The Inheritance Read online

  “I was supposed to have dinner with Hugh. But he’ll understand.”

  “Sorry, Loni—blame it on me.”

  “We both have unpredictable professions. Neither business nor politics run on nine-to-five schedules. We knew that when we began seeing each other.”

  “You’re sure it’s okay?”

  “Promise.”

  “All right then. While I’m returning Stanley’s call, why don’t you run down and get us a couple of double lattes, on me. Then maybe later we’ll order in. We’ve got to get the documents prepared. This is huge—I want no delays.”

  “I’m on my way,” said Loni, heading for the door.

  “Oh,” her boss added behind her, “I almost forgot. There’s something else I want to talk to you about.”

  Loni paused and turned back.

  “There’s an event coming up in a few months I want to send you to—a training conference for relative newcomers in the investment world.”

  “You want to send me? I’m just your humble assistant.”

  “Are you kidding! Loni, you’re my right-hand man—no sexism intended!—my protégé, my rising star. You practically put the Midwest deal together yourself. I shouldn’t be getting the kudos for it, you should.”

  “You were the brains, Maddy. I’m the hired help.”

  “I told you I want you to stop thinking that way. I had plans for you the first time I set eyes on you, Loni Ford. I still do. I want you to think like an executive, not a flunky.”

  “I know, I’m sorry. I’ll try . . . but it’s hard. You’re in a whole different league than me.”

  “Nonsense. The Midwest deal wouldn’t have happened without you. Anyway, my mind is made up. I want you to go to this conference and learn everything you can. It will be a great experience.”

  “If you say so. Where is it?”

  “At Gleneagles.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “You’ve never heard of Gleneagles? Golfing Mecca, political summits . . . Gleneagles. It’s in Scotland.”

  “You want me to go to Scotland!”

  “First week of November. Pack your bags, Loni.”

  “How would I get there?”

  “Heathrow, then Edinburgh. Lots of financial gurus from Europe will be there.”

  “Why don’t you go, then?”

  “I haven’t ruled that out. As much traveling as I’ve done, I’ve never been to Scotland. I’d like to visit there someday. My mother’s maiden name is MacGregor. My roots are Scottish. We’re related to the old Robin Hood of Scotland, Rob Roy MacGregor. But the thrust of the conference will be for the kind of thing you need to take the next step up in the investment world. Besides, I’ve got too much going on here.”

  “You’re the boss!” laughed Loni. “Who am I to say no to an offer like this? It sounds fun—though I wish you would go too. I’ll be intimidated without you.”

  “Nonsense. You’ll do fine.”

  “What will the weather be like then?”

  “I don’t know. Late autumn, that’s our nicest weather here. Indian summer, you know. As for the weather in Scotland at that time of year, I haven’t a clue. Like I said, I’ve never been.”

  7

  Shetland Shepherd

  WHALES REEF, SHETLAND ISLANDS

  These desolate moors were unlikely breeding grounds for philosophers.

  The barren, isolated landscape of the Shetlands may have been home to innumerable gulls, guillemots, bramblings, finches, puffins, swifts, swallows, fulmars, and a hundred fifty other flying species. Sages and scholars, however, were few and far between.

  Indeed, among the millions of winged creatures that inhabited the sixteen hundred miles of rocky shorelines of the Shetland archipelago, humans were the oddity. Sharing this region with the birds—neither so visible nor colorful—were diverse species of whale, otter, seal, dolphin, and porpoise, all of which found Shetland’s deep tide pools and numerous bays and inlets lush feeding and breeding waters for their kind. The fish they consumed daily by the ton were even more plentiful than the birds.

  After melting seas filled the valleys of earth’s prehistoric continental masses, these northernmost outcroppings of the Scottish glacial range had somehow been thrust high enough off the ocean floor to grow living things. They produced more rain than snow, more boulders than trees, more peat than grass, and more birds and fish than anything else.

