by John Burke
Without any prompting, Jeremy Makepeace announced that he had just come from horse trials at Kendal and would be interested – though not too naïvely interested, one was made to feel – in the Common Riding.
‘My father’s been telling me about the strange customs here. And putting ideas in my head.’
‘Such as?’
‘I gather there’s always reluctance among the local lads to play the villainous Englishman – the would-be ravisher who chases the heroine before getting his comeuppance.’
‘Not a very rewarding part,’ Nick agreed.
‘I’d be prepared to volunteer. After all, I’m English and I don’t live here. I can always ride wildly off into the sunset when it’s all over. Could be amusing,’ Jeremy drawled, ‘depending on the young lovely you choose as the prey.’ His features were like a soft plaster model of his father’s, not yet set and still liable to sag into puffy self-indulgence rather than harden into austerity.
The gentle notes of the clarsach, its gut strings giving it the gentleness of a lute rather than the resonance of a harp, crept in again below their conversation. Fiona’s head was bent over it as she worked out her own introduction to a melody.
The temptation was too great. Although her voice carried clearly and sweetly over the heads of those eating and chattering, the clarsach was too quiet to do her justice. Nick edged round to his keyboard, switched on, and began first to echo her phrases and then expand them, weaving in and out of the rise and fall of the melody and her lilting accompaniment. She smiled a bewitching smile at him.
The moment the wistful tune ended, five or six of the younger men near the whisky supply started up a raucous chorus which ought to have been in close harmony but staggered through some remarkable discords.
‘What the hell is that?’ Nick demanded.
Dr Hamilton had appeared at his shoulder. ‘It’s The Song.’ He managed to insert capital letters into his speech. ‘An old chorus from historic times, commemorating the defeat of the English.’
‘Oh, not again!’
‘It’s actually called The Kilstane Lances. A rousing chorus, as I’m sure you’ll agree.’
‘Enough to waken the dead.’
‘Traditionally sung at the opening of the celebrations, and then again after the Lass has been rescued, and before the final welcome in . . . um . . . Black Knowe.’
He meant the cairn but, though loyally honouring every aspect of the tradition, could not bring himself to acknowledge the pagan element of that final symbolic consummation within the stone igloo. If it was only symbolic.
‘But of course,’ Nick conceded.
‘As a musician yourself,’ said Dr Hamilton, placatory but stern in his adherence to past splendours, ‘you might be interested to see the original manuscript one day.’
‘You don’t mean you’ve got some ancient musical parchment to go along with the declaration scroll?’
Dr Hamilton smiled proudly. ‘All well authenticated. Like everything in our ceremony.’ This seemed to trigger off some urge to assert his authority. ‘I think, Sir Nicholas, this would be an appropriate moment for light to be shed on your choice of the Bareback Lass.’
Several guests produced ragged applause.
Hannah Ferguson was not one of them. ‘Before another word is said, I wish to put forward a list prepared in accordance with all the rules by the ladies of the Pictish Guild. It is our view that we have the authority –’
‘Mrs Ferguson.’ Dr Hamilton drew himself up to his full height, which was considerably over six feet. ‘As Convenor of the Common Riding Commitee, authority is vested in me to –’
‘There must be an end to this masculine domination. It has led to nothing but favouritism, illegal disruption –’
‘Please withdraw, Mrs Ferguson.’
As a medical practitioner, Dr Hamilton had always tried to prescribe for his patients what would be best for them, whatever their moral or social failings. He could treat Catholics, Anglicans, Episcopalians, Presbyterians, and Wee Frees with purely clinical objectivity. But if it had been his responsibility to act on behalf not of individuals but of local society as a whole, there must have been times when the thought of lethal doses crept temptingly across his mind. I could murder that woman. Of course he could do no such thing. But which would be the lesser evil: to remove her from the face of the earth, or let her continue damaging all the traditions of the Ridings and what they meant to the town?
‘I won’t sit down until I’ve been heard.’
