by Robin Hardy
Progress, thought Orlando, of a kind. Peter at the Grove would know more. His own superiors could contact the police at Istanbul. The consulate there too. Of course, it didn't say much about the cult in Tressock. If there had ever been one outside the room he was lying in right now. Awkward for the Borders Police if that turned out to be the case. Where was she going to put that crepe scarf? Well, he could
give a good guess…
'As I was saying. You're going to love this, Orlando. And I know what you may be thinking: Not the old crepe handkerchief trick! Nothing so new or wonderful about that. I hope you're not doubting Lolly's originality?'
Relying on past form, any doubt in this regard seemed pointless. So he was laughing and shaking his head vigorously when an unexpected diversion occurred. Goldie had mysteriously reappeared, mewing, from the cupboard and been almost instantaneously hit, with surprising accuracy, by one of Lolly's shoes – hurled from the bedside. The cat ran, howling and spitting, back into the cupboard.
'Bloody cats!' Lolly shouted. 'Mutated souls of wicked people, mostly spiteful women, was old Tom's theory.'
Orlando knew that what she had just said might be very significant. But Lolly, not to be distracted any further, was choreographing the new, the wonderful thing she had promised. Like every act of love she designed, the preliminary use of so many different parts of her body as agents of pleasure drove any other thought from his mind. He surrendered himself to her will completely, becoming just a part of her erotic fantasy.
On the street, outside the Police Station's windows, indeed only about thirty feet from where Lolly and Orlando were making love, Jack stood listening. He had been there for some time. Now he was interrupted by one of the very few people who was likely to share some vicarious pleasure from the little drama going on in Orlando's bedsitting room. Returning home from the Grove, Anthea was walking the fairly short distance back to her rooms above the stables.
'Orlando Orgassissimo?' she asked a grinning Jack.
He gave what he knew was a Harpo Marx affirmative, nodding his head extravagantly.
Before she could ask more, they were interrupted by a great roar of masculine pain from inside the bed-sitting room. Anthea immediately moved to put her ear to the window. A low howling followed, sounding like the agony of a wounded beast. She turned to Jack.
'He's quite seriously hurt. She's calling for an ambulance,' she said. 'What do you think she can have done to him?'
As the terrible groans and moans continued, Jack's face took on a knowing look. When he spoke, it was confidentially to Anthea, imparting information that might be foreign to her:
'When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons and Choctaws
They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of the squaws
Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.'
Just then the blind behind the window went up. Lolly was about to put Goldie out into the street. But before she had opened the window and dumped the expostulating cat, both Anthea and Jack had fled in opposite directions.
Steve and Lachlan
WHILE BETH WAS still enjoying her triumph at the Ball, Lachlan and Steve reached the summit of the Laird's Hill, with the sun setting, reflected in the distant Sulis River. The fields below them were already completely shadowed but the two riders and their horses were sharply silhouetted against the sunset.
'By this time tomorrow, Steve, it will all be over,' said Lachlan. 'What you have got to remember is not to let them trap you before you get to the river. Keep your eyes open. Keep watching, 180 degrees,
360 degrees if you can, because they can come at you from anywhere. Beware of anyone who tries to persuade you to follow them. An old trick that. Thanks to Prince – oh yes, you'll be riding Prince – you can always outride anyone. On the island you will find a pile of stones in the shape of a chair, a kind of throne. Sit there. Savour your victory. Wait for us to come for you.'
Steve nodded his understanding of these instructions. But then he seemed hesitant to say what was on his mind. Lachlan examined the young cowboy's face. He clearly had a question he was half afraid to ask.
'Yes, Steve? What is it?' asked Lachlan quietly.
'Well, I guess it's like this, sir. Does it matter to you that I like think you guys are out of your minds with this Laddie game?'
'Does it matter to you that you think that?' replied Lachlan.
'Hell no!' laughed Steve. 'For me it'll be just one great ride all the way and I sure intend to win. But you guys seem to take it real serious. But it's just a game, isn't it?'
