The Piper Page 3

  She made Hamish a cup of tea and he drank it gratefully, thinking of the old shepherd out on the hillside with his flock. Mary MacDonald chatted on, glad of company, and he listened politely, knowing it mattered to her.

  Before leaving, he asked if she’d also seen a lad in the hills, carrying a bag with his pipes, but she shook her head. She hadn’t.

  He went on his way, busy with his thoughts. A man not as tall as he, a man with field glasses and a compass. Possibly a poacher. But most certainly hunting something. Or someone.

  His next call was up the glen at a croft much like his own house, which had been added to and rebuilt over the centuries. He didn’t know this man well. He had come to the glen six years before, buying land that had belonged to Jamie MacDonald. There were whispers that the newcomer had had a checkered past, but that was the way of gossips. Archibald Kerr appeared to be a bookish man, according to those who had been in his house, while others reported that he was a widower still in mourning for his late wife. Still others claimed to know for certain that he had spent the last twenty years as a guest of His Majesty’s Prisons. The man who carried the post claimed that packets from one Sarah Kerr arrived from Edinburgh at irregular intervals, although the handwriting—still according to the man who carried the post—was distinctly masculine in appearance. Hamish was of the opinion that Kerr was a retired civil servant who preferred his privacy.

  Kerr was outside, bringing in another scuttle of coal from the bin and an armload of heather to dry. He stopped when he saw Hamish coming up the lane that ran to his house.

  “Good day to you,” he said warily when Hamish was within hearing distance.

  “Good day to you,” Hamish replied easily. “I’ve come to ask if you heard any disturbances in the night, or saw strangers passing down the road yonder.” For the house overlooked the single road through the glen.

  Kerr eyed him for a moment. When he answered, it was grudgingly. “I heard no disturbances. But I saw a lad coming down yon road as I drew my curtains. He was wet through, and he could see my lamps lit. If he’d needed shelter, he had only to knock.”

  “And no one following him?” Hamish asked, turning to walk with him as Kerr strode on toward the house with his burdens.

  “I didna’ spend my evening by the window,” Kerr replied shortly. “Besides, a regiment could ha’ passed, and in that gale I’d ha’ heard naething.”

  It was true, but Hamish had the feeling that Kerr was being intentionally unhelpful. Then why admit to seeing the young piper, but not to anyone following the lad? Why not deny both? Or had the piper sought shelter here and been turned away, which meant that Kerr couldn’t safely deny his presence.

  He was not invited to step in. Kerr nodded, and with a foot swung the door shut behind him as he went inside.

  Hamish, glancing toward the window that overlooked the road, saw a pair of field glasses lying on the sill.

  His last visit was to the croft at the end of the loch, where a ghillie by the name of Ogilvie lived. He’d worked most of his life on an estate above Loch Lomond, and Hamish suspected that he’d also had a hidden whisky still on Loch Lomondside. For by all accounts, Ogilvie had more money than was usual for a gamekeeper to earn on a small estate, even given the gratuities of grateful guests with full bags of grouse. He kept himself to himself and went twice a year to Edinburgh, for reasons no one else had ever learned.

  Ogilvie was sitting by his fire, reading a book. His dog, younger than Mary MacDonald’s, was at the door growling before Hamish knocked.

  Ogilvie was a bluff man with iron gray hair and shoulders nearly as broad as his girth. He welcomed Hamish and ushered him in to the fire, unwittingly asking the same question as Mary MacDonald had done.

  “What brings ye out on sich a cold day?” he inquired, stepping over to the cupboard where he kept his own whisky. He held out a glass, and Hamish took it.

  “I hear there was someone wandering about the glen last night. A man, and later a lad.”

  Ogilvie’s eyebrows twitched together. “And how did ye come to know that?”

  “Because I found the lad with his head nearly cleaved in two. And if I didna’ do it, and you havena’ done it, someone else was abroad.”

  Interested, Ogilvie said, “Was there, indeed?”

  “Aye. The old shepherd saw him, and so did Mary MacDonald. He must ha’ come this way.”

  “I do na’ care for the sound of that.”

  “No. I didna’ think ye would. He wasna’ a friend, then, coming to call?”

  “He wasna’ a friend,” Ogilvie replied. “But I’d like to hear more.”

  Hamish told the man what he knew.

  “And Inspector—Bethune, is it? He’s been to see you?”

  “He was all for taking me up as the lad’s killer.”

  “Alastair Bethune? Aye, I know him. That’s to say, by reputation. He’s no’ a man of these parts, but he is well known about the city.”

  “He had a guide with him.”

  “Aye, that’s no surprise. Bethune couldna’ tell his arse from his elbow, past the walls of Edinburgh.”

  Hamish smiled. “But who would he hire as guide?”

  “That’s a verra’ good question. I tell you, I do na’ like the sound of this!” He got up and went away for a bit, then returned wearing a heavy coat, a thick scarf at his throat, and sturdy boots. “It seems I’ve run oot of tobacco,” he said blandly, “and there’s naething for it but to walk into the village, cold or no cold.” He whistled to the dog, and then handed Hamish his coat. “Are ye coming, lad?”