  The walker out early this misty morning knew every inch of this particular one of Shetland’s diverse islands like the back of his hand. He had been exploring the moors, coastlines, cliffs, and caves of Whales Reef almost since the moment he could walk. He now wore knee-high rubber boots over corduroy trousers, a thick woolen overcoat, leather gloves, and a wool cap with flaps over his ears.

  He loved this tiny island. Yet he rarely traipsed the path between his home and the village without being reminded of that day more than twenty years before when he had sprinted out of the village as if the devil himself were after him. In his mind the woman was the devil. The image replayed itself in his brain yet again.

  ———

  A boy of ten, known to every man, woman, and child on Whales Reef, darted through an irregular conglomeration of alleys, lanes, and pathways. A minute later he emerged from the last houses of the village.

  Without slowing his step, and clutching a book as he ran, he flew across the rock-strewn ground. By the time he was climbing the hill toward the monument at the center of the island, his lungs were burning. Several minutes later he collapsed in a heap at the foot of the great pillar of stone.

  At last the emotions prompting his rash act poured out. A great wail burst from his lips. He lay on the ground and sobbed.

  The feel of the horrid woman’s hands sent cold chills through his body. He could still hear her frightening words and feel her long, bony fingers probing his head and shoulders. The memory of her voice was as terrifying as the feel of her touch as she stood over him, crooning and chanting in a strange and hideous tongue.

  ———

  The man whose boyhood was never far away smiled wryly at the memory. He had certainly not been a philosopher back then. He was viewed by some in the village as a troublemaker at best, and at worst a wicked boy beyond hope of redemption.

  He chuckled to remember what some of the village women used to call him. Though a thoughtful man, David Tulloch was above all an optimist. His sense of humor and love of life were infectious, though not always visible at first glance. By nature his angular face wore a serious expression. A strong chin, wide mouth, well-formed Roman nose, and penetrating gray eyes tended to give a more somber impression than what he felt inside. His lips were always ready, however, for a friendly smile or mirthful grin, and an occasional outburst of laughter whose sound was known to everyone on the island.

  Regarded by the redoubtable Miss Barton and her fearsome cousin as the mischievous village prankster, he was loved by most of the other children for his pluck and daring. And when he did land himself in trouble, their respect for the chief’s son was heightened all the more as they watched him take his punishment without a word. Even when Miss Barton’s rod brought tears to his eyes, young David could be counted on to be smiling and laughing again within minutes. His good humor annoyed the schoolmistress even more than his roguish behavior. She expected her charges to cower. His refusal to comply was a constant thorn in her very active old man.

  David Tulloch’s philosophical leanings had come later in life. But he knew their seeds had been sending down roots even on that fateful day. The small notebook he had taken to school that morning was the same as that under his arm today. In the years since, he had made a lifetime’s study of the many native categories and genus of fowl that roosted among these islands. He still treasured this little book he had carried around as a child, sketching what birds he got close enough to see clearly, traipsing the length and breadth of the island to find their nests and hidden retreats. His research in the years since had advanced to c
onsiderably more sophisticated levels. He took the book with him these days as much for sentimental reasons as for the chance to fill in one of the blank pages that remained. A glance through it on this chilly morning reminded him, with some disappointment, that his artistic skills had not kept pace with his zoological expertise.

  His eyes fell, as they often did, on the torn edge near the front where one of his first attempts to draw a puffin had been unceremoniously torn away. It was a simple incident from childhood. Yet in many ways that day still defined who he was.

  ———

  “What is that ye’re busy wi’, David?” his teacher had asked, her tone more firm than the words.

  The boy glanced up from the book in his lap. “Nothing, Miss Barton,” he replied.

  “Dinna fib tae me, David. It must be something tae keep ye from paying heed tae Sister Grace.”

  “It’s nothing, ma’am—I was just drawing a wee birdie.”

  “’Tis nae time for birdies. Gie it tae me. Noo take yer place in the chair in front.”

