The Windsor Knot

“He’s a marvel for his age,” said Cameron affectionately.

“Which is more than we can say for you,” said Ian. “You’d left one of your magazines out in the garden.”

“Sorry, I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

Ian folded up the towel and left Traveller attending to his toilette on the hearth rug. “That’s odd,” he murmured, going to the window that faced onto the garden.

“What’s odd?” asked Cameron, still scribbling.

“I knew something was the matter,” announced Ian, peering through the rain-flecked window at the green expanse of lawn. “But I couldn’t place what it was while I was out there. I was too busy getting wet. But I’ve realized it just now. Have you noticed that our garden gnome is missing?”

Cameron was still contemplating his list of prospective wedding guests. What about former roommates? Should you invite them? “I’m sorry. What did you say?” he murmured.

“The bloody garden gnome!” said Ian impatiently. “You know, the plaster one in the little red hat that used to stand over there next to the rowan tree. About three feet high and damned heavy, too. Well, he’s gone missing.”

Cameron went over to the window and looked out, but there was no sign of a plaster lawn ornament anywhere in the garden. “I hadn’t noticed. Perhaps he’s in the garage.”

“No, I put my bike in there when I came home just now, and he isn’t there.”

“Well, perhaps he’s been shifted to some other part of the lawn and you can’t see him from here.”

“I haven’t moved him, and Mother certainly wouldn’t, because he’s too heavy for her to lift. Have you done something with him?”

“No, of course not,” said Cameron. “I barely noticed the thing. It’s vandals, I expect. Report it to the police or something, if you’re that incensed about it.”

“I certainly am,” said Ian. “It’s a violation of property. At the estate agents where I work they take that sort of thing very seriously. They’re always cautioning me to look around the grounds when I show a house, to see if anything has been tampered with. Sometimes so-called pranks like that indicate that vandals have noticed the place. It’s sort of a test, and if no action is taken over a small incident, they may come back and do much worse. We could be burgled.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Cameron. “I think you ought to phone the authorities.”

Ian reddened. “I’d feel like an utter twit ringing up to report the theft of a garden gnome. They might think I actually liked the wretched statue.”

“No, it’s the principle of the thing. A poor gnome, but mine own,” said Cameron with all the solemnity he could muster. “Besides, Mother likes it, doesn’t she?”

Ian considered the matter. “She wouldn’t get rid of it,” he said at last. “It was a gift to her from Auntie Barbara. They used to go completely mad every spring planning the garden, remember? Always putting in cabbage roses, or some other improbable plant, and thinking up projects that required us to dig. The gnome was from their Tolkien period: fairies at the bottom of the garden.”

“True,” said Cameron, smiling. “That makes the thing a family heirloom. I think you’d better notify the police.”

“Why don’t you call them? You’re older.”

“But you discovered the theft.”

In the outer hall the telephone began to ring.

“Tell you what,” said Cameron, moving toward the doorway. “Whoever the phone is for has to call the police when he’s finished talking.”

“That’s hardly fair. You’re only visiting, but I have dozens of friends who-oh, all right. It’s a deal.”

“Good. I thought it was your job to call anyhow.” Cameron picked up the phone. “Dawson residence.”

“Hello,” said Elizabeth. “Did the invitations arrive yet?”

Cameron swore.

“Is anything the matter?” asked Elizabeth. “Why is someone laughing in the background?”

“Oh, never mind. No, the invitations have not arrived, but I’m working on my list.”

“Good. I have finished sending out all the ones over here. All that’s left is to plan the ceremony itself, but that will have to wait until I get to Chandler Grove. Meanwhile I’ve been reading royal biographies-you know, to get some ideas.”

Cameron groaned.

“What did you say?”

“Oh, nothing. Reading royal biographies, are you?”

“Yes. They had such interesting lives. Did you know that Queen Mary-Princess May of Teck, she was then-was actually engaged to the older brother of George V, and when he died, she married George instead!”

“I’ll have to mention that to Ian,” said Cameron. That will frighten him, he finished silently.

“And, of course, I’m doing what I can to make preliminary plans for the wedding. At the moment I’m trying to decide what everybody is going to wear. Military dress uniforms would be wonderful, of course.”

“I don’t think they’d suit you, dear.”

Elizabeth giggled. “You are in a temper, aren’t you? Anyway, I don’t suppose that you and Ian own kilts.”

“Yes. I believe they’re upstairs in a trunk in the box room. We had our pictures taken in them when we were nine and three respectively.”

In the sitting room, Ian, who was eavesdropping, had turned a strangled red in his efforts to keep quiet. No kilts, he mouthed soundlessly to his brother.

“I think we’ll just wear suits, Elizabeth,” said Cameron firmly. “Ian doesn’t seem terribly taken with the idea of donning a kilt.”

The brisk tone of Cameron’s voice finally registered with his fiancee. “Is anything the matter, Cameron?” she asked. “You seem awfully strange.”

Cameron sighed. “Oh, nothing major. I just have to ring up the police in a moment.”

“The police!” cried Elizabeth. “What’s wrong!”

“Nothing like last time you were in Edinburgh,” Cameron assured her, remembering the evening that had ended with a murder in Tanner’s Close. “Just a kidnapping this time. Someone has gone and stolen our garden gnome.”

“Your what?”

“A plaster statue of a dwarf that used to stand in the garden in lieu of anything actually ornamental. Someone has taken it, apparently. Ugly thing. Our first impulse was to dash off a thank-you note to the thief, but Mother is actually fond of the thing, and Ian-the-Estate-Agent-Extraordinaire seems rather annoyed by the principle of the thing. Violation of property and all that. I suppose he’s right. Next time it could be something valuable that is stolen. So I said I’d report it.”

“Good luck,” said Elizabeth. “I suppose things are going well with you if that garden gnome is your biggest worry at the moment.”

“Well, it makes for a change anyway,” said Cameron.

In the Chandler Grove Shrine to the U.S. Navy (also known as his study), Captain Grandfather was taking his afternoon nap, his swivel chair tilted back at a precarious angle and his feet propped up on the pine coffee table. Any lurching of the chair caused by the restless sleeper was translated by his dreams into the pitch of a ship at sea.

Soundlessly the study door opened, and the old man’s grandson Charles crept in, moving in the exaggerated slow motion of one who is afraid of disturbing a sleeper. He was holding his breath as well. For a few seconds he looked about the room, exhaling slowly, and then breathing again, normally but quietly. His gaze slid past the ship models, the black-framed photographs, and the pile of unanswered letters, and finally lit upon the object of his quest: the current issue of The Georgian Highlander, an upscale local magazine, full of restaurant ads and notices of cultural events, neither of which interested Charles in the least. Nevertheless, it was vital that he get hold of the magazine, which was at present lying on the coffee table under Captain Grandfather’s left foot.

After a few moments of deliberation, during which he tried to think of an excuse for wanting the magazine should he be caught filching it, Charles gently lifted the old man’s foot just enough to slide the