Elizabeth didn’t want to talk about Marge, and she couldn’t think of anything else to ask. Heather was right: she wasn’t much help, but at least she wasn’t being hysterical. “Well, if you need anything, just let me know,” said Elizabeth. “I was looking for Lachlan Forsyth, actually. Do you know him?”
“The old man from the souvenir stall? I haven’t seen him.” Heather seemed to have lost interest in the conversation. She pulled a set of keys out of her pocket and started up the camper steps. “Thanks for stopping by.”
I must ask this, thought Elizabeth, not wanting to: “Do you want me to send Cameron over to see you?”
“I don’t know,” said Heather. “Perhaps I’ll see him later. Not now.”
Instead of the question she wanted to ask, Elizabeth said, “Heather, do you think Walter did it?”
Heather, who had been turning the key in the lock, turned and frowned at Elizabeth. “What a question to ask a wife,” she said, closing the door.
Elizabeth did not find Lachlan Forsyth at any of the clan tents, nor could she find anyone who remembered seeing him. The pipe bands were giving a performance in the center field, so most of the crowd had congregated around the tents to watch the show. The mix of tartans reminded Elizabeth of the time she had melted all her crayons in her mother’s best saucepan.
The Chattan tent was packed: every folding chair was occupied, and the row of coolers stretched from one tent pole to the other. Cluny was still asleep in his place of honor by the information table, but his baby-sitter, Cameron Dawson, was nowhere in sight.
“Has anybody seen Dr. Dawson?” asked Elizabeth over the whine of “MacPherson’s Lament.”
A man in a chair on the back row tilted his head back and wiggled his nose to keep his glasses from falling off. “Who?”
“The guy who was watching the bobcat.”
“Oh. Had a speech impediment?”
Elizabeth bristled. “That,” she said ominously, “was an Edinburgh prep-school accent as spoken by a Ph.D.!”
“Uh-huh. I thought he sounded funny.” The man took another sip of his drink, nearly toppling his chair in the process.
“Where is he?” said Elizabeth even more loudly.
“Whisky run,” said the woman at the information table. “Jack Gilroy didn’t think we had enough Scotch, so he was headed for the liquor store in Meadow Creek.”
“Didn’t look like he’d even make it to the parking lot,” said the chair-toppler.
“Your friend offered to drive Jack to the store. He thought it would be safer.”
“He hadn’t had nearly as much as Jack,” the man volunteered.
“I’ll bet he’d had enough,” Elizabeth muttered. “He’s never driven on the right side of the road before. How long have they been gone?”
“Half an hour, tops.”
“Okay. I’ll take Cluny with me, and I’ll check back in half an hour. If he comes back, keep him here!”
“Who? Jack?” the man called after her.
“No!” Elizabeth yelled back. Damned bagpipes! “The one with the speech impediment.”
Elizabeth had a bit of a struggle making any progress along the path by the clan tents. For one thing, Cluny was not pleased at having his nap interrupted, and he saw no reason to cooperate during the course of the walk. His foul mood was further offset by the Saturday afternoon tourists who, now that Elizabeth did not want to be bothered with them, insisted on stopping her with questions about the Chattan mascot. Everybody wanted to pet the bobcat.
“Can we just have little Allison’s picture taken with the kitty?” asked a besotted father festooned in cameras.
Little Allison, who looked like a dismemberer of stuffed animals, was gazing at Cluny with a gleam of purpose in her piggy eyes.
“Another time,” said Elizabeth sweetly. “He hasn’t had all his shots.” She steered the bobcat firmly away into the crowd while she tried to decide where to look for Marge. The tent or the practice meadow? She would never have spotted her at all if Somerled hadn’t started to bark.
The border collie, who had been curled up by his mistress’s chair in the MacDonald tent, caught the scent of Strange cat and decided that the immediate world should be notified. He sprang to attention, searching the crowd of manshapes for the interloper, and spotting the bobcat a few yards away, he hunched into a menacing crouch and began to announce his discovery.
