“The Stone of Destiny,” Jensen said.
“The counterfeit one,” Graeme corrected.
Jensen nodded.
It was common knowledge in Solomon’s that Graeme fervently believed that the Stone of Destiny housed within Westminster Abbey was a forgery. “Can’t say I’m surprised. It seems a worthy token to have, if one believed it to be the true piece,” Graeme said. “But there are certainly other treasures, more valuable ones, housed elsewhere in London.”
“Precisely. Why would someone want,” Jensen paused, “pardon the disrespect, a piece of sandstone?”
Graeme had to smile. There were plenty who didn’t understand his quest to find the real Stone of Destiny. Hell, there were times when even he wasn’t certain why he felt such a burning desire to locate it. But he knew it was an artifact that the Scottish people revered. King Edward I had stolen it from Scotland, and Graeme wanted nothing more than to return it to them.
“The answer to that question is what’s bothering us,” Jensen said.
“Well, there are those who believe the stone to be a biblical relic,” Graeme said.
“Yes,” Jensen said. “The pillow stone upon which Jacob had his prophetic dreams.” Then he paused a moment before adding, “Graeme, please sit.”
Graeme did as he was bade, not out of obedience, but more from curiosity. Jensen had been a member of Solomon’s for more than twenty years and, for the most part, kept to himself. He tended to engage other members only when it was time to invite someone new into the club, or if there was a problem that needed an immediate solution. As in this current situation, Graeme assumed.
“Recently, some potentially troubling things have come to our attention,” Jensen said.
The man always spoke in the plural. Graeme knew there were others that worked in the background of Solomon’s, but for the most part “we” usually meant only Jensen.
“And?” Graeme said.
Jensen clasped his long fingers together across his lap. “I’m afraid it’s in reference to your cousin.”
“My cousin?” Graeme asked.
“Yes, Niall Ludley,” Jensen said.
Ah. He nodded. Graeme, of course, knew Niall. They’d grown up together. But he rarely considered him family. His father’s side. The English side. Niall was Graeme’s father’s sister’s son and now bore the title of the Earl of Camden. Graeme had assumed that Niall would be more like Graeme’s father and the rest of their English peers—cold. So he’d not invested much time in having more than a friendly relationship.
“I’m afraid if this is in reference to Niall,” Graeme said, “I won’t be of much service. We aren’t exactly close.”
“Meaning what precisely?” Jensen asked.
“Meaning I know him.” Graeme shrugged. “We’re courteous, but we aren’t close like brothers.” Like family ought to be.
“But you knew he was a member of Solomon’s as well,” Jensen said.
Graeme nodded slowly. “I do recall reading about his membership a few years ago in the newsletter.”
Jensen’s eyebrows rose. “I’m surprised.” A small smile played at the corners of his mouth.
“Because you keep close watch as to what all of your relations are doing?” Graeme asked. He uncrossed one leg, then crossed the other.
Jensen chuckled. “No, of course not. But I would have thought his particular interest would pique your own curiosity.”
“Remind me,” Graeme said. He leaned back in the chair, resting his hands across his abdomen.
“The Loch Ness treasure.”
Graeme did remember reading about that. “Right.” It hadn’t surprised him. Even as a child, Niall had always wanted to go with Graeme to Scotland. Thankfully Niall’s mother had had prejudices against the “wilds of the north” as she’d called them and never let her son go. But it stood to reason that as a boy, he’d been interested in the land, and as a man, he’d come to study a bit of it. Graeme remembered now when Niall had built another home here, and how he’d invited them all over for dinner.
“Are you familiar?” Jensen asked.
“With the legend of the treasure? Aye, I have heard tell of it.”