by Charles Todd
Dedication
For Danielle, who asked for a Hamish mystery!
And for David, who played the pipes.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
The Piper
An Excerpt from Racing the Devil
Chapter One
Chapter Two
About the Author
Also by Charles Todd
Copyright
About the Publisher
The Piper
The Highlands, Spring 1914
The old house shuddered in the wind that roared up the glen, swept over the shoulder of the lowest hill, and then dropped howling into the loch on the far side.
Hamish MacLeod, swathed in a heavy coat, made his way to the stone step, put his shoulder to the door, and forced it wide enough to allow him to step inside.
He had to put his shoulder to it again before he could shut it, ramming home the bolt.
Around him the house creaked and groaned, but it had held together for well over a hundred years, and he thought it might survive another night.
The house had begun life as a weathered stone croft, small and tightly built against a Scots winter, and cool in the few days of high summer when the sun baked it. But mostly it huddled with its back to the rains that rolled across the western coast of Scotland. Down the centuries, the MacLeods had added to it until it was a comfortable size.
The first of the line had come to MacDonald country from Skye, to marry into that clan and put down roots of his own. And he hadn’t looked back, nor had his kin.
Hamish fumbled in the darkness for matches, lit the lamp kept on the table by the door, and watched as light picked out the familiar surroundings of his home. Standing in a growing pool of rainwater dripping from his clothing, he made a wry face. His granny, God rest her soul, would have had something to say about that pool. But she had died in November, bequeathing the house and the land to him, the last male of his name. He began to strip down, leaving his wet kilt and coat and the scarves that had protected his head in a pile, walking barefoot through the main room to his bedroom to find dry clothes. The house shuddered again, and wind swooped down the chimney to dust the hearth with dry ash left from the last fire. A wild night, he thought as he pulled on his boots, and likely to grow wilder before the gale passed.
He’d done his best for the sheep on the hillside. And they were canny beasts, they knew how to shelter in the lee of stones and burrow deep into the heather. But they would be hungry when this weather had passed, and their coats would lie limp and heavy with moisture on their backs.
Sheep keeping wasn’t his livelihood. He’d inherited them because the women of the house had always prided themselves on spinning the very finest wool from their own bloodline of sheep, dying it and weaving it into cloth that sold well at market. Now there was no one to spin or dye or weave, though the wheel still sat in a corner and the loom was in the attic. But he didn’t have the heart to sell the sheep to the butcher. His granny had called them by name, for God’s sake, and there had been times as a boy when he wouldn’t have been surprised to be penned among them when he was more than she wanted to deal with at the moment. His granny had been a strong woman, and she had had the respect of everyone up the glen.
Dressed again, he came back to the main room and set about rebuilding the fire in the heavy iron stove. His grandfather had put that in, and his father had bought the fine English dresser for his mother’s best dishes. Hamish himself had brought in running water from the stream above the house, put up a line for drying clothes on a fair day, and built a chest for her linens. He’d even mended her ancient loom. Quiet gestures of his respect and love. Now the house felt lonely and empty without her formidable presence. It was time to take a wife, and she had told him so as she lay dying.
“And no’ any woman will do, Hamish, do ye ken?” she had said urgently. “Follow your heart, lad, and ye’ll no’ regret it.”
He had had to promise. But then he already knew the wife he wanted.
When the fire was drawing well, Hamish put the kettle on and went into the kitchen to take down the tin of tea. He was just reaching for the teapot when he lifted his head and listened.
His hearing was acute. And he thought he had caught the faint sound of a voice calling against the wind.
After a moment, he decided that it was only the gale’s keening instead, and he finished spooning the leaves into the pot. Waiting for the kettle, he walked over to his favorite chair, the tall handmade one that had belonged to his grandfather’s grandfather, and sat down, letting his dark head fall back against the smooth wood.
He had gone into town on a matter of business, had had the great good luck to catch a glimpse of Fiona walking with her aunt, and then had spoken to the solicitor who had drawn up his granny’s will and now was called upon to drawn up another. His own.
Hamish had put it off, as men tended to do, but last month there had been a climbing accident up the glen, a man from Carlisle falling from the rock face he’d been scaling. Hamish had helped to bring his body down. That had reminded him to settle his own affairs. But the question of where to leave his own property was still facing him. There was no one to inherit the MacLeod land. No one left of his bloodline, not until he married and had sons of his own. Or daughters. And it would be a pity to lose what his ancestor had begun.
He had no ties with the village school where he’d been an above average student. He had no ties to the kirk where he worshipped of a Sunday—mostly out of habit because his granny had gone every Sabbath of her life and took him with her, brooking no argument. He had become a staunch Covenanter in spite of himself. There were friends, good ones, but this was MacLeod land in MacDonald country, and somehow it had seemed wrong to leave it out of the family.
It wasn’t until he was casting about for a solution when he realized that there was one person he would gladly see in possession of his grandmother’s belongings and her possessions and his. Someone to wear her bits and bobs of jewelry, to sit in her chair, to sleep in her bed.
