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  POWERSTONE

  Stealing the Scottish Crown Jewels

  Malcolm Archibald

  For Cathy

  © Malcolm Archibald 2011

  The author asserts the moral right to be identified

  as the author of the work in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

  reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any

  form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,

  recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of

  Fledgling Press Ltd,

  7 Lennox St., Edinburgh, EH4 1QB

  Published by Fledgling Press 2011

  www.fledglingpress.co.uk

  ISBN: 9781905916399

  First Published in paperback by Fledgling Press Ltd 2008.

  Cover by Fledgling Press

  With the exception of historically recognisable people, all the main

  characters in this book are purely imaginary. Any resemblance to real

  people, living or dead is coincidental. Some places are real, others in

  the imagination of the author.

  Any errors are those of the author.

  PRELUDE

  ‘Johnnie Armstrong was one of the greatest warriors Scotland ever produced,’ John Armstrong said earnestly. ‘He kept the border between Scotland and England safe and he was so powerful that nobody ever crossed him. They say that he had fifty men ready to ride at any time, day or night.’

  Irene Armstrong listened to her father through the hammer of the North Carolina rain on their trailer roof. She had heard this tale so many times that she knew it off by heart, but enjoyed the feeling of family closeness and the sense of belonging to a long line of ancestors.

  ‘Then the King came to call. He was James Stuart, King James V of Scotland and he envied the power that Johnnie Armstrong had. One day he rode down from his capital at Edinburgh to the Borderland and called Johnnie to him.’

  Irene nodded, clinging to every word as she imagined the scene. She thought of the knights in their splendid armour, the Scottish king with his prancing horses and men at arms, and Johnnie Armstrong, bold and brave, coming to see his king.

  ‘Of course, Johnnie had no idea that James was jealous. He rode happily to see the king whose border he had guarded for so long. When King James saw him, so proud and confident and well dressed, he turned to his men and growled: “what wants yon knave that a king should have.”’

  John Armstrong bent over his daughter. ‘That means that our ancestor was as brave and bold and handsome as any king.’

  ‘Yes, father,’ Irene said dutifully.

  ‘And then King James ordered that Johnnie should be taken away and hanged.’ John Armstrong always paused after that, and Irene always cuddled closer to him for mutual support.

  ‘Johnnie was astonished. He assured the king that he was a loyal man and that he had never robbed in Scotland but kept the border safe from English raids.

  “Hang him,” said the king.

  ‘Johnnie offered his services and his men. He even offered to ride deep into England and capture any Englishman, of any rank and bring him to King James as a sign of his loyalty.

  “Hang him,” said the king.

  ‘Eventually, Johnnie realised that he must die, so he faced the king bravely and gave his last words.

  “I have asked grace at a graceless face, but there is nane for my men and me” he said, and added that if he had known the king’s intentions he would have lived free on the Border, for no king could have caught him unless by treachery.

  John Armstrong held his daughter tight for a long minute. ‘So you see, Irene, our family were rich once, but we were betrayed by a tyrant king.’

  ‘I hate that King James!’ Irene shouted, breaking free.

  ‘I have no doubt you do,’ John Armstrong told her seriously, ‘but hatred does not pay the bills. You must go to school and work hard and get yourself a better life than I ever gave you. You must strive to be as bold and brave and strong as Johnnie Armstrong was. Now,’ he looked closely at his daughter. ‘Do you promise me that?’

  Irene smiled into his tired, defeated eyes. ‘I promise, daddy,’ she said. ‘But I still hate James Stuart.’

  Chapter One

  New York, October

  ‘Here we go, then.’

  Irene tried to ease her tension with a deep breath and glanced sideways at her competitor. She was glad that he appeared equally nervous, shuffling his feet as he winked at her. The waiting period was always the worst and Irene felt her gaze drawn to the largest of the three empty chairs on the opposite side of the table. Standing between its neighbours, the seat and arms were of green leather, while the headrest was elaborately carved with the logo of the Manning Corporation.

