Highland Laddie Gone

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 sooner or later they would get around to questioning him. In a fish-bowl like this, he had to assume that someone had overheard his quarrel with Colin Campbell.

Well, he had planned for that contingency. He would thicken his burr to the consistency of creamed cheese, and vow that he had nae idea whatsoever what these bloodthirsty Americans could be getting up to in the name of clan rivalry. He considered claiming kinship with the Campbells on his mother’s side, but that might leak out, and it would be bad for business.

Lachlan picked up his half-full can of shandy-it was closer to the woolens than he was used to putting it. This murder business was making him absentminded, he thought. Waving time-out to his customers, Lachlan took a swig of his drink, making his usual silent toast, the Cultoquhey litany: From the greed of the Campbells, From the ire of the Drummonds, From the pride of the Grahams, From the wind of the Murrays, Good Lord, deliver us.

James Stuart McGowan turned up a few minutes later, looking less bored than usual. He elbowed his way past the browsers. “Sorry I’m late!” he called to Lachlan. “Something interesting happened!”

“Oh, aye? Got your dad to give you power of attorney, did ye?”

Jimmy grinned. “Nah! Nothing interesting ever happens with them. I did shake them up a bit when I ordered a shandy with lunch. I would have gotten away with it if the waiter hadn’t asked, ‘I suppose you want it without the beer, young man.’ ”

Lachlan shook his head. “They’ll no be pleased, Jimmy.”

“When we were coming back into the festival, though, guess what we saw? The sheriff arresting somebody!”

Lachlan looked wary. “Oh, aye?”

“Yep. He didn’t have on handcuffs, but they put him in the backseat of the squad car, where there aren’t any door handles. He had changed back into regular clothes to go to jail, but my dad recognized him anyway.”

“Arrested? For the murder, do you mean?”

“Of course. You wouldn’t do drug busts on an affluent crowd like this,” said Jimmy smugly. “Don’t you want to know who the collar was? Take a guess-I mean, with your ESP.”

“For killing a Campbell?” Lachlan took a deep breath. “Would it by any chance be the president of the MacDonald clan?”

Jimmy grinned. “You got it! Walter Hutcheson. What do you think of that?”

“It grieves me,” said Lachlan Forsyth. “I was hoping to stay out of it.”

“Of course, he’s a well-known surgeon, so he probably has a competent attorney on retainer, don’t you think? He’ll probably make bail on his standing in the community and be out of the slammer by six o’clock.”

“What did you say, laddie?” murmured Lachlan. “I was thinking about something else.”

In hushed and well-bred tones, the word spread quickly around the festival that Walter Hutcheson had been taken in for questioning in connection with Colin’s murder. Elizabeth, on duty at the Chattan tent, heard it from Betty Carson, who maintained that Walter had been acting strangely for some time now, and she wondered if he might be taking narcotics.

“I wonder how Marge is taking this,” Elizabeth said to Cameron.

“Is that his former wife?”

“Yes. Oh, I see what you mean. But Cameron, they were married for ages, and Marge isn’t the sort of person who holds grudges. Why, I’ll bet she’ll even be speaking to Geoffrey again in a year or two. I think I should go and see how she’s doing. Will you watch Cluny for me?”

“I’m not even in Highland dress,” Cameron protested. “Why should I have to mind him?”

Elizabeth smiled. “Because you have a Ph.D. in biology, sir-I’ll be back soon!”

She hurried down the path toward the practice meadow, and Cameron scratched Cluny’s ears and watched her go. “I only do seals and porpoises,” he said with a sigh of resignation.

Somerled, the border collie, was on his chain in front of Marge’s tent, so Elizabeth knew that she had come to the right place. Marge was there. She wasn’t sure exactly what tone to adopt about this recent development, but perhaps she could take her cue from Marge’s behavior. If nothing else, Elizabeth could run errands or offer to look after Somerled.

“Hello,” she said softly, peering into the tent. “What a reek of smoke!” she added, leaning back and coughing. “If you’re going to chain-smoke, you ought to do it out in the open where there’s oxygen to compensate.”

Marge did not look up. “I don’t know what to do,” she said.

Elizabeth ventured in, fanning the air in front of her. “About Walter, you mean?”

“Yes. It’s all so complicated.”

“What does he want you to do?”

In a halting voice, Marge told her about their encounter just before the arrest, and Walter’s list of instructions. “He had forgotten all about her,” said Marge. “Anyone could see that. And I don’t know what to do.”

“I think you should do what’s best for Walter,” said Elizabeth, who felt that that was both a comforting and a neutral thing to say.

Marge nodded and reached for the pack of cigarettes. “Yes. Perhaps I should.” After a few moments silence, she remarked, “Walter didn’t kill Colin, you know.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “I don’t know anything about it. I’d heard they had a fight.”

“Yes, but I have known Walter for most of his life, and I assure you that he is not a murderer.”

“Well, I suppose they might let you testify as a character witness,” said Elizabeth kindly. She felt that such testimonials would be ridiculous as well as useless, but she meant to be soothing until Marge could get a grip on herself.