'It is a game alright, Steve,' reassured Lachlan. 'Important to us. Like your Super Bowl or World Series are to you.'
Steve seemed suddenly relieved. The Border Riding, weird though it still seemed to be, now had a context he could understand. He gave a little sigh of comprehension.
'I got it,' he said. 'That's cool, sir.'
'If it is cool with you Steve, it is cool with me too,' said Sir Lachlan.
The sun had by now dipped behind purple hills, leaving crimson streaks in the underside of some rain clouds approaching from the west. Lachlan turned Prince's head towards the lights of Tressock, which were just now coming on. Did Steve worry about Beth as he trotted in Lachlan's wake? No, he thought about the ride that tomorrow would bring. Still, Beth was there in the back of his mind. Later, he'd write her a note. But he'd want to be sure he got the hunting saddle he'd used when with Lolly that morning, not the much fancier, stiffer ones both Prince and his horse were carrying right now. It started to rain and he pulled level with Lachlan, who agreed immediately with his suggestion about the saddle and said he'd tell Lolly. The two men spurred their horses to a canter and discussed saddles the rest of the way to the inn.
When they reached the Grove, the cowboy slipped from his saddle and gave his reins to Lachlan, who said a cheery 'good night' and trotted off with the two horses towards the castle's stables.
Standing opposite the inn, sheltering from the rain at the bus stop, a boy aged approximately ten had been watching for Steve's return. Now he ran across the road to intercept him, shouting:
'Hey, Laddie. Can I have your autograph?'
Steve was startled but he stopped and smiled at the boy, the first kid he had seen. His hat was behaving rather like a chute, sending a steady stream of water ahead of him as he bent down to talk to the boy.
'Sure thing, kid,' he said. 'But why don't we go inside in the dry?'
'I'm no' allowed,' said the boy, clutching his autograph book inside his anorak to keep it dry.
'OK,' said Steve. 'I'll take the book inside and sign it. You wait here. I'll be back in a minute. What's your name?'
'Angus. Thank you, Laddie.'
With which, Steve disappeared inside for what seemed to Angus quite a long time. However, as it turned out, the wait was well worth it, for Steve reappeared with the autograph book wrapped in a piece of newspaper. He also had a five pound note in his hand.
'Angus, I've signed your book. Now I got something real important I'd like for you to do for me. OK?
'Important. Is it secret?' asked Angus anxiously.
'No, not secret. Just real important. Big time important. I want you to give this note to a lady called Beth.'
'The singing lady?' The awesome responsibility of this mission for Angus was evident in his voice.
'Right, the singing lady. You try and give it to her in person. You say it is from me, Steve, the Laddie.'
'Sure thing, Laddie,' said Angus, staring at the five pound note.
'Yeah,' added Steve, as if he had forgotten. 'This is for you. Don't spend it all at once. D'you know something? You're the only kid I've met since we got here. Are they all away at school someplace?'
'There are very few kids here since the accident,' said Angus. 'I was born just after it happened. But you'll see a few my age or a bit older tomorrow. So where are your
shooters, Laddie?'
'I left my shooters behind in Texas, Angus. Those dumb airlines don't like you to carry them onto a plane. So what was this accident?'
'Ancient history, my dad says. I wish you had your shooters, Laddie.'
'Angus, that message is real urgent,' said Steve, who was just beginning to wonder whether Beth spent as long talking to each of her many fans as this, when Angus took off, running down Main Street towards the castle gates.
Before going to bed Steve had a drink at the bar. There were less than a dozen people there, but the attractive middle-aged woman was playing the piano, singing a ballad he'd heard before somewhere since he'd been in Tressock.
'Delightful is the land beyond your dreams,
Fairer than your eyes have ever seen
There all the year the fruit is on the tree
Nor pain nor sickness knows the dweller there
Death and decay come near you never more…'
The song made him think of Beth. He would like to have had her hear it. The new type of music she was planning to sing when she returned to America might include songs like this. He felt guilt about Beth, like an ache. He had never dreamed that sex could be as wonderful as it had been with Lolly. But Beth was still his buddy, his friend of so many years – and yes, of course he still loved her. But Lolly was, he felt sure of this, unique. Probably never to be repeated. She was like some wonderful wild horse. Never meant to be tamed. He opened the window. Somewhere in the distance there was the rhythmic sound of dance music.