  “I have things to do at the house,” he said. “Before nightfall. But I’d be obliged if you said nothing about Kerr or Mary MacDonald having seen this man. I willna’ put them at risk. They couldna’ identify him, if he stepped through yon door. But you may say that I was looking for him.”

  Ogilvie eyed him. “It puts you at risk instead.”

  “Aye,” Hamish said. “But then I know what’s coming. They don’t.”

  They left the croft together, and walked some distance in silence, heads bent against the wind that pushed the cold down the mountainside, whispering though the handful of trees along the loch. When Hamish parted company with Ogilvie, he nodded, then set out for home.

  It was more than time to find himself another dog, he thought, breasting the wind and setting his teeth against the cold. The sun hadn’t shown its face for most of the day, but Hamish skirted the loch for half its circumference. He didn’t find what he was looking for.

  He turned toward the croft, and then halfway there, he changed his mind, walking instead into the village.

  The cold wind had kept most of the inhabitants off the street. Only a hardy few were in the pub, and a handful was at the greengrocer’s. Hamish kept looking. He had just turned a corner by the tobacconist’s shop when he spotted his quarry coming out the door, a packet of cigarettes in his hands. Hamish caught up with him in three long strides, startling the man.

  “The Highlander,” the guide said, staring up at him.

  “Any news of the lad? The piper?”

  The guide shook his head. “They arena’ telling me anything. The body was taken to the doctor’s surgery. Puir lad, he couldna’ be more than sixteen.”

  “You arena’ local,” Hamish commented. “What brings you here to this part o’ Scotland?”

  The man shrugged. “I took a party walking around Loch Lomond. They decided to stay in a house above the loch for a few days, and I was free to do as I pleased. The Inspector came looking for someone who could guide him toward Inveraray. He said he knew the western coast but no’ this part of Scotland. He was looking to meet a witness, he said. I took him up the glen three days ago, and he paid me well for it. But we didna’ cross any tracks coming down the glen. He was that disappointed. Then after the gale had passed, he collected the constable and asked me to take him back again. That’s when we found the body.”

  “Can ye prove ye’re a guide?”


  The man glared at him. “Here’s my card.”

  There was an address in Glasgow on the card. Hamish committed it to memory before passing it back. “I havena’ seen you in these parts before.”

  “I usually guide in the Isles. But these men were no’ very experienced at climbing, and I thought it best to stay away from the riskier walks. They’re fra’ London, this lot. A man and his three sons.” He grinned. “The walking tour was his idea, and no’ theirs. Ye should hear them complain.”

  Hamish laughed with him, then went on to speak to the local constable.

  “Aye, I’ve seen him before. Abernethy. He makes a fair living taking climbers out. I’ve heard no complaints of him.”

  “And Constable Scott?”

  “Aye, he was here with yon Inspector. A guid man, Scott. He’s fra’ the next village. I canna’ think why Bethune brought him here. I wouldha’ been happy to work wi’ him.”

  “Any news of the lad?”

  “I did hear the doctor say that cold and the blow on the head had done for him. It’s still murder, any way you look at it. Inspector Bethune tells me it’s Edinburgh’s inquiry, but I’m no’ sae sure of that.”

  Hamish considered looking into the guide’s story about the clients he’d left on Loch Lomondside, but that could wait. Time was growing short and he still had much to do.

  There was a last task he’d set himself. He scoured the heather that ran down to the stony edge of the loch, crisscrossing it in a methodical pattern, his gaze on the brown, still-wintry branches of heather as he walked.

  And then he saw what he was looking for. Half hidden beneath a heavier, older shrub lay the drones and the lad’s pipe bag, almost impossible to spot until he was almost close enough to step on them.

  He retrieved them carefully and stowing them under his arm, he went home.

  There was nothing he could do for the piper except to clean his pipes and set them aside for any of his family who might want them.

  But the gold medal wasn’t with the pipes. He’d searched the scratchy, stiff branches and the ground beneath them before he was sure of that.

  Something to think about.

  By sunset, a soft rain had begun to fall as the wind dropped and the cold moderated. When Hamish stepped out his door, he could feel it gently brushing his face, and the shoulder of the hill was a darker shape against the clouds scudding overhead. He couldn’t see the loch from here. The silence was that profound quiet of the hills and glens of Scotland, broken only by the whisper of the wind, and he listened to it for several minutes before shutting the door again and, for the first time since the night of the gale, shoving home the bolt.

  He sat up for a time, reading by the light of the lamp on the table next to his grandfather’s grandfather’s chair. And then he readied himself for bed.

  Turning down the coverlet, he rumpled the bedclothes but didn’t lie down. Instead he walked quietly through the dark house to take up his post by the bulky shape of the stove. But not before he’d drawn the bolt on the door. Making himself as comfortable as possible, he settled to wait.

  He could hear the little clock ticking on the mantelpiece and the occasional settling of the croft as the night cooled. There was a strange quiet beyond his door. He thought there must be a haar out there, a sea mist rolling inland to the lochs and glens, obscuring everything it touched with a fine white dampness.

  It was not a very good night, he thought, for grouse hunting. Feathered or human.

