Highland Laddie Gone

by Sharyn McCrumb

  Nothing.

  “Dr. Campbell! Are you in there?” Margaret tried the door handle, hoping that she was not about to find out what Colin wore under his kilt.

  The door swung open, and she found herself face-to-face with the clan chief himself. “You’re late!” Margaret cried, before she got a good look at him and discovered that he was indeed the late Colin Campbell.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE forest clearing had that strained sound of great activity striving for silence: the scrape of boot leather against brush; the faint click of metal; and through it all the rhythmic current of breathing. Gray-clad bodies, blending like shadows into the broom-sedge, edged up the hill with their Enfield rifles, slowly and silently creeping toward the boulder at the summit. A pebble dislodged by a boot heel made scarcely as much noise as a sweatbee hovering overhead.

  Behind the troops, a hawk-faced man with silver sideburns and officer’s braid sat astride a bay mare, his hand upraised to signal the charge.

  Everything was as still as a Matthew Brady photograph of Shiloh: Confederate troops prepare to advance! The soldiers looked back for the go-ahead, but it was forestalled by a spell-breaking sound from the colonel’s belt. Brrrh! Brrrh!

  Alexander “Lightfoot” MacDonald’s voice shattered the stillness. “Stop the goddamn war! I got to answer the phone!”

  Margaret McLeod had had the presence of mind not to scream. A nurse for several years before she married Peter, she knew how to handle death scenes. Quickly veritying her first impression that Colin was indeed dead, she hurried back to the grandstand where Andy Carson was continuing to delay the ceremony by prolonging his opening remarks. The wool-clad troops, many of whom had been toasting each other’s health all morning, were growing restive.

  Margaret caught Andy’s eye, and motioned for him to let someone else take the podium for a while.

  “What is it?” he hissed. “I was just coming to the punch line!”

  Seeing his face drain of color when she told him, Margaret concluded that her punch line had been better than his. “What should we do?” he whispered, casting an anxious glance at the field full of suspects.

  Margaret had already thought this out. “You go up and announce the coming events for the rest of the day, and read the names of the competition winners if you have to. I’ll go to the rescue-squad truck and get them to radio the sheriff.”

  Andy Carson looked down at his sheaf of notes, and back at the sweaty crowd on the field. “How long will it take him to get here?” he whined.

  The sheriff was on the scene in less than ten minutes, but this was ninety per cent luck and only ten per cent departmental efficiency. When the squad radioed in about a possible homicide at the Scottish festival, dispatcher Charlotte Revis weighed the two relevant facts in the matter: that it was Sheriff MacDonald’s day off, and that he was actually in Glencoe Park, within a mile or so of the death scene. Ranking business before pleasure, Charlotte put through a call on the sheriff’s mobile telephone to relay the message.

  “Damnit, Charlotte, what is it?” rasped the sheriff’s voice in her ear. Beep!

  “Where are you, sir?”

  “Fighting the Battle of Wicker’s Ford Hollow! Over!”

  Lightfoot MacDonald was the colonel of the local Civil War reenactment militia, and as Charlotte knew, the troops were having a dress rehearsal for next Saturday’s mock battle in Glencoe Park. If she knew her park geography, the battle site should put the sheriff within a mile of the Scottish festival.

  “We have a ten thirty-three out where you are. Can you ten twenty-one, please?”

  Another beep. “I rode the horse over behind some trees, so I can talk now. What is the nature of the ten thirty-three?” He listened, dodging tree branches while Sorrel switched and stamped at botflies. “Right,” he said at last. “I’ll go over there now. Put in a ten seventy-nine to meet me there, please. Out.”

  Lightfoot MacDonald stopped long enough to turn over his command of the rehearsal to Wilburn Blevins, saying only that he had “police business,” and then he cantered Sorrel up the nature trail toward the Glencoe meadow.

  Andy Carson mopped his forehead and ventured a smile at the glowering crowd in front of him. “I apologize for the delay,” he said again. “But it shouldn’t be much…” His voice trailed away into an open-mouthed stare.

  Coming toward him from a break in the pines was a Confederate army officer on a large brown horse. The apparition, complete with sword and canteen, trotted across the field, skirting clumps of clansmen, and stopped beside the speakers’ platform.

