The Orkney Scroll (10 page)

The trouble was, while Glasgow was every bit as interesting as everyone says it is, I got absolutely nowhere on my mission. Indeed it was one step forward, two or three steps back. After walking around George Square twice—it’s a rather impressive place except for rather tatty-looking tents set up in the middle of it for some conference or other—and thence along George Street, and West George Street, too, all without success, I entered the premises of the one antique dealer I could find in the immediate vicinity of George Square, one Lester Campbell, Antiquarian.

“I have a client in Toronto,” I said, after we’d been through the social niceties, and I’d had a brief look around his shop which was rather posh, just the place to look for outrageously expensive furniture. “Someone who is most enchanted by Charles Rennie Mackintosh. He will buy anything by Mackintosh. Do you know of something on the market?”

“I don’t,” Lester Campbell said. “I wish I did. I’d be only too happy to have a client like that.”

“Anybody with a private collection who might be prevailed upon to sell part of it? My client is not without means.”

“No, again. There are lots of reproductions and copies out there, and I suppose a few downright fakes, you know,” he said. In fact I did know that only too well. “The odd piece comes up from time to time. There was a very nice writing cabinet from the mid- to late nineteen-nineties that fetched a rather becoming price at auction.”

“Yes, about one-point-five million U.S. if I recall. My client wouldn’t even blink at that price. Unfortunately that was before he started collecting. He has come to this passion of his relatively recently.”

“Aren’t you the lucky one?” he replied.

“Yes, indeed,” I said, with an inward cringe. “This is not the kind of antique I usually carry, but I was given the name of an antique dealer here in Glasgow who dealt in Mackintosh, so I thought I’d look him up. For some reason, I can’t seem to locate him. John A. Macdonald?”

“Never heard of him,” Campbell said.

“Nobody has,” I said. “Strange that.”

“Strange, indeed. Perhaps someone is having you on?”

“Could be,” I said. “Annoying that.”

“I hope it didn’t cost you money,” he said.

“Not money, no. Reputation, maybe.”

“Ah,” he replied.

“You have my card,” I said. “If you hear of anything, would you let me know?” I tried not to sound too out of sorts even if the inescapable conclusion was that if the invoice for the black cupboard was a fake, then so, too, was the cabinet.

“Of course,” he replied. “Here is my card as well.”

I had a brief look at it and looked again. The name was wrong, which is to say, it was clearly marked as Lester Campbell, Antiquarian, but the typeface was similar to what I recalled on the invoice from John A. Macdonald. Now there is no law that says you can’t use the same typeface as another dealer, but this one was a bit unusual. It was designed to look like handwritten script. “Are you sure you’ve never heard of John A. Macdonald Antiques?”

“Absolutely certain. Do you want me to check the British Antique Dealer’s listings for you?”

“I’ve done that. I’m baffled.”

I must have looked rather dejected as I headed for the door, because as I reached it, he called me back. “You wouldn’t be planning to stay over a day or two would you?”

“I could, I suppose.”

“You might want to consider a little charity,” he said, reaching to pick up a card on the counter and waving it at me.

“Charity?”

“There’s a fund-raiser tomorrow night,” he said. “It’s being held at the residence of Robert Alexander and his wife Maya. He’s a big man about town, philanthropist obviously. He’s paying the shot for the evening, so all proceeds go to charity. He’s also a big collector, furniture, paintings, the works. If anybody has a Mackintosh or three, it would be him. And he can often be persuaded to sell them if he wants to make a big gesture for one of his favorite causes. I expect there’s a ticket or two left.”

“Thank you,” I said, taking the card. “I just may go to that. Will I see you there?”

“You will,” he replied. “You have to stay in with these kind of people.”

“You do,” I agreed, thinking about the last big party of a customer I’d attended. “I owe you for this.”

“Yes, you do,” he agreed. “See you there. I’ll introduce you to the Alexanders if the opportunity arises.”

If I couldn’t find the elusive, if not entirely fictional John A. Macdonald, I did find Percy Bicycle Clips. Not that it helped any, mind you. In fact, it put me in a really foul mood. He was riding his bicycle, of course, his jacket flapping around behind him, and I hailed a cab the minute I saw him. “See that fellow on a bicycle?” I said to the driver. “I think he’s a friend from Toronto. Can you see if you can catch up to him for me?”

