“We are having a private conference,” replied Miss Kingsley tartly, “and I’ll thank you to wait outside until I call for you.”
The man clucked his tongue at the empty glasses on the table, but he was no match for Miss Kingsley and left without further comment. Archy leaned on the bar and watched as the door closed behind the two. “A fine figure of a woman,” he said, his voice filled with admiration. “Now, would anyone say no to another round? Bring those empty glasses over here.” While Paul gathered up the letters and Archy was busy at the tap, Bill and I walked over to look at the framed snapshots arrayed upon the wall.
“I wonder if Bobby’s here,” I said. “It’s so strange to think that we might be looking right at him and not know it.” I called over to the bar, “Archy—do you know if Bobby MacLaren’s picture is here?”
“‘Course it is. His chums brought it in and I hung it there myself. Let me see, now.” Pint of stout in hand, Archy came over, with Paul at his heels. “That’s Jack Thornton,” said Archy, as his large hand moved slowly across the wall. “Brian Ripley. Tom Patterson. Freddy Baker. He was a wild one, old Freddy. Always getting himself put on report.”
“They never found fault with his flying, though,” Paul pointed out.
“No, Paul, they never did. Ah, it brings ’em all back, this wall does. They were none of them saints, but they were there when we needed them. Here, now, here’s Bobby.” Archy unhooked one of the pictures and handed it to me, and the four of us looked down upon a young man in flying gear, standing beside a fighter.
“That’s his Hurricane,” said Paul. “Proud of it, he was. Said it streaked through the sky like a falcon. The picture doesn’t do him justice, though.”
“Hard to do that in a snap, but you’re right,” Archy agreed. “His eyes were brighter, and his smile…”
“Yes,” said Paul. “His smile.”
Sighing, the two men returned to the bar. Bill took Bobby’s picture from me and stared at it for a long time before hanging it back in place. “So many of them, and each one of them left someone behind.” He took a deep breath, then cleared his throat and looked down at the letter. “I think our next step is to contact A.M., if Miss Kingsley can discover who he is. I’d be interested to know if Dimity ever received word about this”—he tapped the letter—“‘object’ that belonged to Bobby.”
“Me, too, but what are we going to say to A.M.?”
“You leave that to me.”
Archy had not quite topped off Paul’s glass when Miss Kingsley returned, a piece of paper in her hand and a gleam in her eye.
“Mr. Andrew MacLaren is sixty-six years old, unmarried, and still living on the MacLaren estate in the mountains west of Wick,” she informed the table. “Quite far north, actually. He had only one sibling, a brother, Robert, whose death made Andrew the sole heir to the family fortune, which is extensive—wool, whiskey, and, lately, North Sea oil. He’s something of a recluse, apparently, seldom sets foot off of the estate. I have his telephone number, if you’d like it.”
“Bless you, Miss Kingsley. Where would we be without you?” said Bill, as Miss Kingsley handed him the number. “I’d love to have a look through those files of yours someday.”
“I’m afraid they are held in the strictest confidence,” she replied with a smile. “Would you like to come into my office to place the call? Yes, Archy, you and Paul may stay here and enjoy your drinks, but I’ll have to allow Bjorn to open the doors to the rest of our patrons as well.”
Archy snorted in disgust. “I might have known,” he said. “What’s a chap named Bjorn doing at the Flamborough, that’s what I’d like to know. Sign of the times, eh, Paul?”
“Yes, Archy, a sign of the times.”
Bill and I left them there and went with Miss Kingsley into her office. Bill sat at the desk, dialed the number, then began to speak in a voice that was businesslike, mature, authoritative—in short, completely unrecognizable. Listening to him, I began to understand how he had gained access to the Imperial War Museum archives.
“Good morning,” he said. “This is William A. Willis speaking, of the law firm of Willis & Willis. I am calling in regards to a certain matter pertaining to the disposition of the Westwood estate—yes, the Westwood estate. I am the estate’s legal representative and I would like to speak with Mr. Andrew MacLaren, if he is available. Yes, William A. Willis. Thank you, I’ll wait.” Bill covered the phone with his hand. “Don’t look so astounded,” he said to me. “This is my professional manner. Or did you think I didn’t have one?”
“I was just wondering if the ‘A’ stood for—”