“You want me to help you find a dentist?”
“Exactly.”
“How, pray?”
Elizabeth told him, steadfastly ignoring his look of increasing reluctance.
Several minutes later, the games announcer was drawn away from the microphone by his assistant. “An emergency, Grace?”
“Yes. Look at this poor boy.”
Geoffrey, who had invoked his look of suffering from The Spanish Tragedy, cringed beside her, holding a handkerchief to his cheek. “Impacted what’sit,” he murmured, swaying a bit.
The announcer’s eyes strayed back to the playing field. If he lost his place now, it might take the rest of the afternoon to get things straight again. “Oh, really?” he murmured, edging away.
“Dentist!” wailed Geoffrey.
The assistant announcer gave his arm a motherly pat. “There, there, you poor thing. Ray, couldn’t you just make a quick request for a dentist to report to the control booth?”
Ray hesitated. “Couldn’t somebody drive him to town?”
“Weekend…” whimpered Geoffrey.
Ray scowled. It was going to be easier to make the announcement than to argue with a tottering invalid. “Right,” he said. “Go and sit down over there, and I’ll see what I can do.”
Geoffrey crept over to a folding chair near the announcer’s table to await further developments. After a minute or two Elizabeth slid into the empty chair beside him. “Good work!” she whispered. “You must have been very convincing!”
“Yes. I hope you’re equally persuasive when the tooth fairies arrive, so that they don’t remove my jaw in an excess of Samaritanism.”
“I just hope I can figure out which one I need to question.”
“I think you ought to stick to less complicated good deeds in the future,” Geoffrey remarked.
Elizabeth nodded. It wasn’t entirely an act of charity, though. If she could clear Walter Hutcheson of the murder charge, then Heather would still be a safely married woman, and then whatever there was between her and Cameron wouldn’t matter. Would it?
Ten minutes later, only one person responded to the broadcast appeal-a diffident young man in a blazing yellow and orange tartan. “I don’t carry any tools with me,” he explained. “But I thought I’d just come along and offer advice, if you needed any.”
“Thank you very much for coming,” said Elizabeth politely. “Actually, I needed to ask you a few questions about the murder.”
He gasped. “I’ve already spoken to the sheriff.” Noticing Geoffrey for the first time, he began to back away. “It was a trap, wasn’t it?” he hissed. “I didn’t mean to tell them, sir…”
Geoffrey lowered his handkerchief and glared at the cowering dentist. “You would do well to give this young lady all your cooperation,” he said sternly. “She is an operative.”
“Who is this?” muttered Elizabeth.
“I’m Jerry Buchanan, ma’am. And I just wanted another tartan!”
Tartan! Elizabeth nodded grimly. “And you discussed this with Colin Campbell, didn’t you?”
“Well… yes. I know he wasn’t one of us, but I knew that he was an expert on Scottish tartans and things, and I didn’t think it would do any harm to ask.”
“What did he say?”
“Well, I asked him who assigned tartans to the different clans, and how you got in touch with them, and he wanted to know why I was asking.” Jerry glanced about nervously. “At first I refused to tell him, but then when I asked if an earl had the power to change his clan’s tartan, he started to browbeat me, and I guess I let some information slip about the S.R.A.”
Elizabeth, who was mystified, was about to ask what the S.R.A. was, but Geoffrey interrupted her, “The organization was news to him, of course?”
“He was furious about it. Wanted to know who was behind it.”
“And you told him…?”
“I didn’t mention you!” Jerry protested. “Honest! Well, I’d forgotten your name, actually.”
“So you told him about Lachlan,” said Geoffrey smoothly.
“I may have mentioned him.”
Geoffrey stood up with the dignity of an irate prince. “We will take no action against you,” he said grandly. “But your earldom is canceled.”
Jerry Buchanan nodded miserably. “Just don’t kill me.”
“Out of my sight!” thundered Geoffrey. He kept up the pose of outrage until the yellow and orange tartan had disappeared into the crowd on the sidelines.
“What the devil is going on?” Elizabeth demanded. “And why do you know anything about it?” she added as an afterthought.
