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“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” said Arthur. He looked back at Mrs. Laidlaw and played what he hoped was his trump card. “The first thing I want to know is when Mr. Macpherson died?”
“Just a few months back,” said Mrs. Laidlaw. “I found him in bed, white as a sheet he was, so he must have passed away during the night.”
“Then why didn’t you call for a doctor, the police, even Jock?”
“Because we didn’t think straight,” she said. “We thought we’d lose our jobs and be turfed out of the lodge. So we waited to see what would happen if we did nothing, and as the monthly check kept arriving from the bank, we assumed no one could be any the wiser.”
“What did you do with the body?”
“We buried him. On the other side of the copse,” chipped in Mr. Laidlaw, “where no one would find him.”
“We didn’t mean any harm,” she said, “but we’d served the laird for over twenty years, and not so much as a pension.”
I know the feeling, thought Arthur, but didn’t interrupt.
“We didn’t steal nothing,” said Laidlaw.
“But you signed checks in his name, and also went on receiving your monthly pay packet.”
“Only enough to keep us alive, and not allow the house to go to rack and ruin.”
“I told him we had to keep the expenses low,” said Mrs. Laidlaw, “so they wouldn’t become suspicious.”
“That’s what gave you away,” said Arthur.
“Will we go to jail?” asked Mrs. Laidlaw.
“Not if you carry out my instructions to the letter,” said Arthur as he stood up. “Is that understood?”
“I don’t care about going to jail,” said Laidlaw, “but not Morag. It wasn’t her fault.”
“I’m afraid you’re both in this together,” said Arthur. Mrs. Laidlaw began to shake again. “Now I want to see Mr. Macpherson’s study.”
The Laidlaws both looked surprised by the request, but quickly led Arthur out of the drawing room and up a wide sweeping staircase to a large comfortable room on the first floor that had been converted to an office.
Arthur walked across to a desk that overlooked the hills of Arbroath. He was surprised to find not a speck of dust on the furniture, only perpetuating the myth that their master was still alive. The Laidlaws stood a few paces back, as their unwelcome visitor sat down at the desk. A flicker of a smile crossed Arthur’s lips when he spotted the Remington Imperial typewriter on which Mr. Macpherson had written so many letters to him over the years.
“Would you like a cup of tea, sir?” asked Mrs. Laidlaw, as if she were addressing the master of the house.
“That would be nice, Morag,” said Arthur. “Milk and one sugar, please.”
She disappeared, leaving her husband almost standing to attention. Arthur opened the top drawer of the desk to find a stack of used checkbooks, the stubs filled in with Macpherson’s familiar neat hand. He closed the drawer and took out a piece of Ambrose Hall headed notepaper, and slipped it into the typewriter.
Arthur began to write a letter to himself, and after he’d typed “Yours sincerely,” he pulled the page out and read it, before turning to Laidlaw. “I want you to read this letter carefully and then sign it.”
Laidlaw couldn’t hide his surprise long before he finished reading the letter. But he took the quill pen from its holder, dipped it in the inkwell, and slowly wrote “S. Macpherson.” Arthur was impressed, and wondered how long it had taken Laidlaw to perfect the forgery, because he’d never spotted it. He took an envelope from the letter rack, placed it in the machine, and typed:
Mr. A. Dunbar
Senior Vice President
The National Bank of Toronto
He placed the letter in the envelope and sealed it, as Mrs. Laidlaw returned carrying a tray of tea and shortbread biscuits. Arthur took a sip. Just perfect. He placed the cup back on its saucer and set about writing a second letter. When he had finished, he asked Laidlaw to once again add the false signature, but this time he didn’t allow him to read the contents.
“Post one today,” said Arthur. “And this one a week later,” he added, before passing both envelopes across to Laidlaw. “If the second letter arrives on my desk within a fortnight, I shall return in a few weeks’ time. If it doesn’t, your next visitor will be a police officer.”
“But how will we survive while you’re away?” asked Laidlaw.