Cluny sat down with the dignity of an interrupted bishop and hissed cordially at the source of the disturbance. Fortunately, the bagpipes drowned out most of it. Before the confrontation could degenerate into a donnybrook, Marge Hutcheson sprang between them. A sharp word from her sent Somerled back to wary disapproval; Cluny was still bristling, but he no longer bothered to hiss.
“Were you looking for me?” asked Marge dryly, once peace had been restored.
Elizabeth nodded. “Nothing very important. Just thought I’d tell you how things are going.”
Marge pointed her finger at the border collie. “Somerled, stay until I get back,” she said sternly. She smiled at Elizabeth. “I find dogs much easier to reason with than bobcats. Now, let’s take a walk while we discuss all this.”
“There isn’t very much to tell,” Elizabeth warned her. “Nothing really dramatic. At least I found out what Colin’s meeting was about.”
She explained about Jerry Buchanan’s zeal for a conservative tartan, and how his conversation with Colin had revealed the existence of the S.R.A. scam. By the time she reached the part about Geoffrey’s impromptu initiation into the conspiracy, Marge was laughing.
“Geoffrey has created any amount of havoc,” Elizabeth told her. “He’s told them that Cameron was a spy, and he terrorized that poor dentist a little while ago. But he refuses to believe that any of it ties in with the murder.”
Marge smiled. “What about Lachlan?”
“I can’t find him. Geoffrey insists that Lachlan isn’t capable of violence. Apparently it’s against con-man psychology.”
“And how say you, sociology major?”
“I took criminology in my sophomore year, thinking that it was going to be a fascinating course full of Jack the Ripper and blood and thunder. People always assume that; the class is packed every quarter. Actually, it’s deadly dull. Mostly statistics. I don’t remember a single thing.”
“Well, having known Lachlan from a few seasons of festivals, I must say I don’t think he’s a very likely killer, either. Anyway, I don’t see how he could have got hold of Walter’s skian dubh.” “I wish I could find him. There’s still a chance that one of his merry men did this for some mad reason connected with this crazy terrorist business. And they are certainly capable of a little burglary to steal a murder weapon as well.”
Marge looked up. “As well,” she echoed. “That’s pure Brit. I’ll bet you didn’t say that B.C.”
“B.C.? Oh! Before Cameron. I guess you’re right. I’ve been listening to his accent so hard that I must have picked up a phrase or two. Not enough, though. When Cameron met Heather, they were using a whole dictionary full of words I’d never heard of. And they’d throw in names of places (I guess) which confused me even more.” She sighed. “They knew each other before.”
Marge stopped walking. “Who told you that?”
“I could tell. They even had pet names for each other.”
“My successor is quite the femme fatale, isn’t she?” said Marge grimly.
“Oh, I don’t know that there’s anything between them anymore,” Elizabeth murmured. “I couldn’t tell from what they were saying. Whatever they were saying.”
“Ask him.”
“Ask Cameron?” Elizabeth stared. “You have to be kidding. Why, a Southern girl would tap-dance on a mine field sooner than she’d ask a loaded question like that to her… to Cameron.”
“The way I see it, you’ve got two choices. You can either sit around and worry about it until you turn into a paranoid schizophrenic, or you can just up and ask him in a reasonable wa
y. You don’t have to interrogate him, Elizabeth. But it seems to me that it’s your business, all things considered.”
“Last night, you mean. That was pretty impulsive for a girl who usually cannot pronounce the word yes.” She laughed. “God, when I think of all the guys at college who wasted hours trying everything from debating tactics to bourbon. They’d never believe last night.”
“Exactly. Ask him.”
“Maybe. After the murder case is over. If I ever see him again.”
“Ask him now,” said Marge. “Some things shouldn’t be put off. The case will take care of itself for that long, my girl.”
“I’ll see if I have the courage to do it.”
“Promise you’ll ask him.”
Elizabeth smiled. Marge was such a wonderful person. Even with all her own worries, she could still take time to be concerned about someone else. “I promise.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
HE was cold. Odd that when he took a breath, the air didn’t chill his nostrils and throat, but he knew it was bloody cold because his hands were numb. Where were his gloves? Wexford wouldn’t half create if he caught one of his gunners without ’em. He began to feel around the dark, enclosed space for his gloves. It felt wrong somehow. He wished he could see; pitch-black it was.