“Oh, that. I told you that it was handy to know Shakespeare. Apparently, I stumbled on to the password of a terrorist organization.”
“Terrorists? You mean they killed Dr. Campbell?”
“No. They don’t kill anybody, dear. They just think they do.” He explained to Elizabeth about Lachlan Forsyth’s scheme for profiting from the misplaced patriotism of the more radical Scottish-Americans. “He told me all about it after I crashed the conspirators’ party. He really didn’t feel too bad about taking their money. The way he figured it, he was keeping them from doing real harm with their money, and he provided them with a little excitement. It was very theatrical, really.”
“You have the morals of a fungus!” Elizabeth informed him. “I suppose you wouldn’t have dreamed of reporting this to the sheriff?”
“I didn’t feel that it was relevant. Lachlan is a con man, not a killer.”
“Ha! Does Cameron know about this?”
“I told him a little while ago. That worm of a dentist may have forgotten my name when he was talking to Colin Campbell, but he dropped it in front of the sheriff quick enough. They hauled me in for questioning this morning as a high-ranking official in the S.R.A.”
“What about Cameron?”
“Well, that may have been my fault. In an excess of youthful spirits last night…”
“Drambuie!”
“Precisely. As I say, in an excess of good spirits, I told the conspirators that Dr. Dawson was a British secret agent.”
“Oh, my God. Geoffrey, somebody is going around killing people at this festival! How do you know you didn’t put Cameron in danger?”
“Your concern for the prince of pancake syrup is most touching, but there is something in your indifference toward my well-being that I don’t quite like.”
“You could be wrong, you know. Lachlan Forsyth may have killed Dr. Campbell in an attempt to cover up his illegal activities. Is he a U.S. citizen, do you think? If convicted of a crime, he could have been deported.”
“Back to Scotland-the air fares to which you were lamenting at the National Trust booth earlier? Oh, worst of fates!”
“Hush. Be serious for a minute. He may not have wanted to go back to Scotland. Maybe he’s wanted for being a con man there.”
“Really clever people do not kill their enemies. They outwit them. My faith in Lachlan is unshakable. You, on the other hand…”
“I’m going to talk to Lachlan Forsyth. Now that we know what the fraud was… Say, how did Colin Campbell know that the organization was a fraud?”
“Common sense!”
“Not entirely. Knowing what an old bully Campbell was, I’ll bet you anything he had it out with Lachlan last night.”
“Perhaps.”
“I’ll talk to him first. Then I’ll check for witnesses to that quarrel.”
“Go to, then. Have you no further need of a Watson? I thought I might go and observe the country dancing. For purposes of choreography.”
“Fine. If you see Cameron, tell him I’ll find him later.”
“Perhaps you’d like to compose a singing telegram?”
Elizabeth, at a loss for a clever rejoinder, made a face at him and hurried away.
The pageantry of the festival hardly registered with Elizabeth now. Her mind was too busy with shades of gray. Did Lachlan Forsyth kill Dr. Campbell in
order to protect his con operation? Did one of the conspirators do it out of misplaced patriotism? Or, in the heat of a quarrel, did Walter Hutcheson do it after all? What’s Heather to him or he to Heather?
The meadow was getting hot again as the mid-afternoon sun bled the color out of the landscape. Elizabeth was glad that she had given up wearing her tartan; it was really too hot. Besides, she wasn’t sure anymore what it meant. In all the previous festivals, it had meant: I am Scottish; this is the badge of my culture.
But the one thing Cameron did-besides make her heart turn over when she looked at him-was to make her un easy about the significance of that culture. Every time she knew some bit of Scottish history or tradition and Cameron did not know it, it made her wonder just what they were preserving so carefully with their little groups. Perhaps it was culture of a sort, but it wasn’t Scotland. Elizabeth, who had been a sociology major, considered the disparity. What did it remind her of? A culture artificially preserved like… Latin. The language so carefully nurtured in the Vatican was a piece of culture preserved like a fly in amber; but modern Italian was a living culture, Latin that had been allowed to evolve. One was dead and the other was alive. Less colorful, maybe (how would Cameron look in a kilt?), but still alive, the real thing.