He was happy to feel that the note he had sent to Beth would restore peace between them, at least for a while. His conscience clearer, well a little bit clearer, he got into bed.
But before he was quite asleep the sound of an ambulance's whining siren disturbed him. Its lights briefly flickered on his ceiling and then it was gone. Steve slept.
God and Magog
BETH KNELT BY her bed. She was used to the routine of living a regular life while on the road and this prayer was as much part of it as cleaning her teeth and spraying her throat against any infection.
'Dear Lord,' she said. 'I gotta get this in the right order. Thank you, as always, for my wonderful voice and for making me so – well, OK looking. I am real sorry about wearing that provocative dress tonight. That was certainly the sin of pride. Thank you for making that wonderful prayer meeting such a success. And dear, dear Lord – Steve. I do so want him back. I know that you help those that help themselves and I guess I didn't use the womanly wiles you gave all us females any too wisely where Steve is concerned. But, dear God, please rekindle in Steve's heart the love he used to have for me. Amen.'
As she finished her prayer and was about to get into bed, there came a knock on the door and she heard the gravelly voice of Mr Beame outside.
'Beame, miss, with your hot milk. And there is a note that came for you, miss.'
Beth let him in and he crossed to one of the bedside tables and placed there a silver tray with a large crystal wine glass of milk upon it. Just as he did so, they both heard a cat mew. Looking around, they saw a big black tom cat, clearly focusing on the milk. Beame stooped to try and pick it up, but it easily evaded him.
'He's been following the milk, miss,' he said. 'Come here, Magog.'
'Oh no, leave him,' said Beth, sleepily. 'I like cats.'
'Very good, miss. If you're sure?'
'Quite sure. Thanks. Good night.'
Beth closed the door on the departing Beame. Quickly, she seized the note, read it; read it again, kissed it and smiled happily to herself. She briefly cooed at Magog, who rubbed himself against her leg, confident that this strategy usually worked with humans. As soon as she had got into bed he used another well-tried tactic. He redoubled his beguiling purr.
'That's not for you, Magog. Anyway, it's too hot. I'll give you a little when it's cooled.'
Sensing delay in her voice and possibly refusal, he waited until she was plumping up her pillows and then leapt on to the side table. It was a serious misjudgement, because a twelve-pound cat, delicate feline though he normally was, can nevertheless skid a small silver tray clean off a side table, carrying the glass of milk upon it crashing onto the floor.
A startled Beth looked down at the mess of broken glass, its stem intact, but part of its rim shattered, and the puddle of fast-cooling milk on the castle's stone floor. She gave a weary shrug. Magog, the clear cause of the mishap, was nowhere to be seen. She was, she decided, too tired to do anything about it now, so she turned on her side and, almost immediately, fell asleep.
Magog, aware, from similar experiences in the past, that this was a good time to hide, had taken refuge under the bed. A little later, he emerged and started to lap up the spilt milk.
The Eleventh Hour
THERE HAVE BEEN many May Day's Eves at Tressock in recent centuries when the sun has hidden itself behind a uniform grey sky, without much rain, just damp and cold. Some might think, some still do, that the absence of sun, when so much has been done to celebrate and propitiate it, makes for an especially bad omen.
On the particular May Day's Eve morning when Steve and Beth were present in Tressock waiting to play their starring parts in the local ceremonies, the sun rose, unveiled by cloud or mist, over the North Sea and Scotland's south east coast. Gather your omens where you may; Lachlan and Delia were cheerfully optimistic, and Steve took the view that God was in His heaven and he was going to have one heck of a ride on that wonderful horse, so all was right with the world. His desire to high-tail it back to Texas had not been entirely forgotten, but put on hold.
Just as he emerged from the shower a knock came on the door. It was Peter, the innkeeper, carrying a smart blue hunting jacket, britches, boots and a peaked black riding hat.