“He did not do it.”

“Then I’m sure that the sheriff’s investigations will turn up something in his favor, and everything will be all right.”

“I wouldn’t count on that,” said Marge grimly. “They have that stupid real estate argument as motive, and they asked me about Walter’s skian dubh, so presumably that was the murder weapon. And I know they fingerprinted a bunch of us. The fact that they took Walter away must mean that they found his prints on it.”

“That’s a pretty strong case,” Elizabeth admitted. “Maybe Walter has changed. I mean, he has been doing some strange things in the past few years, hasn’t he?”

“You mean Heather?”

“Well… maybe he’s going through some mid-life crisis, and-”

“Walter’s beyond mid-life crisis,” snorted Marge. “He now qualifies as an old fool. But I don’t think he could change enough to start stabbing people.”

Elizabeth was beginning to feel restless. There’s no reasoning with her, she thought. Women in love have one-track minds. I wonder what Cameron is doing?

“What the sheriff needs is some new evidence. He won’t be looking for any more himself. He thinks he’s solved the case.” Marge sighed. “Of course, no one would believe me. I’m not objective. I doubt if anyone would tell me anything anyway.”

Elizabeth’s heart sank. “I suppose that I could sort of ask around and see if I can come up with anything in Walter’s favor.”

“Colin must have quarreled with lots of people at the festival,” Marge mused.

“He had run-ins with Cameron and me, but we didn’t do it.”

“Yes, but besides that.”

Elizabeth thought about it. People had been discussing the case around her all afternoon, and occasional remarks had filtered through her thoughts about Cameron. She tried to remember what some of them were. “Betty Carson said something about Dr. Campbell wanting to call a committee meeting this morning.”

“Oh? That could be important! Colin would only do that if he intended to launch a large-scale donnybrook. I wonder what he was up to?”

“Something about embezzlement, I thought.”

“Money? Nonsense. The committee has accountants coming out of their ears, and half of them are lawyers anyway. Are you sure she said embezzlement? It doesn’t matter. It was probably third hand anyway. Who would Betty have heard all this from?”

“Dr. Carson, I imagine. He’s on the committee.”

“Good. Talk to him.”

Elizabeth sighed. “I wish I could talk to Colin.”

“Yes, that would solve everything, wouldn’t it?”

“Not about the murder. I was just thinking. Betty said that Dr. Campbell seemed to know a lot about Heather’s background. They were talking about a new baby in the family.”

“Heather’s background?”

Elizabeth nodded miserably. “I think she and Cameron knew each other back in Scotland. I’ll bet Dr. Campbell could have told me what was going on.”

“I’ll bet he would’ve, too,” said Marge grimly. “That’s the trait that killed him.”

Walter Hutcheson’s present wife was sitting alone in the camper, trying to decide what to do. Walter had shouted a lot of instructions at her as they were leading him away, something about telephoning a lot of people. But he hadn’t left her any phone numbers, and the address book was back at the house. She supposed she could leave the festival and drive home. She’d never driven the camper, though, and it would be like maneuvering a great bloody aircraft carrier on the two-lane roads. She might get herself killed.

Heather had not been crying, but she was tense and afraid. What if things didn’t turn out all right? Sod the stupid police anyway for arresting Walter. She looked at the half-empty bottle of Glenlivet in front of her. Better not have another-not that she was too keen on the taste of the stuff anyway. This was not a time to be losing control. The police would be back along asking questions of her, she was sure. When did you last see your husband’s skian dubh? What time did he leave the camper? Was there any blood about him?

Heather twisted a strand of hair and tried to decide if she ought to do anything. Walter would call his own lawyer from the police station, wouldn’t he? And like as not, they’d arrange the bail, and then he could come and drive her home. She didn’t like to ask anyone for help just now; she wanted to be alone. It would all work out, she thought. It had to. Cameron Dawson reminded her of why she had left Scotland, and why she didn’t want to go back. Americans-and Walter in particular-were a bit simple, but she was enjoying herself, and she wasn’t going to see it spoiled. Cameron Dawson… In spite of her worries, Heather giggled remembering the look on the little brunette’s face when they’d talked about him… Silly git.

She wondered what Walter’s former wife was doing. She was the Maggie Thatcher type, all right. If it had been her here as the defendant’s wife, she’d have already called the President and organized a league of Friends of Walter Hutcheson. A geriatric Girl Guide was Marge.

She started at the sound of the knock on the camper door. Not the bloody cops already! Heather opened the door cautiously, ready to slam it if she caught sight of a camera. “Oh,” she said. “It’s you, Jimmy. If you don’t give me any of that Your Ladyship rubbish, you can come in.”

