sharper, more focused. Instead of asking the vague and amorphous why? the question became: why does this upset me?
All that Embries had showed him, when added to what he already knew, made perfect sense. And it wasn’t as if the news was particularly scandalous — maybe once upon a time, but not now; anyway, everyone even remotely concerned was dead now, except James. If no one else cared about his parentage, why should he?
He thought about the legal wrangle over the estate. How many times, he asked himself, in how many months, have you wished for something amazing to turn up? If once, then a thousand times, came the reply. A letter, a will, a bolt from the blue — anything to turn the case his way. Now, here it was, the miracle he had secretly hoped would save his home and livelihood. James stood to inherit one of the few great estates left in the entire country. Why be upset about it? Why not embrace it, welcome it, seize it with both hands and shout Hallelujah! like any normal person?
He had no answer. The plain fact was that he was upset. He could accept his parents’ deception; he could accept his new identity and, insofar as it promised to secure his home and all he held dear, he could even welcome it. Yet there was something about all this that filled him with unspeakable trepidation. He felt sweat trickle down his sides, and it was the cold sweat of pure, undiluted dread.
It seemed to James that the very air swarmed with uncertainty and menace — as if a great weight hung over him on a fast-fraying rope.
It must be fear, he concluded at last. Was he not behaving like a frightened man? Running, desperately trying to escape from the peril he felt closing in around him. But what was it? he wondered. What was there about this situation that frightened him so much it had him running like a madman through the park?
When James finally stopped to look around, the sun was already past midday and the shadows were growing long. The sky overhead had a darkly threatening aspect, and a light breeze was kicking up the few dry leaves on the path which had become little more than a muddy track through unmown grass. He was sweating from his run, and was feeling the cold begin to bite. He decided it was time to head back. First, however, he had to figure out where he was.
With quick steps, James returned along the path and reached the place where he had departed from the pavement. Making his way to the nearest street, he left the park and walked quickly towards the closest junction, thinking to find a street sign or two to help orient himself. As he approached the intersection, however, he glimpsed, out of the corner of his eye the motion of a dark shape coming up behind him, and recognized the black Jaguar. The car stopped as he turned around; Rhys jumped out of the driver’s seat and opened the back door. Cal and Embries were inside.
“We thought you might be getting cold, sir,” Rhys said. “Would you like to come with us?”
James nodded, and slid into the backseat with Embries, who held out his coat. “Thanks,” James said, pushing his arms into the sleeves. The car slid silently into the street traffic. “How did you know where to find me?”
“Oh, I have a nose for these things,” Embries answered. James could not tell if he was joking.
“Would you like some lunch or anything?” asked Cal from the front seat. “We brought you some sandwiches.” He held up a white paper bag.
“Thanks,” said James, accepting the bag and dropping it on the seat beside him. “Maybe later.”
The car glided along the streets, and it soon became clear to James that they were not returning to St. James’s Palace. “Where are we going?”
“There is a man I would like you to meet,” Embries said, “if you have no objection.”
“Not at all. Bring him on.”
They proceeded smoothly through the city. Nothing was said of James’ inheritance, or what they had discussed in Embries’ office; each man occupied himself with his own private thoughts. After a while, the Jaguar turned onto Earl’s Court Road and headed south, passing one busy high street and then another, and on until they finally passed the Stamford Bridge Stadium where they turned down a side street lined with modest Victorian town houses. Rhys slowed the Jaguar and parked on the street in front of a white-painted double-fronted house at the end of the row. “Here we are,” said Embries, as Rhys opened the door.
The small square of lawn was well kept, and the property surrounded on all sides by one of those tall wrought-iron fences that looks like a rank of spears, with the shafts painted glossy black and the spearheads painted gold. A brightly polished brass plaque on the side of the house identified the place as The Royal Heritage Preservation Society.
James read out the inscription as Cal joined him at the iron gate. “Oh, great,” sighed Cal. “Aren’t these the we-love-our-Teddy nutters?” he asked as Embries came to stand with them.