  She allowed her eyes to drop, aware that the television cameras were running and might even now be concentrating on her face, searching for arrogance or weakness or any other emotion that would raise the viewer ratings. The lights burned above, prickling the top of Irene’s head.

  ‘Not long now,’ she whispered.

  Kendrick nodded. ‘Good luck.’

  Irene took the hand that he offered. It was large and soft, with surprising strength. ‘You too.’

  A cameraman murmured in the background and somebody softly laughed. There was a hum of machinery and a faint cough from the invisible audience behind the screen. Paper rustled irritatingly. Both contestants stiffened as footsteps sounded to their left, but nobody appeared and they tried to relax, false smiles forcing away their nerves.

  The table curved gently away from them, with the three empty chairs on the concave side seeming to symbolise an inner circle of acceptance. If she was successful tonight, Irene told herself, she would be a member of that inner circle. Drawing strength from the thought, she smoothed a hand over the highly polished mahogany. ‘This is Ms Manning’s own property,’ she said, ‘brought in especially for the show.’

  Kendrick nodded. ‘It once belonged to John Witherspoon,’ he said softly. ‘He is meant to have drafted the Declaration of Independence on it. Imagine that. The Declaration could have sat on this very piece of wood.’ He was silent for a minute, and then grinned across to her. ‘I wonder if we will ever meet again.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Irene said softly. ‘You’d be a good employee.’ She smiled toward him, allowing her eyes to crinkle.

  Kendrick’s bass chuckle was nearly as familiar as his grin. ‘So would you,’ he parried easily, ‘as long as you remain under control.’

  ‘Do you think Ms Manning is keeping us here to increase the tension?’ Irene glanced at her watch. The minute hand seemed to have been hovering between eleven and twelve for at least a half hour.

  ‘Undoubtedly. Watching us suffer makes for good viewing.’

  Spotlights flared blindingly as a drum began to beat a staccato rhythm. Irene stiffened into attention. ‘Here we go,’ she whispered again as a door opened and three people walked in. Irene and Kendrick immediately stood as a gesture of respect. The men on the left and right exuded power and responsibility with their immaculate Giorgio Armani suits and their bulging leather briefcases, but they were inconsequential compared to the woman that walked between them.

  The top of Rhondda Manning’s head barely reached the shoulder of either man, but there was no doubting who was in charge. Every step she took snapped the grey skirt against her legs, while her simple jacket clung to a gym-trim figure. Even although Irene had studied every possible detail of Rhondda Manning’s life, she still found it difficult to believe that this small woman, who dressed with such simple style and spoke so quietly, could have built up one of the large
st corporate empires in the world.

  When the elder of the men pulled back the central seat, Ms Manning sat with a single fluid movement. She smiled across to both candidates as music sounded softly in the background and a camera rolled into position. Completely unscented by perfume, she looked across at Irene; her eyes grey and direct and startlingly clear.

  Irene swallowed the sudden nervous lump that had risen in her throat. She could feel the heat generated by Kendrick’s body, but was unable to detach her eyes from those of Ms Manning.

  ‘Welcome to the last episode of The Neophyte,’ Ms Manning said. Despite her wealth and success, her accent still contained the slow syllables of the Mid West. ‘Within the next thirty minutes, you will both be walking out of this show for the last time. Thirty minutes to decide your destiny. Thirty minutes.’ She allowed the words to hang as a promise and a threat as she looked at each in turn. Irene kept her expression neutral as she felt those grey eyes probing inside her.

  Ms Manning continued, speaking slowly. ‘By that time I will have made my decision. I will have chosen one of you to be groomed as my successor, and the other will be on the streets.’

