Mel’s ears fairly flapped. Her trip to Glenclachan had just now justified itself, a hundred times over, because, in the context of a crime, “umbrella” could only mean one thing.
chapter
~17~
MEL’S EARS FLAPPED into overdrive as the animated discussion and speculation swirled about her. If it hadn’t been for the accent, she could have sworn she was back in Plummergen. Poor Miss S., finding a body—yet good for Miss S., delivering the goods again, with Amelita Forby waiting on the spot to turn it all into another headline maker.
It would be a big help to know who the victim was, but if she tried asking, ten to one they’d clam up on her. They seemed to have ignored her when she walked in, which made a change from the night before last, but she couldn’t count on it lasting. She remembered how they’d reacted when the rat-faced man—another one who wasn’t here tonight—turned up to ask for that unknown Fraser; and as for how many of the regulars apart from Campbell and MacDonald were missing, of course she had no idea, and didn’t really see how she could easily find out. Her best bet would be trying to stay as unobtrusive as possible for as long as she could, then find a telephone and risk the operator’s curiosity—she probably knew more about it all than Mel would ever learn, anyway.
“Staying up at the castle, the puir wee soul, and what a sight to find when you’re doing no more than look for birds, and thinking all’s well with the world—”
“It’s Malcolm MacDonald will be thinking all’s well with the world now,” someone pointed out, and there was a sudden, grim silence. Then everyone began to talk at once, expressing their shock and surprise anew, and their sorrow for (Mel was now absolutely certain) Miss Seeton . . .
Mel was almost as certain that she knew the identity of the dead—the murdered—body. Surely there could be only one explanation for the way they’d all reacted to the idea that the person most likely to be cheered by hearing the news was Malcolm MacDonald? Unless Malcolm made a habit of quarrelling with people, the victim had to be—
“Ewen Campbell,” said somebody, raising a glass to toast the departed, making Mel jump. She’d heard of the Sight, had even thought of writing one of her Pieces about it, but maybe not, on second (she frowned) thoughts. Amelita Forby, who’d always considered herself a city girl to the marrow of her bones—bones, it somehow cheered her to recall, which had so interested Miss Seeton at their first meeting—could not feel altogether comfortable with the idea that anyone might be reading her mind. As for encouraging them . . .
“Ewen Campbell,” said somebody else, and another glass was raised.
Coincidence, decided Mel. She hoped. Dammit, she was a seasoned Fleet Street hack, not a superstitious, spineless country cousin. Not that any of this bunch seemed particularly spineless: tough cookies, the lot of them. Porridge and bracing mountain air, probably. Ewen Campbell wasn’t—hadn’t been—the only one who looked capable of tossing two cabers at a time, not by any means. But, so long as they didn’t start on again about her shroud, she’d be happy left in peace sitting on her stool, listening, composing paragraphs in her head.
There was a surge of customers to the bar, every one of whom ordered double whisky. Mel winced. Hamish poured, one glass after another, passed glasses across the counter, took money, handed change. Sideways glances were slanted at Mel as she sat perched on the stool with a half-empty glass in front of her.
“You’re not drinking, hen,” observed someone with a less wary expression than the others, the first person, apart from Hamish, to address the albino blackbird.
Mel smiled. Maybe the Scots weren’t quite as mean with their money as everyone liked to make out. “This is fine, thanks.” Her fingers curled round the glass as she moved it a little closer.
“Fine?” The speaker’s eyes narrowed. “So that’s your opinion, is it?” And the others began to mutter.
Mel raised an eyebrow. Not that her nutritional regime was really anyone else’s business, but they were all looking at her so strangely . . . “Vitamins,” she said.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, woman. Vitamins, indeed! But then,” and he gestured expressively, “what else could a body rightly expect from a Sassenach save newfangled talk and disrespect?”
The general muttering increased, as everyone decided Mel was beyond redemption and turned their backs pointedly upon her, making for their habitual tables with alacrity. Hamish shook his head, and sighed. “You could always have taken it with water,” he murmured, wiping down the counter close to where her elbows leaned. “They’re a touchy lot in Glenclachan, as I know better than most.”
