I am now living in New York and have gone to work in the theater, the position secured for me by my cousin Andrew. We are in “pre-production” as they say, for the play “The Highlander.” I am told that it was inspired by the visit of my cousins Andrew and Rosanna to Scotland. Of course, Andrew and Rosanna are the principal players of the production.
I hold the most gratifying position as stage manager. The play will take place in the Rex, an elegant and ample theater which is on West 48th Street at Broadway. You may find this interesting, Ian. The Rex theatre is lit entirely by electricity, the installation personally supervised by the inventor Thomas Edison.
Please write to me and tell me how you are doing. With shared sorrow for the loss of our dear Skye, I remain,
Your friend,
Duff MacCallister
Chapter Seven
Scotland—Donuun in Argyllshire
Postmaster Desmond Henry walked into the office of the Lord High Sheriff Angus Somerled, clutching an envelope to his breast. Deputy Rab Malcolm looked up at him.
“Postmaster Henry, may I help you?”
“I would like to speak with the sheriff, please.”
“What do you want to see the sheriff about?”
“That would be between me and the sheriff,” the postmaster replied.
Deputy Malcolm made a guttural sound deep in his throat, then stood and walked into the back office. He returned after a moment with the sheriff.
“What is this about, Henry?” Sheriff Somerled asked.
“Is there still a reward being offered for anyone who can tell you where to find Duff MacCallister?” Henry asked.
“A twenty-pound reward, yes. Do you know where he is?”
“Let me see the twenty pounds,” Henry demanded.
Sheriff Somerled nodded at Deputy Malcolm, and Malcolm walked over to a file, opened a drawer, and took our four five-pound notes and handed them to the sheriff. Postmaster Henry reached out for them, but the sheriff pulled his hand back.
“Where is he?”
“Well, that’s just it, Sheriff. I will tell you where he is, but you will nae be able to do anything about it. ’Tis out of your jurisdiction, he is.”
“Where is he?” Sheriff Somerled asked again.
“He is in New York.”
“New York? You mean he is in America?”
“Aye.”
“Then he did get on the ship that night,” Somerled said, hitting his fist into his hand. “I should have gone aboard to look for him. How do you know he is in New York?”
“He wrote this letter to Ian McGregor,” the postmaster said, showing the envelope to the sheriff. “It has his return address on it. Two hundred West Forty-eighth Street, New York, New York.”
“How do we know he is still there?” Deputy Malcolm asked.
“Because he has a job there,” the postmaster said. “It is clear that he plans to stay for a while.”
“How do you know that?” Sheriff Somerled asked.
“I steamed open the envelope and read the letter,” Postmaster Henry said. “I made a copy of the letter before I returned it to the envelope.”
“Let me see your copy.”
“That will cost you another twenty pounds,” Henry said.
“I could arrest you for opening someone else’s mail,” Sheriff Somerled warned.
“You could. But you may not find another postmaster who is as willing to cooperate with you as I have always been.”
“Yes, for profit,” Somerled said.
“One has to make a living, Sheriff. The postal service pays so little.”
Somerled stroked his chin for a moment, then nodded at Malcolm. “Get him another twenty pounds,” he said.
Deputy Malcolm got another twenty pounds and gave it to the postmaster who, in return, gave the sheriff a folded piece of paper. “I printed it clearly so you should have no trouble reading it,” the postmaster said.
Somerled took the piece of paper, opened it, and began reading eagerly.
“If you will excuse me, I have business to attend to,” the postmaster said. “I must deliver this letter to Mr. McGregor.”
Because Somerled was reading the letter, he made no response to Henry, who left after carefully putting the money in the inside pocket of his jacket.
“Anything interesting, Sheriff?” Malcolm asked.
“How would you like to go to America?” Somerled asked.
“I’ve always wanted to visit America,” Malcolm replied.
“I’ll be sending you, along with Roderick and Alexander. And I’ll be putting you in charge, knowing how hotheaded and irresponsible my two boys are.”
“You’ll be tellin’ them I’m in charge, will you not, Sheriff? For without hearing from you, I think they may not listen.”
“I will tell them and they will listen,” Sheriff Somerled said.
“Sheriff, ye have no jurisdiction in America. When we find MacCallister, how do you want me to deal with him?”
“Deal with him? There will be no dealing with him,” Sheriff Somerled said. “I’ll be for wanting you to kill him.”
Malcolm smiled. “It was hoping, I was, that you would say that. Gillis and Nevin were good friends of mine. I will take pleasure in avenging them.”
“’Tis for them you be seeking vengeance, and ’tis for their brother that Roderick and Alexander will be doing the same. Don’t let me down, Malcolm. I want Duff Tavish MacCallister killed, and when he dies, there will be no more MacCallisters in Scotland. The two hundred and more years our clans have been at war will come to an end.”
Aboard the Cunard steamship Etruria
The young lady’s name was Miriam Phelps, and she was from one of New York’s wealthiest and most fashionable families. This was not her first transatlantic voyage, though it was the first one she had made alone, and she was now coming back from a grand tour of Europe.
Roderick and Alexander Somerled met her in the first-class dining room, and she had flirted outrageously with both of them. Malcolm had watched with interest how she was playing the brothers against each other. He knew that it was all a game to her, a means of diversion for a very wealthy young woman at whose feet the whole world lay.
“Alexander, Roderick, Roderick, Alexander,” she said in a singsong voice. “I swear, you are both so handsome and so fascinating, that I don’t know which of you I want to give the most attention. What is a girl to do?” She smiled flirtatiously, then turned and walked away from them, glancing once back over her shoulder.
They had been at sea for five days when, early in the morning as Malcolm was asleep in his stateroom, he felt someone’s hand on his shoulder.
“What?” he said with a start as he jerked awake.
“Malcolm.”
Malcolm saw Alexander sitting on the side of his bed, his eyes gleaming wildly and a look of panic on his face.
“Wake up, Malcolm. Wake up,” Alexander was saying.
“I am awake,” he said. “What is it? What is going on?”
“We need some help.”
“Who needs help?”
“I do. So does Roderick.”
“What do you mean you need help? You need help with what?”
“Maybe you had better come to our stateroom,” Alexander said, referring to the cabin that he and his brother were sharing.
“What time is it?”
“It’s about three o’clock.”