Tuesday, February 1, 2011
“I’m sorry, Angus. Your dad must be mistaken. He’s a brilliant accountant, but perhaps his memory’s not as accurate as his numbers. I don’t remember seeing Duncan at Carley station.”
Angus gripped the telephone and frowned. He checked his dad’s notes, those he’d scrawled on the flap of Mrs. Anderson’s 1998 tax return. “But you went to Carley station with your family to see the Royal Train.”
“Oh, yes, I suppose I did.”
“These aren’t my dad’s recollections, Mrs. Anderson. They’re yours.”
“I was only seven years old, Angus. And I don’t imagine I’d have seen Duncan there.”
Mrs. Anderson was a tax client of Angus’s dad, and his grandmother’s friend. She’d also been an eyewitness to Duncan’s behaviour at Carley station on the night of May 22, 1939. She’d related the story to Angus’s dad some years earlier. It had been a curiosity to him at the time. However, being a chartered accountant, he’d made notes of the conversation. The future Mrs. Anderson had known Duncan as a neighbour at her family cottage. She and her two elder sisters had stood on the hill at Carley station, watching the Royal Train pull in. Shortly afterward, Duncan had come charging up the slope. The girls addressed him by name, but he kept running. He slammed the future Mrs. Anderson in the jaw, bowling her over and loosening a tooth. Duncan’s parents and sister chased him up the hill. It was all there on paper in front of Angus, in his father’s hand.
Angus gnashed his teeth. Mrs. Anderson, for whatever reason, was denying her account. Maybe she was senile. He tried again. “Can you tell me about going to see the Royal Train? That must have been exciting.”
A sigh came through the receiver. “There’s not much to say, Angus. My parents bundled me and my sisters into the car. We drove to a place in the country. You say it was Carley. Fine, I’ll take your word for it. I remember Dad stopped and leaned out the window. He spoke to a man who had a lantern. That gentleman told us to park along the hillside with a bunch of other cars. And to leave our headlights on, shining on the track.”
“Neat.” Angus scrawled notes under those of his dad’s. “Okay, then how did things unfold?”
“We froze.”
“Really?”
“Yes. My sisters and I wanted to stay up near the bonfires. But Mom insisted on taking us down to the tracks. We stood there shivering until the train came.”
“You must have been happy to see it pull in. What did the train look like, Mrs. Anderson? You know, the colours and such.”
Mrs. Anderson laughed. “Angus, it was a train. Pulled by a steam engine. Chuff, chuff, chuff. It might have been blue and silver, I don’t know.”
“What about The King and Queen?”
“What about them? They came out and chatted with the people. Mercifully, not for long. The whistle blew, the train left, and we drove away. Back home I fell asleep and dreamt of fairy princesses.”
“Did you tell my grandma about seeing the Royal Train?”
“Oh, I suppose so, Angus. At one time or another.”
Angus tapped his pen on the paper. What should he do? There was nothing wrong with Mrs. Anderson’s memory. She was reluctant, though, to speak about Duncan. Angus felt distressed about his behaviour on the Carley hillside. He hadn’t missed the Royal Train because of illness. It was unfathomable that he’d run from The King and Queen out of shyness. What, then? Something had spooked him. And something—or someone—had spooked Mrs. Anderson since her conversation with his dad.
“Where are your sisters these days, Mrs. Anderson?”
“They’re both dead.”
“I’m sorry.” Angus hesitated. “What did my grandma have to say about your seeing Duncan?”
Mrs. Anderson laughed again. “Angie convinced me that I couldn’t have seen him at Carley.”
“Why not?”
“Because he lived in Oshawa. And she’s right. I don’t recall seeing him at—”
“What about the story you told my dad?”
“I beg your pardon? Oh, I must have been hoping he’d go easy on my tax return.”
“Have you talked to my grandma lately?”
“Oh, yes. Just last night.”
Angus sucked in his breath. So, his grandmother was pulling strings behind his back. She wanted to prevent his solving the mystery of the King’s Puzzle. But why? Was it just because it didn’t suit her purposes to revive his grandfather’s memory? He felt himself losing his patience with Mrs. Anderson.
“Why did you let my grandmother convince you that you were mistaken about Duncan?”
There was silence on the other end of the telephone. Angus tapped his pencil. He feared Mrs. Anderson had hung up. Then she spoke, quietly.
“Angus, why must you find out why Duncan didn’t meet The King in 1939? How could that matter now?”
While considering Mrs. Anderson’s question, Angus’s thoughts crystallized. He looked out the kitchen window into the sky, where three young blue jays were flitting around. “I should put matters right between my grandpa—Duncan—and The King. The Queen feels the same need. You’ve heard of the German city of Dresden?”
“Of course, Angus. I lived through the War.”
“Then you know that Allied bombers destroyed Dresden. When they rebuilt the cathedral, the son of a Royal Air Force pilot came forward. His dad had dropped some of the bombs. He’d been haunted by the horror of war and his part in it. He felt called upon to make the new cross for the cathedral. And he did. It was a symbolic gesture, a way of extracting some goodness from tragedy. That’s important for humanity. Not for past generations, but for us, going forward.”
At the other end of the telephone, Mrs. Anderson cleared her throat.
Angus softened his voice. “What Duncan did for The King—making a puzzle, just for him—represented generosity, the innocence of childhood. Mrs. Anderson, I can bring some goodness to the world by making things right between Duncan and The King. It’s my job to find the King’s Puzzle, solve it, and present the treasure to The Queen.”
There was another pause, then Mrs. Anderson spoke in a whisper. “Then I wish you well, Angus. Maybe I wasn’t mistaken about seeing Duncan after all.”