This confidence hardly surprised Mel, given what she’d seen of the landlord’s attitude to his clientele. She hoped he’d be rather more cooperative in her own case, and leaned closer across the bar. “What’s with this not approving of vitamins? Haven’t they heard of Linus Pauling?”
Hamish shook his head again, moving to the optics at the back of the bar. He dispensed a single whisky and pushed it, with the water jug, over to Mel. “Purists might say it was just as disrespectful to weaken good scotch, but you’ll find it’ll make things easier all round. Compliments of the house—I’m not risking trouble tonight,” he added, as she was about to speak. “You make a pretence of drinking—just a drop now and again—and they’ll be happy. As happy as anyone’s likely to be, that is,” and he frowned, dropping his voice still more, so that she could barely hear him. “Always excepting Malcolm MacDonald, of course . . .”
“Ewen Campbell, rest his soul,” someone cried, and every glass was raised. Mel, at a look from Hamish, tipped a generous splash of water into her own tumbler, raised it, then pointedly sipped, conscious of eyes boring into her back, and grudging acknowledgement of her action. The grin which she directed at Hamish was, to her surprise, shaky.
But, now that honour was satisfied, nobody took any more notice of her; they all began to reminisce about the departed Ewen Campbell and as more whisky flowed, tongues began to loosen. The intense solemnity and shock of the first few minutes gave way to a rather more realistic evaluation of the late Campbell’s character. Mel, becoming accustomed to the brogue, learned gradually that the dead man had been far from the least irascible person in the world, falling out at one time or another with almost everyone in Glenclachan—though seldom, as far as she could gather, about anything particularly serious, until the quarrel with Malcolm MacDonald. She caught tantalising snippets which everyone apart from Hamish and herself seemed to recognise at once—references to “Teeock’s bagpipes” and “when Ewen used the tent pole for a caber” and “the day the mealy pudden crossed the street” left too much to her journalist’s imagination, and she longed to enquire further. Ewen Campbell sounded as if he might have merited an entire Piece of his own.
Then, with a further few rounds, conversation took on a darker aspect. “But it’s no more than you’d expect, from a Campbell,” was the consensus of opinion when people began to speak of “Auld McPiet’s savings” and “that car he sold to Hector Scremerston” and “Cheepart’s tree he’d the nerve to cut down, without so much as asking”—which made Mel start to wonder what the whisky equivalent of in vino veritas might be . . .
They drank, and talked—and drank, and talked—and drank. Mel took care only to drink when Hamish tipped her the wink that someone was watching. The landlord’s face, under its professional air of calm mine-hostery, revealed to the shrewd observer (which Mel Forby knew herself to be) a relief he was trying hard to suppress—probably about the good business he was, for once, doing. Mel shivered. Talk about dead men’s shoes. The drinkers were all too busy with their fifth, or sixth, drinks to notice, but she was sitting with her face towards the bar, and the man behind it. Okay, he hadn’t known Ewen Campbell as long as the others, but it was kind of grisly to be so glad about what had happened . . .
They started to sing, quietly, slowly, a mournful tune Mel didn’t recognise, in a language she guessed must be the Gaelic nobody used in ever
yday speech anymore. It sounded like—and most likely was—a funeral song, a dirge for the dead man. What do you know, Forby, you’ve landed yourself in the middle of a regular, old-fashioned wake. Maybe they aren’t as keen on the guy as they tried at first to make out—but they’re doing the best they can for him. No wonder they wanted you to join them, and accused you of showing no respect. As bad as wearing trousers in church . . .
Someone jumped up from his seat and headed straight for Mel’s stool. The Sight Strikes Again? Should she promise faithfully never in the future to wear, or even to think of wearing, slacks, jeans, or flares either in or out of places of worship? But the man, having almost lurched against her, leaned past Mel to pick up the water jug, and continued to ignore her as he carried the jug back to his table. He set it carefully down in the centre. More drinks were ordered, and when everyone had a full glass in his hand, after the now routine toast to Ewen Campbell, a voice proclaimed,
“The King!” They all thrust their glasses forward in a circular motion above the water jug, then drank deeply.