Questioning people at the Highland games wasn’t going to be as easy as Marge seemed to think. Elizabeth knew that elderly Virginians were the last people in the world to take a young girl seriously-and if they did, they would resent her. She had wasted a good bit of her social life having to be wide-eyed and respectful while pompous old bores held forth on their pet subjects. The liberal-arts types were the worst. They always managed to steer the conversation to the inch-wide sea of whatever their specialty was and to dismiss anything else as not worth knowing. That’s why I fall for scientists, Elizabeth thought: I give them credit for being brilliant because they can do things that I can’t-and they’re not given to talking about it over dinner.

She had been unable to find Andy Carson to ask him about Dr. Campbell’s proposed committee meeting, but another member of the group, Hughie MacDuffie, was all too evident. Elizabeth hesitated. Was she really desperate enough to commit herself to a conversation with MacDuffie? Conversation was hardly the word for it, though: a few utterances of “Oh, really?” were the most that Hughie would permit in the way of participation in his monologue. He taught ancient history at a military academy, and was given to telling jokes with the punch line in Latin.

I might as well get it over with, thought Elizabeth, gritting her teeth. “Hello, Dr. MacDuffie, how nice to see you!” she said aloud.

Hughie MacDuffie’s victim, who had been subjected to a lecture on Tacitus’s opinion of the Scots, took advantage of the momentary distraction and fled. The professor looked over his black-rimmed glasses at Elizabeth, either trying to place her or mentally flipping through his list of conversational harangues.

“MacPherson, isn’t it?” he said, eyeing her sash.

“Yes, sir. Maid of the Cat this year.” I may as well volunteer it, she thought; we’re not going to get anywhere until I do. “My parents are Douglas and Margaret MacPherson, and my older brother Bill is a law student.”

“Any kin to David MacPherson of the Upperville Hunt Club?”

“No. My mother is one of the North Georgia Chandlers. Timber.”

“Ah! Splendid weather we’re having for the festival, isn’t it?”

Elizabeth sighed. It was a science, after all, communicating with this bunch. Seals and porpoises couldn’t be any trickier. She spent another few minutes making the correct noises before launching her chosen topic of conversation.

“Isn’t it shocking about poor Dr. Campbell?”

“Abiit ad plures,” said Hughie solemnly.

“I’m sure he’ll be greatly missed. Such a busy man! You were on the committee with him, weren’t you?”

“I like to think that, like the second Triumvirate…”

Elizabeth ignored the gambit. If I let him get started on Rome, we’ll be here for days, she thought. “Had you talked to Dr. Campbell lately?” she asked.

Hughie MacDuffie cocked his head, trying to recall the faces of his conversational victims. “Colin Campbell… yes… because I remember saying to him: tantum religio potuit…” “What was he talking about?”

“Campbell? He wanted to get the committee together this morning. He didn’t though. Never turned up.”

“He was dead,” Elizabeth reminded him. “Now, did he say what the meeting was about?”

“Fraud. I remember, because I said-”

“Fraud? You’re sure it wasn’t embezzlement.”

“No, my dear. The two things can be very different. For example, when the fire department of Rome was run by-”

“Did he say who the fraud concerned?”

“Oh, someone here at the games, I believe. Something about… what did he tell me?… I’m afraid I wasn’t listening as attentively as I might-Colin was such an old bore. Of course, had I known that he would be killed, I would certainly have paid attention. I think a dentist was asking him about tartan patterns. But that doesn’t make sense, does it? Unless it’s like the Oracle of Delphi. Have you heard the story about the fellow who went to the Oracle… Let’s see, it was…”

There was no formal registration for the Highland games. People paid their admission at the gate without signing anything. New members could, if they wished, put themselves on a mailing list at one of the clan tents, but even then occupation was not listed on the form. Anyway, with more than fifty clan tents, it would take days to track down the information, with very little chance of finding the right one. How do you find a dentist in a haystack, Elizabeth wondered. The only solution that occurred to her was more drastic than she cared to undertake. Clearly, it was a job for Geoffrey.

She found him in the Keith tent, sharing a bottle of Dewars and the plot of Brigadoon with two of the clan officers.

“And then he goes back to New York, right? So…”

“Geoffrey!”

“Hello, Elizabeth. How odd to find you Scot-free. As I was saying-”

“Geoffrey, I have a part for you in a small drama.”

Geoffrey, noting her serious expression, set down his plastic cup with a sigh of regret. “Once more unto the breach, dear friends…”

When she had steered him out of earshot of the Keith contingent, she said, “I suppose you want to know what this is all about.”

“I’ll tell you what it had better not be about,” said Geoffrey menacingly. “If you have had some kind of altercation with your Highland laddie and are expecting me to play Friar Laurence in any way whatsoever…”

“It isn’t that. I have to find a dentist.”

Geoffrey raised his eyebrows. “Wouldn’t it be easier to ask Cameron his age? You could sneak a look at his passport.”

“Shut up. This has nothing to do with Cameron. I’ve been looking into the business about Dr. Campbell, and it turns out that he wanted to call a committee meeting this morning because of some fraud connected with the games. One of the committee members says that he found out about the fraud from a dentist.”

“Why are you playing sleuth, dear cousin? Shouldn’t you be at the library checking out books on seals and porpoises?”