It wasn’t as easy as it might be. Percy cycled along at a fairly good clip, and he didn’t have to sit in traffic. The cab driver was a pro, however, and managed to keep him in sight. Then Percy wheeled on to Buchanan Street which unfortunately had been blocked off to traffic.

The cab driver, never one to give up, apparently, whipped along a parallel street and then pulled up on Argyll where it crossed Buchanan. I handed the driver the fare and stepped out of the cab as Percy wheeled up. “Percy,” I said. “Remember me?”

Percy made to turn around, but I had my hand on his handlebars and to get away he was going to have to drag me with him, which would have caused quite a scene in this very busy shopping area. “Let go,” he said.

“I won’t! I want to talk to you.”

He tried to pull the bicycle away from me, but I held firm. “If I talk to you, will you leave me alone?” he said, defeated.

“I guess so. If I let go and you make a run for it, I’m going to scream thief at the top of my lungs. Just so you know.”

“I understand,” he said, pushing his glasses up on his nose nervously.

“Do you want to go for a coffee?”

“No. Just say what you want to say.”

“I’m trying to track down the source of the writing cabinet,” I said. “You say it was your grandmother’s, but there is an invoice and receipt for it, from an antique dealer here in Glasgow by the name of John A. Macdonald.”

Percy looked perplexed. “An antique dealer here?”

“Yes. So I’m wondering if the cabinet, the one you showed me a picture of, really belonged to your grandmother.”

“The cabinet?” he said.

“The cabinet in the photo of your grandmother, if that’s who she is, the one that’s possibly worth one-point-five million.”

“One-point-five million what?” he said.

“U.S. dollars,” I said.

“That thing was worth one-point-five million?” he said.

“If it was real it was,” I said.

“Real what?” he said.

“Charles Rennie Mackintosh. What else?”

“Whoa,” he said.

“You were looking for it,” I said.

“Well, yes, I guess I was.”

“You guess? I have this idea there were two, so I’m interested in your grandmother, where she might be, some way of getting in touch with her.”

“Two what?” he said.

“Two writing cabinets,” I said, in a rather impatient tone. Apparently I could not stay calm on this subject.

“Two of these things worth a million and a half? Is that each, or for both of them?”

“One was worth that much. The other was a fake.”

“A fake,” he repeated.

“Don’t play dumb with me. You told me your grandmother didn’t know what it was worth.”

“I did,” he replied. Then inexplicably he started to laugh.

“What is so funny here?” I asked, after watching him chortle for a while. He couldn’t reply because he was laughing too hard. “Are you going to let me in on this little joke?”

“I knew he had it,” he said at last. “That guy with his head chopped up.”

“Trevor Wylie,” I said, through gritted teeth. “You didn’t kill him, did you?”

“Nooo,” he said. “Did you?”

“No. You did run away.”

“I suppose,” he said, calming down a little. “I felt sick. I didn’t want to get involved, either. It might have derailed my quest.”

“Your quest? What were you doing in the shop?” I said, as he started giggling again.

“Same thing you were, I expect,” he said. “Or maybe not. You’re telling me that there are two of those things. Or rather were two of those things. One was destroyed, right, but there is another?”

“That’s my theory anyway.”

“So the one that was destroyed was a fake,” he went on.

“I think so. It had a new lock.”

“A lock,” he said in a perplexed tone.

“Never mind. Look, I’m going to tell you what I think happened. You’ll think I’m crazy, but hear me out.” So I told him. I told him how embarrassed I was about making a mistake, but then started to think I hadn’t, how Trevor had needed money to cover his gambling debts, and that selling the one cabinet may have covered his debts but didn’t put him any further ahead, and that whether he had intended to do so at first or not, the presence of a second cabinet had been too much for him, and he’d baited Blair Baldwin with the real one, shipped him the fake, and then sold the first a second time. I told him I was in Scotland trying to prove there had been two cabinets even if everybody else in the world thought I was nuts. Percy listened as I rattled on and on.

“So it’s possible the real one is still out there?” he said, when I’d finished.

“I think so.”

“Where?”

“It could be anywhere.”

“But it’s in Canada?”

“Probably. Both the real one and the fake were brought over from either Glasgow or Orkney or both. Trevor needed to have both of them for this to work.”

“First you raise my hopes, and then you dash them,” he said. “I guess I might as well go home.” With that he hopped on his bike and rode away. I just stood there too depressed to make good on a threat to yell thief. It took me a minute to realize I still didn’t know his name!

