Return to Blackthorne

by owlcroft

McCormick makes a speech, the judge wears a kilt, a ghostly presence is felt. What more could anyone ask? Note: This is a sequel to "Lord Mark".

Dedication: For Suzanne, with gratitude and affection.

A/N: This story is a sequel to "Lord Mark", and first appeared in a STAR for Brian 'zine.

"Lord Mark" Synopsis: Mark McCormick is stunned to learn that he's a possible heir to an earldom in Scotland. He and his legal adviser (Judge Hardcastle, natch) are invited to visit the estate and provide additional information about his forebears. Mark and the judge quickly win over the staff of servants with their innate charm and Yankee ideas of equality, and the townspeople are soon enchanted with the possible Earl as well. Then the judge, awakened by an unknown agency, discovers that the servants are plotting to find an Earl to fit their own ends and, in a confrontation the next day, McCormick learns that the estate is near bankruptcy and needs a wealthy heir to save it. Assuming Mark was the owner of Gull's Way (as well as the one-of-a-kind Coyote), the staff schemed to make him the Earl to save Blackthorne, but the sudden appearance of the family lawyer brings startling news.

RETURN TO BLACKTHORNE

by

Owlcroft

"Oh, man!" McCormick groaned and lifted the mass of papers from the kitchen table. "Just look at all his!"

Judge Hardcastle turned from the sink, where he was wrestling with the faucet. "I thought it was just a buncha forms to fill out."

Mark rested a disconsolate chin on his palm. "Yeah, that's what I thought, too. But it's all kinds of stuff . . . this's a release for the church fête, here's an inquiry from a psychical research something-or-other, there's a thing for Parliament . . . Parliament! Like I'm gonna go sit there and wear a wig and mumble 'hear, hear' every once in a while." He shook his head and started dividing the papers in front of him into piles.

"I don't think they wear wigs nowadays," grunted the judge, twisting the faucet. "There! That should do it." He stepped back and gently turned the cold water tap. Nothing happened. "Hmm," he murmured, "must not've turned the water back on." He reached under the sink, then eased himself under to the sound of various metal clanking from the wrench he wielded.

"Insurance, taxes, leases expiring," McCormick flicked through the pages rapidly. "New will, entailment, 'heirs of the body' . . ."

A mutter came from under the sink. "Is there another kind?"

"I dunno. Maybe if you're adopted it doesn't count?" Mark ran his hands through his hair. "Judge, look," he said, peering up from his paper piles. Seeing a distinct absence of judge, he rose halfway from his chair and peered over the table at the squirming figure half-hidden by the undersink cabinet door. "Hey, Judge?"

"Ya know," said a red-faced Hardcastle, peering around the cabinet door at him, "things worked a lot better around here when you had time to do some of these chores."

McCormick grinned at him. "Oh, yeah? I thought you were the guy that always said you could do everything better than me. You oughta be grateful to me for giving you a chance to prove it." He sat back down. "Besides, I told ya that could wait 'til spring break. It starts this Friday."

The judge scrambled out from under the sink and tried the faucet again. No water. "Dammit," he grumbled and went back under the sink.

"Look, Judge, there's just too much here to do it all by mail." Mark shuffled all the papers back into one large pile. "I'm gonna have to go back over there and take care of a buncha stuff. I could be back in a week and get a lot of the chores done around the estate before spring break's over. Besides, Randolph's been on my case about me being at this church fête thing. He says a lot of people kinda expect it. Whaddya think?"

"Yeah, great, whatever." A hand waved at him from under the sink. "Have a good time."

"What? 'Have a good time'?" McCormick pushed the papers into a file folder and went to squat next to the swearing jurist-turned-plumber. "Aren't you going with me?"

A clank was heard, a muffled curse, then Hardcastle wriggled out. "I don't remember anybody asking me along." He waved a hand toward the sink. "Try it now."

Mark turned the tap, no water came out, and he turned it back off. "Scoot outta there. I'll do it." Then, in a whiny, finicking voice he said, "Lord McCormick, Earl of Blackthorne Manor, cordially requests your attendance at the church fête, to be held on Blackthorne grounds, April 22nd, from noon to 5 PM."

"Church fête, huh?" Hardcastle straightened his shirt a bit and peered critically over McCormick's shoulder as he worked on the sink plumbing. "And what am I supposed to do at a church

fête?"

"You can be in charge of the coconut shy." Mark took the tap apart and looked at it quizzically.

The judge poked a finger at the gasket, then gave up and stood back. "What's a coconut shy? It's not one of those rum drinks, is it? I hate coconuts."

"I dunno what it is. I just know we're having one. Where's the washer that goes with this?"

Hardcastle looked around cursorily, then said, "I'll go make the reservations while you get that fixed, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah." Mark knelt down and ducked under the sink. "Now that it's totally messed up, I get to fix it."

ooooo

"Okay, the luggage is checked and the flight's only about a half-hour behind schedule." McCormick settled into the seat next to the judge and hoisted his briefcase onto his lap. He beamed down at the dark leather, passing a hand over its surface admiringly before opening it to haul out the top manila folder. "I still say it's the best present you ever gave me."

"Didn't like the motorcycle, huh?" Hardcastle thumbed idly through the newspaper he'd found discarded.

Mark grinned at him. "I liked it just fine, as you very well know. It's just that this . . . this . . . is something you never expected to give me." He cocked his head. "Does that make sense?"

"No more'n usual." The judge realized the paper was two days old and tossed it aside. "What's that file? You gonna be working on stuff all the way there? 'All work and no play'," he recited sententiously.

"Is the usual case at Gulls' Way," finished up Mark. He went back to his reading.

Hardcastle humph'ed and settled back, arms folded across his chest. He sniffed loudly, then humph'ed again.

McCormick glanced at him, then turned to face him. "It was a joke, Judge. What, are you gonna get all bent outta shape again about me being an Earl? Come on. We had this little talk, remember? You know, you've been grouchy ever since we left the house."

"I'm not grouchy," stated the judge definitively. "I'm just a little concerned that all this business with the earlship is gonna take away time from your studies, that's all."

"Well," Mark smiled at him impishly, "'all work and no play' . . ."

Hardcastle lowered his eyebrows and glared. "That's different."

McCormick waited expectantly.

After nearly thirty seconds, "Okay, it's not different," ceded the judge. "I dunno. I guess I'm maybe still a little uncomfortable with you being a titled landholder. You know, all that foofaraw with the manor and the lands and the servants and all."

"Nothing's changed, Judge. I haven't changed. Have I?" Mark looked at him seriously.

"No," Hardcastle said slowly. He rubbed his nose thoughtfully. "You haven't. Much."

"Much? Come on, Hardcase, give me a break! You're just afraid of losing another parrot shirt, that's all." McCormick snickered, then extended the papers he'd been scanning. "Here, you wanna be useful? Tell me what you think about that."

The older man took the papers and looked at the top page. "The Society for Psychic Order and Negation of Ghosts and Ectoplasm. S.P.O.N.G.E.? What're they?"