  “Please, Miss Barton, I winna draw no more.”

  “Get up, David,” said the teacher. She took two quick strides toward him and grabbed the book from his hands. She opened it hastily, found the offending drawing, and ripped the page from the book to crumple it in her hand.

  Tears stung the ten-year-old’s eyes.

  “Stand up,” commanded his teacher. “Gae tae the front.”

  “Please, ma’am, may I have my book?”

  “No, ye may not hae yer book! I shall give it back tae ye when ye repent o’ yer disobedience. Ye’ve a carnal mind an’ a rebellious streak in ye, David. Now sit ye doon in front so that Sister Grace can drive the demon oot o’ ye. You dinna want tae go tae hell, do ye?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Then sit ye doon an’ close yer eyes.”

  Having by now witnessed the incantations performed by the tall and imposing visitor over several of his classmates, including his best friend Armund, David trembled as he slowly walked forward. He eased onto the straight-back wooden chair reserved for those who must endure their appointed fate. The self-styled “Sister Grace” laid her hands on his head, sang unintelligibly for a few moments in an eerily terrifying tone, then began a passionate outpouring for the divine fire to fall on the wayward youngster before her.

  Suddenly the urge to flee seized young David with overpowering force. He leapt to his feet and wriggled out of the clutches of the sorceress. The flamboyant woman gasped at the effrontery of the young scalawag as he darted across the floor, grabbed his notebook from the outraged schoolteacher’s hand, and made a mad dash for the door before she could stop him.

  “Come back here, David!” shrieked the teacher as she hurried after him to the open door. “David . . . stop!” she cried.

  But the lad was already across the street and making for the moor as fast as he could run.

  “I dinna care who yer daddy is, David!” shouted Miss Barton. “Ye will . . .”

  But her voice was lost in the wind as the young reprobate disappeared from sight.

  ———

  The memory from his boyhood still stung, yet was not without humor as he remembered it. The incident was in many ways responsible for his personal life’s journey to discover what was true and what was not. David was grateful for that journey, thus even for the youthful turmoil that had been part of it. He still blamed the woman for Armund’s death and for the terrible aftermath of division she and her husband had wrought on the island. Whether or not he had forgiven them, he did not know. He still wasn’t convinced they deserved forgiveness. It was a more difficult mental and emotional quandary to resolve the rift their visit to the island had caused in his own mind with his father.

  A crisp whistle from David’s lips brought a black-and-white sheepdog bounding toward him.

  “Well, laddiepup!” he said, burying his hands in the furry mane of his companion. “Shall we see if the tammylories are gathering on the cliff this morning?”

  The spongy peat turf beneath his feet as he and his dog continued on reminded him of the uniqueness of his island home. He dreamed of publishing the definitive work on Shetland wildlife that would provide a needed scientific counterpoint to certain of Darwin’s assumptions. Though his thesis on the subject had been viewed with skepticism at Oxford, he knew the response was mostly due to the liberal leanings of academia. None could refute his research.

  His writings to date—two published books on Shetland wildlife—had not ventured in the direction of evolutionary theory, but were more the field-manual type. Nor did he allow himself to drift into similar controversial regions when conducting wildlife seminars or serving as the “resident expert” for various tours that traveled about the islands. These activities provided an adequate living for a single man, though the market for such books as his was highly specialized. Sales numbered in the hundreds, not thousands.

  His true love was trying to figure out what it all meant. Why were certain species here? Where had they originated? How had they come to exist in the first place? How did the Divine Hand actually create? Had God fashioned every creature species, from gnat to whale, fully formed by divine decree? Or had He set conditions in motion out of which the diversity of life in the animal kingdom evolved and developed over billions of years on its own? Or was a complex combination of both forms of “creation” at work throughout the universe? And most important, what were the implications for mankind, the highest of the species, and how he lived?

  Maybe he was a philosopher as well as a naturalist, thought David with a smile.