  “I’m Sheriff Lightfoot MacDonald,” said the soldier. “I’m here in response to a call you people put in for assistance.”

  “Yes. Mrs. McLeod can show you where he-the-it is. Can I go on with the ceremony?” The natives looked not only restive but, in some cases, a few over the limit, as well.

  Lightfoot shrugged. “Sure. As long as nobody gets in my way. You might ask anyone with information to come forward.” He leaned back on his horse to wait for the announcement.

  Dr. Carson wandered back to the podium. “Fellow Scots,” he began. He wondered who had snickered when he said that. “It is my sad duty to announce to you that the presentation of the clans has been delayed because of the untimely passing of the chief of Clan Campbell, and we have reason to suspect foul play.”

  Lightfoot MacDonald looked up sharply at this; but before he could interrupt, a wobbly fellow in a blue kilt shouted, “This is Glencoe! It’s the MacDonalds who got murdered, isn’t it?”

  “We’re paying them back!” shouted a wag from the MacDonald ranks, waving his hip flash. “Return to Glencoe!” “Hell, you didn’t do it!” roared a Murray, not to be outdone in the joke. “The Murrays owe the bastards for Culloden!”

  “Up the Stewarts! Up the Stewarts!” chanted a red-kilted bunch in center field.

  Someone eise countered with, “Down with Campbells?”

  Andy Carson looked helplessly at the grim-faced sheriff.

  “What’s going on here?” hissed the sheriff.

  Carson sighed. “They think it’s a joke, I’m afraid. Because he’s a Campbell.”

  Lightfoot shook his head. “I’ll talk to you later,” he said, turning his horse. “I’d like to see the body now.”

  “Of course I didn’t touch anything,” said Margaret McLeod in her calm, efficient voice. “I could see that he was dead. I used to be a nurse.”

  Lightfoot grunted. “We’ll go over the place when my deputy gets here. Did you notice the cause of death at the time?”

  Margaret nodded. “I could see the blade sticking out of his chest, and of course I recognized it.” Seeing his look of surprise, she hastened to add, “I don’t mean that I know who it belongs to. I mean that I knew what it was.”

  “A dagger.”

  “No. A skian dubh. Well, I guess it is a dagger, but it’s the one that men wear in their kilt hose when they’re in Highland dress.”

  The sheriff thought back to the crowd assembled in front of the speakers’ platform. “You mean all those jokers were armed?”

  “Most of them,” Margaret admitted, though she wouldn’t have thought of it that way herself. She looked pointedly at Lightfoot’s cavalry sword.

  “Now, just what had this man done to make all those people hate him so much?”

  Margaret McLeod hesitated. “You mean personally or… otherwise?”

  The sheriff blinked. “There’s an otherwise?”

  “Oh, yes. He was a Campbell, you see.”

  “So who would want to kill a Campbell?”

  “Why, everybody.”

  Half an hour later, the site examination was well in hand, and the sheriff was able to turn things over to the deputy and the coroner, and to proceed with the questioning of witnesses. He had taken over the hospitality tent as a makeshift headquarters-with Sorrel tied to one of the support posts.

  “Now, let me get this straight,” he said to the still-fidgeting
Andy Carson. “You people are all mad at this fellow over something that happened in 1746?”

  Andy searched for common ground. “Well, Sheriff,” he said brightly, “it was their Civil War.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Lightfoot. “But we’re not still stabbing people.”

  “We’re not, either, that I know of,” said Dr. Carson mildly. “But I did announce your request for information, and there are a few people who came forward and asked to speak with you.”

  Lightfoot relaxed. This case might not be such a blister, after all. With a good six hours of daylight left, he might make it back to the war. He enjoyed an occasional outing with the local militia-it gave him a sense of history and a form of recreation that seemed less dandified than golf. Also, it met his need for an element of drama. Most people might assume that sheriffing would supply all the theatrics one might require in life, but that was an outsider’s view of the job.