McCormick leaned back and got as comfortable as he could in the plastic seat. "They want my permission to investigate the reported appearances of the Blackthorne ghost." He gave up trying to be comfortable and straightened up again. "Randolph didn't want to take this on himself, so he sent it to me, along with all the other stuff. Said it wasn't an estate manager's place to deal with this kind of thing." Mark watched a stewardess stalk down the aisle toward the airline counter. "I'm guessing he doesn't approve, but doesn't want to be responsible for saying 'no' to them."

"Hmm," the judge murmured. "Don't much like the sound of that 'negation' part."

Mark nodded in agreement, then nudged the judge and gestured toward the counter. "I think we're about to start boarding."

"'Bout time, too." The judge handed back the folder and stood slowly, working out the kinks in his back. "I don't know why they can't afford armchairs in this place with the price they charge for tickets."

Mark stuffed the folder back into the briefcase. "They just want you to get used to being uncomfortable before you sit on a plane for ten hours."

ooooo

"Welcome back to Blackthorne, my lord." Holden, the butler, ran down the steps before the engine of the rental car had stopped. The rest of the staff remained at the top of the steps, beaming down at the newcomers. "On behalf of the staff, may I say how pleasant it is to have your lordship in residence once again?" He made a slight, dignified bow.

"Hiya, Fergus," called the judge. He exited the car and extended a hand. "How've ya been?"

Holden broke into a wide smile and took the other man's hand in a firm grip. "I've been well, Milt. And yourself?"

"Oh, pretty good. Hiya!" The judge waved broadly up at the waiting servants. "We'll just get our gear outta the car and we can start swapping fish stories. Hey, is the Big Guy still out there?" He jerked a thumb towards Craggon Water.

"He is, and I've nearly gotten him twice. There's a new hackle I've used—" Holden broke off to shake hands with Mark. "My lord. You're looking well."

McCormick grinned at him. "You miss saying that when I'm not around, don't you?" He shook his head at Holden's somewhat sheepish expression and added, "It's okay. Just try to keep it down to a minimum. I've been called a lotta things, but that's not something I've gotten used to." He turned to the trunk of the car and began extricating luggage. "Oh, hey. I've got something for Mrs. Tremaine in here." He leaned over to confide in the grey-haired butler's ear. "Remember we were telling you about guacamole? I've got four avocados in here."

Holden took the suitcase from him, clicking his tongue against his teeth. "She'll be that pleased, my lo—" He stopped himself abruptly. "She'll be very grateful, sir. I'll have the bags taken up to your suites. Dougal's late getting back from University today, but the maids will be able to handle it, I'm sure."

"Nah," the judge flapped a hand at him. "We'll each take one and that way nobody'll be overloaded. Hey, kid, you might wanna think about putting in an elevator."

There was an extended and affectionate greeting from the cook, Mrs. Tremaine, who expressed surprise, delight, and appreciation for the avocados. "Now, as soon as you've unpacked them, you'll have to tell me what to do with the things," she said. "Oh, and the vicar's coming for dinner tonight. Is there anything your lordship would like to have in particular? You liked my saddle of mutton, I remember." She looked up at Mark with kindly eyes and a wistful smile. "It's so good to have your lordship in residence again."

"It's good to be back," he replied, patting her shoulder lightly. "And that mutton was great. If it's not too much trouble?"

"Certainly not. I'll start right away." She turned and bustled off down the wainscoted hallway toward the green baize-covered door that led to the servants' regions. The kitchen maid, Martin, bobbed a quick curtsey and followed her.

"Welcome home, my lord." The housekeeper, Mrs. Hoskins nodded regally, her clasped hands at her waist. "Your suite is prepared. Atkins, Hutchison," she waved the maids to the stairway. "His lordship's bags, if you please." She turned to the judge and nodded to him. "Mr. Hardcastle. A pleasure to have you back, sir." She reached for the suitcase he carried.

Hardcastle stepped out of her reach and transferred the suitcase to his other hand. "Oh, no. You can wait on McCormick if you want to, but where I come from, it's the man who carries the heavy stuff." He turned to Mark and raised his brows. "I'm not kidding about that elevator, ya know."

ooooo

Mark was still unpacking when he heard a light tap on the door to The Earl's Suite. "Come in," he called, setting the avocados aside.

"My lord, I am desolated to have appeared remiss by my absence. May I humbly beg your pardon for any seeming discourtesy and offer you a heartfelt and sincere welcome home?" A slightly-built elderly man hurried across the carpeted floor to offer a hand in greeting.

"Mr. Randolph," said McCormick with a smile. "Are you gonna stick with that 'lordship' stuff? I thought we were friends."

The Blackthorne estate manager cleared his throat apologetically and tried again. "Mr. McCormick—" He broke off when Mark raised his eyebrows at him ironically. "Mark, then," Randolph admitted defeat. "But only in private," he salvaged a modicum of self-respect.

Mark shook his head, grinning. "I'm guessing you've got a lotta papers for me to look over and then sign where you tell me to, right?"

"There are several matters which require your personal attention, but they can be postponed until tomorrow. If I might have a few hours of your time in the morning? A few leases are due to expire, there have been several inquiries pertaining to prospective rentals, that psychical organization is becoming a nuisance, I'm afraid, and then there's your will, which should perhaps be our first priority." Randolph looked around the spacious room critically. "Some of the furnishings are quite antiquated, I fear. Perhaps we should also discuss refurbishment. Our quarter-day figures were gratifyingly robust, I'm pleased to report."

McCormick closed up the now-empty suitcase and tossed it into the walk-in closet. "Okay, tomorrow morning, we'll go over everything you've got saved up. Dinner still at seven o'clock?"

Randolph nodded. "Unless your lordship would . . . unless you would rather it be later. Or earlier?"

"Nah, seven's fine. Mr. Holden said the vicar's coming over. I don't have to get all fancied up for that, do I?" Mark held up a pull-over sweater with the McCormick plaid knit into collar and cuffs. "Mrs. Hoskins sent me this at Christmas and I kinda wanted to wear it tonight."

"That would be entirely appropriate. You've met Vicar Thomas, I believe?"

Mark nodded. "Yeah, last year. Here, let's take these to Mrs. Tremaine." He handed two avocados to Randolph, who examined them with great interest.

"These are alligator pears, are they not?" The elderly man ran a tentative finger gently over the rough skin. "One discerns easily enough the origin of the name."

McCormick led the way to the door with his share of the avocados. "Yeah, and you have no idea how hard is to get an alligator and a pear to mate."

ooooo

The Vicar of Blackthorne said a brief blessing over the bowls of mulligatawny, then beamed at the visitors from America. "You've no idea how much responsibility you've given us. Your first fête! We must make sure it's an enjoyable experience for you. We are truly grateful to you, my lord, for allowing us the use of your grounds for the occasion."

McCormick ignored the judge's simper at his title. "Um, Vicar, I don't really know what a church fête is. It's to raise money for the church, right? But what exactly happens?"