So that was two illusions shattered. I’d half thought that Percy, once found, would confirm something about the real writing cabinet and maybe even point me in the right direction for getting to the bottom of this mess. Now I found that he hadn’t a clue about its value, even if he’d shown me a picture of his grandmother standing in front of it. Clearly he was not the person to confirm that the cabinet I had seen was authentic. He was on a quest, to use his quaint expression, but not for the same reasons I was. Maybe he really just wanted to help his grandmother retrieve a piece of furniture the family thought had sentimental value. Maybe telling him what it was worth was going to make my own little quest harder. It was in a rather grumpy state of mind that I went to the party the following day.

Tickets for this exclusive little event that Robert and Maya Alexander were hosting were five hundred pounds each, a rather breathtaking sum for a few shrimp and a couple of small glasses of champagne. But still there was the charity, a new drop-in center for drug addicts, and, of course, the cachet. Cachet does not come cheap. Neither, of course, does obsession, at least certainly not mine. Every day that I persisted in my hunt for the sources of two writing cabinets put a bigger and bigger dent in my wallet.

On the bright side, transportation was included, a bus that picked up those of us with tickets on George Square and then took us out into the countryside. I had no idea where I was, but it was very pleasant wherever it was with fine views of water and a rather splendid home.

With the exception of the Scottish accents, the ticket prices and the admirable fact that no one was chopping up the furniture, the party seemed remarkably similar to one I had attended earlier in the summer. There were important-looking people, even if I didn’t know who they were, the requisite number of fawning hangers-on, and enough food to feed a small country.

Still, the house was spectacular. The invitation had said the affair was limited to a mere one hundred guests, and like Blair’s, this place could hold them. Unlike Blair’s, which was the living embodiment of his rather obsessive love of Art Nouveau, this home was furnished in a much more attractive and eclectic fashion. I liked it a lot better than Blair’s, even if I hadn’t made a cent on it. The art and the furnishings were of exceedingly good quality, but they had been chosen by someone with a good eye for the whole. Pieces were put together because they looked good that way, not because they belonged to a particular school of design or period. It was also, I suppose, more relaxed because of the country vistas with the lights of the city visible only in the distance.

I was very happy to see Lester Campbell arrive, given he was the only person I knew at the party, and one of only two people, if one could include Percy Bicycle Clips, that I knew in all of Glasgow. He had waved and was making his way toward me when there was some clinking of glasses, and a woman’s voice, amplified by a microphone, could be heard above the din.

“Could I have your attention for just one minute,” the voice said, and I moved into the main room to see an earnest-looking woman of about thirty at a small podium. “I don’t want to interrupt this lovely party, but I cannot let the occasion pass without a heartfelt thank-you to our hosts, Robert and Maya Alexander.” There was an enthusiastic round of applause. “You all know, I’m sure, what a terrible problem drugs are in Scotland, in Edinburgh particularly, but also here in Glasgow. The suffering these drugs cause for individuals and their loved ones, the huge costs, social and economic to our community, must be addressed. And Robert and Maya are doing something about it, supporting as they have our new center in a very significant way. I don’t know what we’d do without you, Robert and Maya, and others like you. I’d like to thank all of you for coming, and I’d like to ask Robert to say a few words.”

To a second round of applause, a rather attractive man of about fifty, with lovely silver hair and dark eyes took the microphone. “Thank you, Dorothy,” he said. “I want you to know that how delighted Maya and I are to be able to help even in a small way.”

“Hardly small,” Lester whispered to me. “He’s given them a million pounds.”

While Robert was talking, Maya, delighted to be able to help or not, hung back a bit, shy perhaps. She was wearing a lovely silk dress, but what really caught my eye was her gorgeous necklace. It was simple but beautifully designed, with what looked at this distance to be garnets and pearls. I have a weakness for antique jewelry. We don’t carry much of it in the shop, and I can’t afford the good stuff for myself, so I usually just admire it from afar, as I was doing now. People think jewelry has to have lots of precious stones to be worth much, but an antique with great design and a good designer or manufacturer can be costly even with just semiprecious stones. I’d seen one very similar at home, in fact. Blair Bazillionaire had been thinking of buying it for his wife, but they broke up soon after, so I guess that hadn’t happened. The one he’d been looking at was worth about ten thousand dollars, so there was no way I was going to buy it if he didn’t. Let’s face it, my lifestyle doesn’t involve enough sparkling social events to justify jewelry worth even a tenth of that price.