She decided that she wasn’t surprised about Lachlan Forsyth’s con game. She remembered how the festival folk had spoken approvingly of his being a real Scot. He wore the kilt, spoke some Gaelic, and knew all about the plaids and the history. He was, in fact, a professional Scot. Now that she had Cameron to compare him with, it was obvious to her that Lachlan was up to something. He was too good to be true.
He wasn’t there.
The canopied souvenir stall was as busy as ever, with tourists two-deep at the record bins and pawing through the woolens, but the only person behind the counter was a little blond boy. Elizabeth’s purpose wavered as she looked at the wonderful bits of bric-a-brac at the stall: thistle-patterned china, toy Nessies, a case of jewelry. Maybe she should get Cameron a MacPherson scarf: he ought to know his own tartan… She waited patiently in the same spot for several minutes until the boy behind the counter had time to notice her.
“Where is Mr. Forsyth?” she called out.
James Stuart McGowan shrugged. “I don’t know. He said he was taking a break, but it’s been over an hour. Can I help you?”
“I just need to talk to him. Can you tell me which way he went?”
He nodded toward the crowd encircling the stall. “My visibility isn’t too great here. He lives in a silver AirStream, though, and it’s parked in the campsite.” He looked at her closely. “You were here before, weren’t you? Talking to him about which hand to eat with, or something?”
“Yes,” said Elizabeth, deciding not to correct his version of the conversation.
“I thought so. Right after you left, he wrote something down on a piece of paper, and he said he’d give it to you if you came back. Let’s see… where’d he put it?” He looked up at her slyly. “Of course, I should be spending my time attending to real customers.”
She sighed. “Give me a scarf in the MacPherson tartan.”
“Hunting or dress?”
“Dress. Now find me that paper.”
“Here it is. He wrote it on this paper bag. Just the right size to put the scarf in. Will that be cash or charge?”
When Elizabeth had completed her purchase, she walked away from the crowd and examined the four words scrawled across the paper bag. She smiled. He really was a sweet old man. And as for the message… she hoped that she would have the occasion to use it.
* * *
Lachlan Forsyth’s AirStream trailer was easy to find. Its windows bore stickers of the Scottish lion, the flag of Scotland, and one bore the legend Ecosse-French for Scotland. On its bumper was the usual assortment of Highland games bumper stickers. Elizabeth wondered if he lived in the contraption year-round, or if he had some other home during the winter months. Surely he couldn’t spend his whole life going from one festival to another? Technically, of course, he could: in the Sun Belt states, festivals went on right through the winter months. It seemed like an empty sort of life, though. What could be fun and exciting for a weekend might be a form of insanity if one tried to live it on a regular basis.
Elizabeth shuddered. To spend one’s life in a kilt, rehashing long-forgotten battles… Was Lachlan taking a detour around the twentieth century or was he planning to amass an S.R.A. fortune and leave Brigadoon far behind? Impossible to tell. No one really knew Lachlan Forsyth. His kindness and his comic-book Scottishness would keep you enchanted until he went away; and when the spell wore off, you realized that you didn’t know the first thing about him.
Elizabeth knocked on the trailer door.
No answer.
After a few minutes of impatient waiting, she knocked again, louder this time. But there were no sounds from within, and no sign of life. Sign of life? Elizabeth tried the door handle. It was securely locked. Even in Brigadoon, the threat of twentieth-century vandalism pervaded one’s consciousness, she supposed.
By standing tiptoe on the top step and leaning over to the left as far as she could, she could just manage to get a grip on the tiny metal windowsill and peer inside. No one was there. And no body, she thought to herself with a sigh of relief. Now, where else could he be?
Elizabeth decided to check the clan tents in case Lachlan had gone visiting. Maybe she’d even find him at the MacPherson tent: he had seemed to enjoy talking to Cameron. Strangers in a strange land, and all that. As she walked past the rows of campers, she saw the MacDonald banner flying in front of one of the campers. The Hutchesons. Heather. Might he be visiting Heather? She was another Scot, after all. Surely someone as steeped in history as Lachlan Forsyth would relish the chance to talk with the niece of a duke.