"Yes, it's a church fund-raiser. This year the proceeds will go to our Dorcas Fund." Mr. Thomas pushed his bowl aside and leaned forward earnestly. "You might not think there were any needy people in our little community, but I assure you there are far, far too many. Our immediate goal, of course, is to provide clothing, food, and medical supplies to those in need, but the children and elderly of the parish need—" He caught sight of Mr. Randolph, hiding a smile behind his napkin, and laughed at himself. "My favorite hobby-horse, I'm afraid. You asked me what happens at a fête. Well," he sampled his soup again, then counted on his fingers, "this year we have our annual jumble sale, a book swap, pony rides, a sausage stand, the Craggon Pipes, cream teas, a cricket match, a tombola, a ring toss, a coconut shy." He started over on his fingers, "The Thornecroft Morris dancers, a gypsy fortune teller, the jam and preserves judging, and a cakes table."

The judge said, "Well, I know what a pony ride is, and a fortune teller."

"And a book swap and a cricket match," added Mark. "But what's a tombola?"

"More important is what's a coconut shy and does it have a paper umbrella in it?" asked Hardcastle warily.

Mr. Thomas smiled and shook his head. "No, a coconut shy is a stand where one pays a small fee to throw a ball at a coconut on a post. The prize for knocking it off used to be the coconut itself, but these days it's usually a small toy or souvenir of the occasion." He smiled his thanks up at Holden for replacing his soup bowl with a plate. "A tombola is a lottery. Tickets are sold and a drawing held for a cash prize or, in this case, a hand-made quilt donated by Mrs. Isham."

"See, Judge. You can handle the coconut shy and I'll do the tombola." Mark watched Holden put the enormous platter of roast mutton and potatoes directly in front of him. Holden then offered him a velvet-lined wooden case containing a carving knife and fork.

"Will you carve, my lord?"

Hardcastle covered his eyes with his hand.

ooooo

Vicar Thomas had a Mothers' Meeting that night, but everyone else ended the evening on the terrace, enjoying the mild night air and a 'wee dram' of the estate Scotch. Dougal Allen, Blackthorne's gardener/chauffeur and distiller, related stories of the tourists who'd visited the manor.

"'Oh, look, Henry. A real Scotch gardener'," he fluted. "'Can you say something in Scotch for us?' So, I'd say 'Hoots, wummun, dinna ye ken I'm wur-rking' and they'd take my picture and tip me fifty pee." Dougal shook his head. "If I'd put on a kilt for the gardening, they'd probably have given me a pound."

McCormick snickered and said, "They'd probably try to buy your sgian dubh for a souvenir, too. Hey, that reminds me." He turned to the estate manager, sitting to his left. "Mr. Randolph, didn't you say the Earls used to hold a formal dinner for some of the other landowners around here after fêtes?"

"Yes, the custom was upheld right up to the year before the death of the previous Earl." Randolph's eyes brightened and he leaned toward Mark. "Would you be thinking of reviving the tradition?"

Mark shrugged. "It sounds like a lot of work. Shouldn't really be my decision." He looked at Mrs. Tremaine, then Mrs. Hoskins. "You two would be put to a lot of trouble, wouldn't you?"

The two older ladies looked at each other, then at McCormick. "My lord," said the housekeeper, "we've two days before the fête. That's ample time."

Mrs. Tremaine stood up and lifted her chin. "If you can catch me a dozen salmon from Craggon Water, I'll do you proud, sir."

"Fergus," said the judge, grinning, "it looks like we'll just have to slave away over our fishing rods."

Holden looked back at him, then smiled slyly at McCormick. "Aye, we'll do that. And I'll find some formal wear for you, too, Milt. A Prince Charlie jacket, a ruffled shirt and a kilt and sporran. Eh, man, you'll be grand."

ooooo

Directly after breakfast, McCormick and James Randolph retired to the estate manager's office, while the judge and Holden chose fishing gear from the gamekeeper's room and headed toward Craggon Water.

"I'm loathe to turn away paying guests, you understand, but the avowed aim of this society is to discredit reports of spectral appearances, or, failing that, to put an end to them." Randolph pushed a folder across the desk surface to Mark, seated in the wing chair at the corner of the desk. He then sat himself, resting his arms on the desk and folding his hands together.

McCormick scanned the letters in the folder quickly, then returned it. "They're not giving up, though. Four letters since you turned them down in the first place."

"That's correct," said Randolph with a sigh. "And I've not told you the worst. There's a representative staying at the public house in Thornecroft at this moment. Says he assumed you'd be here for the fête and would like a personal word with you on the subject. We can't bar him from paying his admission fee and entering the property, you see."

Mark scratched the side of his neck idly and stared through the window to the avenue of lime trees. "Is there really a ghost?" He brought his gaze back to the elderly gray man at the desk. "I mean, I heard the stories last year, but what do you think about it?"

Randolph sat quietly for a moment or two, then took a deep breath and said, "I believe there is." He held up a hand to forestall any objection that McCormick might have made, and continued, "That belief is not based merely on hearsay or second-hand testimony. I, personally, have had experiences for which there is no reasonable explanation. The door opening with no one near it, the sudden cold draft of air." He looked at Mark consideringly. "But is my own belief enough for you?"

"Yes," said McCormick simply. "Besides, if there is a ghost, she's never harmed anyone, right?" At the other man's nod, he went on, "So why do we need somebody coming in here to get rid of her?"

"Then it is your decision that we inform this society that the matter is closed and any repetition of their requests will be denied without discussion?"

Mark nodded. "And maybe it would help if I saw this guy and told him in person. You know, make it clear we don't want anybody coming around messing with our ghost."

Both men started at the sudden snick of the door latch. The door swung slowly open on an empty hallway and they looked at each other with widened eyes.

ooooo

Just before noon, Hardcastle tapped on the door to the manager's office, then poked his head in. "Hey, it's lunch-time, you two. C'mon!"

McCormick rose and stretched. "Yeah, we're about done anyway. Aren't we?" he asked Randolph.

"We are, indeed. Except for the question of the previous will." The estate manager, formerly lawyer's clerk, straightened the various papers on his desk and put them back into their respective folders. "We can make it a codicil to this one, or declare it invalid and superseded by the new one. I'll look into which would be preferable under Scottish law. And I'll add the bequest to the Dorcas Fund." He stood and noticed that Mark had become uncomfortable and was motioning to him to stop talking. "Oh, I beg your pardon. Did you not want anyone to know of the bequest?" He looked from the fidgeting McCormick to the interested Hardcastle. "His lordship's been most generous to the entire staff and to the Fund. But, of course, it seems always to be the generous ones who prefer anonymity. Lunch is ready, is it? Excellent! We've put in a most productive morning, Mr. Hardcastle. Most productive. I'll just fetch that book on estate law first." Randolph pattered off down the hallway toward the library.

The judge cocked his head and looked at McCormick questioningly. "Previous will?" he said mildly. "Didn't know you had one."

"Yeah, well . . ." Mark headed out the door and down the hallway to the dining room.

