Mystery: The Christmas Contest: A Duncan Dewar Romantic Comedy of Mystery & Suspense (Duncan Dewar Mysteries Book 5)

by Victoria Benchley

  -14-

  Hogmanay and Its Meanings

  The die was cast. Skye wanted nothing to do with Angus. Even if he wasn't engaged to Cassandra Baines, he'd proven a roué. The lass ignored Duncan's brother as she busied herself around the inn. Tradition held that a house must be cleaned from top to bottom on 31 December. She'd scrubbed the cottage this morning and now turned her attentions to the Blue Bell, directing its staff where to scour while polishing the pub herself.

  "The lass shouldn't throw stones. What's the difference between me giving Cassandra a pat on the bum and her dressing to tantalize in that tartan, strapless number?" Angus had complained to his brother.

  "You mean the one with the sweetheart neckline?" Duncan asked with enthusiasm, raising an eyebrow.

  The investigator had learned a thing or two from Angela about women's fashions.

  "She wore that to the ceilidh last year. Nothing wrong with that gown. You should have seen her twirl during the Circassian Big Circle," Duncan said, stirring the pot of his brother's anger.

  "That's exactly what I'm gettin' at," Angus said before stomping out of room nine.

  Duncan shook his head, then got dressed for the evening's festivities. He chose one of his modern casual kilts, made from a dark brown tweed with a green windowpane plaid running throughout. The investigator selected a coordinating blazer, emerald turtleneck sweater, hose and leather work boots to wear with the kilt. The temperature had risen since the last of the snow melted, and remained unseasonably warm. He didn't think he'd need a coat for the out of doors activities.

  He smoothed down his unruly mane and knocked on Angela's door. The lass opened the oak panel, revealing quite a sight. Clothed in a bell shaped tweed coat dress, she looked absolutely adorable. Double breasted, the cream, black and lavender tweed garment supported a high collar with lapels that split over its square neckline, revealing Angela's lovely collar bone. The coat fit snug through the waist and flared into a bell shape at the hips. The style flattered her just like the shape of her gown for the gala. Beneath its hem, Angela wore black stockings with high heeled leather ankle boots.

  Duncan smiled with appreciation at the lass.

  "Hallo, Penny," he addressed Harold's girlfriend, who sat on one of the beds, fussing with her hair.

  "Hello, Duncan. Would you let Harold know I'll be down shortly?" the redheaded girl from Lindisfarne asked.

  "Of course," he said, pulling Angela from the room.

  In the pub, Mondo joined Margaret, James, and Reggie. Triumphant, the Spanish chef allowed Andrew Gordon free reign in his own kitchen, vowing to stay clear of that place and enjoy the younger man's cooking that night. Duncan watched as his dad spoke with Reginald, and his mum chatted non-stop with Armondo.

  Donald sat the investigator and Angela at a larger table, signifying they'd be joined by others. Harold was the first to take his seat, next to Angela, and Duncan relayed Penny's message. Five minutes later, Penny joined them, along with Angus. The large, round table still had room for more.

  Jimmy Smythe and Abigail Neward arrived and the innkeeper directed them to Duncan's table. Skye joined them while a waiter poured everyone a glass of red wine. At last, the innkeeper took his seat, next to Abigail. The book shop owner beamed. The investigator felt certain she and Jimmy had taken the seats previously assigned to Susanne and Wally, who understandably cancelled their reservation, and, Duncan heard, left the manor house for an extended holiday.

  The wait staff served the traditional steak pie, piping hot, and roasted winter vegetables. Duncan asked Abigail about the art contest and how she enjoyed the judging. The little lady explained that a local artist, Sidney Taylor, took first prize. Already a successful and well-known painter, Sidney's entry depicting Highlanders in the snow won hands down.

  "Sidney also has an impressive art collection. I hope ye can see it sometime, Duncan," Abigail stated.

  The waiters cleared their plates and brought out a whiskey spiked custard for dessert, after pouring coffee for the diners.

  "Do ye remember how BBC Scotland used to play Rikki Fulton as the Reverend I.M. Jolly every Hogmanay?" Donald asked the group.

  "Aye, Scotch and Wry it was called," Jimmy Smythe said, nostalgia in his voice. "He was so funny. I miss that," he added.

  Abigail laughed, remembering the comedian's skits, and Skye nodded in agreement. The decibel level in the pub rose as people finished their custards, told stories, made conversation, and sang ditties. The staff passed out cards reflecting the schedule for the evening's entertainments. Donald excused himself from the table to take care of some last minute detail while Harold and Penny examined the agenda for the night.

  "Please excuse me," Duncan said.

  He tracked down the innkeeper and whispered something in his ear. Donald nodded.

  "Follow me," the innkeeper said and led Duncan from the pub, where Angus now sat at the bar, downing another dram of whiskey.

  * * * * * *

  Behind the inn, young men tried to find the contraptions they'd assembled earlier that morning. Duncan and Harold joined the local villagers, preparing for the Fireball Swing, a tradition from Scotland's northeast. At eight a.m., participants gathered to construct their very own fireball. It took a couple of hours, but by ten, the Dewars had each built a round cage of chicken wire, filled it with cloth, paper, and small bits of kindling, and attached a meter long chain to each orb. Duncan's sphere measured almost two-thirds of a meter, while Harold's was a bit smaller. Angus didn't participate, as Donald said he'd need all his energy for the part he'd play in the festival.

  Now that it was dark out, finding the fireball he had built proved difficult. Donald came out of the kitchen with a torch raised above his head. At last, the brothers were certain they had their creations. A councilman marched the men up a village street, halting where Chief Inspector Wallace used his car to block traffic.