Perhaps she ought to stop in and see Heather, anyway. Elizabeth could not believe that the new wife actually cared about Walter Hutcheson-she couldn’t imagine herself falling for an elderly man-but after all, Heather was in a strange country, and this couldn’t be a very pleasant experience for her, regardless of her feelings toward her husband. Before Elizabeth’s less impulsive side could marshal any counter-arguments, she hurried up the metal steps and tapped on the door.
“Was there something you wanted?” asked a voice behind her.
Elizabeth turned, so startled that she nearly fell off the step. Heather, her pink outfit considerably the worse for wear, looked none too pleased at the prospect of a visitor. “I just came to see if there was anything I could do,” Elizabeth ventured shyly.
“About what?”
“Your husband. I’m very sorry to hear about it. Can I be of any help?”
Heather’s eyes narrowed. “Do you know how to drive a bloody aircraft carrier? I’d like to get myself away from here.”
“I don’t think you’d be allowed to. Since Dr. Hutcheson is charged with the murder-or at least being questioned-I expect that the sheriff will want to examine this camper for evidence. You might ask if you could be allowed to leave on your own.” Elizabeth hesitated. “Don’t you want to stay, though, in case your husband needs you?”
“I dunno. I s’pose I ought.” Heather sat down on the bench at the picnic table and rumpled her blond hair as she meditated. “Hard to know what to do, really.”
She isn’t very old, Elizabeth thought kindly. And if she’s anything like Princess Diana, she hasn’t got a lot of education, either. She’s probably not used to having to cope with things on her own. “Have you got any family?”
“What?”
“Someone that you could call to be with you. I don’t suppose you want to be alone right now. Is all your family back in Scotland?”
“Yes. I don’t want them.”
“Are you sure? Someone could take a plane and be here by tomorrow, I think.”
“No. I don’t want them. I can take care of myself.”
“Do you think you’d go back if…” The possibility o
f Walter’s conviction for murder hung in the air, but Elizabeth couldn’t bring herself to speak the words.
“What, back to Scotland? No chance. I’m better as I am, what with Dad on the brew.”
Elizabeth nodded sympathetically. “My aunt was an alcoholic. It was very sad for the family.”
Heather turned to look at her. “Right. Well, as I say, I’ll be all right.”
“I don’t think Walter did it,” Elizabeth volunteered.
“No? Why not?”
“He’s just never seemed like that sort of person, I guess. Of course, the sheriff isn’t going to pay any attention to character witnesses. Not when he has motive and fingerprints on his side. But maybe we could come up with some facts that will prove Walter didn’t do it.”
“I don’t know anything.”
“Okay, let me ask you a couple of questions, and let’s see if we get anywhere. Did the sheriff ask you about an alibi?”
“I wasn’t much of a help to him. Walter left the camper this morning before seven. He doesn’t sleep too well at the best of times. And last night I can’t say I was with him all the time. He went for a walk after the party. Late-night walks are a habit of his as well.”
Elizabeth sighed. “That ought to prove he didn’t do it. Anybody in his right mind would have provided a better alibi if he was going to commit murder.”
“Not in real life, though. If you mean to do someone in, you don’t think aught about it, do you?”
“You do if you don’t want to get caught. The fingerprints don’t make sense, either. Anybody knows not to leave fingerprints on a murder weapon. You might as well leave an autographed picture. Yet, they find his fingerprints on the hilt of the skian dubh. That reminds me-when was the last time you saw it?”
Heather shrugged. “I remember making sure that he brought it along. He’s always so particular about his kilt and all the rest of the lot.”
“Did he wear it to the party last night?”
“The one here? No. He wore it to the sherry party at Mrs. Hamilton’s, but I’m nearly certain that he wore the other one after that.” She smiled. “I think he felt a bit guilty about wearing it. It was a present from her, you know.”
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