Highland Laddie Gone

briefest of smiles-“I suppose you think it odd that I should be so composed-and, really, it has been quite a shock hearing about the poor man; but to tell you the truth, he wasn’t as popular as he might have been. Several people dropped out of the group altogether because Colin was such an overbearing old… Anyway, he had arguments with everybody, but I did happen to know of one quite recent one that might be important.”

“Not the sea monsters!” cried Cameron. Seeing the others’ look of astonishment, he scrunched down in his seat. “Sorry,” he murmured. “Carry on.”

“We’ll get to that one directly,” Lightfoot promised him. “Now, what were you referring to, ma’am?”

“The first part I only heard about, but I witnessed the second one. Have you heard of Dr. Walter Hutcheson? No? He’s the president of the MacDonalds this year, and he and Colin are both physicians at the community hospital. Myra Logan told me that she heard Colin and Walter Hutcheson arguing yesterday. Myra’s girl is in the country-dancing competition with my Fiona. Myra said that they were actually shouting-something about real estate, she thought. Well, I didn’t think too much of it at the time, because somebody is always shouting at Colin Campbell, but then today at the herding fiasco-”

“Fiasco?”

Lacy Campbell digressed to explain about the mysterious appearance of rookie ducks in the herding box, and the resulting chaos. “I was standing right beside Walter Hutcheson watching the whole thing, and I distinctly heard him say ‘Colin Campbell’ as he stalked off looking like thunder. Now, the reason I think that’s important is that the exhibitor in the sheep trials was Walter’s wife. Well, his ex-wife, actually, but they’re still friends, I believe. They’d been married for decades, you know,”

“So you think he might have killed Colin Campbell over some ducks?” asked the sheriff carefully.

“No. But I think he might have gone to argue with him about it, and one thing may have led to another,” said Lacy Campbell, proud of her powers of detection.

Lightfoot MacDonald considered it. “Cantankerous old body, wasn’t he?” he mused. “So he put rookie ducks in the dog trials?”

“No, he didn’t!” Cameron blurted out. “We did. The Earl of Strathclyde and I.”

After collecting a few more particulars about her testimony, the sheriff shooed Lacy Campbell politely out of the tent and took a long look at the uncomfortable Cameron Dawson. He flipped again through the blue British passport, reading the visa, the description, and making a face at the passport picture.

“You’ve been here… I make it three days.”

“Just about,” Cameron agreed.

“Uh-huh. Three days. And you’ve already made contact with a terrorist organization, had an argument about sea monsters with a man who promptly gets murdered, and now you tell me you’re responsible for this herding duck business?”

Cameron sighed. He didn’t believe it, either. In Scotland he’d been pretty average, studied a lot-the word dull came to mind. It’s the American insanity, he thought ruefully; I’m infected already.

“Haven’t established a time of death yet, but suppose you tell me where you’ve been for the past twelve hours or so.”

“Since midnight? Well, last night I went to the HillSing with a girl and a bobcat, and-this morning about eight, I-”

“Whoa! Back up. I ain’t even going to speculate about the bobcat, but are you telling me in an understated English way that you spent the night with her?”

One did not, Cameron presumed, lie to law-enforcement persons. “Yes.”

Lightfoot gave him a look of open admiration. “Boy, you limey spies are something else, man! And I thought James Bond was all hog wash! You are something else!”

CHAPTER TEN

MARGE HUTCHESON sat in the refreshment tent, brooding over a cup of coffee and an ashtray full of cigarettes. Across the table, Elizabeth tapped her can of Irn Bru and looked again toward the hospitality tent.

“He’s been in there a long time,” she murmured.

Marge smiled briefly. “Stop being such a mother hen. He’s fine. I’m sure the sheriff has sense enough to realize that no one who just arrived in this country could have anything to do with all this.”

“I guess not.”

“Poor Colin.”

Elizabeth frowned. She had been shocked that anyone should be murdered at a Highland festival, but his being Colin Campbell was not particularly surprising. She wondered what to say to Marge without having to lie about her own reaction to the death. “Did you know him well?” she finally asked.

“Oh, the way people do. We’ve all belonged to the Scottish society for donkey’s years, and I never found Colin particularly hard to get along with. I think he was lonely, but he couldn’t be bothered with meek or unintelligent people.” Marge grinned. “Fortunately, I am neither.”

“I wonder why he was killed?”

“I wonder if we’ll ever know. So many crimes seem to go unsolved these days. And this certainly can’t be the sort of case or the class of people that the sheriff is used to dealing with.”

Elizabeth looked thoughtful. “Maybe he needs some help,” she murmured.

“I suppose it would be useful to know whom Colin annoyed in the past two days,” Marge remarked. “There’s your cousin Geoffrey with that Carson man. Now if he ever gets murdered, you can put me down as chief suspect.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “There’s a waiting list of people wanting to kill Geoffrey,” she sighed. “But I am sorry about the dog trials.”

“It is kind of you to take an interest in this, Sheriff,” said Geoffrey Chandler grandly, before anyone could speak. “However, I do not wish to press charges against my assailant. What’s done is done and cannot be undone.”

The sheriff looked at Cameron for clarification. “The bagpipe,” said Cameron. “You remember. This is His Lordship, the Earl.”

Geoffrey frowned. More improvisational theatre, he thought. “Is this not about my little contretemps this morning?” he purred.

“No, sir, this is a murder investigation, which we believe to be connected with terrorist activities. I understand that your code name is Earl of Strathclyde?”

Geoffrey sank into the nearest folding chair. “I think perhaps that my injuries may have been more severe than I thought,” he murmured. “But do carry on. I shall be fine.”

“Tell us what you know about the Scotch Republican Army,” said Lightfoot grimly.

It was too much for Cameron. “Scottish!” he said. “Scottish! Scottish! Not Scotch. Scotch is a drink.”

“The Scottish Republican Army, then,” said Lightfoot MacDonald. “I thought you said there wasn’t one, Dawson.”

“No, but if there were, it would be Scottish, not Scotch.”

“There isn’t one?” asked Geoffrey brightly. “Are you certain?”

Cameron hesitated. “There may be some group of loonies somewhere who play at it, but as a serious political organization in Scotland-no, definitely not.”

Geoffrey grinned. “Brilliant! It’s foolproof.”

“What is?”

“The plot of Macbeth… the cathedral at Rheims… guacamole dip. What was that, Sheriff?”

“You’re talking rubbish,” Cameron told him.

“Sorry… Must be that head injury kicking in again. I think I should go and lie down, don’t you?” He stood up. “Let’s do this again soon, Sheriff, shall we?”