‘Get on with it, doctor. We’re here for the announcement, not for one of her stushies.’
Hannah Ferguson was momentarily distracted by the sight of her dejected husband cowering near the end of the trestle table and reaching with tipsy carefulness for another whisky. As she started to splutter an accusation, Hamilton raised his voice again.
‘Is it the feeling of the meeting – that is, of those assembled here –’
‘Let the laird decide.’
‘Aye, let’s have it.’
Hamilton bowed towards their host.
Nick moved into the centre of the hall and looked along the yearning faces of the girls he had been dancing with. So many pretty, flushed faces; such gentle swellings beneath their shirts and blouses; and such well-seasoned bottoms hardened on horseback. It was a hell of a choice.
A shuddering hush in the hall seemed to last forever.
Dr Hamilton rasped a polite cough. ‘Sir Nicholas?’
Nick’s gaze skimmed once more along the expectant, hopeful faces, and halted at one head bowed soulfully over the strings she had plucked so sweetly.
They were all waiting. He thought of Mr and Mrs Robson longing for the family honour of having one of their children take part, but having been let down by Colin. At the same time he had a vision of Fiona riding with that mane of golden hair streaming in the wind. Horns of Elfland faintly blowing . . . Tam Lin ravished away by the queen of faerie . . . Thomas the Rhymer in that same thrall . . .
She was here merely as an instrumentalist, not in the line-up of those who had come specifically for the selection procedure. But he thought of those long, slender fingers, touching and plucking, and looked at her demurely bowed head, and found himself saying: ‘I choose Miss Fiona Robson.’
She raised her misty blue eyes to his. Her long white fingers stroked a remote cadence over the strings. The last chord hung in suspense, the ear waiting for a resolution which never came.
Three or four girls mumbled their dismay. Mrs Robson glowed with fulfilment. Jeremy Makepeace studied Fiona with detached interest, perhaps beginning already to shape up his role as her pursuer on the great day.
Hannah Ferguson let out a banshee howl. ‘It’s a disgrace.’
‘Mrs Ferguson, this is a solemn occasion. Kindly haud your whisht.’
There was a sudden jangle from the electronic keyboard. One of the young men, still burbling the words of The Song, was attempting to find a chord that would fit the strange sounds they had been making. His fingers skidded up the higher octaves and fell off the end, to be followed by the rest of his body. There was a thump, a tortured discord; and all the lights went out.
Someone dropped a glass. A girl squealed. Another giggled and said: ‘Stop that, Alec.’ A hand clawed out for Nick’s shoulder, and Robson was saying: ‘It’s all right, Sir Nicholas. If you let me steer you over this way – that’s right – you know how to disconnect that thing, and I’ll go downstairs and fix the fuses.’
It took less then five minutes before the lights came on again, which had given some of the young men and women – and, for that matter, some of the older ones – a chance to paw one another in a tradition older than that of the Riding itself.
Dr Hamilton had not budged an inch. Without a tremor in his voice, he addressed Fiona as if there had been no interruption: ‘And within the week you will, as custom demands, notify us of your choice of Callant?’
Nick wondered if she would dare to try and overcome Coli
n’s disappointment by choosing him. But that probably wouldn’t do. A bit incestuous, trying to fit a brother and sister into the symbolic relationship.
‘I’m no needing a week. I can be telling ye now.’ Fiona’s voice had such clarity that it set up the faintest resonance in the clarsach strings so that they sang with her up into the rafters. Over the neck of the instrument she looked at Nick and said: ‘I ask Sir Nicholas Torrance to ride as my Callant.’
There was a gasp like a wind through suddenly opened shutters. Hannah let out another screech of rage. ‘The hussy! You can’t do that. It’s not proper.’
Fiona looked guilelessly at the Convenor. ‘Is it not?’
‘Well, I’ve never heard of . . . but . . . I mean, I see no objection. I shall go through the records, but in the circumstances I do not immediately see any –’
‘It’s a disgrace,’ bellowed Hannah Ferguson. ‘Shameless impudence. And who’s going to vouch for her being a virgin, I’d like to know?’
