Highland Laddie Gone

The loudspeaker crackled again. “The caber toss, as you all know, lads and lassies…” Cameron winced. “… consists of tossing one of these eighteen-foot poles so that it makes a perfect rotation and lands with the thin side up. The cabers weigh about a hundred and twenty pounds apiece, so you can imagine the strength required to turn them end over end…”

“Did Geoffrey really think they were going to throw swords?”

“Sabers, yes. Until a second ago, he didn’t know a caber from a hole in the ground. Where is he, anyway?”

“Slinking away past one of the dancing platforms. I wonder if they’ll call his name out?”

“I know just how he feels,” sighed Elizabeth.

Walter Hutcheson thought of law-enforcement officers chiefly in terms of traffic control, and since this was a murder investigation he was somewhat at a loss on how to proceed. He finally decided to look solemn and concerned in his best civic-meeting attitude, and to try to appear as objective as possible. Something in the sheriff’s manner made him uneasy.

“You knew Dr. Campbell pretty well, didn’t you?”

“Over twenty years at the hospital.” For my sins, thought Walter.

“Good friends?”

“Good professional relationship as colleagues.”

“Any idea who would want to kill him?”

“Everybody!” snapped Walter Hutcheson. “The man couldn’t walk down a hallway without stirring up an incident. His personal folder read like a synopsis of World War Two. The question is: who finally lost control and killed him?”

“It might depend on the size of the argument, don’t you think?”

“I suppose so, but Colin could be aggravating about practically anything.”

“Real estate, for example?”

Walter flushed. He might have known that somebody would get wind of that, considering how loudly Campbell had been shouting when they discussed it. “Colin Campbell was a bully, Sheriff,” he said at last.

“Maybe so. But even bullies follow up on threats now and then. He doesn’t sound like the sort of person that I’d want to bet big money on. Why don’t you tell me your side of it?”

Walter explained about the lake property and Colin’s threat about rezoning, and about the hospital hearing inquiring into Dr. Campbell’s conduct. The sheriff listened carefully, making an occasional squiggle on his yellow notepad. He seemed to be listening only out of politeness, as if he were waiting for something. Walter found out what it was a few minutes later when the deputy appeared holding something wrapped in a towel. Lightfoot accepted the package, and squinted up at Fentress.

“Anything for sure?”

Merle Fentress glanced at Dr. Hutcheson. “I’d say so. Go on ahead.” He leaned against one of the tent supports, shook the canvas a little, and straightened up again, trying to stay deadpan.

Lightfoot ignored him. Pulling the towel away from the package, he held out a skian dubh sheathed in a plastic evidence bag. “Do you recognize this, Dr. Hutcheson?”

“It looks like mine,” said Walter, before the obvious implication of its appearance struck him. He hastened to add, “There must be hundreds of identical ones.”

“Did you bring yours to the festival?”

“Yes, of course. I wear the silver one for evening dress.”

“Perhaps we might go along to your camper and see if you can locate yours, doctor.”

“I suppose someone might have stolen mine,” said Walter as an afterthought.

“Uh-huh. Well, this particular one has your fingerprints on the hilt. And we found it sticking in Colin Campbell’s chest.”

“This must be some kind of appalling mistake, Sheriff.”

“Why don’t we go back to your camper, sir, and check for your dagger. It won’t be necessary to handcuff you, will it? Of course, if you can’t produce yours, I’m going to have to read you your rights and ask you to come with us.”

Walter Hutcheson staggered out of the hospitality tent, trying to make sense of the last ten minutes, but it was like trying to read a newspaper in a windstorm: his thoughts would not stay still long enough for him to examine them.

He knew, really, without going back to the camper, that the skian dubh was his. There was a little nick on the stag’s nose from when he’d dropped it accidentally. His indecision was halfway between hope and playing for time while he tried to figure out what was happening. Walter’s head hurt; it was unfair to expect acute thinking when he’d been celebrating for most of the past twenty- four hours. Colin Campbell couldn’t even die without inconveniencing everybody.

As they walked along the path encircling the festival field, Walter spotted a familiar face and stopped in his tracks. “Marge!” he cried. “The most dreadful thing has happened! Colin has got himself murdered with a skian dubh that looks like mine, and I may actually be hauled off by the police. We have to straighten this out.”

Marge looked at him gravely. “I’m sorry, Walter.”

“Well, of course you are. It’s unthinkable, isn’t it? Now, I want you to call Sanderson and tell him to drive down here, because I may need a lawyer. Just as a precaution. And… let’s see… maybe you ought to get hold of Dr. Fahrner in case I’m not back by Monday…”

Instead of springing into brisk efficiency as Marge usually did, and adding to the list of things to be done, she was just standing there, expressionless. What’s the matter with her? Walter wondered. “Now, let’s see… Sanderson, Fahrner… is there anyone-”

“Don’t you think your wife should be doing this?” asked Marge quietly.

“What?”

“I said: don’t you think your wife should be doing all this?”

Walter felt like a dog who had reached the end of his chain at a dead run. Heather. He had forgotten all about her. “Yes, of course,” he murmured. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am-”

“I know,” said Marge.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

LACHLAN FORSYTH, three-deep in babbling tourists, wondered for the fourth time where Jimmy had got to. When the lad’s parents had insisted on taking him to lunch-reeking guilt, he thought smugly-he had assumed they were going to haul him off for a nosh at the refreshment tent; but apparently their relief at having disposed of him was so great that only The Thistle Inn and a couple of London broils could deaden it. He didn’t know whom he felt the most sorry for-those two yuppie simpletons who wanted a Cabbage Patch doll that breathed, or little lizard- hearted Jimmy who was meant to be an Artful Dodger. No use giving either party advice, though. Might as well try to tell chalk how to be cheese.

The McGowans had tried to seem pleased at how hard their Jimmy was working at the festival, but behind the smiles they were wondering what the trick was to managing him-and feeling the reproach that they couldn’t do it themselves. None of his business, Lachlan told himself. Just be glad for a bit of help at the festival, when you had so much unexpected bother to see about.

“Do you have any books about Clan Graham?” asked an elderly woman in a ridiculous-looking tam.

“No, but they’ll be in that big book along with the rest of them.”

“But I’m only interested in Grahams.”

“Leave your name, then, and I’ll see if I can special order for you. Who was next, please?”

The stall work was so routine, and the questions so repetitious, that it hardly took any concentration. Lachlan wrapped packages and juggled credit cards while he considered the murder. It was almost funny that someone had killed Campbell, but for the inconvenience of it in terms of his own plans. He really couldn’t afford to have police officers nosing around the games. As it was, he was dreading the inevitable interrogation scene. He supposed that