Highland Laddie Gone

“Well, what do you say I let you have it for that, then?”

“And I’d be through working then? I could go back to my parents?”

“That’s right.”

“No way,” said Jimmy, turning back to the rack of clan ties.

“A-weel…” Lachlan straightened up suddenly. “Jimmy, why don’t you slip round to the refreshment tent and get us a shandy, if they have any left?”

Jimmy took money and hurried off through the crowd, wondering vaguely if Lachlan’s ESP was troubling him again. He glanced back and saw the old man talking to a blonde in an oriental outfit. He would have given a lot to know what clan Lachlan would contrive for that.

* * *

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the Glencoe Mountain Highland Games herding competition…” Over the scratchy loudspeaker, it sounded like hernia composition. Three black and white border collies were crouched at the sidelines beside their respective owners waiting for the signal to begin. The announcer explained that because of space limitations and-he paused-other considerations (“Sheep shit,” said Geoffrey), the dogs would be herding ducks instead of sheep. “Our first contestant is a five-year-old border collie, Somerled of Skye Laird, owned and trained by Marjorie Carter Hutcheson. Somerled won the competition last year.”

“Isn’t he beautiful?” said Elizabeth. “I remember when he was just a puppy.”

“By the pricking of my thumbs…” muttered Geoffrey as Marge approached the wooden duck box.

The three of them were sitting with a group of pipers in full costume. The piping events were next on the program, and the young men had brought their instruments and a deck of cards to while away the time before their performance. Cameron was watching the card game with a studied air of nonchalance, but he kept glancing nervously at the field.

“This is a wonderful event,” Elizabeth prattled on. “Would you like me to explain it to you?” She waved encouragingly to Marge and Somerled.

“I would thou couldst,” Geoffrey intoned.

Elizabeth frowned. “Are you barding again?”

On the field, the dog was wriggling with anticipation as the door to the box swung open. Five white ducks waddled out uncertainly into the sunlight and began to wander off in five different directions. Somerled, whose first job was to march the feathered troops through a concrete pipe, crouched before one duck, intending to drive it back into the group. Unfortunately for the veteran collie, it was a rookie duck. Instead of trotting back to the platoon, it emitted a honk of outrage and flapped its wings. This gave Somerled pause: in his experience, ducks never argued back. He lunged at the left flank of the rest of the group, attempting to steer them toward the pipe. More honking and flapping.

“That’s odd,” said Elizabeth. “I wonder what’s the matter with the ducks.”

One of them had broken away from the group and was making a determined rush toward the crowd. Somerled abandoned the rest and gave chase, trying to circle in front of the deserter. Marge’s look of astonishment had turned to anger, and she was conferring with the competition judge, who kept shrugging and shaking his head.

“Good gracious!” said Elizabeth. “You’d think those ducks had never seen a dog before!”

“Bring me no more reports; let them fly all!” moaned Geoffrey.

Cameron, who had once played Malcolm in the sixth form, replied, “I’ll to England.” Geoffrey threw him a look of gratitude. “To Ireland, I.” He nodded, getting to his feet. “Our separated fortune shall keep us both the safer.” “What is the matter with you two?” demanded Elizabeth. “Oh, dear, look at that duck!”

Standing up was Geoffrey’s chief mistake: Marge recognized him. She made it to the edge of the crowd almost as fast as the duck had, and pointed accusingly at Geoffrey. “You! I saw you messing with that herding box yesterday! What is wrong with those ducks?”

In considerably less than Shakespearean tones, Geoffrey told her; but Walter Hutcheson, who had been watching from the other side of the field, had not stayed to see the confrontation. He had seen the fiasco made of Somerled’s herding efforts, and immediately suspected sabotage. Several bystanders distinctly heard him say “Colin Campbell!” before he stalked away.

Afterward, everyone agreed that things could have been much worse. Geoffrey hadn’t been seriously injured, and the piper found, after playing a few trial notes, that his bagpipe hadn’t been damaged at all.

Andy Carson looked at his watch for the third time in as many minutes. The parade of the clans should have started ten minutes ago, even allowing for the usual tardiness. He wondered if he should go ahead and start his speech and let the stragglers catch up. Still, he didn’t like to begin with a clan chief missing. It was hot, though; and Scotch and Gatorade had turned out not to be such a brilliant idea after all.

“Is Ramsay here yet?” he asked Margaret McLeod.

“Yes, he just arrived. Everyone has signaled ready except the Campbells.”

Andy shrugged. Normally, Colin Campbell was the first one on the field and the most vociferous complainer about latecomers.

“Shall I go and get him?” asked Margaret, consulting her clipboard.

“I suppose. I’ll do my introductory speech while you’re gone. Just do hurry him up, will you?”

Elizabeth, who had changed back to her kilt for the ceremony, was present but not yet in place. “This won’t take long,” she promised Cameron. “You have to be wearing the clan colors to participate, though, so I’m afraid you’ll have to watch it from here. Hold Cluny’s leash, will you, while I tie his tartan ribbon?”

Cameron took hold of the leash and looked around at the mass of people crowding the field. He didn’t see any signs of weapons, though. “Just what is going to happen now?” he asked uneasily.

“The parade of clans. The master of ceremonies will make his speech, and introduce guests, and then each clan will march out on to the field, shout its battle cry, and stand off to the side until all the clans have been presented.”

“And then what?” No cannons, either.

Elizabeth smiled. “Then I change back into my sundress, and you take me to lunch.”

“Right. How’s Geoffrey?”

“He stayed at the cabin with a washcloth across his forehead, doing the death scene from Hamlet.”

“As whom?”

“Oh, everyone. Geoffrey feels that death is too important to be enacted only once.” She took back Cluny’s leash. “Time to join the clan. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Margaret McLeod clasped her clipboard protectively to her chest. Rousing the Campbell boar from his lair was not her idea of a pleasant morning’s work, and she wished she had thought to tell someone to go and get the blasted chief, but there was no time for that now. She could already hear Dr. Carson’s nasal tones droning over the loudspeaker.

Another disagreeable thought occurred to her. Suppose Campbell was drunk. He would hardly be alone in experiencing that condition, she thought ruefully, but it might make it difficult to get him to the ceremony. She should have brought help, she thought, looking up at the camper door. Oh, well… She tapped gently. “Dr. Campbell? It’s late! The ceremony has begun!”

Nothing.

“Dr. Campbell! Are you in there?” Margaret tried the door handle, hoping that she was not about to find out what Colin wore under his kilt.

The door swung open, and she found herself face-to-face with the clan chief himself. “You’re late!” Margaret cried, before she got a good look at him and discovered that he was indeed the late Colin Campbell.

CHAPTER NINE