Elizabeth blushed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Anyway, the sheriff has arrested Dr. Hutcheson, and he didn’t do it, so I’m going to try to uncover some new evidence.”

“How do you know he didn’t do it?”

“Marge is convinced of it. She’s such a saint. You wouldn’t catch me being that worried about a man who had left me for someone else.”

“No, my dear. Beneath your little pixie face lies the soul of Clytemnestra.” Seeing her look of bewilderment, he explained, “Wife of Agamemnon. When her husband came home from the Trojan War with a pretty little captive, she took a knife to both of them.”

Elizabeth thought about Heather, but her better nature refused even to consider the fantasy. “I don’t need another classics lesson,” she snapped, remembering Hughie MacDuffie. “I’m doing my good deed by trying to clear Walter Hutcheson-if he is innocent. And my only lead so far is the dentist who talked to Colin Campbell about fraud.”

“You want me to help you find a dentist?”

“Exactly.”

“How, pray?”

Elizabeth told him, steadfastly ignoring his look of increasing reluctance.

Several minutes later, the games announcer was drawn away from the microphone by his assistant. “An emergency, Grace?”

“Yes. Look at this poor boy.”

Geoffrey, who had invoked his look of suffering from The Spanish Tragedy, cringed beside her, holding a handkerchief to his cheek. “Impacted what’sit,” he murmured, swaying a bit.

The announcer’s eyes strayed back to the playing field. If he lost his place now, it might take the rest of the afternoon to get things straight again. “Oh, really?” he murmured, edging away.

“Dentist!” wailed Geoffrey.

The assistant announcer gave his arm a motherly pat. “There, there, you poor thing. Ray, couldn’t you just make a quick request for a dentist to report to the control booth?”

Ray hesitated. “Couldn’t somebody drive him to town?”

“Weekend…” whimpered Geoffrey.

Ray scowled. It was going to be easier to make the announcement than to argue with a tottering invalid. “Right,” he said. “Go and sit down over there, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Geoffrey crept over to a folding chair near the announcer’s table to await further developments. After a minute or two Elizabeth slid into the empty chair beside him. “Good work!” she whispered. “You must have been very convincing!”

“Yes. I hope you’re equally persuasive when the tooth fairies arrive, so that they don’t remove my jaw in an excess of Samaritanism.”

“I just hope I can figure out which one I need to question.”

“I think you ought to stick to less complicated good deeds in the future,” Geoffrey remarked.

Elizabeth nodded. It wasn’t entirely an act of charity, though. If she could clear Walter Hutcheson of the murder charge, then Heather would still be a safely married woman, and then whatever there was between her and Cameron wouldn’t matter. Would it?

Ten minutes later, only one person responded to the broadcast appeal-a diffident young man in a blazing yellow and orange tartan. “I don’t carry any tools with me,” he explained. “But I thought I’d just come along and offer advice, if you needed any.”

“Thank you very much for coming,” said Elizabeth politely. “Actually, I needed to ask you a few questions about the murder.”

He gasped. “I’ve already spoken to the sheriff.” Noticing Geoffrey for the first time, he began to back away. “It was a trap, wasn’t it?” he hissed. “I didn’t mean to tell them, sir…”

Geoffrey lowered his handkerchief and glared at the cowering dentist. “You would do well to give this young lady all your cooperation,” he said sternly. “She is an operative.”

“Who is this?” muttered Elizabeth.

“I’m Jerry Buchanan, ma’am. And I just wanted another tartan!”

Tartan! Elizabeth nodded grimly. “And you discussed this with Colin Campbell, didn’t you?”

“Well… yes. I know he wasn’t one of us, but I knew that he was an expert on Scottish tartans and things, and I didn’t think it would do any harm to ask.”

“What did he say?”

“Well, I asked him who assigned tartans to the different clans, and how you got in touch with them, and he wanted to know why I was asking.” Jerry glanced about nervously. “At first I refused to tell him, but then when I asked if an earl had the power to change his clan’s tartan, he started to browbeat me, and I guess I let some information slip about the S.R.A.”

Elizabeth, who was mystified, was about to ask what the S.R.A. was, but Geoffrey interrupted her, “The organization was news to him, of course?”

“He was furious about it. Wanted to know who was behind it.”

“And you told him…?”

“I didn’t mention you!” Jerry protested. “Honest! Well, I’d forgotten your name, actually.”

“So you told him about Lachlan,” said Geoffrey smoothly.

“I may have mentioned him.”

Geoffrey stood up with the dignity of an irate prince. “We will take no action against you,” he said grandly. “But your earldom is canceled.”

Jerry Buchanan nodded miserably. “Just don’t kill me.”

“Out of my sight!” thundered Geoffrey. He kept up the pose of outrage until the yellow and orange tartan had disappeared into the crowd on the sidelines.

“What the devil is going on?” Elizabeth demanded. “And why do you know anything about it?” she added as an afterthought.