Hardcastle followed, thinking. "And you didn't want me to know about it? Who witnessed it for ya?" He wrinkled his brow, then suddenly stopped at the door to the dining room. "Wait a minute. You didn't want me to know about it, and didn't get me to even witness it. So, I'm a legatee, huh?"

"Look, Judge, it was right after we got back from Oregon, okay?" McCormick pulled out the chair at the head of the table and dropped into it. "I figured it wouldn't be a bad idea if I left some of my stuff to people just in case something happened on one of your crazy bad guy chases. Now, sit down and eat your lunch like a good boy or you don't get any black bun for dessert."

The judge sat, opened his napkin, eyed the bubbling hot pastry crust of the steak and mushroom pie, and asked, "So what did ya leave me?"

Mark sighed, put down his knife and fork, glared at the judge and said bitterly, "I left you the Coyote, okay?" He compressed his lips, shook his head and added, "And some of my stuff. Like trophies and photographs." He turned back to Hardcastle, who was squinting at him in disbelief. "I got Frank and Mattie to witness it for me and made them swear not to tell you."

"But why not?" The judge looked at him, puzzled. "Why make it such a big secret?"

"Well, I was thinking about telling you. But then we thought you were sick and you were gonna die, and that sure wasn't the right time." Mark made holes in the crust of his pie to let it cool off, then took a deep breath, keeping his eyes firmly on his lunch. "And then I ended up getting shot, and that was probably the time to tell you, but you were already so worried and upset that I didn't want you thinking about me dying on you. So I just never got around to it, and now I've got all this—" he waved a hand around, "to dispose of. So, I still want you to have the Coyote and some of my stuff, and that's going in this will as soon as we figure out the best way to do it."

Hardcastle rubbed his nose thoughtfully. "Well, I appreciate it." He poked a few holes in his own pie crust and watched the steam escape. "But I better not ever inherit anything, ya got that?"

Mark looked up at him as Mr. Randolph entered, brandishing the law book triumphantly. "Yeah, well, I seem to remember promising to do my best. But I also remember you promised the same thing, right?"

"Yeah, I did," said the judge with a sigh. "But now, let's eat!"

ooooo

In the afternoon, asked politely by the staff to vacate the premises to facilitate preparations, Hardcastle and McCormick wandered out into the grounds.

"You wanna walk into town, maybe visit the pub?" asked the judge. "Or we could try for some fish, but it's kinda bright out for that now." He looked skyward. "Might be some trout rising later, 'round sunset."

McCormick regarded him with amusement. "Milton C. Hardcastle, Scottish Trout Expert. Does Holden know you go around quoting him?" He shook his head and took a left turn at the hedges into the lane to Thornecroft.

"Hey, I know a lot about fish," the judge hastened to catch up to the younger man. "Okay, maybe mostly American fish—"

"American fish!" McCormick hmmped.

"All kinds of fish. A fish is a fish."

"Didn't Gertrude Stein say that? 'A fish is a fish is a fish.'" Mark pointed off to the right under the trees. "Look. There's a deer."

"Yeah, a roebuck." The judge lifted his chin and examined the deer critically. "One or two years old, 'cause the antlers haven't branched yet."

Mark looked at him suspiciously. "A deer is a deer is a deer?"

"Something like that."

The two men walked along in companionable silence for a while. The faint sound of church bells sounded and the judge looked at his watch. "Two o'clock. Hey, how about stopping at the church? We still don't know what they want us to do at the fête."

McCormick agreed and pointed out the gate dividing the vicarage grounds from the public road only a quarter-mile ahead of them.

The white-painted wooden gate opened onto a cobblestone path leading to the side door of the two-story vicarage. A cottage garden was bright with hollyhocks and noisy with bees. The judge knocked at the door and the vicar answered it himself.

"Mr. Hardcastle, Lord McCormick, do come in! I'm so pleased you've stopped by." Mr. Thomas led the way to a low-ceilinged parlor and waved them to upholstered armchairs. "Can I offer you anything? It's a bit early for tea, perhaps, but I do have some coffee grains. I find that the Americans usually prefer a beverage they're familiar with."

"Nah, thanks anyway. We just had lunch," the judge answered for both of them. "We had a few questions about the fête is all."

McCormick nodded agreement, then spoke. "But first, can I ask you something, Mr. Thomas?"

The vicar smiled at him as he seated himself on the overstuffed chair near the fireplace. "A great deal of my time is spent in listening to questions and trying to answer them. How can I help you?"

"Well," said McCormick slowly, "One of the maids up at the manor told me she felt better calling me 'Lord McCormick' instead of mister or just Mark. Was she being polite or do the people here really like having an Earl around?"

Hardcastle grunted softly. "You actually asked her that?"

"Yeah, I asked her. I'm not used to having people call me lordship. It makes me . . . I dunno. Feel like a phony or something." Mark looked at the vicar. "What do you think?"

"I'm very much afraid your lordship is going to have to accustom yourself," he said with a distinct twinkle in his eye. "Don't feel like you're imposing, though, or a pretender or fraudulent. We are accustomed to having an earl here, and some find it comforting to stick to tradition. Others may feel . . . oh, too modern, let's say, to use the old form of address. But it does no harm." He looked at Mark closely. "At least, it does no harm to those of us who use the honorific. The harm it might do to the recipient would be inflation of pride, and that seems not to be a concern in this case. If it makes you too uncomfortable, though, I'm sure everyone would settle for a less noble term of address."

Vicar Thomas glanced at Hardcastle, who shrugged and said, "I usually just call him McCormick."

"I don't think the good people of Thornecroft could do that." The vicar smiled at Mark. "Think of it as an honor to the memory of all the earls who've gone before you. Remember, they had great responsibility for the well-being of the community. It cost them time, money, and even their lives occasionally. Be generous and allow us this small sign of esteem for the title you hold. Could you do that without discomfort?"

McCormick sighed. "Yeah. I guess I can get used to just about anything." He shot a look at the judge, who looked off innocently into space. "As long as I don't have to go to Parliament or make speeches or anything."

"Make speeches?" asked a surprised vicar. "But didn't anyone tell you? The Earl always makes a welcoming speech to open the fête!"

ooooo

"So, after the speech, I go take a shift at the coconut shy and you go watch the Morris dancers." The judge checked an item off his list. "Then you judge the jams and preserves and I take a turn at the cake sale."

"Wait a minute," objected McCormick. "Wouldn't it make more sense for you to do the judging?"

"Maybe, but the earl's always been the guy who decides who gets the blue ribbon and that's you. Now, after that the bagpipers come in and we both get a break to listen to them." Hardcastle looked up from his list. "You're gonna need a copy of this."

Mark nodded unenthusiastically, then suddenly brightened. "I know! I can say something like, 'The honor is not in winning the award; the honor is in the nomination', nobody will know what I'm talking about, and we can all go off and do the tombola."

"It does sounds like one of those Latin dances, doesn't it?" mused the judge. "Anyway, after the bagpipers, we got about an hour's break before you have to go to the cream teas tent for a while and I . . . what? Where do I—oh, yeah. I help out at the jumble sale." He looked up at the younger man. "You know that kinda sounded like fun 'til I found out it's just old clothes."

