Bareback

by John Burke

  ‘I . . . dinna ken.’

  ‘Come on, Jamie. That crack on the head from the lintel might have laid him out for quite a while, but did it really kill him?’

  ‘I went for the doctor.’ Brown repeated it like a mantra. ‘It wasnae my doing that . . . I mean, I wasnae to know . . .’

  ‘Dr Hamilton saw his whole respectful world smashing to bits around him, hey? He was the one who picked up a rock and smashed Ferguson’s head in instead. Finishing the job.’

  ‘Look, you’ve no right to put words in my mouth . . .’

  ‘And later,’ Rutherford persevered, ‘he wanted you out of the way as well. Lock you in to fry in your own fire. No cosy deals with Dr Hamilton, eh, Jamie? Lord of all he surveys.’

  Brown’s eye began watering, not like his suppurating skin but with real tears of self-pity. His nerve collapsed entirely. ‘Aye, he’s a reet fanatic. Never dare cross him nor any o’ his ideas. He kind of swelled up and grabbed that rock and . . . and smashed it down. Nothing I could ha’ done to stop him.’

  ‘Did you even try?’

  ‘It was over so fast.’

  And then Hamilton had wanted Brown to get the body into the car and drive it away while they decided how to dispose of it. There was no way Brown was going to fall for that. The mess there’d have been in his car . . . and on his clothes. And blood had spurted all over Hamilton’s trousers. Brown wasn’t going to risk it even though, for a moment, he thought Hamilton might turn on him too. ‘Then he went very cauld. Like he was used to throwing folk out of this world a dozen times a day.’

  ‘Doctors do get used to it.’

  ‘Aye, but . . . he’d gone so cauld, and sure of himself. The way he always was. Giving out orders like it was an everyday road accident and he was in charge and knew just what to do.’

  Hamilton would walk home, letting himself get sodden in the rain. He had done that often enough, years ago, on his rounds. He would get changed and appear at the meeting, his usual self. But he had coolly spotted the danger of the car leaving an indent of its tyres in that mud. Brown must find some excuse for going straight up to Black Knowe, making a big issue of what a dreadful night it was, and then driving away again.

  Brown remembered the insurance quotes he had been carrying around, waiting for an opportunity to drop them in on Torrance. Hamilton’s decision was immediate. Brown must deliver them to the tower, and then proceed to the meeting. Any queries about the traces of his car would be answered by him having skidded off the slippery lane. He had a perfectly valid reason for being there.

  ‘But even so,’ said Rutherford, ‘you made sure the car got a thorough cleaning inside and out, just in case.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have been party to murder in the first place.’

  The interruption Rutherford had feared came at last. A nurse arrived to announce it was time to change the patient’s dressings. And Mr Menzies would be coming along to check on his progress.

  Rutherford stood up. ‘When you’re recovered, Mr Brown, we’ll have to continue our conversation down at the station.’

  Brown tried to struggle upright, winced, and fell back on his pillow. ‘After all I’ve been telling ye, that’ll be taken into consideration? Ye’ll be –’

  ‘I’m grateful for your help,’ said Rutherford. ‘But I’m in no position to offer any deals or . . . arrangements.’

  Any more than he was prepared to agree any arrangements or concessions with Dr Hamilton.

  There was still the matter of the fire to be worked out. He foresaw no problems. Brown’s urgent desire to dispose of his incriminating papers, and at the same time collect on the insurance, provided the basis. But it had to have been Hamilton who put the finishing touches, at the same time taking the opportunity to dispose of the forgeries which would bring his little empire down; and Hamilton who had decided that Brown might as well burn at the same time, locking him in, counting on almost everybody else in Kilstane being out on the haughs watching the rides and races, not seeing Hamilton in the deserted streets.

  Rutherford set off into the town.

  *

  The Provost was on the balcony once more, clutching another sheet of parchment. Nick, respectfully attentive on horseback below, wondered what flaws that document might reveal if a critical eye were cast upon it. The words all sounded authentic enough, though; and the Provost was making the most of his last moments of glory this year, finishing with what might almost have been the cadences of a tenor aria from some Bach cantata:

  ‘. . . and that the burgesses here attended in their best apparel shall witness the beginning and shall attend upon the Riding of the Marches of the Commonty of Kilstane this day as hath ever been usual.’