“Oh, that. I told you that it was handy to know Shakespeare. Apparently, I stumbled on to the password of a terrorist organization.”

“Terrorists? You mean they killed Dr. Campbell?”

“No. They don’t kill anybody, dear. They just think they do.” He explained to Elizabeth about Lachlan Forsyth’s scheme for profiting from the misplaced patriotism of the more radical Scottish-Americans. “He told me all about it after I crashed the conspirators’ party. He really didn’t feel too bad about taking their money. The way he figured it, he was keeping them from doing real harm with their money, and he provided them with a little excitement. It was very theatrical, really.”

“You have the morals of a fungus!” Elizabeth informed him. “I suppose you wouldn’t have dreamed of reporting this to the sheriff?”

“I didn’t feel that it was relevant. Lachlan is a con man, not a killer.”

“Ha! Does Cameron know about this?”

“I told him a little while ago. That worm of a dentist may have forgotten my name when he was talking to Colin Campbell, but he dropped it in front of the sheriff quick enough. They hauled me in for questioning this morning as a high-ranking official in the S.R.A.”

“What about Cameron?”

“Well, that may have been my fault. In an excess of youthful spirits last night…”

“Drambuie!”

“Precisely. As I say, in an excess of good spirits, I told the conspirators that Dr. Dawson was a British secret agent.”

“Oh, my God. Geoffrey, somebody is going around killing people at this festival! How do you know you didn’t put Cameron in danger?”

“Your concern for the prince of pancake syrup is most touching, but there is something in your indifference toward my well-being that I don’t quite like.”

“You could be wrong, you know. Lachlan Forsyth may have killed Dr. Campbell in an attempt to cover up his illegal activities. Is he a U.S. citizen, do you think? If convicted of a crime, he could have been deported.”

“Back to Scotland-the air fares to which you were lamenting at the National Trust booth earlier? Oh, worst of fates!”

“Hush. Be serious for a minute. He may not have wanted to go back to Scotland. Maybe he’s wanted for being a con man there.”

“Really clever people do not kill their enemies. They outwit them. My faith in Lachlan is unshakable. You, on the other hand…”

“I’m going to talk to Lachlan Forsyth. Now that we know what the fraud was… Say, how did Colin Campbell know that the organization was a fraud?”

“Common sense!”

“Not entirely. Knowing what an old bully Campbell was, I’ll bet you anything he had it out with Lachlan last night.”

“Perhaps.”

“I’ll talk to him first. Then I’ll check for witnesses to that quarrel.”

“Go to, then. Have you no further need of a Watson? I thought I might go and observe the country dancing. For purposes of choreography.”

“Fine. If you see Cameron, tell him I’ll find him later.”

“Perhaps you’d like to compose a singing telegram?”

Elizabeth, at a loss for a clever rejoinder, made a face at him and hurried away.

The pageantry of the festival hardly registered with Elizabeth now. Her mind was too busy with shades of gray. Did Lachlan Forsyth kill Dr. Campbell in order to protect his con operation? Did one of the conspirators do it out of misplaced patriotism? Or, in the heat of a quarrel, did Walter Hutcheson do it after all? What’s Heather to him or he to Heather?

The meadow was getting hot again as the mid-afternoon sun bled the color out of the landscape. Elizabeth was glad that she had given up wearing her tartan; it was really too hot. Besides, she wasn’t sure anymore what it meant. In all the previous festivals, it had meant: I am Scottish; this is the badge of my culture.

But the one thing Cameron did-besides make her heart turn over when she looked at him-was to make her un easy about the significance of that culture. Every time she knew some bit of Scottish history or tradition and Cameron did not know it, it made her wonder just what they were preserving so carefully with their little groups. Perhaps it was culture of a sort, but it wasn’t Scotland. Elizabeth, who had been a sociology major, considered the disparity. What did it remind her of? A culture artificially preserved like… Latin. The language so carefully nurtured in the Vatican was a piece of culture preserved like a fly in amber; but modern Italian was a living culture, Latin that had been allowed to evolve. One was dead and the other was alive. Less colorful, maybe (how would Cameron look in a kilt?), but still alive, the real thing.

She decided that she wasn’t surprised about Lachlan Forsyth’s con game. She remembered how the festival folk had spoken approvingly of his being a real Scot. He wore the kilt, spoke some Gaelic, and knew all about the plaids and the history. He was, in fact, a professional Scot. Now that she had Cameron to compare him with, it was obvious to her that Lachlan was up to something. He was too good to be true.

He wasn’t there.

The canopied souvenir stall was as busy as ever, with tourists two-deep at the record bins and pawing through the woolens, but the only person behind the counter was a little blond boy. Elizabeth’s purpose wavered as she looked at the wonderful bits of bric-a-brac at the stall: thistle-patterned china, toy Nessies, a case of jewelry. Maybe she should get Cameron a MacPherson scarf: he ought to know his own tartan… She waited patiently in the same spot for several minutes until the boy behind the counter had time to notice her.

“Where is Mr. Forsyth?” she called out.

