Stone of Destiny (19 page)

I’ve smiled with grim pleasure at that remark ever since.

When I left the group at the union fireplace I went in search of Bill Craig. While I was wandering round in an indeterminate fashion looking for him I suddenly saw Gavin. He was in the centre of a press of students, loudly averring that I was the man who had stolen the Stone of Destiny, of that he was certain. There was no doubt about it. I asked him where he had been himself over Christmas, and he said that he had been following me all the way to Westminster. In the ensuing uproar of conversation, I was able to prise him apart from his friends, and we found an unused committee room and fell into conversation.

I had not seen him since that amazing hour when Alan and I had left him forlorn and alone somewhere near the Old Kent Road. That he had already arrived home we had learned from Bill Craig, but I was interested to know what series of circumstances had kept him from meeting us at Reading. First, however, he had to know what had happened to us. I told him briefly, as I was already getting tired of repeating the story and I wanted to hear his.

When we had left him he had walked aimlessly for what seemed an endless while, until life had come back into the city. Then he had gone for something to eat, and in a restaurant had noticed a man regarding him with suspicion. He finished his meal and left, but try as he would to dislodge his pursuer, he was certain he was still being followed. He had walked round the town, still trailed by the policeman, and since he had not wanted to lead his shadow to our rendezvous at Reading, he had taken the train to Rugby. At Rugby he felt that he had shaken off the man, but since he could not get a train from Rugby to Reading in time to meet us that day,
he had gone on to Crewe. From Crewe he came straight back to Glasgow.

I was relieved to hear Gavin’s story, and after he had assured me that he was not at present under observation by the police we parted. I had every sympathy with Gavin. Keeping pressing on, as Alan and I had had to do, stopped us from ever looking over our shoulders, but if we had not had the company of each other to feed our courage I have little doubt we would have acted as Gavin had acted. I left him and continued my search for Bill Craig.

I found him on that Mount Olympus of the university, the Union Board Members’ dining room. I knocked on the door and looked in. This was the Establishment, and I have ever been excluded from establishments. One of the men who had been unable to come to London with us looked at me with a half-knowing, half-amazed smile. Bill saw me and made some excuse to leave his meal and come outside to meet me. The rest of the Union Board went on eating.

As soon as he had closed the door behind him, Bill clasped me by the hand and marched me along the corridor, patting me warmly on the back. He was as excited as a child and I was no more calm. We locked ourselves in a committee room (he had a set of keys) and talked mightily. We had much to tell each other. I gave him the main outline of the story, and he gasped with amazement at all the right places. Already it had sunk into my consciousness as fact, and the wonder of it had been accepted. It was in the past, and I was looking into the future, which is the only place worth looking at.

When I told him that we had broken it, he looked thoughtful for a moment and then said, ‘Place not your faith in archbishops. He should have guarded it better.’

I chuckled at his logic and then listened to him as he told me that Scotland was alive with interest, and I could well believe it, as I had seen it for myself. I left Bill, agreeing to meet him later in Craig’s Coffee-room in Sauchiehall Street, where he had arranged
for me to have an afternoon coffee with John MacCormick and Bertie Gray.

I left the Union to walk down town. I was too excited to stay in one place, yet I had nowhere to go. As I walked down Gibson Street I met Tom Dawson of the
Daily Mail
. Tom had come up to the university a year earlier than I had, and we had lived together in the same university hostel. I knew him well. He was slim and nervous, constantly active, and always thrusting forward. He was already making a name for himself in journalism, because he would never rest while he had a story on his mind. I was not pleased to meet him. I knew he had me on his mind.

‘Hullo,’ he said.

I said, ‘Hullo.’

‘Are you in a hurry?’ he asked.

‘Not specially,’ I said.

‘Come and have a drink then.’

I fidgeted, but I felt that the best thing was to go with him. I like Tom, and if I were to rush away, I could only arouse his suspicion.

He ordered two half-pints, because he had an expense account. I eyed mine sourly. ‘I expect you’ll be claiming for double whiskies on this,’ I said.

He smiled wryly. ‘I don’t want to buy you whisky in case you think I’m trying to get you to talk.’ He laughed, and looked at me shrewdly through his laughter.