  The final Ride-out began.

  At the head during the slow progress through the town streets was the pipe band, followed closely by the Callant, Sir Nicholas Torrance, and his right-hand man carrying the town flag. His other supporters rode in disciplined formation a few yards behind. On the outskirts of the town the pipe band moved aside, and the Callant and his flankers rode at slightly increased speed down to the burn. Nick dismounted. His left-hand man held the reins of his mare while the right-hand man carefully drew the flag from its scabbard and made sure Nick had got a good grip on it. Praying the weight would not pull him over, Nick ceremonially dipped the flag into the burn. When they were all back in position, they headed up the slope towards the Hanging Tree. An anachronism in the landscape of historical re-creation was a modern tractor in the shade of the tree. When Nick dismounted this time, the tractor driver handed him a spade instead of a flag; Nick cut a sod to confirm the boundary as ancient custom demanded; and then they were on their way along the perimeter for a stoup of ale at the Roadhead Inn, where the landlord had attired himself in a plaid and leggings like an illustration from an old Christmas Annual.

  In mid-afternoon the cavalcade returned to the town. Below the Tolbooth the Callant ordered his right-hand man to return the flag ‘unstained and unsullied’ to the Provost, with all the riders standing in their stirrups, and the watching crowd chanting as much as they could remember of The Song.

  Which is phoney, thought Nick sadly.

  All were now keyed up for the Bareback Lass’s dramatic ride from the Border to Black Knowe. Crowds flowed in uneven runners along Kilstane’s streets and vennels to spread in a tide over the hillock on which the cairn stood.

  Fiona had ridden off unobtrusively during the late morning. Jeremy Makepeace must also be on his way to assume the role of villainous Englishman.

  Even though that bit of the legend was a farce, too.

  Mrs Robson had taken up a fine vantage point in the guardroom window, proudly waiting for her daughter to appear from behind the alder tree in its distant gap.

  Nick positioned himself on the slope below the tower, ready to gallop forward when the two figures came racing towards the town. They would meet, the villain would be chased off, and the townsfolk would come swarming around for a moment of celebration before dispersing and leaving the true lovers to enter the cairn.

  He was poised, impatient to sweep Fiona into his arms and into the darkness. Remembering how her breast had felt under his hand. Only now it would not be by chance that they touched, but by design – an old, time-hallowed design.

  Only of course it was all a pretence.

  Unless he chose to make it otherwise.

  There was a sudden commotion on the edge of the crowd. Dr Hamilton had been sitting tall and stately on his piebald. His gaze was directed on something halfway between earth and sky, waiting for the Lass and her pursuer to appear – waiting for the very last time, inscrutable, seeing it through to the end.

  A police car turned off the road to bump across the grass.

  ‘Oh, no!’ said Nick into that same infinity which so entranced the Convenor. Couldn’t they have left it for just a while: let Hamilton end his reign with dignity?

  The police car halted beside Han
nah Ferguson. She looked down, and it was obvious that she was barking peremptory questions at DCI Rutherford as he got out, followed by DI Gunn and a uniformed constable. Whatever Rutherford’s curt answer might have been, it jerked her head round towards Dr Hamilton.

  He had seen the car. And he saw the detective and the policeman pacing towards him. His gaze returned, stricken, to the horizon, and he kneed his horse suddenly forward. Rutherford shouted. The constable broke into a trot.

  Hamilton couldn’t have been expecting to escape. However hard he rode, however far he managed to get, they would round him up within a matter of hours. At most, thought Nick wretchedly, he would have his last ride in the fresh air over the fells and mosses of which he had for so long regarded himself as the worthiest custodian.

  The police wouldn’t allow him a very long leash.

  Nor would Hannah Ferguson.