  He had no leisure at this moment to further contemplate his supreme act of childhood rebellion at school or his metaphysical role in the eternal scheme of the universe. As he came over a small rise, a sudden bleating of sheep erupted. Seeing its shepherd, the flock came scrambling and scurrying toward him in a baa-ing frenzy. Seconds later he was surrounded by a tempestuous noisy sea of white.

  “Good morning, laddies and lassies!” he greeted them with a laugh, turning about and sinking his hands in a dozen woolly coats as their owners bumped and jostled to get close to him.

  The morning ritual lasted but a minute. Having welcomed their master, the frenetic swarm gradually wandered away to continue the eternal quest of all living things. In the case of this particular breed of hearty Dunface sheep, the sustenance of life took the form of tiny green shoots that found their way to the surface through dense layers of peat. The demands of a sheep were not many. Whether such creatures needed love—or were even aware of the love a man such as their master had for them—was a question perhaps more for the philosopher than biologist or sheep breeder, though this Shetland shepherd was in fact all three.

  The only thing all would agree on was that to survive, sheep needed little more than grass and water. The latter was to be found here in abundance. The sheep that made this island their home had to work a little harder to find sufficient quantities of the former.

  8

  Father and Son

  Thirty-four-year-old shepherd-author-philosopher-biologist David Tulloch, chief of his small clan, continued toward the center of the island, gradually climbing the steepening slope to its central high point. It could not truthfully be called a peak, only the highest of a random assortment of hills, this particular one some three hundred fifty feet above the sea.

  It had rained heavily most of the night. The ground beneath his feet was saturated, the air cold and misty and laden with moisture. At least no more rain was expected for several hours, perhaps not until well into the afternoon.

  On most mornings David struck out in the opposite direction, either through the village, often stopping in at the bakery, at other times directly across the island eastward to his uncle’s. The dawn had lured him out early today, however. His uncle would still be asleep. He would check on him in another couple of hours.

  Macgregor Tulloch, the enigmatic seventy-seven-year-old laird of the small island clan was to
all appearances in good health for a man of his years. He had always lived alone—since his unfortunate marriage, that is. Assumed to be his nearest relative, though the connection was not in a direct line, his great-nephew David was the closest the old man had to a son of his own. More fittingly, a grandson. Nor could any young man have been more devoted to the eldest Tulloch of his clan. The two loved each other with more than could be accounted for by mere filial affection. David owed his education and career to his great-uncle. He could never hope to repay him if the old man lived to be a hundred and twenty. For as long as he did live, however, David would do his best for him. Together uncle and nephew represented laird and chief of this small island. Along with their links of blood and mutual affection, the two titles solidified yet deeper the binding ties between them.

  David slowed as he reached the crest and turned to gaze about him. Three quarters of a mile southwest, his home spread out with its outbuildings, stables, paddocks, and pastures. Though architecturally plain and constructed of the same gray stone as every other structure on the island, the Auld Hoose was considerably larger than any home on the island except the laird’s. Until several generations ago, it had served as the ancestral home of the laird and chief of Whales Reef.

  The day’s cloud cover was high enough that beyond his house, almost straight south, he could see every cottage and building of the village. From this place, on a clear day, the entire outline of the island—some four miles north to south by a mile and a half east to west—was visible, surrounded by the waters of the North Atlantic.

  David brought his gaze back around to the immediate precincts where he now stood. His eyes came to rest on the gigantic pillar of stone in front of him, set deep into the earth and rising to a height of twenty feet. Of a single irregularly shaped chunk of granite of incomprehensible weight, how and when it had come here and by whom it had been erected was the great mystery of Whales Reef. The faintest of markings, whether Pictish or Viking no one knew, were mostly weathered away and hinted at prehistoric peoples of antiquity. Druids also came in for their share of the legends. The only thing everyone agreed on was that no one knew where the great “standing stone” came from or what it signified.