McCormick shrugged. "So, you donate all your stuff and we replace it when we get home. Hey! No fair loading up with a buncha old clothes to take back either," he said indignantly.

"The sausage stand is run by the guy that brings it, same thing for the ring toss. The Women's Institute of the church handles the book swap and the teas. One of the local farmers does the pony rides and Mrs. Tremaine said she's got some girls from the village coming in to help with the dinner that night." The judge put down his list and looked at the Earl, sitting chin in hand, staring at the floor. "What's eating you anyway? This could be fun."

"Yeah, you'll have fun," said Mark unhappily. "It's not you that has to make a speech this time. What am I gonna say to them, Judge? 'Hi there, I'm Mark McCormick and I'll be your earl tonight? Let me know if you need anything.'? And the vicar said there could be a coupla hundred people there." He shook his head and resumed his floor staring.

Hardcastle regarded him with just a touch of exasperation. "How come you can talk the hind leg off a camel, but you can't stand up in front of a lot of folks and just say 'hi, glad you're here'? Now come on, McCormick. Get over it and start making some notes on where you're supposed to be when." He ran his pencil down the list once more. "Oh, the fortune teller. Hey, I heard the woman who's gonna be doing that is supposed to have some real gypsy blood in her. She's new to the area, and she's never told any fortunes before. Whaddya think about that?"

"What I think is that I better get going on my speech. How about 'there is no respect in the world for water'?"

ooooo

Mark didn't sleep well that night, worrying about the fête, particularly his speech. After waking up for the third time, he gave up tossing and turning and sat up, turning on the ornate lamp that sat next to the canopied bed. What the . . . no wonder I was cold. How did the all blankets end up on the floor? A second later, he thought Uh-oh.

As an icy breeze infiltrated the room, the bedroom door swung noiselessly inward and McCormick thought desperately that it was the judge making him even more miserable than he'd been before. "Knock it off, Hardcase," he said tentatively. There was no answer, so the Earl of Blackthorne gathered together his resolution, his courage, and his blankets and advanced to the door. He poked his head into the hallway, saw no one, and withdrew back to the bed.

"Okay," he said resignedly. "It's you, isn't it?"

His only answer was the snick of the door latch.

"Yep. It's you." Mark waited for a moment, then tried again. "So, looking forward to the fête tomorrow?" A pause. "Me, neither. It ought to be a lot of fun, but that speech is really bugging me. Know what I mean?" Another pause. "I just don't know what to say to all those people. And I really don't know why it's so hard to think of what to say. Ol' Hardcastle's right, you know. Normally, I just open my mouth and words fall out."

After a bit of thinking, McCormick said to the ambient air, "It's because it's so important, isn't it?" He waited politely for a response, then spoke again. "It's hard because it really matters what I say. It matters to them and it matters to me. So, any ideas?"

The door latch snicked again, even though the door was still ajar. "How'd you do that?" Mark asked unbelievingly. "So, all you can do is pull off blankets and make things cold and fool with the door latch. Pretty boring, isn't it?"

The cold draft wafted over him again. "Hey, does that mean 'no'?" He considered what he'd been saying and added, "And the door means 'yes'?"

The latch clicked once more.

"Great! Now we can communicate!" He paused and thought about that. "What am I saying? Get a grip, Skid."

A briskly chill breeze blew past him.

"Okay, okay. Just kidding. Boy, you just can't joke with a ghost, can you?" McCormick reflected for a moment, then asked, "Do you know about this society that wants to um, investigate you?"

Door latch.

"Are you worried about it? 'Cause you don't have to be. We're gonna make sure they don't get anywhere near you."

Door latch.

Mark settled back against the pillows. "This is kinda like a ouija board, you know. Hmm. Oh, I know what to ask! Are you the ghost of the Countess Cassandra?"

"Brr. Guess that was a no." He thought again, then decided, "Guess it doesn't really matter who you are. Or were. There's nothing for you to worry about. This is your home and if anybody tries to mess with you, it'll be over my dead body. Whoops. No offense."

ooooo

"The next thing I knew, I woke up this morning. What do you think about that, Judge?"

As usual, breakfast was in the kitchen and it was the visitors' turn to prepare it. Hardcastle had opted for fried eggs, toast, and plenty of coffee since it was quick and would get them out of the way of the kitchen staff sooner. He, Holden, Wee Dougal, and McCormick had gotten Mrs. Tremaine her dozen salmon the night before and now she was anxiously waiting to regain control of her kitchen and start the dinner preparations.

McCormick slathered marmalade on his toast and raised his eyebrows questioningly. "And don't say it was all a dream, either, because the blankets were on the floor again this morning."

Hardcastle took another gulp of his coffee and propped his chin on his hand. "Hmm," he said. "You sure you were awake?"

"Ju-udge, come on. You really think I coulda dreamed something like that?"

"Well . . ."

"Okay, bad question. Do you really think I did dream something like that?"

The judge poured himself another half-cup and pondered. "No," he answered finally. "But what I do think is that she 'visited' you for a reason and that reason has something to do with the fête or she'd've made her little bedside trip before now."

Mark thought that over, then reached for another slice of toast. "That society? I told her we'd take care of that."

"Yeah, maybe that was it. Maybe she was just a little worried and that's all she needed to hear." The judge frowned at the third slice of toast making its way onto Mark's plate. "Shame you didn't find out who she was, though. You gonna eat all day?"

McCormick grinned at him. "Have to keep up my strength. Big day today, ya know." He paused momentarily. "It didn't seem real important. Knowing who she was, I mean. It doesn't really matter, does it? Whether she was a Countess or a maid."

The judge shrugged. "I guess not. Look, the gates open at noon and it's already nine o'clock. You gonna be through with breakfast by then?"

ooooo

The elaborate wrought-iron gates of Blackthorne Manor were ceremonially opened by two of the bedesmen of St. Agnes' Church. A mass of festively-dressed townsfolk swept past and immediately secured the best viewing posts for the traditional Earl's Welcome. A smaller group of tourists followed in their wake, slower and more casually dressed. Among them was a small, dark man with an expensive camera hung around his neck and a large notepad shoved in his pocket. To the casual observer, he appeared to be a local reporter.

A gaily-decorated dais stood in the middle of the south lawn; a banner floating overhead read "St. Agnes Church Fête, Blackthorne Manor" and below it on the dais were four wooden folding chairs and a small table.

Promptly at twelve-fifteen, a small procession wended its way from the side terrace to the dais and mounted it carefully, with much creaking of boards and a great deal of applause from the crowd.

Vicar Thomas stood at the front of the dais and motioned for quiet. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, the church bells struck the quarter hour and a small cheer rose from the townspeople. "You see how punctual we are!" Mr. Thomas announced. "It is my happy duty this afternoon to introduce you to the new earl, a man many of you have already met and a man I am proud to stand beside on this happy occasion. People of Thornecroft, here is Lord McCormick, Earl of Blackthorne!"