‘Mrs Ferguson, I do beg you –’
‘And what lying bitch’ll say she’s not?’ Mr Robson plodded ominously from the trestle table where he had been checking what was left of the wine and whisky. A number of the guests had been maintaining the old Scottish imbibing tradition: here you didn’t drink for taste and lingering pleasure, but to get as blootered as possible in as short a time as possible. But Mr Robson had been performing his duties soberly and attentively, and was sober enough to be angrier than any aimless drunk.
‘Half English, for one thing,’ seethed Hannah Ferguson. ‘Makes a mockery of the whole idea.’
‘Scots wha’ hae,’ shouted Ian MacKenzie suddenly from the end of a table.
‘Who asked for your opinion?’ snarled Hannah.
If MacKenzie’s chin had not been too sagging and fleshy to bristle, it would have bristled. ‘Ye’ve no soul, woman. No soul.’ With which he buckled at the knees, sagged over his table, and came to rest face down in the remains of his lukewarm haggis.
‘You haven’t heard the last of this. None of you.’ Hannah turned to face Dr Hamilton as she might have faced the Devil in open combat. ‘You’re a disgrace to your office, letting this happen. You’ll not be in that office much longer, I swear it.’ She swung towards her husband and daughter. ‘We’re leaving.’
Archie ventured: ‘I think that as a Committee member I’m duty bound to –’
‘You’re coming home with me. Now.’
She did not wait for him to retrieve her shawl, but gathered it up in an armful and, apparently reluctant to spoil the drama by going through the complexities of tossing it over her shoulder and flinging it back round, clasped it to her stomach. Insofar as one person could surround two others, she surrounded Archie and Kirsty and drove them through the door in the style of a Parliamentary walk-out.
Nick stared into Fiona’s ravishingly beautiful face, more in doubt than appreciation.
What had he let himself in for?
*
Mr and Mrs Robson and two young women from the town were busily clearing up. Nick felt it must be an essential part of his image to stay and make encouraging remarks, though they seemed to be managing very competently without him.
Suddenly Mrs Robson let out a shrill, keening note. Her husband hurried to her side, then looked across the hall at Nick.
‘Sir Nicholas, it’s gone.’
‘What’s gone?’
‘The quaich. The Reiver’s Quaich.’ Robson pointed to the case, its glass cover intact but empty. ‘It’s been taken.’
Nick had a chill recollection of laying the vessel down after his impulsive gesture to the Hamiltons. Not a memory of locking it away again after they had drunk the whisky, but simply putting it down. And he was sure he’d noticed it there in full view some time later.
Before the lights went out.
‘And without it,’ said Mrs Robson, ‘ye canna start the Rideouts.’
Chapter Seven
Detective Inspector Lesley Gunn was none too pleased to have been assigned this duty in Kilstane. Her memories of it went back to the days when she had been a uniformed WPC in the town. She could only hope nobody else would recall those days.
But there was no dodging this return visit. In the eyes of the Chief Superintendent, it was a matter not just of her specialised background but also of social savoir-faire. On top of the actual case of theft there were some local nuances which needed reassessment, especially around the new baronet. Sir Nicholas Torrance might prove to be a power in the land. Sooner or later he would surely be on the Bench and on influential committees. Until the Force knew more about him, it was important to give him the Grade A treatment. If he proved to be a troublemaker, the sooner they knew what they were up against, the better. The Chief Super praised DI Gunn for her tact in previous dealings with the gentry, and was sure he could rely on her in this instance. The briefing was somewhat spoilt by his addendum that in his view there wasn’t one of that inbred Kilstane lot you could trust ever to give a straight answer to a straight question. Remembering her probationary period there, DI Gunn was inclined to agree, but thought it best to display that tact of hers by saying nothing.