James Stuart McGowan shrugged. “I don’t know. He said he was taking a break, but it’s been over an hour. Can I help you?”

“I just need to talk to him. Can you tell me which way he went?”

He nodded toward the crowd encircling the stall. “My visibility isn’t too great here. He lives in a silver AirStream, though, and it’s parked in the campsite.” He looked at her closely. “You were here before, weren’t you? Talking to him about which hand to eat with, or something?”

“Yes,” said Elizabeth, deciding not to correct his version of the conversation.

“I thought so. Right after you left, he wrote something down on a piece of paper, and he said he’d give it to you if you came back. Let’s see… where’d he put it?” He looked up at her slyly. “Of course, I should be spending my time attending to real customers.”

She sighed. “Give me a scarf in the MacPherson tartan.”

“Hunting or dress?”

“Dress. Now find me that paper.”

“Here it is. He wrote it on this paper bag. Just the right size to put the scarf in. Will that be cash or charge?”

When Elizabeth had completed her purchase, she walked away from the crowd and examined the four words scrawled across the paper bag. She smiled. He really was a sweet old man. And as for the message… she hoped that she would have the occasion to use it.

Lachlan Forsyth’s AirStream trailer was easy to find. Its windows bore stickers of the Scottish lion, the flag of Scotland, and one bore the legend Ecosse-French for Scotland. On its bumper was the usual assortment of Highland games bumper stickers. Elizabeth wondered if he lived in the contraption year-round, or if he had some other home during the winter months. Surely he couldn’t spend his whole life going from one festival to another? Technically, of course, he could: in the Sun Belt states, festivals went on right through the winter months. It seemed like an empty sort of life, though. What could be fun and exciting for a weekend might be a form of insanity if one tried to live it on a regular basis.

Elizabeth shuddered. To spend one’s life in a kilt, rehashing long-forgotten battles… Was Lachlan taking a detour around the twentieth century or was he planning to amass an S.R.A. fortune and leave Brigadoon far behind? Impossible to tell. No one really knew Lachlan Forsyth. His kindness and his comic-book Scottishness would keep you enchanted until he went away; and when the spell wore off, you realized that you didn’t know the first thing about him.

Elizabeth knocked on the trailer door.

No answer.

After a few minutes of impatient waiting, she knocked again, louder this time. But there were no sounds from within, and no sign of life. Sign of life? Elizabeth tried the door handle. It was securely locked. Even in Brigadoon, the threat of twentieth-century vandalism pervaded one’s consciousness, she supposed.

By standing tiptoe on the top step and leaning over to the left as far as she could, she could just manage to get a grip on the tiny metal windowsill and peer inside. No one was there. And no body, she thought to herself with a sigh of relief. Now, where else could he be?

Elizabeth decided to check the clan tents in case Lachlan had gone visiting. Maybe she’d even find him at the MacPherson tent: he had seemed to enjoy talking to Cameron. Strangers in a strange land, and all that. As she walked past the rows of campers, she saw the MacDonald banner flying in front of one of the campers. The Hutchesons. Heather. Might he be visiting Heather? She was another Scot, after all. Surely someone as steeped in history as Lachlan Forsyth would relish the chance to talk with the niece of a duke.

Perhaps she ought to stop in and see Heather, anyway. Elizabeth could not believe that the new wife actually cared about Walter Hutcheson-she couldn’t imagine herself falling for an elderly man-but after all, Heather was in a strange country, and this couldn’t be a very pleasant experience for her, regardless of her feelings toward her husband. Before Elizabeth’s less impulsive side could marshal any counter-arguments, she hurried up the metal steps and tapped on the door.

“Was there something you wanted?” asked a voice behind her.

Elizabeth turned, so startled that she nearly fell off the step. Heather, her pink outfit considerably the worse for wear, looked none too pleased at the prospect of a visitor. “I just came to see if there was anything I could do,” Elizabeth ventured shyly.

“About what?”

“Your husband. I’m very sorry to hear about it. Can I be of any help?”

Heather’s eyes narrowed. “Do you know how to drive a bloody aircraft carrier? I’d like to get myself away from here.”

“I don’t think you’d be allowed to. Since Dr. Hutcheson is charged with the murder-or at least being questioned-I expect that the sheriff will want to examine this camper for evidence. You might ask if you could be allowed to leave on your own.” Elizabeth hesitated. “Don’t you want to stay, though, in case your husband needs you?”

“I dunno. I s’pose I ought.” Heather sat down on the bench at the picnic table and rumpled her blond hair as she meditated. “Hard to know what to do, really.”

She isn’t very old, Elizabeth thought kindly. And if she’s anything like Princess Diana, she hasn’t got a lot of education, either. She’s probably not used to having to cope with things on her own. “Have you got any family?”

“What?”

“Someone that you could call to be with you. I don’t suppose you want to be alone right now. Is all your family back in Scotland?”

“Yes. I don’t want them.”

“Are you sure? Someone could take a plane and be here by tomorrow, I think.”