  Whether determined to avenge Archie as a matter of principle rather than love, or more probably set on avenging her own rebuffs by so many disdainful decrees of the Convenor, she was stung into action. She galloped out of the throng with a wild whoop worthy of any reiver sighting a blood feud enemy, and set off in hot pursuit. There was to be nothing leisurely and contemplative about the Convenor’s last spell of freedom.

  He turned towards the ford, and splashed through it with all the verve of a young horseman on his first Ride-out. Spray flew up as Hannah reached the bank behind him. There were shouts as half-a-dozen young hotheads decided to join the chase, view-hallooing in the hope of bringing down a prey.

  Hamilton’s horse stumbled on the slope beyond the Hanging Tree. Before it could regain its footing, Hannah was alongside, bumping in like a dodg’em car and unseating the Convenor. He went down, managed to struggle up to his knees, and looked up into Hannah’s face with undisguised hatred.

  Nobody was close enough to hear whatever it was she said to him. But it was likely that on behalf of the Pictish Ladies she made up for all those years of being slighted by Kilstane’s male chauvinists. One thing was certain. In months and even years to come, Hannah Ferguson could at last be truthful in her boast, ‘Everybody’s still talking about it.’

  *

  The crowd buzzed with speculation. The tide of human beings ebbed and flowed up and down two hundred yards of the slope. When they had all swapped rumours about Dr Hamilton and the police and what they had heard or misheard about Jamie Brown, they turned their attention again to Sir Nicholas Torrance, solitary on horseback. After an exciting diversion, the scene was set for the appearance of the Lass riding hard from the alder tree.

  Fiona ought to have been here by now.

  Professor Makepeace stood as close to Nick as etiquette would allow. Half infused with paternal pride, half cynical as usual, he was waiting to see his son appear, hard on the heels of the Lass.

  Minutes passed. The murmurs of gossip gave way to murmurs of impatience.

  Mrs Robson appeared in the doorway of the tower. ‘Sir Nicholas!’

  He frowned over his shoulder. However absurd the programme might be, it must be played according to the rules. Surely Mrs Robson, of all people, knew that?

  She hurried towards him, her face twisted in misery. ‘Sir Nicholas, I’m so ashamed. How she could be doing such a thing.’

  ‘Mrs Robson, can’t we leave it until –’

  ‘It’s that young Mr Makepeace, on the telephone.’

  The Professor seized her arm. ‘He hasn’t had an accident?’

  ‘He hasn’t fallen off his horse or anything, no. It’s just that he says he wants to apologise to Sir Nicholas and tell him not to wait for them. He and my Fiona . . . they . . . oh, Sir Nicholas, it’s a disgrace, I don’t know how to tell you. They’ve decided to elope.’

  Nick twisted sideways and nearly came off. ‘They’ve done what?’

  ‘They’ve stabled their horses with friends, and they’re on their way to Glasgow to catch a plane for London. And they’re very sorry and hope you’ll forgive them, but that’s the way it is.’

  ‘And the way it was,’ Makepeace’s craggy features cracked into one broad smile. ‘The only authentic feature in this whole farrago! It was the Englishman all along!’

  Nick looked out over the crowd. Someone was going to have to explain to them. It wasn’t a prospect he relished.

  *

  DI Lesley Gunn had seen the stunned, limping Dr Hamilton into the squad car and watched it bump away with a jubilant Rutherford beside the driver. In spite of what he had done she could almost feel sorry for the stricken, humbled man; if she hadn’t been concerned about some obvious problems close to Black Knowe. From a distance she saw Sir Nicholas Torrance stand up in his stirrups, ready to make an announcement.

  He was too far away for his words to reach her, but gradually a message buzzed from one group of spectators to another.

  ‘The Lass is no coming.’

  ‘Was he saying something about her going away?’

  ‘That’s no the way it’s supposed to be done.’

  ‘Gone off with an Englishman?’

  ‘Och, no, that’d never do. It could never have happened that way. What’s got into them?’

  But Sir Nicholas was dismissing right-hand man and left-hand man, dismounting, and leading his horse into the Black Knowe stable.