The King Over the Water, of course. Mel nodded, pleased she’d read the Travel Pages and knew about the Jacobites and the Forty-Five. Hamish caught her eye and raised his brows in a despairing grimace: nearly two hundred and thirty years (he seemed to be saying) ought to be long enough ago for this romantic nonsense to be sensibly forgotten . . .
“Farewell to all our Scottish fame,” somebody sang, and others picked up the tune in a spirited chorus. “Farewell our ancient glory./Farewell even to our Scottish name/So famed in martial story./Now Sark runs over the Solway Sands/And Tweed runs to the ocean/To mark where England’s province stands/Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!”
The singers were by now so far gone with mingled whisky and emotion that nobody bothered to look towards Mel at the mention of England; nor did anyone notice when Hamish, trying to suppress a smirk, began to explain that such sentiment, from a historical point of view, was hardly accurate. “Parcel of Rogues” referred rather to the forcing through Parliament of the Act of Union, eight years before the first Jacobite uprising, than to the uprising itself, though there was little doubt (he conceded) that the Act had contributed to the general dissatisfaction of Scots with their lot, encouraging the deposed and exiled James the Second to make the attempt to regain his throne in the following year.
“And then, Miss Forby, what do you suppose the poor chap did, when his ships were on the point of sailing from Dunkirk with five thousand men? Caught measles!” he informed her, in a tone of intense disapproval. Mel didn’t doubt for a moment that had the ill-fated expedition been organised by Hamish McQueest, there would now be a Stuart monarch on the throne of the United Kingdom, instead of one of Hanoverian descent. The landlord gave every impression, though he tried to hide it, of being a skilled and wily operator. “Jacobites,” he concluded, “have a very romantic and grand-sounding name, but not much else, you know.”
“. . . were bought and sold for English gold,” came the final lines of the lament. “Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!” And Hamish, pulling a face, fell silent, making ready to pour more whisky as required.
Suddenly there came a rattle at the outside door, and it was flung open. Those who had started to speak fell silent; those who were moving towards the bar stayed still. Every head turned to see what was happening. Mel had a brief and shuddery sensation of déjà vu. Only two nights ago, Ewen Campbell had appeared, in just such a precipitate fashion—only now Ewen Campbell was dead.
“Ewen Campbell is dead,” announced the newcomer.
Something cold crept slowly up Mel’s spine, and stroked her neck, and caught in her throat. No way would she be visiting the Highlands again in a hurry, she promised herself: her nerves weren’t up to it. Just let her get back to the bright city lights, and she’d never leave them again . . .
“Ewen Campbell is dead,” repeated Malcolm MacDonald. He advanced into the room. “Someone has killed him, and left him dead on the hills—and it’s me who’s been blamed for it, when I never laid a finger on the man—but when I find out who did, I’ll—”
“Nobody’s blaming you, Malcolm.” The voice that uttered this reassurance was echoed by a chorus from the whole room, but Malcolm ignored it.
“I’ll deal with him myself,” he finished, his face dark. “I’ve been spending most of the afternoon having daft questions fired at me by the police. Not by Sergeant Trumpie, though it was him sent to find me and drag me away from the fishing—sent by some jumped-up inspector from the town, Badock by name.” His features writhed at the memory. “The man’s a fool, but a fool with some small authority, and the notion from who-knows-where I’d be the most likely person to have beaten a stone about Ewen Campbell’s heid. And I’d be glad to know”—glaring from face to face as the silent drinkers stared at him—“who I’ve to thank for spreading such a pack of lies to blacken my good name . . .”
“Wheesht, man, come you in and sit down. There’s nobody wanting to blacken your name—it’s a mistake, nothing more. What else would you expect from a town-bred fule who kens naught of the way of things around Glenclachan?” There was a note of near-amusement—amusement, of all things!—in the speaker’s voice. “Just because you’d threatened Ewen Campbell with a shotgun, there’s no need—”
“You’ve said enough, Dougall McLintie!” Malcolm stepped even farther into the room, breathing hard, his hands balled into fists. “A man can speak in the heat of the moment, and no blame to him if he does—but to . . . take a stone . . . over and over and over again . . . to someone’s heid . . .”