  To Lightfoot’s mind, being a peace officer was a lot like fishing: ninety per cent psychology and patience, and only ten per cent confrontation. Most of the drama associated with the office of sheriff lay in public appearances: cutting an imposing figure at the county fair, making the occasional speech to a civic group, and generally personifying the law, with a pearl-handled pistol and a shiny brass badge. Lightfoot was good at it. He had the foxlike Cherokee-Scots bone structure to look the part, but he couldn’t call the work exciting, this case included. Likely as not, some drunk would turn out to have done it without meaning to, and the whole sorry mess could be dumped in some lawyer’s lap by morning.

  He looked at his notes on the case. The deceased had been an M.D., aged sixty-three; that he had been in fine health was the only good word anybody had to say about him so far. In Lightfoot’s experience, cantankerous old men got themselves avoided, not murdered; he wondered what the wrinkle was in this case.

  “Who’s first?” he asked Andy Carson.

  Jerry Buchanan, still colorful in his clan tartan, came forward. “I am, sir.” He gave his name, being careful to add that he was a dentist, because the very dullness of his profession added to his credibility.

  “And what information do you have about the deceased?” asked Lightfoot politely.

  “It was a political killing!” hissed Jerry. “He was assassinated by the S.R.A.!”

  Lightfoot looked up. “Spell that.”

  “It’s like the I.R.A.,” Jerry explained. “The Scottish Republican Army. They’re planning to pull out of Great Britain, just as America did in 1776.”

  “And Dr. Campbell was a member?”

  “No, of course not.” Jerry Buchanan began to look uncomfortable. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to appear too knowledgeable about terrorist activities. He certainly hadn’t bargained for domestic killings when he’d joined the Cause. Car bombings in Edinburgh were ail very well, but dammit, this was Virginia! “Look, Sheriff,” he said in an undertone, “I think the person you should really be discussing this with is the British secret agent here at the games. He’s probably conducting an investigation of his own.”

  “How do you know there’s an agent at the games?” asked Lightfoot reasonably. He didn’t have to deal with too many crackpots in Clay County, but he’d heard that big-city police were ankle-deep in them.

  “He’s MI5,” Jerry muttered. “I heard one of the terrorists mention him. And I just saw him a few minutes ago on the practice field.” He gave a brief, but very accurate, description of Cameron Dawson.

  “The sheriff wants to see me?” asked Cameron, glancing at Elizabeth. “What about?”

  Andy Carson sighed. “About the murder investigation, I presume.” He wanted to ask Cameron about his alibi for last night, but he thought it best not to get involved. “Would you like me to phone the British embassy?”

  “I think I can manage this one on my own, thanks,” said Cameron. He looked at Elizabeth. “Do you suppose they’d let you come along?”

  “I doubt if it’s very important,” said Elizabeth. “You didn’t know Colin Campbell, did you?”

  “Yes, he did,” Dr. Carson put in. “Met him yesterday.”

  “Damn!” said Cameron, pronouncing the word as if Notre came before it. “The bloke who was on about sea monsters!”

  He walked to the hospitality tent, framing a careful explanation of his slight acquaintance with the deceased and trying to decide how best to express a correct, but detached, sense of regret at the gentleman’s passing. He was, therefore, completely unprepared for the sheriff’s line of questioning.

  “Am I a what?”

  “Whatever you English call them.” Lightfoot shrugged.

  “I’m not English. I’m a Scot,” snapped Cameron. He would answer to British or Scottish, but not English, and certainly not Scotch.

  “You seem familiar enough with English, though,” the sheriff observed. “However, if you need an interpreter, we can see about finding you one.”

  Cameron closed his eyes. What did they bloody think he spoke? “Just ask your questions, please. Or better yet, tell me what this is about.”

  Lightfoot MacDonald flipped again through Cameron’s passport, looking for some indication of his status with the government-a telltale 007 stamped beside his name, for example. He said carefully, “According to my information, Mr. Dawson-”

  “Dr. Dawson.”

  “Whatever. According to my information, this was a political killing, and as an agent for the English government-”

  “British!” muttered Cameron under his breath.

  “You would have some knowledge of the circumstances.”

  “Right. This dotty old man who had a thing about sea monsters gets killed with a skian dubh, and you think the British government is responsible?”

  “No, sir. According to my information, the Scottish Republican Army killed him.”