“They have a quasi-political wing, yes,” Embries admitted dip
lomatically. “The Save Our Monarchy Coalition has an office here, I believe. However, following the demise of both Debrett’s and Burke’s Peerage the RHPS are the best remaining authority on the nobility,” he said, pushing the gate open. “In fact, the best of Debrett’s and Burke’s staff ended up here. I know one of the editors, and I’ve asked him to do a little nosing around for us. Shall we go in?”
They opened the door and entered a narrow blue-carpeted vestibule. A receptionist smiled at them as they came in; she was talking on the phone, and rang off as they came to stand before her. “Mr. Collins is expecting us, I believe,” Embries informed her.
“Would you mind waiting? I’ll call him. It won’t take a moment.” A cheerful black woman with her hair in elaborate beaded braids, she spoke with the sun-drenched tones of Jamaica. She picked up the phone and spoke quietly into the receiver. “Mr. Collins is just coming down,” she informed them. “He will be with you shortly.”
Cal flipped through a souvenir guidebook entitled Royal Britain, and James gazed at the walls, which were decorated with current covers of the various publications the firm produced: two magazines given to nostalgia for the glory days of Empire, a clutch of glossy pamphlets extolling various royal haunts, and an expensive-looking tome entitled Almanak Royale, gilt-edged and bound in red leather. He was beginning to make sense of the operation when they were joined by a thin man with sparse, sandy-colored hair. His suit was badly creased and shiny from wear, but his shoes were polished to perfection. In all, he looked like a rumpled academic who had won a pair of brogues in the school raffle. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” he said, his voice youthful, despite the aged stoop.
“Ah, Collins,” replied Embries with a smile. “Good to see you again. I am glad you could find time for us.” He introduced James and Cal, and then said, “Mr. Collins has been working on a special project for me.”
“And I am happy to say that it is very nearly complete,” the little man announced. “Only one or two bits to nail down firmly, but why don’t I show you what I have so far?” Collins led them through one of the doors lining the vestibule and into a wide semicircular entry hall half paneled in dark oak. A curved stairway led up to an upper floor and an oval gallery.
He ushered his guests through one of the three doors opening off the landing, and they entered a long, high-ceilinged room lined on both sides with glassed-in book-shelves. Beyond this room was a small conference room with a round table at one end and a great old sideboard on the other. There were six chairs around the table, and a silver coffee service on the sideboard.
“I think we’ll be comfortable enough in here,” Collins said. “Have a seat, won’t you? I’ll just get my papers.”
He disappeared back the way they had come. Cal strolled the perimeter of the room and let out a soft whistle. “You’re definitely moving up in the world, my friend,” he said to James.
“What’s this special project?” asked James.
“I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise. Let’s just say it should be instructive for us all.”
Embries crossed to the table and drew out a chair, indicating that James should sit down. Cal took the seat beside him. Sunlight through the window opposite the sideboard filled the room with a wan, wintry light that made James feel as if they were back in school again.
Collins returned and placed a battered Gladstone bag on the table and began pulling out papers by the handful — literally, by the handful, in rumpled bunches, as if they were tissues. He tossed them onto the table and began organizing them into piles. “Peerage law is not my strong suit, I confess,” he began, “but I have enough of the rudiments to navigate my way around.”
“I’m sure it will be adequate for our purposes,” Embries assured him. To James, he said, “Collins is one of the foremost experts on royal succession and title inheritance in the country.”
“History,” Collins said, smoothing a wrinkled sheet of paper on the table, “is my real passion. Hence most of my work is for the Almanak.”
“I assume all this has something to do with my inheriting the title and property at Blair Morven?” James said.
The comment was directed more at Embries, but Collins stopped smoothing and looked at him curiously. “I think you’ll find it’s a bit more than that,” he said. “Indeed, it is nothing less than —”
“One thing at a time,” Embries said, breaking in. “Let us concentrate on the title and property for now.”
“Oh,” sniffed Collins, “that is easily done.” He pulled a thick brown book from the bag and dropped it on the table with a thump. “This is a record of the Scottish aristocracy dating from 1610. It was drawn up just after James the First acceded to the throne of England.” He put a hand reverently on the book and, looking for all the world like a courtroom witness taking his oath on the Bible, said, “Elizabeth the First died without issue. Before her death, she recognized King James the Sixth of Scotland as her lawful heir, thereby uniting both Scotland and England under the rule of a single monarch, a situation which has obtained to the present day. This is why —”
“I had Mr. Collins research the history of the Blair Morven title,” Embries interrupted quickly. “He has established a line of ducal succession dating from before the time of King James.”