From the group of three people behind him, McCormick slowly approached the front of the dais, fingering his tie nervously and swatting at the hand that propelled him forward.

The applause died down, someone in the crowd shouted, "Go to it, lad!", and quiet fell.

"Ah," said Mark, "welcome to Blackthorne Manor."

Everyone greeted this thought with approval and he continued.

"I'm not really good at being an earl." He looked at the faces before him: smiling, curious, intent, encouraging, anticipatory, young, old, in-between. "I'm not that good at making speeches, either." He laughed self-deprecatingly and a voice from the faces shouted, "'Tis a bonny one, so far!" and he realized Wee Dougal had sneaked away from helping at the sausage stand to hear him speak.

"Well," he went on, "the best speeches are the short ones, so here it is. I can't come live here the way all the other earls did. I never expected to be an earl, so I've kind of made a life for myself already, with a little help." He looked behind him for an instant, at the white-haired man with a quiet smile. "But I'll be your earl as long as you need me, and I'll be the best earl I can. With your help. If that's a deal, then go have some fun and be as generous as you can for the Dorcas Fund." He paused fractionally, then called out, "The St. Agnes fête is open!"

The crowd cheered enthusiastically and at length. Then the smallest of the crowd dashed off in search of ponies and sausages, the older ones followed, the vicar and the mayor of Thornecroft shook the earl's hand and departed for duty at the jumble sale and the cricket green.

Hardcastle eyed the earl with a mixed expression, half-solemn, half-smiling. "It was a nice speech. You're due at the Morris dancers on the meadow. I'll meet ya at the bagpipers in an hour and a half."

ooooo

The bagpipers were in fine form and after they'd marched off, the judge turned to McCormick and said, "You had any of those sausages?"

At McCormick's head-shake, he added, "Don't! They're awful."

"You try the coconut shy while you were working the booth?" asked Mark.

"Nah, I figure I got an unfair advantage with all my baseball experience."

After that, it was a foregone conclusion that they'd try to knock down a coconut. Neither did. Two pounds later, it was off to the ring toss to see which could win a stuffed bear.

Weak with laughter, Mark proposed they find out exactly what a cream tea was. An hour later, he and the judge each finally got a milky mug with a cream-filled bun.

"I thought those ladies were never gonna stop cooing over you," said Hardcastle through a mouthful of bun.

"They were very nice and very sweet," McCormick washed down his bun with a healthy swig of tea. "But why do they put milk in the tea? It's bad enough all by itself."

Next stop was the fortune teller's tent. "Cross the Gypsy's Palm with Silver" read the hand-painted sign. "Have Your Future Foretold". McCormick won the coin toss and went first, but as he ducked into the tent, he turned to say, "Hey, remind me I gotta find that guy from the psychic society, the guy from S.PO.N.G.E."

"The man from SP.O.N.G.E.," mused the judge. "You could make a TV show outta that."

McCormick pushed through the tent flaps into darkness lit only by a pair of scented candles on a small, round, cloth-covered table. Behind the table sat a perky brunette with a colorful headscarf.

"Come on in; have a seat," she urged. "I'm Bettina Wilks. Wait, I feel a message from beyond." She covered her eyes with her hands momentarily, then peeked at Mark between her fingers. "You . . ." she intoned gravely, "you . . . want . . . your fortune told!"

"You're batting a thousand so far," Mark grinned at her. He sat carefully on the flimsy chair and shrugged. "So do you look at my hand, or is there a crystal ball somewhere, or do tarot cards come into it? I've never done this before, so you have to tell me what to do."

"Actually," replied Bettina, inspecting him closely, "I've never done this before, either, except for my family and a few friends. My husband and I just moved here from Lincolnshire and I thought the fastest way to fit into a new place would be to volunteer for some of the charities. You're the earl, aren't you? Oh, drat," she frowned. "I could've made that an astonishing revelation by waving my hands in the air and listening to voices from the ether. A few moans, a little trance and you'd have been impressed."

McCormick laughed with her, then extended a hand, palm up. "Okay, do your stuff. But if you tell me I'm going on an ocean voyage with a tall, dark stranger, I'm outta here."

"That's funny," she said slowly. "That's the first thing I thought of when you came in. A trip on water, but not—" she smiled at him, "the tall, dark stranger part." She wrinkled her brow, took his hand in her own and closed her eyes. "There are two short, grey-haired women involved somehow. And another woman, one with a face like the ones you see as figureheads on a ship. Or is she a captain of a ship? I'm getting confused. Let's start over."

She opened her eyes, but kept a light grip on his hand. "Do you want to know something in particular, or do you just want to know something about your future?"

"Well, it'd help if you can tell me I'm going to pass the bar exam." Mark shrugged, half-serious, half-joking. "Or, whatever you can find out."

Bettina sat quietly, eyes closed, her hand gently cupping McCormick's, for nearly a minute. Then she opened her mouth to speak, paused fractionally, and said, "You will find your home in the hand of a friend, a man who wears a mask." She paused again. "You have lost many people, and many opportunities, but your time of loss is over. You will achieve your goals and your heart's desire. Many people will bless your name and your children's children will honor your memory. A sun rises behind you, but your eyes are shaded. The present danger will be resolved and a woman's spirit protected."

Mark sat staring at her, mouth half-open.

"Well," Bettina said, opening her eyes and shaking herself, "what did I say?" She released Mark's hand and looked at him expectantly.

ooooo

"Well," asked the judge, "what did she say?"

McCormick shook his head slowly. "A lotta stuff. Some of it kinda made sense, some of it . . . well, I didn't understand it all, but it was kinda spooky. Go on in; see what she says to you." He gave the judge a gentle shove toward the tent flap. "Go on. I gotta find that S.P.O.N.G.E. guy."

Hardcastle eased a hand under the flap and peered into the tent.

"You come seeking to know the unknown," moaned Bettina in a quavering voice. "You come seeking the Irish Sweeps winner." She opened her eyes and grinned at a clearly-skeptical Hardcastle. "Or maybe not," she admitted.

He grinned back at her and seated himself. "So how come a fortune teller can't tell what I want to know?" he asked. "Shouldn't that be part of the shtick?"

"Probably, but then I never claimed to be an expert at this. I'm just doing it for a good cause. Does it really matter if I have a touch of the Gift or not?" Bettina held out her hand.

"Nah. I never put much faith in any of that hoo-hah anyway." The judge placed his hand in hers. "I mean, it's all kinda vague sounding, 'you'll inherit a fortune, you'll travel abroad, you'll have a big disappointment' stuff anyway, right?"

Bettina closed her eyes and murmured, "Must have Irish blood in you. Hoo-hah, indeed. Now, clear your mind. Not a problem for you, I'm guessing," she peeked under a half-opened lid. "Hush. Be still."

A minute passed, with the judge not shifting much, then the gypsy spoke.