“I’ll just keep staring straight in front of me,” he told himself, “and in a wee while the lighthouse at Buchan Ness will appear below, and that’ll be the Moray Firth.” If Wexford could hold the crate in the air for another quarter of an hour, they’d reach Kinloss with naught to worry about but coming down like a bloody Christmas sparkler on the runway. They could reach Kinloss, couldn’t they? If not, they could always put down at Lossiemouth. Anywhere but the damned sea.
Wexford hadn’t been hit, had he? He didn’t like the stink crowding him out of the turret. Somebody must have brought it. Shit was the worst part of dying, as far as he could tell; poor buggers couldn’t help it, of course. The numbness was more insistent now. He must have taken a hit himself, he thought.
Bagpipes? Sounds like “MacPherson’s Lament.” That would be a good one to tell them at the Culbin Arms in Forres tomorrow night. “The engine of my Lancaster bomber plays ‘MacPherson’s Lament’!” His mates were always on him about his keenness for Scottish history, but he passed it off by saying that an auctioneer has to know his stuff. He liked history well enough, and it was true that the buyers were apt to spend more for the goods if you tossed in a bit of a tale about it. A little learning might make him a bit of lucre one of these days.
Where was the bloody lighthouse? Oh, the blackout. Sod that! They weren’t going to put down in the sea, were they? If he could have stood water, he’d have joined the Navy.
Flying Officer Forsyth closed his eyes. Bagpipes again. Engine trouble? As he pitched forward and fell into darkness, his last thought was that Wexford was going to ditch her in the bloody sea, and he’d never see light again.
The problem with portable toilets, thought Edwin Davis, was that there was no place to wash your hands after using the facilities. Edwin Davis was always most particular about that sort of thing. Six cakes of soap a month he went through, he’d tell his guests: a rather splendid tribute of cleanliness for one who lived alone. He shouldn’t have tried that soft drink at the refreshment tent. If it hadn’t been for that, he could have waited until he left the festival. As it was, he had spent a good many minutes trying to find a Port-A-John in an uncrowded area. Really, if he didn’t have complete privacy, he couldn’t go at all. He supposed silence was too much to ask; the bagpipe music permeated the entire mountainside.
Edwin Davis frowned at the battered blue stall set up at a precarious angle beneath a pine tree. He didn’t quite like the tilt of it. He refused to consider the possibility of being trapped in a falling Port-A-John. There was no one in sight, and he was distinctly uncomfortable, so he decided to risk it. He made a mental note to reconsider attending any more outdoor festivals. Mother had always insisted that a direct descendant of Bonnie Prince Charlie ought to be present at such gatherings, but if this first experience of one was any indication of the norm, he thought they could just scrape by without him. He had found the Stewart tent easily enough, but there was something he didn’t quite like in their smiling reception to his announcement of royal ancestry. Edwin could see restrained amusement beneath their politeness. They might as well accuse Mother of lying, he thought hotly.
Edwin peered closely at the handle of the portable toilet. A small lever registered “occupied” or “unoccupied,” and it was now resting in the latter position. He hoped that the chemical additive was sufficiently strong to block the smell. Smells could give him the most violent headaches. Mother’s powder used to, though of course he’d never mentioned it.
Taking one last deep breath of mountain air, Edwin yanked the handle of the Port-A-John and prepared to enter, but his way was blocked by the body that fell forward and landed with a soft thump on his feet. Edwin stared down at the old man in the green and blue kilt, with a detachment that was almost serene. He wasn’t very heavy, really, for a corpse. Still quite distinguished-looking, in fact. The deceased didn’t seem in the least embarrassed to be discovered in so undignified a place as a portable toilet. He might have died a war hero, for the noble expression he wore. After a few seconds’ more contemplation beneath the glaze of shock, Edwin Davis wondered idly whether he ought to go and get someone to see about the poor old fellow. Report the death. He might as well. Upon reflection, he realized that he didn’t have to go the bathroom anymore.