  In front of the Blue Bell a crowd gathered, spilling onto the lane that passed the inn and crossed the River Taye just to the east of town. Jimmy Smythe's car blocked traffic from the other side of the bridge over the river. A lone piper played a tune atop the rounded overpass, signaling the fireball swing was about to begin. Everyone craned to look up the road where they knew the parade would start.

  "Keep that turpentine away from my car," John Wallace instructed. "Otherwise, we're going to have a real fireball!"

  The chief inspector was never in favor of the plan to utilize fire in the village Hogmanay celebrations. It sounded like a recipe for disaster, or second degree burns at the very least. In spite of his protests, the council had voted to include the fireball swing in the festivities, and now volunteers doused the cages with flammable liquids, before dropping a lit match on each ball.

  Poof! Duncan's cage erupted into a bonfire. He could hear the piper, down the street and around a corner, playing. He began swinging the blazing orb over his head in a circular motion, his hand gripping one end of its chain. He marched forward, careful to keep his distance from the others, who, one by one, had their spheres set ablaze. The street lights had been switched off and villagers warned not to light lamps inside of their homes.

  Donald utilized his staff members to distribute sticks and switches to the crowd, along with a brief history of the event to follow the Fireball Swing. After their initial confusion subsided, the villagers laughed and their excitement grew. This was going to be the best Hogmanay ever!

  From the Blue Bell, the procession was an impressive sight to see. At least two dozen glowing orbs approached the inn, spinning in the air, as if levitating their way down the lane. Each conflagration produced a moving circle of fire on the dark street. The participants were far enough away and enough distance from each other to keep themselves in the dark. As the men grew closer, the crowd began to make out the marchers. A cheer went up that echoed off the surrounding hills.

  Duncan reached the bridge over the river first. A few of the fireballs had burnt out along the route, but most still radia
ted flames. The piper backed off the overpass, his tune still audible, making way for the procession. Duncan flung his cage in the Taye, and leaned over the stone bridge to watch it fizzle in the cold, rushing water. A local bloke threw his in next, followed by Harold. When the last participant had doused his fireball, the piper stopped and the crowd cheered again.

  Donald pushed Angus from his hiding spot around the corner of the Blue Bell. A councilman positioned a spotlight, stationed in the bed of a truck, so its beam focused on Duncan's brother. A gasp rose from the crowd.

  The investigator had a good view of the proceedings from his perch atop the bridge. Angus, clad only in an animal skin and shoes, bent to discuss something with Donald.

  "I don't know h… how ye talked me into this," Angus stammered, some of the drams taking an effect.

  "It's too late to back out now, Laddie. Ye did earn this honor when ye won the treasure contest. Go on!" Donald said, giving the large Scotsman another push.

  Duncan watched as his brother stumbled forward, dressed in the odd toga. Angus ran towards the crowd, who seemed to part for the man before forming a scrum around him. The investigator heard some kind of swishing sounds, and his brother yelling, "Ow," now and then. He saw Angus break through the crowd and run up a street, youngsters chasing him with… what was it? It looked like sticks. What bizarre ancient ritual had Donald dug up? As his brother disappeared from view, only to reappear a moment later zigzagging wildly up another lane, still chased by the village youth, the piper struck up a new tune. The crowd roared, enjoying the strange event. Duncan shook his head and walked back to the Blue Bell, the mob howling each time they caught a glimpse of his brother dashing about the village pursued by the teens.

  It was almost twelve and villagers arranged themselves into circles, awaiting the stroke of midnight. The piper approached the Blue Bell and halted his music. When he struck up again, everyone joined him singing Auld Lang Syne. The townspeople clasped the hands of those to their immediate left and right as they sang the words of the last chorus.

  "So here's my hand, my trusted friend, and give me your hand, we'll take a good-will drink together, for auld Lang Syne."

  Duncan walked Angela back to the bridge as fireworks shot from Castle Taye. Bursting over the night sky, the rockets produced enough light, briefly, to illuminate the lass's features. He placed his arm around his former assistant.

  "Do you know what Hogmanay means, Angela?" he asked, the sound of the river rushing beneath competing with the booms from fireworks.

  "No, what does it mean, Duncan?" she asked, resting her head against his chest.

  The Scotsman turned the lass in his arms and lifted her chin so their eyes met. With every pyrotechnic explosion Angela saw his eyes grow a deeper shade of green.

  "It's probably a combination of things from other countries. The Flemish phrase, Hoog min day means Great Love Day while the French, L'homme est né, translates Man is born," he explained in a husky voice.

  Duncan dropped to one knee and produced a tattered red box from his pocket, the very one he'd had Donald remove from the inn's safe earlier. He flipped the lid open, revealing an antique ring, not as large as that flashed by Cassandra, but far more precious.

  "Angela, this is our Hoog min day… our L'homme est né. Will you consent to be my wife?"

  Angela's hand flew to her mouth, but he could see that her jaw had dropped when a rocket exploded overhead.

  "Will you?" he repeated. "I love you so deeply."

  The lass nodded as tears began to run down her face. Duncan rose and slipped the one-of-a-kind Art Deco, Asscher cut treasure on Angela's finger, then wrapped her in an embrace that had no limit.

  I hope you enjoyed this latest Duncan Dewar Mystery. The Scottish detective returns in The Siamese Suicides, available now on Amazon.

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  About the Author

  Victoria Benchley lives with her husband of over twenty years and their two children on the West Coast of the United States. She grew up reading the classics and counts Dickens and the Bronte Sisters as her favorite authors. After a career in corporate America, spanning public accounting, cash management, and real estate investments, at national and international firms, she chose to become a stay-at-home mom and full time taxi cab driver for her children. She is a Christian and enjoys quilting, cooking, and traveling (including road trips!), as well as reading and writing. On Sunday afternoons during football season, she can be found enjoying an NFL game.