“No. I don’t want them. I can take care of myself.”

“Do you think you’d go back if…” The possibility of Walter’s conviction for murder hung in the air, but Elizabeth couldn’t bring herself to speak the words.

“What, back to Scotland? No chance. I’m better as I am, what with Dad on the brew.”

Elizabeth nodded sympathetically. “My aunt was an alcoholic. It was very sad for the family.”

Heather turned to look at her. “Right. Well, as I say, I’ll be all right.”

“I don’t think Walter did it,” Elizabeth volunteered.

“No? Why not?”

“He’s just never seemed like that sort of person, I guess. Of course, the sheriff isn’t going to pay any attention to character witnesses. Not when he has motive and fingerprints on his side. But maybe we could come up with some facts that will prove Walter didn’t do it.”

“I don’t know anything.”

“Okay, let me ask you a couple of questions, and let’s see if we get anywhere. Did the sheriff ask you about an alibi?”

“I wasn’t much of a help to him. Walter left the camper this morning before seven. He doesn’t sleep too well at the best of times. And last night I can’t say I was with him all the time. He went for a walk after the party. Late-night walks are a habit of his as well.”

Elizabeth sighed. “That ought to prove he didn’t do it. Anybody in his right mind would have provided a better alibi if he was going to commit murder.”

“Not in real life, though. If you mean to do someone in, you don’t think aught about it, do you?”

“You do if you don’t want to get caught. The fingerprints don’t make sense, either. Anybody knows not to leave fingerprints on a murder weapon. You might as well leave an autographed picture. Yet, they find his fingerprints on the hilt of the skian dubh. That reminds me-when was the last time you saw it?”

Heather shrugged. “I remember making sure that he brought it along. He’s always so particular about his kilt and all the rest of the lot.”

“Did he wear it to the party last night?”

“The one here? No. He wore it to the sherry party at Mrs. Hamilton’s, but I’m nearly certain that he wore the other one after that.” She smiled. “I think he felt a bit guilty about wearing it. It was a present from her, you know.”

Elizabeth didn’t want to talk about Marge, and she couldn’t think of anything else to ask. Heather was right: she wasn’t much help, but at least she wasn’t being hysterical. “Well, if you need anything, just let me know,” said Elizabeth. “I was looking for Lachlan Forsyth, actually. Do you know him?”

“The old man from the souvenir stall? I haven’t seen him.” Heather seemed to have lost interest in the conversation. She pulled a set of keys out of her pocket and started up the camper steps. “Thanks for stopping by.”

I must ask this, thought Elizabeth, not wanting to: “Do you want me to send Cameron over to see you?”

“I don’t know,” said Heather. “Perhaps I’ll see him later. Not now.”

Instead of the question she wanted to ask, Elizabeth said, “Heather, do you think Walter did it?”

Heather, who had been turning the key in the lock, turned and frowned at Elizabeth. “What a question to ask a wife,” she said, closing the door.

Elizabeth did not find Lachlan Forsyth at any of the clan tents, nor could she find anyone who remembered seeing him. The pipe bands were giving a performance in the center field, so most of the crowd had congregated around the tents to watch the show. The mix of tartans reminded Elizabeth of the time she had melted all her crayons in her mother’s best saucepan.

The Chattan tent was packed: every folding chair was occupied, and the row of coolers stretched from one tent pole to the other. Cluny was still asleep in his place of honor by the information table, but his baby-sitter, Cameron Dawson, was nowhere in sight.

“Has anybody seen Dr. Dawson?” asked Elizabeth over the whine of “MacPherson’s Lament.”

A man in a chair on the back row tilted his head back and wiggled his nose to keep his glasses from falling off. “Who?”

“The guy who was watching the bobcat.”

“Oh. Had a speech impediment?”

Elizabeth bristled. “That,” she said ominously, “was an Edinburgh prep-school accent as spoken by a Ph.D.!”

“Uh-huh. I thought he sounded funny.” The man took another sip of his drink, nearly toppling his chair in the process.

“Where is he?” said Elizabeth even more loudly.

“Whisky run,” said the woman at the information table. “Jack Gilroy didn’t think we had enough Scotch, so he was headed for the liquor store in Meadow Creek.”

“Didn’t look like he’d even make it to the parking lot,” said the chair-toppler.

“Your friend offered to drive Jack to the store. He thought it would be safer.”

“He hadn’t had nearly as much as Jack,” the man volunteered.

“I’ll bet he’d had enough,” Elizabeth muttered. “He’s never driven on the right side of the road before. How long have they been gone?”

“Half an hour, tops.”

“Okay. I’ll take Cluny with me, and I’ll check back in half an hour. If he comes back, keep him here!”

“Who? Jack?” the man called after her.

“No!” Elizabeth yelled back. Damned bagpipes! “The one with the speech impediment.”