‘You’re another!’ I cried in simulated delight. ‘All morning people have been accusing me of stealing the Stone of Destiny. It’s the highest compliment I’ve ever been paid.’

He looked almost pained. ‘Where were you over the weekend, Ian?’ he asked.

‘I was at home,’ I said, wishing fervently that I had been able to establish an alibi. Had I attempted to, by telling them my intentions, my parents would have done all they could to stop me.

‘Ian, Ian,’ said Tom shaking his head. ‘I phoned your home as
soon as the news broke. Your mother hasn’t seen you for weeks.’

I cast about for a feeble excuse and gave it. He did not believe it. I did not expect him to. I had known that my guilt was obvious. It had been obvious to Tom Dawson from the beginning, and it was no doubt equally obvious to the police. I felt a happy recklessness that was tarnished only by a bitter anger at Tom. I would have preferred not to have been sold by a friend. Surely he could have kept his suspicions to himself.

‘What am I to do?’ he asked.

I looked at him. ‘That’s up to you,’ I said at last.

‘You’d better get a decent alibi before the police come,’ he said.

I drank my beer. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked. The barman approached our end of the bar. We moved over to a quiet corner.

‘Ian,’ he said. ‘I may be a newspaperman and I may have the greatest story ever. I’m hoping to go to Fleet Street soon, and I’m not much interested in Home Rule. But by God, I’m a Scotsman first. Don’t worry. I’ll never sell you.’

It is times like these that make me very humble. What else can a man say?

We shook hands on it and I went down town. Thereafter, while the newspaper world went mad, and bid and rebid for news of the Stone, Tom went quietly about his work and said nothing. He could have retired on the price of that story, but he kept his word. He kept his honour also, and that perhaps is the greatest thing of all. In the whole of this strange story it is the people who played the lesser parts who come out of it without blemish. Only a journalist, or one who has had much to do with journalists, can understand the measure of his self-sacrifice, and I write about him with pride. Maybe I can claim some reflected credit. This story shows me up as a ruthless, self-centred prig. Yet I cannot have been all that bad if I held the friendship of a man like Tom Dawson.

Tom Dawson was the first journalist to bite his tongue but I don’t believe he was the only one. When the trail became hot
other journalists must have stumbled on information that might have been valuable to the police, slept on it, and by the morning had conveniently forgotten it. I suspect some of the police did the same. To a very real extent the love of community had become identified with the Stone of Destiny, and patriotism was proved to be a stronger motive than professional success and love of money. What was true of journalists was true also of people as a whole. As the Stone was passed from hand to hand many people became involved in the secret. Not one of them spoke or availed themselves of the rich rewards that were offered for information. It was like the ’45 all over again.

That there were would-be informers, I know. I even know who some of them were. I bear no animosity towards them. Their political views troubled their conscience, but in the end they had nothing to tell. The startling fact remains that after two centuries of quiet history a country reawakened, covered the people who had acted in its name, and would not give them up.

As arranged by Bill, I went to Craig’s Coffee-room in Sauchiehall Street at four o’clock. I was to meet John MacCormick and Bertie Gray. I was becoming quite familiar with their Christian names by now. Bill arrived first, and when I joined him we sat and sipped our coffee among all the businessmen whom we felt were pointing us out to one another. Since I had been approached by Tom Dawson I was certain that people were already looking at me as the criminal. All around us we could hear the hum of conversation, and the word ‘Stone’ was often audible. By God, if we could get Glasgow businessmen to talk of something other than money and golf, we had worked a miracle! Among them I felt like Cain at a police conference. The feeling passed off quite quickly, but we had only been home for a few hours and were not yet accustomed to what we felt as exposure. By the next day I was able to play the innocent fool with a great deal of ease. Indeed, when the police questioned me towards the end of the whole episode, I had so convinced myself of my innocence that I was highly indignant when I was aroused from my bed at seven in the morning. This afternoon, however, I was nervous, and when we had gulped our scalding coffee, Bill and I fled down to the basement and hid in the lavatory.