  ‘If that Robson lass has let him down,’ giggled a girl somewhere behind Lesley, ‘he’s welcome to deflower me in the cairn. Or anywhere else.’

  ‘Aye, me as well.’

  Lesley found herself nodding wistfully. Then she straightened up and walked briskly away towards the town. The job here was done. Time to get out. There had already been too much laughter about her over that episode years ago. She didn’t want to give them any more ammunition with any more silliness.

  Chapter Eighteen

  After so many frustrations and disillusionments, Hannah Ferguson was at last in her element. The dramatic climax as Hamilton was ridden down, a funeral, and a wedding, with herself the leading character in all three. Although the funeral had been in Archie’s name and he was of course present, he remained as mute in her company as he had always done. Public attention was focused on the superbly grieving widow. As for the wedding . . . well, no gauche young bride could compete with the magnificently attired mother who had so magnanimously forgiven her and was now providing the most sumptuous wedding feast imaginable.

  Not that the wedding had been part of Hannah’s original plans. She had been reluctant to let it go ahead, half expecting the couple to make their own arrangements so that she could condemn them for both immorality and heartlessness. It was Sir Nicholas Torrance who had persuaded her otherwise, by insinuating that he would not press charges regarding the theft of the quaich. At first she had flared up and declared there was no way of telling how the quaich came to be in Archie’s possession, and it was certainly nothing to do with her, and nothing to do with the way she proposed to treat her daughter or anybody else. Then she realised what the unspoken offer meant: a quiet exchange of one pardon for another pardon.

  Sir Nicholas clinched it. ‘Unless the hall at Black Knowe has memories too unpleasant for you, I shall be glad to put it at your disposal for the reception. And to offer the bride and groom the use of the quaich for their first toast.’

  Of course it was right and proper. He must have known that Hannah and her daughter had more right there than he did, and he was pretending to be generous when he was really only admitting the truth. But it was a chance not to be missed.

  So Hannah Ferguson shed her smart black mourning suit and bought herself a flamboyant floral dress and a puce hat the size of a quernstone. In public view she kissed her daughter, wept at the appropriate moments during the service, and even brought herself to kiss her new son-in-law and his mother. Colin’s father, seeing what threatened, shied away and engaged Professor Makepeace in feverish conversation.

  Among the telegrams to be read out was one which caused an awkward hush. It regretted the inability of Jeremy Makep
eace and Fiona Robson to be present at her brother’s wedding, but hoped the couple would be as happy as they themselves already were. Mrs Robson wailed, ‘Oh, my Fiona,’ and began crying. Hannah put an arm round her and wiped her own eyes; but silently relished the prospect of what that stupid young Makepeace was letting himself in for.

  Photographs were taken against the backdrop of the tower. Guests filtered down the stairs from the hall, clutching glasses of champagne or whisky. Two waiters followed with a small table and began arraying bottles and ice buckets on it. The scene had the hallmarks of a fashionable society wedding on the terrace of a stately home. Hannah preened herself and looked along the level grassy stretch. She was a free woman. Archie was gone, she had sent Sandy Craig packing, this time for good, and Kirsty was off her hands. When the transfer of Archie’s practice to Barr and McIver was completed, she would have no further encumbrances.

  The men were grouping together, as men always did on occasions like this, to talk about fishing or golf or the hazards of trade in the town. She wondered which one, given the choice, she might extract from the cluster.

  Sir Nicholas was too young for her. Two or three widowers had been set in their ways for too long, and they weren’t Hannah’s ways. The rest were married or too seedy. Douglas McIver of Barr and McIver was a well-to-do bachelor, but she had her doubts about his leanings. She was ready for a man with character.

  Professor Makepeace?

  He was a good figure of a man. A bit severe, but reliable. It would make a change to have somebody reliable. Quite a worthwhile thing, being a distinguished professor’s wife. And after his son’s defection, he was perhaps more vulnerable than he appeared. She found herself looking intently at him. She really must get to know him a bit better before making up her mind. His son was away, her Kirsty was going away. Of course it would mean having that dreadful Robson girl as a daughter-in-law, if the two did get married; but she would enjoy bringing her to heel.