Elizabeth had a bit of a struggle making any progress along the path by the clan tents. For one thing, Cluny was not pleased at having his nap interrupted, and he saw no reason to cooperate during the course of the walk. His foul mood was further offset by the Saturday afternoon tourists who, now that Elizabeth did not want to be bothered with them, insisted on stopping her with questions about the Chattan mascot. Everybody wanted to pet the bobcat.

“Can we just have little Allison’s picture taken with the kitty?” asked a besotted father festooned in cameras.

Little Allison, who looked like a dismemberer of stuffed animals, was gazing at Cluny with a gleam of purpose in her piggy eyes.

“Another time,” said Elizabeth sweetly. “He hasn’t had all his shots.” She steered the bobcat firmly away into the crowd while she tried to decide where to look for Marge. The tent or the practice meadow? She would never have spotted her at all if Somerled hadn’t started to bark.

The border collie, who had been curled up by his mistress’s chair in the MacDonald tent, caught the scent of Strange cat and decided that the immediate world should be notified. He sprang to attention, searching the crowd of manshapes for the interloper, and spotting the bobcat a few yards away, he hunched into a menacing crouch and began to announce his discovery.

Cluny sat down with the dignity of an interrupted bishop and hissed cordially at the source of the disturbance. Fortunately, the bagpipes drowned out most of it. Before the confrontation could degenerate into a donnybrook, Marge Hutcheson sprang between them. A sharp word from her sent Somerled back to wary disapproval; Cluny was still bristling, but he no longer bothered to hiss.

“Were you looking for me?” asked Marge dryly, once peace had been restored.

Elizabeth nodded. “Nothing very important. Just thought I’d tell you how things are going.”

Marge pointed her finger at the border collie. “Somerled, stay until I get back,” she said sternly. She smiled at Elizabeth. “I find dogs much easier to reason with than bobcats. Now, let’s take a walk while we discuss all this.”

“There isn’t very much to tell,” Elizabeth warned her. “Nothing really dramatic. At least I found out what Colin’s meeting was about.”

She explained about Jerry Buchanan’s zeal for a conservative tartan, and how his conversation with Colin had revealed the existence of the S.R.A. scam. By the time she reached the part about Geoffrey’s impromptu initiation into the conspiracy, Marge was laughing.

“Geoffrey has created any amount of havoc,” Elizabeth told her. “He’s told them that Cameron was a spy, and he terrorized that poor dentist a little while ago. But he refuses to believe that any of it ties in with the murder.”

Marge smiled. “What about Lachlan?”

“I can’t find him. Geoffrey insists that Lachlan isn’t capable of violence. Apparently it’s against con-man psychology.”

“And how say you, sociology major?”

“I took criminology in my sophomore year, thinking that it was going to be a fascinating course full of Jack the Ripper and blood and thunder. People always assume that; the class is packed every quarter. Actually, it’s deadly dull. Mostly statistics. I don’t remember a single thing.”

“Well, having known Lachlan from a few seasons of festivals, I must say I don’t think he’s a very likely killer, either. Anyway, I don’t see how he could have got hold of Walter’s skian dubh.” “I wish I could find him. There’s still a chance that one of his merry men did this for some mad reason connected with this crazy terrorist business. And they are certainly capable of a little burglary to steal a murder weapon as well.”

Marge looked up. “As well,” she echoed. “That’s pure Brit. I’ll bet you didn’t say that B.C.”

“B.C.? Oh! Before Cameron. I guess you’re right. I’ve been listening to his accent so hard that I must have picked up a phrase or two. Not enough, though. When Cameron met Heather, they were using a whole dictionary full of words I’d never heard of. And they’d throw in names of places (I guess) which confused me even more.” She sighed. “They knew each other before.”

Marge stopped walking. “Who told you that?”

“I could tell. They even had pet names for each other.”

“My successor is quite the femme fatale, isn’t she?” said Marge grimly.

“Oh, I don’t know that there’s anything between them anymore,” Elizabeth murmured. “I couldn’t tell from what they were saying. Whatever they were saying.”

“Ask him.”

“Ask Cameron?” Elizabeth stared. “You have to be kidding. Why, a Southern girl would tap-dance on a mine field sooner than she’d ask a loaded question like that to her… to Cameron.”

“The way I see it, you’ve got two choices. You can either sit around and worry about it until you turn into a paranoid schizophrenic, or you can just up and ask him in a reasonable way. You don’t have to interrogate him, Elizabeth. But it seems to me that it’s your business, all things considered.”

“Last night, you mean. That was pretty impulsive for a girl who usually cannot pronounce the word yes.” She laughed. “God, when I think of all the guys at college who wasted hours trying everything from debating tactics to bourbon. They’d never believe last night.”

“Exactly. Ask him.”

“Maybe. After the murder case is over. If I ever see him again.”

“Ask him now,” said Marge. “Some things shouldn’t be put off. The case will take care of itself for that long, my girl.”

“I’ll see if I have the courage to do it.”

“Promise you’ll ask him.”

Elizabeth smiled. Marge was such a wonderful person. Even with all her own worries, she could still take time to be concerned about someone else. “I promise.”