We had been in the lavatory only two minutes when a lawyer’s clerk came in. I am reasonably certain he was a lawyer’s clerk, but
to us he looked like a detective. We stopped washing our hands (we had washed them twice already) and I nonchalantly made for the door. Bill waited behind to see if I was followed.

In the hallway I met Councillor Gray coming in to keep his coffee engagement. He saw me. I saw him. We walked towards one another, then, remembering who I was, I walked straight past him and out of the door. Had I not been to London? Were not the police even now trailing me? Should I not show him what a dangerous man I was – too dangerous to recognise a friend? It was fine fun. Bertie enjoyed it too.

Outside in Bertie’s car I met John MacCormick. He looked as small and drawn and tired as ever. What we had done was only a fraction of what he had done for Scotland. As I climbed in beside him, he smiled at me. ‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘You pulled it off. To be truthful I never thought you would.’

I wasn’t having that. ‘To be truthful,’ I replied, ‘I never thought I wouldn’t.’

Then we both laughed. Every mile had been worth it.

Councillor Gray returned, followed by Bill. The lawyer’s clerk had washed his hands and gone, fresh and hygienic, to drink his coffee. Sheepishly I explained to the councillor why I had ignored him, and we drove off.

Riding round the town I told them my story. We did not have much time so I made it as brief as possible. I could talk freely in the car, for there could be no eavesdroppers. In the days to come we were to hold many such councils in Bertie’s car, since John did not have one. There is more money in tombstones than in law. When my recital came to the bit about hiding the Stone I was questioned closely. Was I sure I could find it again? Was it safely hidden? Was there any chance of someone stumbling on it? To all of these questions I was able to give satisfactory answers.

Then it was my turn to ask questions. Both the older men were delighted at the public reaction. Only the previous night the Dean of Westminster had been on the radio lamenting ‘this cunningly
planned and carefully executed crime’. If you get away with a crime it’s always cunningly planned and carefully executed. Once you’re caught, everyone tells you how clumsy you were. The Dean’s comment on our action was high praise. The authorities were determined to treat the affair as one of the first magnitude, and that suited us admirably. If they had ignored us we would have felt fools. On the other hand the Dean had said that the King was sorely troubled about the loss of the Stone. Something should be done about that. We arranged that we should meet that night and petition His Majesty, reaffirming our loyalty to him, and setting out our reasons for taking the Stone. Bertie had served in the trenches in the First World War, and was entitled to be called Major Gray if he wanted, which he didn’t. Bill and I had served towards the end of the Second World War, he as a conscript, I as a volunteer. The King didn’t have a monopoly on loyalty, but he represented a lot that was valuable to the two countries. This was before his daughter alienated so many Scots by taking the very English title Elizabeth II. There had been no first Elizabeth of Scotland, so her title reeked of an arrogant attempt to assert a prior overlordship. If you’re going to have the symbolism of monarchy you must get the title right. We wanted a dual monarchy, not a republic, so it was time to make some public statement about our aims.

Before that we had another engagement. A newsreel crew was keen to make a film of the reactions of the people in the streets of Glasgow to the removal of the Stone from London. Councillor Gray had been invited to attend as a man in the street, and he was anxious that I should accompany him. I was not loath. The opportunity for the criminal to watch the filming of the reactions to his crime is one not lightly to be missed. There was no reason why I should not be present. I was a minor official in the Covenant Association, the assistant editor of its journal,
The New Covenanter
, and in that capacity my interest in the proceedings was obvious. Indeed, that night, in my own journalistic
capacity, I did some pretty deadpan interviewing of the people present. Irony is a Scottish vice. We overindulge in it with as much joy as we overindulge in drink, and we enjoy it even more. The filming was something of an anticlimax. In order to strike a balance, the producer sought people to condemn the outrage. In the crowded studio he could find none. I thought for a moment of taking up the minority view, ever a position in which I’m at home, but I was still nervous of unnecessary risks. I am now sorry I missed that opportunity. It is the temptations you don’t succumb to that you regret later on. In the end Bertie roundly condemned us all, but anonymously so that his face did not appear on screen. A day or two later we watched the result in the cinema with great amusement.