The Midlothian and Merse CID Special Operations Unit was not, as its title might have suggested, an under-cover team combating terrorism and enemy infiltration, but a small section with highly specialised knowledge. One Detective Sergeant had intensive experience in agricultural regulations, building conservation, maltreatment of animals, misuse of tractor fuels, contamination of watercourses, and sheep and cattle rustling – an age-old tradition which still flourished far too vigorously in the Borders.
Detective Inspector Lesley Gunn was referred to by some of her colleagues as the Fine Arts Commissioner, or in more boisterous moments as the Farts Commissioner; and by others as Les, buzzing the last letter to become a meaningful ‘Lez’ after she had repelled advances from them without once needing a referral to any sexual abuse code. If they chose to think that about her, or save face after a brush-off by pretending they thought it, let them.
She had been trained, and more importantly had trained herself, as an authority on the art world and its treasures: especially the removable ones. She knew every painting, silver candlestick and piece of porcelain in every stately home in the region; and knew the likeliest markets for stolen valuables.
DI Gunn reached Kilstane early in the afternoon. Her first contact was the uniformed sergeant who had been called in when the theft of the Reivers’ Quaich was reported.
He greeted her with a reminiscent smile.
‘Och, aren’t you the wee Gunn lassie who –’
‘That’s right, sergeant.’ Gunn was emphatic in stressing the rank. ‘And now perhaps we can run through the suspects. If you’ve got round to suspecting anybody in particular?’
That past incident had clearly not been forgotten.
Every probationer was bound to make mistakes. She had always felt that hers was deliberately manoeuvred. Coasting through silent streets in the small hours of the morning with a driver who was supposed to be her minder, she had spotted a man slowing his car and leaning out to talk to a girl on the pavement. After a moment the girl went away, and he drove slowly beside the kerb to the junction, then turned and came back. He leaned out of the window again and stared up the street as if trying to summon somebody out of the drizzly darkness.
Young Lesley Gunn insisted on stopping the patrol car. She got out and, not even diplomatically hedging her bets, suggested that the motorist was, if not kerb-crawling, at any rate behaving in a manner which it was reasonable for officers of the law to question.
It turned out that the driver was the local Presbyterian minister waiting for his wife off the late night coach from Leeds; and his brief conversation with the respectable young nurse on her way home from the hospital had been a last-minute doubt about the coach timetable and the likelihood of some error in his own mind.
Lesley’s so-called minder had made sure the story got not jus
t around the station, but around the town.
She would have to pretend that it had never happened; or at any rate that it was so far in the past that it was of no relevance.
Forensic had taken fingerprints in the tower. Before attempting a draconian fingerprinting of the entire neighbourhood, Lesley Gunn decided on a brisk programme of interviewing and elimination. The starting-point was pretty obvious routine.
She approached the new owner of Black Knowe not so much with suspicion as with the caginess of experience: an experience she had not yet acquired all that time ago. Since then she had met a wide range of landowners and pensioned-off lairds allowed to go on occupying a corner of the family home while the public explored the main rooms and had tea in the basement. Indignant dowagers had vociferously wished their husbands were still alive so that they could horsewhip the vermin who had run off with the family silver. Museum curators had superciliously explained the finer points of stolen armorial porcelain or Jacobite glass to her, and grown either peevish or respectful when she revealed that she knew the whole history of each piece and every detail of its craftsmanship. Some grew even more peevish when she warily went into questions of insurance and possibly dubious claims.
Lesley had quickly swotted up all the available facts on this latest newcomer to a hereditary dignity, and was prepared to find him in awkward transition between Nick Torrance, pop music arranger and accompanist, and raw, trumped-up baronet.
Sir Nicholas greeted her with a cordiality which sounded genuine but might be just nervousness. He quite frankly studied her up and down, until she was afraid his matiness might extend to his putting his arm round her and guiding her towards the window seat in the great hall. Instead, he offered her a severely upright chair with a small table beside it, at exactly the right angle for any notebook she might wish to set down. There was also room for a small drinks mat and the glass of vodka and tonic he offered.