"Grief has had its time with you and is now spent. Your passion for justice will give you what you have lost. Many dangers will be overcome with the aid of a minstrel. Your namesake will tread in your paths and you will live to see it. You are needed in the Countess' Powder Closet. A man threatens my existence. My scion is near, but will need your aid. Come at once."

ooooo

McCormick had spent nearly ten minutes looking for the man from S.P.O.N.G.E. before he found a tot smeared with ice cream who told him 'the strange man with the camera went into the house'. None of the staff was visible; understandably, they were either in the kitchen preparing for the formal dinner or helping with the fête. McCormick looked quickly through the downstairs areas that were open to the public during the fête, then took the stairs two at a time.

Most of the bedrooms and suites were locked, but the Countess' Powder Closet was left open for the portrait photographs to be taken of the dinner guests in all their finery. And here Mark found the elusive man from S.P.O.N.G.E.

"Hey!" Mark said indignantly. "What the hell are you doing with that?"

The dark little man looked up from a gizmo on the floor he'd been adjusting. "I'm fine-tuning the modulator." He flipped a switch on the side of the tiny box and straightened up. "It'll cause an interference in the energy waves, you see. All our research has convinced us this is a classic case of location identification." He turned to face Mark. "And who the devil are you, sir?"

McCormick took a menacing step toward him and said grimly, "I'm the Earl of Blackthorne and you're a trespasser. Turn that off—" he pointed at the gently humming black box, "and get out!"

"Ah, there she is," whispered the little man. "Just as we thought."

Mark turned to see a wavery fog appearing in the room, wisps and small streamers of an indeterminate substance that floated and eddied on the air. "What's that?" he whispered.

"That, my dear sir, is your 'ghost'. The manifestation of a person who so completely identified with this place that part of her remained when she died. Her essence, if you will. Her spirit." The little man pulled loose from Mark's grip and quickly took a photograph of the hazy, shimmery fog. "Now, we just adjust the frequency and you'll have no more trouble with this ghost." He made a move toward the box on the floor, but was grabbed by McCormick, who shook him like a terrier does a rat.

"Who gave you the right to do this?" said Mark through clenched teeth. "She isn't your ghost. She's part of Blackthorne. She's ours."

A sneering expression passed over the psychic explorer's face. "I'm afraid you're wrong. She's unpredictable, a danger and must be eradicated. That is my job, and I shan't let you stop me now. Perhaps you would be good enough to look at my left hand."

McCormick did, and saw a small pistol pointed at his ribcage.

"Desperate times call for desperate measures," said the small man calmly. "I am perfectly willing to go to prison if that means one less ectoplasmic formation in the world. Now, please stand away."

"Not on your tin-type," said a gruff voice from the doorway.

As the man from S.P.O.N.G.E. turned to face the new arrival, McCormick twisted away from the pistol and forced the hand that held it straight up. "The box on the floor!" he shouted. "Turn it off!"

Hardcastle grabbed the pistol as he passed and stooped to examine the buzzing box. "How?" he asked reasonably. "Do I flip the switch?"

"I don't know," panted Mark, pinning the struggling psychic destroyer's arms behind him. "Break it. Step on it or something."

The judge stomped deliberately on the box, the humming stopped abruptly, and the shimmering haze gradually faded away.

"You're a real loony-tune, ya know," said Hardcastle to the disheveled and distressed man in Mark's grip. "You got no right to be here, you got no right to interfere in somebody else's business, and you got no right to go poking people with guns. I don't know what rights you do have under the laws of Scotland, but we're damn well gonna find out."

ooooo

The discreet police car took the man from S.P.O.N.G.E. off with no notice from the attendees of the fête, who were too interested in the awarding of the ribbons for the jams and preserves competition to notice anything else.

After the Best of Show was awarded, the fête was declared over by the vicar and the happy throng slowly made its way out through the gates and homeward.

Hardcastle joined McCormick as he stepped off the dais. "Strawberry Jam won Best of Show? It beat out Orange Conserve and Plum Berry Jam?"

"Yeah," smiled Mark. He leaned close and murmured, "She'd never even won a ribbon, so the vicar thought that might turn out to be my favorite."

"Ah." The judge nodded and turned to see Bettina Wilks heading in their direction. He nudged McCormick and said, "Hey, she's the one that told me you needed help and where you were. At least, I think it was her."

Bettina tugged off her headscarf as she came up to them and gestured toward the manor house. "Am I right in thinking you got a message, sir? Through me?"

The judge nodded, then shook his head, then spread his hands apart, palm upwards and shrugged. "I dunno. Maybe. I guess."

"Nothing like an expert opinion," Mark grinned at him. "And I mean that's nothing like an expert opinion."

"I've never had that happen before," Bettina mused. "Not even when I was reading for my family. My grandmother was a Romany, you know." She dangled the scarf in her hand. "This was hers. I wonder . . ."

"Well, it's a good thing you did . . . get a message." The judge swiped at his nose thoughtfully. "Whatever or whoever it was."

Bettina smiled up at him. "Oh, I can tell you who it was. It was one of the countesses."

Both men gaped at her, but Hardcastle was the first to speak. "One of the countesses? But how do you know?"

"And which one?" put in McCormick.

"Oh, now, that's more difficult." Bettina thought for a moment. "All I can say is that she seemed to have been here for quite some time, a few hundred years, perhaps. And she was ah, how shall I put this? Very much used to command. She almost had an air of royalty about her."

Mark hmm'ed. "I'll have to get Mrs. Hoskins to look that up."

"Yeah, do that. Hey, listen, Bettina. Thanks a lot for all your help." Hardcastle put out a hand to her. "If I ever need my fortune told again, I'm coming straight to you."

"Same here. Next year's fête, maybe?" Mark also shook her hand. "Be sure to wear your grandmother's scarf again, too."

Bettina smiled at them. "I don't know. Next year I might volunteer to help with the jumble sale instead. Having the Gift is a responsibility, you know. We'll see." She moved off, and turned to add, "But we will meet again. That much I do know."

The two men waved good-bye, then McCormick tapped the judge on the shoulder and pointed out the Blackthorne butler striding purposefully toward them.

"Gentlemen," said Holden as he came to a stop before them, "your attire has been laid out for you and the dinner guests are due within the hour. May I respectfully suggest you both ready yourselves?"

McCormick grinned at him, then turned to the judge. "Yeah, we better get started. You've never worn a kilt, have you, Hardcase?" He looked at Holden. "I think I can do it myself this time, so why don't you give the judge a hand with his wardrobe?"

"It will be my pleasure," responded Holden demurely.

The judge backed away to the edge of the dais and held up a hand. "Ya know, I been thinking maybe I'll just skip this dinner thing. I mean, it's not like these folks are here to meet me, and it would probably—"

"Not a chance," Mark advanced on him purposefully. "I've had three people tell me how much they look forward to meeting you. Come on, Judge." He took Hardcastle's arm. "It takes a real man to wear a skirt."

ooooo

"C'mon, Judge." Mark tapped on the door again. "We've only got about ten minutes to get downstairs. Holden said you were nearly ready when he left you." He leaned against the doorframe comfortably. "Of course, I could just tell everybody that you were too insecure to appear in their country's formal clothes. Or I could say you cut yourself shaving your legs and were too embarrassed—"

The door opened abruptly and McCormick nearly fell through it. He inspected a defiant, yet strangely unsure, Hardcastle. "Hmm." He stepped backward to get a better angle. "You need to straighten the left sock. Here, let me—"

The judge slapped his hand away. "I'll do it myself," he growled.