Fiona. MacDonald though she was, she might one day be a MacLeod. If he had his way.
An orphan like himself. And yet he’d hesitated, because this house on the shoulder of a mountain was not as close to the village as she might like, away from everyone she knew.
He caught the faint sound again. Not a sheep in trouble. Not a dog, lost and afraid. Human. He was nearly sure of it.
Getting to his feet, he set the kettle off the stove, went to find a dry coat and boots, then lit the old iron lantern that was kept by the hearth.
Resigned to another soaking, he pulled on the coat and twisted the still damp scarves around his still damp hair. Unbolting the door, he felt it nearly ripped from his fingers as the wind caught it. And the lamp on the little table guttered and went out.
Cursing, he lifted the lantern high, pulled the door shut, and set out, calling, across the windy night.
He knew the land intimately. Walking half blinded by the rain whipping hard at his face, he moved well away from the house and lifted his head again to listen.
There it was. Toward the loch.
He moved in that direction, calling at the top of his voice, willing whoever was out there in this gale to hear him. And what was the fool doing out in one of the worst spring storms in memory? Wandering in the dark like a loon?
For an instant he thought he saw movement, but it was only the whirling drive of the rain. No one else was out here. No one else had any reason to be.
Wait—was that the sound of someone replying to his calls, torn away into the night but still there long enough to help him pick his way through the heather on the hillside?
He moved swiftly now, his feet certain, the la
ntern swinging wildly in his grip as the wind buffeted it. He was wet to the skin for a second time, but he paid no heed. After casting about near the loch, feeling the spray in his eyes as he turned into the teeth of the gale, he finally saw what appeared to be someone lying just feet from the waterline.
Breaking into a run, he covered the distance quickly, setting down the lantern for a better look.
It was a slim figure, young, he thought. Surely not a girl? But no, the legs wore trews, tartan trousers. As his hands ran over the length of the body, he felt something like broken bones tangled in the legs, and then realized that he had found a piper’s bag instead. But what shape was the man in? It was nearly impossible to tell if he was breathing or not. Hamish couldn’t hear his own breath, harsh from the run.
He bent down, pulling the lantern close, feeling its warmth against his wet skin. And then he saw the fair lashes flutter. But there was blood, dark against the cold pale flesh of the forehead, and his fingers touched a long tear half hidden by fair hair.
Still kneeling, he gathered the body into his arms, then somehow pulled the pipes and bag on top of it, leaving a hand free for the lantern. The flame danced and bobbed as he gathered himself, rose to his feet, and felt the weight of the wind as he took up the weight of the body. He nearly went down, setting his teeth as he turned his back to the gale.
Then the wind shifted a little, and he could make his way directly back toward the dark shape of his house, climbing steadily.
Rain lashed them as he walked, and he tried to shelter the young man as best he could, but by the time he struggled up the path leading to his granny’s door, he knew he was nearly at the end of his own strength. It was all he could do to find the latch, shift his weight against the door, and nearly fall inside.
There was nowhere to put the young man but the floor. Hamish went down on one knee, lowered him gently onto the rumpled clothes he’d taken off hardly more than an hour earlier. Or was it longer than that? Had he really been outside for so long? For the little clock on the table was chiming ten.
Using the strength of his upper body to shove the door closed, he lay down next to his unexpected visitor, his arms spread wide, taking in great gulps of air. Finally, having caught his breath, he got to his feet to ram the bolt home. He found the lamp and lit it once more.
His unexpected guest looked to be in a bad way.
“I’ll ha’ to gie mysel’ anither dog,” he said aloud. “I’d ha’ found him faster, wi’ a dog.”
The room was warm enough from the heat of the stove and the fire. Hamish hurried into the kitchen. The kettle was lukewarm at best, but it would have to do. Pouring the water into a basin, catching up a cloth from the rack, he went back to bathe the lad’s face and hands. He could see that head wound now. Deep and still bleeding. Why hadn’t the lad died? The gash was deadly enough.
He pulled off the heavy jacket the boy was wearing, then went to fetch blankets, one to put down closer to the stove and another to spread over him. Moving him gently, he thought, He needs a doctor. But there was no way to bring one here tonight.
Setting the pipes aside, he tucked the blanket around the boy—he couldn’t be more than sixteen, surely?—and then went to fetch dry clothes for himself and something to wrap the wound to stop the bleeding. But it was a good sign, that bleeding. The lad was still among the living. That done, he went to the cabinet against the wall and took out the bottle of whisky, then found a spoon. Moistening the back of the spoon with the whisky, he drew it lightly across the bluish lips.
After a moment his patient licked his lips, and Hamish tried again. By the third attempt, he thought there was a little more color in the pale face.
“That’ll do ye, laddie,” he said, and put the whisky away. By this time the kettle was singing merrily, and he made a cup of tea to warm himself and then poured a little in a saucer for his guest.
