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  “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.

  Arthur opened his briefcase and took out three checkbooks. “Use them sparingly,” he said, “because if I consider you have overstepped the mark, the check will not be cleared. Is that understood?” They both nodded. “And you’ll also need to order some more writing paper and envelopes,” continued Arthur, as he opened the drawer. “And stamps.”

  Arthur was just about to close the drawer when he spotted some documents tucked away in a corner. He pulled out Mr. Macpherson’s old passport, his birth certificate, and a will, and could feel his heart hammering in his chest. The three finds supplied him with a wealth of information that might prove useful in the future, and he finally discovered what the S. stood for. Macpherson’s passport also revealed that he was sixteen years older than Arthur, but given the blurriness of the old photograph he felt he could get away with it. But he would still need to order a replacement before he returned to Toronto. He placed the passport, birth certificate, and the will in his briefcase and locked it. He stood up and began to walk toward the door. The Laidlaws followed obediently in his wake.

  “Mrs. Laidlaw, I want all the dust sheets removed, and the house returned to the state it was in when Mr. Macpherson was still in residence. Spare no expense, just be certain to send me every bill, so I can double-check it,” he added, as they walked downstairs together.

  “By the time you return, Mr. Dunbar, everything will be just as you would expect it,” she promised.

  “As Mr. Macpherson would expect it,” Arthur corrected her.

  “Mr. Macpherson,” she said. “I’ll prepare the master bedroom so it will be just like old times.”

  “Is there anything else you’d like me to do, sir?” asked Laidlaw when Arthur reached the bottom of the staircase.

  “Just be sure to post those two letters, and carry on as if Mr. Macpherson was still alive, because he is,” said Arthur, as Laidlaw opened the front door.

  When Jock saw them coming out of the house with Hamish Laidlaw clutching on to his hat, and no longer holding a gun, he jumped out of the car, ran around, and opened the back door so his fare could climb in.

  “Where to, sir?” said Jock.

  “The station,” Arthur said, as he looked out of the window to acknowledge the Laidlaws waving, as if he were already the master of Ambrose Hall.

  * * *

  During the flight back to Heathrow, Arthur studied Mr. Macpherson’s last will and testament line by line. He had left generous legacies to the Laidlaws, while no other individual was mentioned. The bulk of the estate was to be divided between several local organizations and charities, the two largest amounts being allocated to the Scottish Widows and Orphans Fund, and the Rehabilitation of Young Offenders Trust. Did those simple bequests, Arthur wondered, explain why the young Scot had set sail for Canada, and ended his days as a recluse in a remote part of his homeland?

  Arthur knew the passport and birth certificate could prove useful if he was to go ahead with the deception, but had already decided that when he died, the executors would find the will exactly where Mr. Macpherson had left it.

  On arrival back at Heathrow, Arthur took a train to Paddington and a taxi on to Petty France. Once he’d entered the building, he spent some considerable time filling in a long form, something he was rather good at.

  After double-checking every box, he joined a slow-moving queue, and when he eventually reached the front he handed the document to a young lady seated behind the counter. She studied the application carefully, before asking to see Mr. Macpherson’s old passport, which Arthur handed over immediately. He’d made only one subtle change, 1950 had become 1966, while his own photograph had replaced the original one. She was clearly surprised not to have to make any corrections on his application form, or ask for further information. She smiled up at Arthur and stamped APPROVED.

  “If you come back tomorrow afternoon, Mr. Macpherson,” she said, “you’ll be able to pick up your new passport.”

  Arthur thought about making a fuss as he had a flight booked for Toronto that night, but simply said, “Thank you,” as he didn’t want to be remembered.

  Arthur checked into a nearby hotel, where he spotted a poster advertising a performance of Schubert’s Fifth, to be given at the Festival Hall by the Berlin Philharmonic under their conductor, Simon Rattle.

  He was beginning to think the trip couldn’t have gone much better.

  3

  ARTHUR PICKED UP the phone on his desk and pressed a button that would put him through to the manager’s office.

  “Barbara, it’s Arthur Dunbar.”

  “Welcome back, Arthur. Did you have a nice time in Vancouver?”

  “Couldn’t have been better. In fact I’m considering moving out there when I retire.”

  “We’ll all miss you,” said Barbara. “I’m not sure how the place will survive without you.”

  “I’m sure it will,” said Arthur, “but when are you expecting Mr. Stratton back?”

  “He and his wife flew to Miami on Friday. He