by John Burke
Glass in hand, the Professor caught her gaze, and stood very still for a moment. Then he thrust the glass shakily towards a passing waiter for a refill.
Smiling, Hannah began to move along the terrace.
*
An answerphone might seem an anachronism in its cramped corner turret, from which unpleasant things had once been poured down through the machicolations on attackers, but Nick felt that some modern inventions might have been welcomed by his predecessors. In the distant past, Days of Truce between reivers from both sides of the Border could have been arranged without a lot of risky galloping to and fro; and any transgression could have been recorded on the answering machine for the benefit of the authorities.
If the Bareback Lass had been able to phone through and leave a message for the duty watch to pick up, she wouldn’t have had to ride so feverishly to raise the alarm.
Not that she had ridden eagerly in this direction, in reality or in the recent reconstruction.
Fiona had, however, had the grace to write him a letter. In childish handwriting she apologised for having deserted him. You could feel that while painstakingly forming the words her tongue would be peeping out between her teeth. And since she was in any case wondering whether she had made a rather silly mistake, and would be grateful for his advice, she did hope it would be possible for them to meet. She would love to discuss recording her song, complete with Sir Nicholas’s accompaniment. She had been stupid. Would he forgive her? If she came back soon, could he find it in his heart to talk to her? If only, she concluded, you had really ridden to my rescue that day!
After the debris of the wedding reception had been swept away, Nick had relished the prospect of a few days to himself: a respite in which to take stock. But the cases against Hamilton and Brown required his collaboration, and messages were piling up on the answerphone.
He had been scribbling a few bars of a scherzo on the staves of manuscript paper laid out on his desk when he saw the light on the machine blinking yet again. He ought to ignore it. He would never get any real work done if he allowed himself to be jerked back time and time again to the trivia of the outside world.
His hand crept uncontrollably towards the button.
The first message was from a film producer who had been fascinated by all the news stories about the Lass and the Ride-outs and the men planning rape or rescue. Never mind whether the traditional background had been shown up as a sham. It was a great story. He would like to get it researched in more depth, and explore some possible locations for a great costume drama. A preliminary talk with Sir Nicholas could be great for both of them.
The second call was from Ian McKenzie, shouting into the machine because he was flustered by having to cope with a one-way conversation. It was the earnest request of the Common Riding Committee – or at any rate those who were left – that Sir Nicholas should join them in a discussion of future plans. It had been suggested that a Festival Committee should be created to replace the discredited Riding. The town must not be deprived of its annual festivities, but after recent misfortunes it was clear that such celebrations must be considered in a new light. Perhaps they and Sir Nicholas could meet for a preliminary talk. Would he please get in touch as soon as possible?
Some members, Nick guessed, would already be busy contriving programmes for a Braw Borderers’ Gathering. The commercial element would be rooting for an authentic Scottysche Food Fayre, and Mr MacKenzie would be contemplating some way of continuing to produce his Reivers’ Quaich tartlets, with a new gimmick to promote them. If asked, Colin Robson, on behalf of the younger generation, would probably favour an annual rave – if his new responsibilities as a married man and father-to-be were not already calming him down.
The third message on his machine was from Quentin.
‘Nick, what the hell do I have to do to get a reply out of you? Is everybody dead up there?’
‘Not everybody. But I’d better not turn my back on the place, or there might be another outbreak.’
‘I’ve got a great possibility here. Right up your street.’
‘I don’t live in a street any more. Hasn’t anybody told you? I’m the king of the castle.’
Quentin’s testiness hissed down the line. ‘Look, when you’ve come to your senses, just give me a ring, right?’
Come to your senses . . .?
Nick poured himself a glass of Sauvignon, looked at the sheet of music manuscript, and sighed as inspiration faded away into its familiar limbo. He began doodling figures on a pad. Money would come in handy if he intended to stay here. Already he had located rising damp in the tower, and there was urgent need for extensive rewiring if he was to install the mixing deck and everything else.
Much easier to go back to London and Quentin and the rest of them. Do a deal for the soundtrack of that producer’s film. Or for any other film that offered. All so easy and uncomplicated.
He looked out of the window at a trailer of cloud stretching itself languidly into a dark spiral above the Hanging Tree. He didn’t own the sky, but he was responsible for an awful lot of the terrain below it.