It was a hit or miss business, trying to get a few warm drops down the boy’s throat without choking him, but that and the blankets were enough finally to bring him out of his stupor, and the fair lashes moved, then opened wide with shock.
“It’s all right,” Hamish said, smiling. “I brought you up from the loch. I’ll no’ harm ye now after going to all that trouble.”
He thought he caught a smile in the wide blue eyes. And then the boy’s hand jerked toward his knees, wildly searching. Hamish reached over, lifted the pipes for his guest to see, then set them gently down again close by. “They’re here, and safe. But ye’ve no’ the wind to play them just now, so let them be.”
The boy nodded a little.
“A piper, are you?”
The pale lips tried to form a word. Yes.
“I’ve no’ the gift,” Hamish said, still kneeling on the floor. “But my grandfather did. He tried to teach me. Going to play somewhere, were ye, when the gale came doon?”
A nod.
“Well, then. Ye were verra’ lucky. You should ha’ stayed the night where you were. Are ye comfortable enough? There’s a bed in the other room. And food in the larder. But I’m wary of moving you while yon head is bleeding sae fierce.”
He offered more tea, and the boy sipped a little. But he was spent, and Hamish himself was nearly so.
Doing what he could, he made the boy comfortable on the floor, fed him a little more tea, and then got up as his patient slipped into a light sleep.
Going through the boy’s pockets, he searched for something that would tell him who this was. But neither his pockets nor the pipe bag had a name to give him.
With a last look at the boy, he got up, sat down in his chair, and finished his own cup of tea. As the warmth spread through him, he felt the leaden weight of his fatigue. He fought it as long as he could, twice going to stand over his patient, twice feeling for a faint thread of pulse, a little stronger each time. And then his own exertions took their toll. He tried to force his eyelids to open once more, but they refused, and he sank into a deep sleep.
His last thought was a wry Ye’ll ha’ to see to him now, Granny.
When Hamish MacLeod awoke, a cold gray Highland dawn was peering through his windows. The lantern had guttered in the night and the lamp as well. The wind had dropped, and the silence in the cottage was fraught with something he couldn’t quite name as he struggled up from the depths of exhausted sleep.
His wet clothes lay where he’d left them, the stove had gone out, and there was an odor of damp wool in the room. He sat there, rubbing his face, feeling the stiffness in his body, the heavy growth of the night’s beard, and tried to think what it was he had to do this morning.
And then he came to himself with such a jolt that the chair creaked in protest.
The lad. The piper.
Leaping out of the chair, he turned toward the hearth where he’d left the boy lying.
And stared. No blankets—no slim sprawled body—no fair head dark with blood—no blue eyes watching him from the floor.
Nothing.
Hamish realized that he was standing there with his mouth agape, and he shut it smartly.
He couldn’t believe that the lad had recovered enough in the night to slip away without rousing the man sleeping in the chair not ten paces from him. But it was possible. It was just possible that he had. But where were the blankets?
Hamish stumbled into the bedroom and found them neatly folded and still a little damp.
He went to the door to see if he’d drawn the bolt when he came in from searching for the cries he’d heard.
He hadn’t. Or else the boy had left it off the latch.
Hamish stood there.
The piper had gone out into the night a second time. It hadn’t been something he imagined. And there were his own wet clothes to prove it. Two sets.
And if the piper had left, trying to reach whatever appointment he might have had to play, he would surely die on the road long before he reached his destination. The cold that had followed the gale would see him dead if the head wound didn’t.
> Galvanized, Hamish caught up his coat and set out.
He hadn’t imagined the cold. There was a rime of frost everywhere, crisp under his feet as he ran toward the loch. But the shoreline was empty save for the debris the waves had left behind, leaves and twigs and even clots of drying froth marking where the wind had blown them.
He jogged along the water’s edge and soon picked up straggling footprints, weaving along the shore where walking was easier, sometimes faltering toward the thick grass and heather that marked where the loch ended and the land began.
Small footprints, not his, someone else’s. And then signs of something dragging. The pipe bag?
The lad was weakening; he’d find him soon.
But he didn’t. He walked another mile, and then in the distance he saw several men standing in a path that led toward the main road. A long walk for an injured man.
As he increased his speed, running now, he realized that two of the men were standing looking down at something lying in the heather. A third man was kneeling beside it.
Whoever they were, they’d found the lad.
One of them saw him coming, said something to the others, and all three men turned in his direction. The one kneeling slowly got to his feet.
“Is he all right? The lad?” Hamish called.
They said nothing, waiting for him. One of them, the man who had been kneeling, was a constable.
And then he realized that there was a stillness about the body lying there in a scrub clump of heather that was unnatural.
He stopped. The fool of a lad was dead. But what had driven him out of the house? Had he been that afraid of his rescuer? Or was it something else?
And where had the three men come from? The constable wasn’t from the village. He knew the policeman there. The one beyond? But that was some distance. How had they got here so fast, given the gale that had wracked the night?
His mind alert now, he walked on, taking his time.
“And you are?” the eldest of the three men called as he came nearer.