  Irene contained the nervous shudder. Her memory still held the words ‘on the streets, on the streets,’ that the audience was encouraged to chant every time one of the candidates was rejected. Then would followed the Walk of Pain, when the loser had to discard their Manning Corporation green jacket and pass through the audience as they left the studio. Nobody was permitted to leave by the back door, for the millions of television viewers loved to view the loser’s anguish.

  After enduring so much to reach the final, Irene could not bear the thought of undergoing that ritual humiliation. She must win.

  ‘First we will review your progress,’ the younger of the two men said. Laying his brief case on the table, he clicked it open and slid out a thick file of notes. ‘Kendrick Dontell,’ he smoothed out the syllables. ‘You are a graduate of Harvard Business School and have worked in the New York Stock Exchange for three years. You have performed admirably in each task that you have been set, working honestly and diligently to overcome every difficulty.’ He looked up, unexpectedly friendly. ‘Harvard, eh? You will have stood underneath the Johnston Gate then?’

  ‘Many times, sir,’ Kendrick confirmed. The Johnston Gate, with its red brick columns and ironwork archway, was the first gate ever erected at Harvard and had been a popular meeting place for his class. He smiled as the man nodded.

  ‘I have too, Kendrick. That’s where I met my wife.’

  Kendrick’s smile broadened. ‘So did I,’ he said.

  Irene glanced at Ms Manning, uncomfortable at this display of college bonding in which she could not participate.

  Ms Manning may have caught her unease. ‘Carry on, Peter,’ she ordered, softly. ‘The clock is ticking. Twenty eight minutes.’

  Twenty-eight minutes; the words resonated through Irene’s mind. In twenty-eight minutes she would know her future.

  ‘You have been asked to perform a number of tasks, Kendrick, each one escalating in difficulty,’ Peter continued.

  ‘You managed a small shop, coped with a kindergarten school, which you found easy given your two children,’ again the men exchanged empathetic smiles, ‘promoted a newly published book, organised a visit to the Manning Corporation from a foreign diplomat and finally created a new security system for the Manning Museum here in New York City.’

  Irene hated the smug look that crept over Kendrick’s face as he nodded to acknowledge each success.

  ‘Indeed, you only have to successfully complete only one last task, Kendrick, and you will have proved yourself the perfect neophyte.’ Peter closed the file and glanced toward Ms Manning.

  ‘And now you, Irene.’ Ms Manning nodded encouragement across the table. She raised an eyebrow to the older man on her right. ‘Proceed, Charles.’

  ‘Irene Armstrong, you have also proved yourself,’ Charles spoke with an attractive Tennessee drawl. ‘After a difficult childhood, you financed yourself into North Carolina State University, from where you successfully graduated. You entered the business world, rising to become head of department in a New York financial house. Since entering for The Neophyte you have taken charge of a busy travel agency, created a new web site for the Manning Corporation’s Youth Programme, welcomed a French trade delegation to Houston’s Manning Shopping Mall and tested the fire and security system in the Boston Manning Hotel.’

  Far more aware of Ms Manning’s scrutiny than of the cameras, Irene kept her face expressionless, acknowledging the applause with a nod.

  ‘And you also have to prove yourself in our final task, Irene, before you can take your place as Ms Manning’s neophyte,’ Charles paused for a significant moment, ‘or take a walk on the streets.’

  ‘On the streets,’ somebody from the unseen audience shouted, and others joined in, chanting the three-word mantra that would signify failure to one of the two remaining candidates.

  Ms Manning waited until the noise faded before she spoke in her habitual low, soft voice, clearly enunciating each syllable. ‘The last task we set was slightly different. It was also the most controversial of them all.’ She raised the tension with a long pause. Unlike each previous episode of the show, no details of the hopeful neophyte’s assignment had been released and everybody present waited to hear what would be said next.

  ‘The task seemed quite simple,’ Ms Manning said, ‘you were to find out all that you could about your opponent, and tell me why that person should not be given the position as neophyte.’

