“A twenty-pound reward, yes. Do you know where he is?”
“Let me see the twenty pounds,” Henry demanded.
Sheriff Somerled nodded at Deputy Malcolm, and Malcolm walked over to a file, opened a drawer, and took our four five-pound notes and handed them to the sheriff. Postmaster Henry reached out for them, but the sheriff pulled his hand back.
“Where is he?”
“Well, that’s just it, Sheriff. I will tell you where he is, but you will nae be able to do anything about it. ’Tis out of your jurisdiction, he is.”
“Where is he?” Sheriff Somerled asked again.
“He is in New York.”
“New York? You mean he is in America?”
“Aye.”
“Then he did get on the ship that night,” Somerled said, hitting his fist into his hand. “I should have gone aboard to look for him. How do you know he is in New York?”
“He wrote this letter to Ian McGregor,” the postmaster said, showing the envelope to the sheriff. “It has his return address on it. Two hundred West Forty-eighth Street, New York, New York.”
“How do we know he is still there?” Deputy Malcolm asked.
“Because he has a job there,” the postmaster said. “It is clear that he plans to stay for a while.”
“How do you know that?” Sheriff Somerled asked.
“I steamed open the envelope and read the letter,” Postmaster Henry said. “I made a copy of the letter before I returned it to the envelope.”
“Let me see your copy.”
“That will cost you another twenty pounds,” Henry said.
“I could arrest you for opening someone else’s mail,” Sheriff Somerled warned.
“You could. But you may not find another postmaster who is as willing to cooperate with you as I have always been.”
“Yes, for profit,” Somerled said.
“One has to make a living, Sheriff. The postal service pays so little.”
Somerled stroked his chin for a moment, then nodded at Malcolm. “Get him another twenty pounds,” he said.
Deputy Malcolm got another twenty pounds and gave it to the postmaster who, in return, gave the sheriff a folded piece of paper. “I printed it clearly so you should have no trouble reading it,” the postmaster said.
Somerled took the piece of paper, opened it, and began reading eagerly.
“If you will excuse me, I have business to attend to,” the postmaster said. “I must deliver this letter to Mr. McGregor.”
Because Somerled was reading the letter, he made no response to Henry, who left after carefully putting the money in the inside pocket of his jacket.
“Anything interesting, Sheriff?” Malcolm asked.
“How would you like to go to America?” Somerled asked.
“I’ve always wanted to visit America,” Malcolm replied.
“I’ll be sending you, along with Roderick and Alexander. And I’ll be putting you in charge, knowing how hotheaded and irresponsible my two boys are.”
“You’ll be tellin’ them I’m in charge, will you not, Sheriff? For without hearing from you, I think they may not listen.”
“I will tell them and they will listen,” Sheriff Somerled said.
“Sheriff, ye have no jurisdiction in America. When we find MacCallister, how do you want me to deal with him?”
“Deal with him? There will be no dealing with him,” Sheriff Somerled said. “I’ll be for wanting you to kill him.”
Malcolm smiled. “It was hoping, I was, that you would say that. Gillis and Nevin were good friends of mine. I will take pleasure in avenging them.”
“’Tis for them you be seeking vengeance, and ’tis for their brother that Roderick and Alexander will be doing the same. Don’t let me down, Malcolm. I want Duff Tavish MacCallister killed, and when he dies, there will be no more MacCallisters in Scotland. The two hundred and more years our clans have been at war will come to an end.”
The young lady’s name was Miriam Phelps, and she was from one of New York’s wealthiest and most fashionable families. This was not her first transatlantic voyage, though it was the first one she had made alone, and she was now coming back from a grand tour of Europe.
Roderick and Alexander Somerled met her in the first-class dining room, and she had flirted outrageously with both of them. Malcolm had watched with interest how she was playing the brothers against each other. He knew