He choked into silence, and the mischievous Dougall said quickly, “Och, it’s sorry I am indeed, Malcolm. The pair of you were right good friends, I know. You’ll need to grieve properly for him, to ease your mind—so, come along and sit you down by me. If we don’t give him a fine send-off among the crowd of us, it’s a poor night’s work.”
A general murmur of agreement echoed this invitation, to Malcolm’s evident relief. He looked round at everyone he’d expected to be hostile, his eyes narrowing as he spotted Mel; then he nodded, breathed one long and trembling breath, and moved jerkily across to the table where Dougall McLintie sat among his cronies. There was a shuffling of chairs as one or two people stood up to offer their seats to the new arrival. Hamish, unasked, began to pour more whisky. “A double.” he said, proffering the glass. “On the house—do you more good than anything else . . .”
Everyone was too polite to ask Malcolm how, if he’d been questioned for so long and suspected (it appeared) for even longer, he was a free man now. Bail, decided Mel, or the Scots equivalent of it. And what the chances of it lasting might be, she wouldn’t care to guess.
They were singing again, in a mournful chorus. “. . . me and my true love will never meet again/On the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond.”
“Sing something else!” cried Malcolm MacDonald, as they were about to start another verse. “Something else!”
“Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing,” Dougall began. “Onward! the sailors cry.” The others, clearing their throats, joined in. “Carry the lad that’s born to the king/Over the sea to Skye . . .”
Another Jacobite song, pregnant with meaning and emotion and—Mel couldn’t help but feel—undercurrents that surged in ways she couldn’t begin to guess. She heard the lilting, whisky-rich voices and turned sideways to watch the faces to which they belonged. Was everyone sorrowing equally for the loss of Ewen Campbell—or did somebody have something to hide?
“Hey, Johnnie Cope,” sang Dougall McLintie, as the “Skye Boat Song” died away. A smattering of cheers greeted this new offering with its tone of mockery, and everyone insisted he should go back to the beginning, so that they could start together.
“Hey, Johnnie Cope, are ye wauking yet?/Or are ye sleeping, I would wit?/Oh, haste ye, get up, for the drums do beat!/O fie, Cope, rise in the morning!”
Hamish whispered that England’s unfortunate Gener
al Cope, surprised by the clansmen’s dawn attack, had brought news of the English defeat to Berwick on Tweed, and never lived it down. Mel did sums in her head, and sighed for such intensity of political feeling after over two centuries.
“Good luck to my blackbird,” suggested Malcolm, as the singers drew breath and toasted one another. There were tears in his eyes, a quaver in his throat. “Good luck to my blackbird . . .”
Dougall, patting him on the arm, prepared to send the first few notes rumbling into the room, then choked, and stopped. His eyes widened.
They all followed his gaze.
Without anyone noticing, the outside door of the bar had opened. A man stood on the threshold. He flinched as the gaze of twenty men (and one interested woman) fastened upon him. He cleared his throat.
“I’m looking,” he said, in a husky voice, “for John Stuart Fraser . . .”
chapter
~18~
MEL’S HEADACHE NEXT morning was nothing like the one she’d had two days earlier. She smirked at herself in the mirror over the washbasin as she set about her toilet: virtue, and orange juice, certainly paid dividends. The only reason she now felt as if her eyes needed props to keep them open was that she was so very, very tired. What time had she finally torn herself away from Ewen Campbell’s wake? And how long had the—festivities? celebration?—no, the obsequies (one splash of cold water did wonders for the vocabulary) continued? It had been impossible for her either to write her story, or to do any serious thinking, with everyone singing, talking, and singing still more in the room underneath her own.
They’d gone at last, and she’d fallen asleep—fitfully, but better than not sleeping at all. And as she drifted off into slumber, her weary mind had made another firm resolution: to talk to Miss Seeton as soon as she could. First things first, though. She’d file a preliminary story with the Negative before she headed for the castle—find herself a telephone, warn Miss S. not to leave town, then ring London to report the latest in the Seeton Saga, tell them to hold the front page—but talk to Miss S. was the next priority.
Miss Seeton Rocks the Cradle (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 13) Page 14