'Your uniform, Laddie,' announced Peter. 'Hope it fits. We took the liberty of checking out your suit in the cupboard for size. So it should.'
Steve had to admit that he really liked the costume. Just for once he'd look like a real old European dude. Except for one thing:
'Looks great, Peter,' he said. 'But I just gotta wear my own hat. It's, like, my lucky charm. Is that OK?'
'Anything the Laddie asks, the Laddie gets,' said Peter. 'So I'm sure it'll be OK.'
Steve who, fresh from the shower, was wrapped only in a bath towel, tucked in round his waist, now tried on the jacket and went to look at himself in the mirror.
'Looks good,' he said to Peter. 'Can someone photograph me when I get dressed? My pa, he'll sure be impressed as hell to see me in this outfit.'
Peter hesitated. Then he smiled.
'Actually we don't usually take photographs before the riding,' he said. 'But I'd be happy to take one for you afterwards.'
While people were riding into Tressock from outlying farms on ponies and cart horses, hunters and eventers, piebalds, greys, bays and browns, to join their friends and relations in the little town, up in the castle's west tower guest room Beth still slept undisturbed.
She did not even stir when her hostess opened the door a crack and peered in. Delia was dressed in well-cut beige jodhpurs, a smart black hacking jacket and carried an ivory-handled riding crop. It was at once clear that even if Beth was deeply asleep, the cat that lay on the floor beside the bed was dead. She entered the room and turned Magog over with her crop to make quite sure. Stone dead. By the look of the glass debris next to the bed he had certainly drunk the milk. Delia hurried from the room, quietly closing the door behind her.
In the dining room of Tressock Castle the Morrison family's routine for a May Day morning was much as it was for any other. On the heavy Victorian serving table more than half a dozen silver chafing dishes simmered over tiny methylated spirit lamps: porridge, devilled kidneys (a favourite of the master of the house), sausages, bacon, kedgeree, kippers, eggs scrambled, eggs poached, salted and unsalted butter, and two different thicknesses of cream.
Lachlan was already well advanced with his meal and reading the Financial Times when Delia entered th
e room. Seeing that Beame hovered with the coffee pot, ready to refill Lachlan's enormous cup, she went to help herself to the kedgeree, which was her usual choice for breakfast if the day promised to be strenuous. She did not want Beame to sense in any way that she was panicked by what had occurred upstairs.
'Lolly called to say that she has hospitalised the policeman. She thinks he will be away for a few days.' Lachlan spoke from behind his newspaper.
'Well, I'm afraid we have not been so successful with Beth. Magog is dead, having drunk the milk. What will only drug a woman will apparently kill a cat. Not entirely your fault, Beame. Beth had somehow dropped the glass. The cat which, of course, should not have been there, obviously drank the milk.'
'Oh damn,' said Lachlan, putting his paper aside. 'Well, Beame you'd better go and deal with her after breakfast. Give her a shot of the usual. You know what to do?'
Beame was being charged with what might turn out to be a very delicate task. A realist, Beame knew that delicacy was not his strong point.
'Beg pardon, sir,' he therefore said. 'What if she's awake?'
'Then put her to sleep. Good god, man, how long have we been doing this?' It was Lachlan's nature to be a planner; he expected others
to see to the details.
Beame took these instructions in silence. He poured Delia's coffee and added hot milk to it, measured just as she always preferred.
'Pity about Magog. A nice cat. We'll miss him,' said Delia.
'The mice won't,' said Lachlan. 'He was a good mouser. Beame, you'd better get Miss Beth ready for tomorrow before there are any more mishaps. Daisy will help you.'
'Daisy always frets a bit, sir,' confided Beame. 'She doesn't really like helping me. She'd rather be following the riders. "Gruesome" was a word she used. Ah well, the weaker sex, you might say. Although – not, of course, you, ma'am.'
Delia's cold stare confirmed this. Then she and Lachlan got on with their breakfast and as Beame went about his unwelcome task she raised her voice slightly and leaned across the table to attract Lachlan's attention:
