using the facilities. Edwin Davis was always most particular about that sort of thing. Six cakes of soap a month he went through, he’d tell his guests: a rather splendid tribute of cleanliness for one who lived alone. He shouldn’t have tried that soft drink at the refreshment tent. If it hadn’t been for that, he could have waited until he left the festival. As it was, he had spent a good many minutes trying to find a Port-A-John in an uncrowded area. Really, if he didn’t have complete privacy, he couldn’t go at all. He supposed silence was too much to ask; the bagpipe music permeated the entire mountainside.
Edwin Davis frowned at the battered blue stall set up at a precarious angle beneath a pine tree. He didn’t quite like the tilt of it. He refused to consider the possibility of being trapped in a falling Port-A-John. There was no one in sight, and he was distinctly uncomfortable, so he decided to risk it. He made a mental note to reconsider attending any more outdoor festivals. Mother had always insisted that a direct descendant of Bonnie Prince Charlie ought to be present at such gatherings, but if this first experience of one was any indication of the norm, he thought they could just scrape by without him. He had found the Stewart tent easily enough, but there was something he didn’t quite like in their smiling reception to his announcement of royal ancestry. Edwin could see restrained amusement beneath their politeness. They might as well accuse Mother of lying, he thought hotly.
Edwin peered closely at the handle of the portable toilet. A small lever registered “occupied” or “unoccupied,” and it was now resting in the latter position. He hoped that the chemical additive was sufficiently strong to block the smell. Smells could give him the most violent headaches. Mother’s powder used to, though of course he’d never mentioned it.
Taking one last deep breath of mountain air, Edwin yanked the handle of the Port-A-John and prepared to enter, but his way was blocked by the body that fell forward and landed with a soft thump on his feet. Edwin stared down at the old man in the green and blue kilt, with a detachment that was almost serene. He wasn’t very heavy, really, for a corpse. Still quite distinguished-looking, in fact. The deceased didn’t seem in the least embarrassed to be discovered in so undignified a place as a portable toilet. He might have died a war hero, for the noble expression he wore. After a few seconds’ more contemplation beneath the glaze of shock, Edwin Davis wondered idly whether he ought to go and get someone to see about the poor old fellow. Report the death. He might as well. Upon reflection, he realized that he didn’t have to go the bathroom anymore.
Walter Hutcheson had called his lawyer on the telephone in the sheriff’s office. Sanderson, hauled off the golf course by his beeper, would be driving down, presumably after he’d changed into a more professional outfit. Walter was in no hurry to see him. It was quite peaceful, really, to be able to survey one’s own life with the detachment that iron bars provided.
He found himself thinking about Marge for the first time in months. Really considering her, he corrected himself. She had usually flitted near the surface of his thoughts, but the accompanying reproach had kept him from focusing on her clearly. This afternoon’s incident had left him shaken. Walter Hutcheson was not a man who pondered things very much-philosophy struck him as a waste of time-but even he had to see the implications of his earlier confrontation with Marge. He had forgotten about Heather completely. She had simply gone out of his head; and when the emergency overwhelmed him, he turned to Marge as naturally as a child might call on a parent. It made him very uneasy.
He had to admit that Heather would not have been very much help in a crisis. She wasn’t good at independent thinking, and she seemed to have an amazing capacity for doing nothing at all-but in a very lovely way, of course. He supposed he had been a bit silly, but after all, it isn’t every day one can marry into the British aristocracy. And such a beautiful girl, besides.
He looked at the bars again. Not a bad cell, really. It was clean, anyway. He hadn’t seen any insects.
Walter tried to think about Heather again through the cloud of pride with which he normally saw her, but the comforting haze would not be summoned. There wasn’t much aristocracy about their wedding. Justice of the peace in the courthouse soon after his divorce became final. He’d been nattered that she hadn’t wanted to wait. But he should have insisted on having her people come over. He’d wanted to take her to Scotland on the honeymoon, of course, but it was winter, and Heather had insisted on Barbados. They had been married eight months now, and he had yet to meet any of her family. He wondered if she was ashamed of him; he winced at the thought. He wasn’t young, that was true. At first he’d been pleased when people commented on them as a couple, even amused when she was mistaken for his daughter; just lately he’d begun to suspect that they were laughing at him.
He wished Heather were more affectionate. Perhaps Scots weren’t a very affectionate people. He’d often heard them called dour. She seemed at times to tolerate him-nothing more. But he couldn’t imagine what it was she wanted. A sardonic voice in the back of his mind told him what he wanted, though: Marge. He wanted Marge.
Lightfoot MacDonald, who had been conferring with the state police, opened the door to the cell area to check on the prisoner. The doctor didn’t seem like the sort of fellow to hang himself, but they took the shoelaces and all anyway, because you never knew for sure. He was sitting on his bunk now, looking two notches past sorrowful. Lightfoot liked that in a perpetrator. Remorse was something he didn’t see a lot of in his business.
“How are you doing, doc?” he called out in a bracing voice. He let them save the hostility for the courtroom. His job was to catch folks and hold on to ’em, not reprimand ’em.
“Fine,” said Walter, trying to smile back.
Lightfoot had exchanged his Confederate officer’s uniform for a dark brown sheriff’s outfit. He looked considerably more official in consequence. He pulled up a wooden kitchen chair just outside the cell and sat down with a sigh. “Been a long day,” he remarked. “I get up at six when I’m taking Sorrel out with the militia… My horse,” he explained.
Walter nodded. “After Stonewall Jackson’s mount.”
Lightfoot beamed. “Imagine anybody knowing that! I wish we could have had a chat under better circumstances, Dr. Hutcheson, but as it is I need to talk about this situation out at the festival. That is, if you’re ready to make a statement.”
Walter considered it. Sanderson would be seething if he didn’t wait for legal counsel. Might even refuse the case. Anyway, there wasn’t much he could say past, “I didn’t do it.” He thought he knew who did, but that wasn’t something he was prepared to discuss. It didn’t make any sense, anyway. He considered letting them convict him without a struggle, and going off to a quiet prison. Marge would write to him; he was sure of that.
“I’m sorry, Sheriff. I mustn’t discuss anything until my lawyer arrives.”
Lightfoot nodded. “Everybody watches television these days. Okee-fine. But I don’t mind telling you that this case is downright peculiar. Fingerprints, no alibi, good obvious motive. That’s great for the beer-joint stabbings I have to contend with, but if M.D.s don’t have any more sense than that…”
Walter felt the same way. Not only was it a frame, it was an insult to his intelligence. It was so obvious that they might even make a jury see it. He didn’t much care, though. He was tired.
Lightfoot had pulled out a notepad and was about to launch into further arguments when the door to the outer office opened and Merle Fentress peeked around it. “Call for you, Sheriff,” he said in meaningful tones.
“Who?”
“Festival people again.”
“Now what?” asked Lightfoot, pushing back his chair.
“Another murder, they reckon.”
Lightfoot glanced at the prisoner, and then edged past the deputy into the office. “Damnit!” he muttered. “Never mind the battle reenactment. This case may outlast the war!”
Lightfoot eased the patrol car off the state highway and turned up the road to Glencoe Park. He felt a spasm of irritation as he drove past the posters announcing the Highland games, and then the Civil War reenactment. Damnit, there ought not to be more bodies the week before the battle than there were during it. He wondered if Dr. Hutcheson had disposed of this one about the same time as the first murder, or whether there was another killer at large. The coroner ought to be able to help with that one. Maybe his hunch was right, and the doctor had been framed: that was easier to swallow than the mass-murderer theory.
Lightfoot narrowed his eyes. What in blazes was wrong with that sports car up ahead of him? Other than its driving on the wrong side of the road. Oh, hellfire, thought Lightfoot, the drunks are getting in on the act. He flipped on his flasher and eased up toward the offending vehicle with catlike smoothness.
After a few seconds in which the two occupants seemed to confer, the car pulled over on the grass. Lightfoot slid his Dodge in behind them and made notes of the description and license plate. Having thus given the offenders time to stew about their predicament, he slid out of the patrol car and strolled toward the blue MG.
“Well, it has the bloody steering wheel on the correct side,” the driver was saying to his companion. “It was a