A tune came into his head. Recognising it as the most poignant of Fiona’s airs, he tried to drive it out along with the clinging, diaphanous vision of her. While they were still wandering around the edges of his mind, refusing to be exorcised, the phone rang.
He could have let it add its message to the pile-up already there, but in the hope of escaping that dangerously alluring melody he reached for the receiver.
Lesley Gunn said: ‘I need your help.’
He had a picture of her sitting in some drab police office, with the phone in her hand, her cool grey eyes softening as she spoke to him. Or were they in fact getting steely and peremptory?
‘Don’t tell me somebody’s threatening to reveal all Rabbie Burns’s songs were really written by William McGonagall?’
‘Right now I’m at Baldonald House.’
‘Isn’t that where they’ve just discovered a chunk of Roman pavement?’
‘Glad you’re still in touch with real history.’
‘Someone’s lifted the lot and flogged it to the Americans?’
‘Nothing to do with the pavement.’ She was in her super sleuth mood, with no time for banter. ‘You’re a bit of a wine expert.’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’
‘Knowledgeable enough to help me in a problem I’ve got.’
‘What sort of problem? What to order early for Christmas?’
‘Nick . . .’ Her voice could turn a monosyllable into a resounding diapason. ‘It’s a matter of a cellarful of vintage Medoc. Or what was a cellarful, till most of it was nicked. They must have had a large delivery van to shift the stuff. Belting up the A1 and cutting across the Merse: it’s all too easy nowadays.’
‘I’m flattered, but –’
‘And I’m puzzled by the labels on the bottles that are left.’
‘Labels?’
‘I’m sure there’s something odd. Oh,’ said Lesley, ‘and there’s been a murder.’
‘Count me out,’ said Nick firmly. ‘Never mind the cellarful of Medoc. Or half full. Or a quarter full. Me, I’ve had a bellyful of murder, thanks very much.’
‘Please, Nick.’
‘And in any case’ – he improvised a plausible excuse which wasn’t just an excuse but could be made true – ‘I’ve been thinking of spending a couple of months in the south of France. Wallowing in wine, since you mention it. Recuperating from all this recent melodrama. Maybe even composing a masterpiece.’
‘When would this be?’
‘As soon as I can get packed.’
‘With anybody special?’
‘Haven’t got as far as thinking about that.’
‘I’m sure you can find plenty of volunteers.’
Lesley rang off. Had he upset her? Did she really want his advice, or want to meet him again? Just as Fiona was seeking his company again. Could make a man intolerably complacent.
Below
the window he heard a vehicle labouring up the slope. Looking down, he caught a glimpse of Hannah Ferguson getting out of the old blue Metro and marching towards the door below. Hannah would waste no time leaving messages on answering machines. She demanded immediate personal confrontation.
‘Sir Nicholas. I need to speak to you most urgently, before more errors are committed in this community.’
‘Really?’
‘I understand that, behind the backs of the ladies of the Pictish Guild, the discredited Common Riding Committee is proposing to set up yet another ludicrous men-only association. This time they’ll dream up some utterly vulgar kind of carnival. Bound to be as big a disaster as everything else they’ve touched. It willnae do, Sir Nicholas. I must insist – the ladies of the Guild are adamant – this must not be allowed to go ahead. There has to be full representation of the ladies of the Guild, proper consultation . . .’
The words rolled over him. Nick stared miserably at the answering machine, which still had messages on it waiting for him. He thought of pleading that he was summoned urgently to help the police at Baldonald House. Or that he must pack and set off for France without delay.
Drowsy irresponsibility beckoned.
What was he going to do? Stay here and try to combine work with his exalted position in Black Knowe tower to broker a peace between the warring factions in the town?
Accept Lesley Gunn’s challenge . . . and her other challenges, prickling behind those shrewd grey eyes?
Or go back to London, and plunge again into the chaotic yet predictable world of the recording studios?
With Fiona?
Hannah’s voice blasted its way through his swirling ideas, through an interweaving vision of Fiona and Lesley, superimposed on Hannah’s remorseless mouth, making thought and decision impossible.
I could murder this woman.
On the other hand, there were women waiting to be loved. Or that at any rate was the flattering message he was receiving.
It would be so easy to book a passage across the Channel and drive and disappear into the Languedoc vineyards. Not so easy to write that masterpiece, but who the hell was clamouring nowadays for masterpieces?
When he could get rid of Hannah he would be decisive, pick up the phone, and without hesitation ring . . .
Which one?
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