“Oh, it goes back much further, I assure you. We have records here” — his gesture took in the entire building — “tracing the various royal lines back at least two hundred years before that.” He beamed as if this were in some way a personal triumph. “The Blair Morven title is one of the oldest in Scotland, gentlemen. That much is beyond doubt.”
“Is that important?” Cal asked.
Collins regarded him with a puzzled look, then deferred to Embries.
“Let’s just say that it is germane to this discussion,” Embries replied, “insofar as a clear and continuous line of succession is always desirable when legal problems arise.”
Collins shuffled through the pile of papers before him and snatched up a sheet. He clutched it in his fist, careless of the creasing and bunching of the page. “I can authenticate the line of descent.” To Embries he said, “If you can establish Mr. Stuart’s identity, I can establish his bloodline. It will then be a simple matter of presenting this information to the proper authorities. Faced with the facts, the outcome you predict, Mr. Embries, should swiftly follow.”
To James, Collins’ matter-of-fact assertion made it sound as if the deeply embroiled legal wrangling of the last nine months were nothing more than a playground tiff between schoolboys. James might have been more hopeful — or, ecstatic, even — if not for the unsettling sensation that the other shoe was about to drop.
“You can show all this in your book?” he asked cautiously.
“Oh, I can demonstrate a good deal more.” Collins snatched up another paper with his left hand, crumpling it terribly. The way he grabbed and mauled his documents made his onlookers wince. “This!” Collins said, thrusting the page at James. “This is a summary of my research into the Duke of Morven’s title. Peruse it, if you will.”
James expected some kind of legal document, and was disappointed to see that it was merely a handwritten list containing eight or ten items which appeared to be titles of some sort, along with a short annotation beside each one. The first one said:
Accession of the Comyns, 1798, (NLS, p. 329). Royal right of ducal title contested. Challenge dismissed. Right upheld.
The second was similar to the first, and made only slightly more sense:
Dalhousie Grants & Tithes of Aberdeenshire, 1924, (ACL, p. 524). Ducal exemption from tithe recognized.
James read a few more, each time pushing them in Cal’s direction so his friend could read them. He began to sense the drift of the evidence, but wanted an explanation. “What am I looking at, exactly?” he asked.
“This is a list of references I have used in my preliminary research,” Collins explained. “The titles of the resources I have used, the earliest date of pub
lication, and the institution housing the original manuscript or first edition.” He stabbed a finger at the first line. “NLS is the National Library of Scotland —”
“I see,” James murmured, glancing down the list.
“And ACL is the Aberdeen Central Library,” Cal observed.
“Precisely. Very good.” Collins moved his finger down the page to the next entry from the end. “This is the one which has brought us here.”
James looked where he was pointing, and read:
Graham’s Peerage, vol. III, 1844, (BL, p.67). Primogeniture by official government documentation vs. local ecclesiastical record. Gov. doc. precedence established re: unbaptized heir.
“Yes? So?” he asked, unable to keep the wary tone out of his voice. Outside, the short winter day was fading fast in a pale pink and violet haze. It seemed to James that if he listened he might hear the howl of circling wolves.
Picking up the book, the disheveled historian turned the spine towards James, who saw the words Graham’s Peerage stamped in faded gold. “This,” Collins said, triumphantly, “clears the way for the state-issued birth certificate to be used to establish titular succession.” He opened the book, and started thumbing the pages. “At issue here was the inheritance of Lord Alexander Seaforth’s son, who — through negligence, weakness, or his own deliberate fault — was never baptized.” Collins smiled at his little joke. “Or, at least, his baptism was never properly recorded.
“As it was a large and prosperous estate, there was a counterclaim, of course,” he continued, flipping through the pages, “which was lent some credence by the fact that there was a documented outbreak of typhoid which swept through the region at the time; ecclesiastical records from the period in question are in some disarray. Nevertheless, the case was undertaken, and a ruling handed down which established the precedent of inheritance by official government birth certificate.” Looking up from the book, he asked, “I assume you have a birth certificate.”