  There was a gasp from the audience as Irene and Kendrick looked at each other. Kendrick raised his eyebrows, but the smugness was back. Irene knew that Ms Manning had been fostering competition, setting the contenders against each other in a mini duplication of corporate life. Now she felt the hammering of her heart as she wondered what skeletons Kendrick had discovered. She saw Peter and Charles each produce a file from their respective brief case and hand it to Ms Manning. Both files were identical, with the white Manning Corporation logo embossed on a dark green background, except that one was thicker than the other.

  To the brief rolling of a drum, Ms Manning opened the thinner file, lifted a printed sheet of paper from the top and scanned it briefly. ‘This is a summary of Irene’s investigation into Kendrick,’ she explained. ‘But before I begin, is there anything in your past that you wish to keep hidden, Kendrick?’ The smile was deceitfully benign.

  ‘Absolutely nothing,’ Kendrick said. He glanced at Irene. ‘Anybody is free to investigate my life.’

  Ms Manning nodded. ‘Let us see, Kendrick.’ She scanned the summary with one flick of her eyes. ‘Straight A grades at school, top of your year at Harvard and a prime performer at the Stock Exchange.’

  That smug look was back on Kendrick’s face as he nodded. Irene began to hate him anew, for the Ivy League Club was strong in the corporate world. Despite spending an entire two weeks probing Kendrick’s life, she had found nothing untoward. She had hired a private investigator, had Kendrick followed, questioned his work colleagues and fellow students all the way back to infancy, with no success. The man seemed impenetrable, a veritable saint.

  ‘You married Selia three years ago, Kendrick, and have two children, a boy named John and a girl named Ruth.’ Ms Manning put down the paper and closed the file. ‘You have never transgressed the laws of the United States in any particular, with not even a parking fine against you, and your teachers, lecturers, family and neighbours all acclaim you with great praise.’ She smiled, ‘Kendrick, you are a pillar of the community.’

  Kendrick ducked his head modestly as Ms Manning lifted the second, thicker, file and turned her attention to Irene.

  ‘A mixed bag at school, Irene, and a slight blemish when you took some unofficial time off, which is not surprising given your impoverished family background. You recovered commendably well, and attended North Carolina State University, which you financed by working lon
g hours at Wal-Mart, among other places.’

  Irene nodded. She felt the colour rise to her cheeks as there was a slight stir in the audience. She knew that it was part of the American Dream for a poor girl to work her way to success, but also knew that the United States could be as elite-conscious as any other nation in the world. She hoped that Kendrick had not been over efficient in checking all her previous work places.

  ‘After an initial rocky period, you hit a run of top grades, and have worked in a number of positions since, usually rising to the top of whatever tree you chose to climb. Latterly you were head of department in a leading financial business. You are single, but have a partner named Patrick McKim. He is a fascinating man, but not the subject of this competition.’ Miss Manning let the words hang as she shuffled the papers a little before she selected a single yellow sheet.

  Irene leaned forward. She could nearly feel the triumph radiating from the man sitting next to her.

  ‘Kendrick has unearthed some interesting facts about you, Irene. For instance, there was a job in Raleigh when you accumulated a number of parking fines.’ Miss Manning raised both eyebrows as she stared into the camera, playing to the audience. ‘And there was the night you seem to have spent in a police cell?’

  Irene could hear the audible sigh from the audience as they sensed her chances slipping away. Kendrick shifted in his seat, not sure whether to be proud of his investigative success or embarrassed at this public denouncement of his rival. He looked across to her, as if to apologise. Aware that Ms Manning appreciated a fighter, Irene hit back.

  ‘I was certainly in a police cell, Ms Manning, but only for shelter. I was returning home from the University and had run out of money. The police offered to help.’

  Ms Manning allowed her eyebrows to drop. ‘So I understand.’ She replaced the yellow sheet of paper and closed the file. ‘So now I have to make a decision. Now I have to choose one neophyte and order the unsuccessful candidate to go on the streets.’