Mark snickered at his expression, then shook his head and dialled the grin back a bit. "You look fine, Judge. Honest. See, it's not so bad, is it?" He looked the judge over again. "Really. You look great. Very distinguished. That's the MacLaine tartan, ya know, since you don't have one of your own."

Hardcastle glared at him, then turned to look at himself in the full-length mirror beside the bureau. "You think it's okay?" He tugged a bit at the black velvet jacket and fingered the snowy ruffles of the shirt, then looked down at his waist. "This thing's kinda weird, this . . . sporran thing."

"Yeah, but you get used to it. Did you notice how the silver on the top matches your belt buckle?" McCormick glanced at his watch. "Now, we've got about twenty people due any minute, so can we please get downstairs?"

"Maybe it's not so bad," said the judge, turning one way then another to see himself from all angles. "At least I got the legs for it."

ooooo

The judge had his photograph taken in his kilt, and survived. The fact that all the male guests were similarly attired helped him maintain his composure, even under the amused gaze of the earl, who wore his kilt with a certain panache.

After all the studio protraits were taken, everyone convened in the drawing room for pre-dinner sherry. McCormick soon got over any feelings of anxiety by using a conversational trick that Mattie Groves had imparted to him once: 'Get 'em talking about themselves'. He found out where his guests lived, how long their families had been there, whether or not they had attended the fête, and after that beginning had no trouble making small talk.

Hardcastle was soon swapping war stories with the older guests and seemed annoyed to be interrupted by dinner, but found that his neighbor at the table was a county magistrate.

Dinner was nearly over, and the twenty-two guests had made conversation general by the time dessert was served. The roasted salmon halves had been served on beds of spinach with a side dish of wild rice and mushrooms as a nod to the current earl's American background. The salmon was universally acclaimed and the dessert of individual butter tarts was accompanied by glasses of Blackthorne whiskey, which raised a cheer.

"I just wish we knew for sure," said Mark sotto voce, "that she was okay. I mean, that thing was running for a coupla minutes and we don't know if it did her some kinda harm or not."

The judge, seated at his right hand, shook his head. "Look, if she's managed to stick around all this time, she's probably not gonna fade out because of some weird little box. You're worrying over nothing." He leaned a little closer. "You get a good look at the guy in the red plaid?"

McCormick nodded. "Yeah, he's a McAlister."

"Well," the judge sampled his glass of nectar, "there are some people who just shouldn't wear a kilt." He smirked just a bit and adjusted his own garments slightly. "They just don't have the knees for it."

Mark reached for his napkin to hide his smile, but it was suddenly whisked off his lap and onto the floor. He looked at the judge and the judge looked back.

"I'm guessing she's okay," grinned Hardcastle.

ooooo

The next morning was spent in a final tidying of the estate after the hugely profitable fête. The judge spent a couple of hours in the kitchen, closely observed by Mrs. Tremaine, and lunch was Hardcastle's Three Alarm Chili with cornbread. A popular side dish was guacamole with crisps.

"We really shoulda brought some tortilla chips," said Mark, going back for seconds on the chili. "Potato chips—crisps, I mean, just aren't as good."

The judge nodded sagely. "Yeah, but they'd never have gotten here intact. Besides, everybody seems to like it just fine the way it is."

"True. Hey, did you know they call ice cream cones cornets over here? And popsicles are ice lollies." Mark took another chunk of cornbread.

"Head's up, Randolph's heading this way with some more papers." Hardcastle grabbed another square of cornbread for himself and went to sit with Mrs. Tremaine and Wee Dougal, who were discussing the feasibility of growing avocados.

The estate manager planted himself in front of Mark and ducked his head shyly. "I know you've only an hour or so before you have to leave, and I do apologize most sincerely for disturbing your luncheon, but we've received several inquiries in today's mail that I think you should consider."

McCormick scraped up the last of his chili and grabbed a napkin to wrap up his cornbread. "Don't you ever eat?" He sighed in mock chagrin at Randolph's head shake and impish smile. "Okay, let's get it over with it. What've you got? Should we go to your office?"

Once in the estate manager's office, Randolph spread five letters of inquiry out on the desk. "Each one inquires about our rates and facilities for a nightly or weekend booking. Two are from organizations that host events for overseas tourists — medieval banquets and dances and the like. One is a private party from America interested in renting for a weekend, a wealthy Australian has inquired about holding a debutante ball, and the last is a request for a calendar of our Public Days with an eye to running bus tours here from York."

Mark looked up from the letters to Randolph. "We got some free publicity from the fête, didn't we?"

"Exactly so. The arrest of that nasty little man made us newsworthy, it seems, and the success of the fête itself has occasioned interest in our facilities. One, the private party, has even asked if catering is available." He looked up at Mark with a gleam in his eye. "This could be extremely profitable, my lord."

The door latch was heard.

"But no ghost-hunters," said McCormick sternly. "No psychics, no astrologers or paranormal researchers or anything like that."

"Certainly not, my lord," agreed Randolph.

The latch snicked again decisively.

ooooo

"So, you got everything all squared away before we left?" Hardcastle tried a different position in his seat on the airplane. "The previous will and the entailment and all that stuff?"

"Yep," said McCormick without looking up from his textbook.

"You still leaving the unentailed parts to the staff?" The judge thought about trying to cross his legs, but decided against it.

"Yep," replied McCormick again.

"Well, as long as you didn't leave it to me." Hardcastle waited in vain for a response, then shifted again. "What time is it?" he asked complainingly.

"Don't you have a watch on?" said McCormick, reluctantly lifting his eyes from his book.

"Yeah, but I can't see it from here." The judge squirmed a bit, then gave up and stood, hunched over to avoid hitting his head on the overhead compartment. "Only three more hours 'til we land." He spotted a small medallion on a chain that hung from the handle of McCormick's briefcase. "Hey, what's that?"

Mark finally gave up trying to read and looked to see where the judge was pointing. "Oh, Mrs. Hoskins found that in the drawing room display case and thought I should have it." He unclasped the chain from the handle and handed medallion and chain to Hardcastle.

"It's a coat of arms." Hardcastle rubbed gently at the enamelled surface. "Blackthorne coat of arms, huh? Real nice."

"Yeah," McCormick reached to take the medallion back from him. "Did you see the motto, here at the bottom? It says 'nunquam perdo spes'. Randolph translated it for me."

"Never something . . . never lose something?"

"'Never lose hope.' Pretty appropriate, huh?" Mark smiled down at the medallion.

The judge thought about that for a minute. "Yeah, I guess it is." He hesitated briefly, then added, " I don't think I have a family motto. Maybe I could use yours?"

McCormick smiled as he reattached the medallion to his briefcase. "Why not?"

finis