Walter Hutcheson had called his lawyer on the telephone in the sheriff’s office. Sanderson, hauled off the golf course by his beeper, would be driving down, presumably after he’d changed into a more professional outfit. Walter was in no hurry to see him. It was quite peaceful, really, to be able to survey one’s own life with the detachment that iron bars provided.
He found himself thinking about Marge for the first time in months. Really considering her, he corrected himself. She had usually flitted near the surface of his thoughts, but the accompanying reproach had kept him from focusing on her clearly. This afternoon’s incident had left him shaken. Walter Hutcheson was not a man who pondered things very much-philosophy struck him as a waste of time-but even he had to see the implications of his earlier confrontation with Marge. He had forgotten about Heather completely. She had simply gone out of his head; and when the emergency overwhelmed him, he turned to Marge as naturally as a child might call on a parent. It made him very uneasy.
He had to admit that Heather would not have been very much help in a crisis. She wasn’t good at independent thinking, and she seemed to have an amazing capacity for doing nothing at all-but in a very lovely way, of course. He supposed he had been a bit silly, but after all, it isn’t every day one can marry into the British aristocracy. And such a beautiful girl, besides.
He looked at the bars again. Not a bad cell, really. It was clean, anyway. He hadn’t seen any insects.
Walter tried to think about Heather again through the cloud of pride with which he normally saw her, but the comforting haze would not be summoned. There wasn’t much aristocracy about their wedding. Justice of the peace in the courthouse soon after his divorce became final. He’d been nattered that she hadn’t wanted to wait. But he should have insisted on having her people come over. He’d wanted to take her to Scotland on the honeymoon, of course, but it was winter, and Heather had insisted on Barbados. They had been married eight months now, and he had yet to meet any of her family. He wondered if she was ashamed of him; he winced at the thought. He wasn’t young, that was true. At first he’d been pleased when people commented on them as a couple, even amused when she was mistaken for his daughter; just lately he’d begun to suspect that they were laughing at him.
He wished Heather were more affectionate. Perhaps Scots weren’t a very affectionate people. He’d often heard them called dour. She seemed at times to tolerate him-nothing more. But he couldn’t imagin
e what it was she wanted. A sardonic voice in the back of his mind told him what he wanted, though: Marge. He wanted Marge.
Lightfoot MacDonald, who had been conferring with the state police, opened the door to the cell area to check on the prisoner. The doctor didn’t seem like the sort of fellow to hang himself, but they took the shoelaces and all anyway, because you never knew for sure. He was sitting on his bunk now, looking two notches past sorrowful. Lightfoot liked that in a perpetrator. Remorse was something he didn’t see a lot of in his business.
“How are you doing, doc?” he called out in a bracing voice. He let them save the hostility for the courtroom. His job was to catch folks and hold on to ’em, not reprimand ’em.
“Fine,” said Walter, trying to smile back.
Lightfoot had exchanged his Confederate officer’s uniform for a dark brown sheriff’s outfit. He looked considerably more official in consequence. He pulled up a wooden kitchen chair just outside the cell and sat down with a sigh. “Been a long day,” he remarked. “I get up at six when I’m taking Sorrel out with the militia… My horse,” he explained.
Walter nodded. “After Stonewall Jackson’s mount.”
Lightfoot beamed. “Imagine anybody knowing that! I wish we could have had a chat under better circumstances, Dr. Hutcheson, but as it is I need to talk about this situation out at the festival. That is, if you’re ready to make a statement.”
Walter considered it. Sanderson would be seething if he didn’t wait for legal counsel. Might even refuse the case. Anyway, there wasn’t much he could say past, “I didn’t do it.” He thought he knew who did, but that wasn’t something he was prepared to discuss. It didn’t make any sense, anyway. He considered letting them convict him without a struggle, and going off to a quiet prison. Marge would write to him; he was sure of that.
“I’m sorry, Sheriff. I mustn’t discuss anything until my lawyer arrives.”
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