  Cameron stared. “Nonsense! You have us mixed up with Ireland. There is no Republican Army in Scotland. And I am not a secret agent for anybody! I’m a marine biologist. I do seals and porpoises.”

  “Do you know the Earl of Strathclyde?”

  “I’m practically sure there isn’t one. I mean, I haven’t got Debrett memorized, but I’ve certainly never heard of an Earl of Strathclyde.”

  “One…” Lightfoot consulted his notes. “Geoffrey Chandler.”

  “Ah,” said Cameron, with an arctic light in his eyes. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  “I’ve sent someone to fetch Mr. Chandler,” said Andy Carson. “Meanwhile, Sheriff, perhaps you’d like to interview somebody else. I promised her I’d mention it to you.”

  “Why waste time?” Lightfoot shrugged. “I’ll talk to everybody, and sort it all out later.”

  “Are you sure you want me to stay, Sheriff?” asked Cameron.

  The sheriff nodded. “If you are a secret agent, you certainly can’t admit it. Everybody knows that. And even if you aren’t, why, you might be helpful to me in the investigation, because I don’t know much about this Scotch business.”

  Cameron cringed. Scotch. But there might be a diplomatic limit to the number of times one should correct a policeman, so he said nothing. He didn’t think he was going to be much help, though.

  The next witness was a sturdy little woman in her mid-forties, dressed in what Lightfoot considered the preppy golfing costume: tan canvas skirt, knit shirt, green espadrilles. Only the tartan scarf pinned to her shoulder indicated that she was a festival participant.

  “Hello, Sheriff,” she said in her board-of-directors voice. “I’m Lacy Campbell.”

  “Any relation to the deceased?” asked the sheriff, making a note of the name.

  Lacy Campbell stopped, open-mouthed. Was this a trick question? “Well,” she said, “I suppose back in Argyll, if you assume that the Ian Campbell of Glenlyon was the same Ian Campbell who in 1787-”

  “So you weren’t his wife or his daughter or anything?” the sheriff put in.

  She smiled. “Oh, no. In the sense you mean, we weren’t
connected at all. He was just the president of our clan society, and of course quite a lot of us are named Campbell.”

  “How come you’re not wearing a kilt?”

  “Oh, Colin Campbell would have had a conniption, Sheriff. It is not traditional for women to wear kilts, and no matter what the other clans do, Colin was not about to permit it in ours.”

  The sheriff looked at Cameron for confirmation, and received a barely perceptible nod in return.

  “Now, as to what I wanted to report in connection with Colin’s murder”-Lacy Campbell permitted herself the briefest of smiles-“I suppose you think it odd that I should be so composed-and, really, it has been quite a shock hearing about the poor man; but to tell you the truth, he wasn’t as popular as he might have been. Several people dropped out of the group altogether because Colin was such an overbearing old… Anyway, he had arguments with everybody, but I did happen to know of one quite recent one that might be important.”

  “Not the sea monsters!” cried Cameron. Seeing the others’ look of astonishment, he scrunched down in his seat. “Sorry,” he murmured. “Carry on.”

  “We’ll get to that one directly,” Lightfoot promised him. “Now, what were you referring to, ma’am?”

  “The first part I only heard about, but I witnessed the second one. Have you heard of Dr. Walter Hutcheson? No? He’s the president of the MacDonalds this year, and he and Colin are both physicians at the community hospital. Myra Logan told me that she heard Colin and Walter Hutcheson arguing yesterday. Myra’s girl is in the country-dancing competition with my Fiona. Myra said that they were actually shouting-something about real estate, she thought. Well, I didn’t think too much of it at the time, because somebody is always shouting at Colin Campbell, but then today at the herding fiasco-”

  “Fiasco?”

  Lacy Campbell digressed to explain about the mysterious appearance of rookie ducks in the herding box, and the resulting chaos. “I was standing right beside Walter Hutcheson watching the whole thing, and I distinctly heard him say ‘Colin Campbell’ as he stalked off looking like thunder. Now, the reason I think that’s important is that the exhibitor in the sheep trials was Walter’s wife. Well, his ex-wife, actually, but they’re still friends, I believe. They’d been married for decades, you know,”