  Wondering where the watchers had found shelter, Hamish hoped they’d had the sense not to drink or smoke. The smell of whisky and cigarettes could travel some distance in a haar, giving them away before they even realized that they’d been compromised.

  Time passed. The night had settled in, and Hamish thought it must surely be going on three by now. If there was moonlight, it was hidden by the mist. In all the old tales of the clans, murder was done after moonset, the blackest hour. He smile wryly at the thought, and shifted a cramped leg just a little.

  Would the killer come in through the front door, or would he choose the rear door from the small kitchen garden? It didn’t matter. Hamish had a clear view either direction.

  And then he heard it. Stealthy movement on the far side of the croft. He rose quietly and crossed to the window in his bedroom. Beyond the glass, there was only a thick blanket of white. As he stood to one side, watching, a shadow paused just below the window and rose cautiously to peer inside, before dropping out of sight again.

  It wasn’t what he’d planned for, but it would work out fine, he thought. And save his granny’s furniture from two men battling it out inside. He went silently to the door that opened onto the path in front of the croft. His fingers were on the knob when he felt it move under his hand. Standing behind the door, Hamish froze. It gently, slowly opened.

  Someone stood there listening. And then as slowly it closed again.

  Two men? One waiting by his window, and another one here? Hamish swiftly calculated the best way to deal with them. Crossing the floor, avoiding the spots that were sure to creak, he reached the kitchen door, opened it, and slipped outside.

  Nothing happened. No one was waiting for him there.

  He stepped away from the door, keeping to the wall of the house, listening.

  Somewhere near the loch a bird, roused from its sleep, called in alarm.

  Three men, then.

  He’d have to take them one at a time.

  Without needing to watch where he put his feet, he started toward the corner of the croft, in the direction of his bedroom. He reached the corner, and there he stopped again to listen. In the heavy mist he could see only inches in front of him, but sound carried. Taking a chance, he carefully moved around the corner.

  The rush, when it came, was sudden and ferocious.

  Hamish had a split second’s warning, and ducked. Something moved with force and speed above his body, where his head had been, a fist he thought, and then he rounded on whoever was behind him, smashing into the solid weight of a man.

  It was a hard-fought two minutes but Hamish was the younger, he knew the terrain, and he had no intention of becoming a victim. He gave no thought to Bethune, somewhere in the heather waiting for a signal, instead holding his own. Then he felt his foe weakening, and he delivered the coup de grâce, finding his knee and then his jaw.

  Whoever it was went down heavily. In the distance Hamish could hear the bird again.

  He reached down and picked up the collar of the limp form at his feet and hauled it like cordwood back to the still open door.

  He dumped his prisoner unceremoniously and went to light a lamp. Before he could find it, the front door slammed back on its hinges, and someone was there, a cudgel in his hand.

  Hamish reacted without conscious thought, thrusting out a foot to trip the figure coming fast across the threshold, then reaching down to rip the cudgel from his hand.

  With a growl of anger, the man scrambled to his feet, and Hamish struck him then, bringing him to his knees. The man grunted in pain before collapsing on the floor.

  He could hear the third man now, running through the heather, heading for the kitchen doorway. With the cudgel in one hand, he fumbled for the matches and lit the lamp. He needed light now to know where all three men were.

  The wick flared and took, just as Constable Scott came charging through the kitchen door, then stopped short, momentarily blinded by the sudden brightness.

  Hamish held the cudgel at the ready, but the constable stood there staring at him.

  “What in God’s name?” he began, looking from Hamish to the two men on the floor of the front room.

  The man by the door, shaking his head to clear it, got to his knees. It was Bethune. “I heard the fight, I thought you were a dead man. Who hit me? Was it him?” He pointed to the man still lying on the floor.

  Hamish stepped forward, rolling the unconscious man over. Under the heavy coat, he was dressed in corduroy trousers and a woolen shirt. The
same trousers and shirt he’d been wearing earlier in the day.

  “Who the hell is he?” Inspector Bethune, swaying on his feet, looked bewildered.

  “His name is Ogilvie,” Hamish said, staring down at his prisoner. “But what the hell he was doing outside my house this night is more than I can tell ye.”

  Coming to his senses, Ogilvie groaned and then shakily sat up. Hamish reached down and gave him a hand, and Ogilvie got to his feet with an effort. “I came to warn ye,” he said to Hamish, bloody and incensed. “I didna’ know it was you, lurking about outside. I thought it was him. Damn it, he’s no’ what he appears to be,” he went on, pointing a thick finger at Bethune. “He’s no’ a policeman.”

  Hamish raised his eyes to meet Bethune’s. No’ so tall as you, the old shepherd had said. Using field glasses . . . A compass in his hand, Mary MacDonald had said. Knows western Scotland better than this part of the country, said the guide, Abernethy.

  The description fit. The piper’s killer.

  It fit Ogilvie as well, although he was thicker about the middle.

  “You’ve got your man,” Bethune was saying. “Congratulations, MacLeod. I’ll see him back to Edinburgh.”

  Hamish was silent, watching Ogilvie.

  For Ogilvie would have needed neither compass nor field glasses to find his way about the glen, and his eyesight was clear and sharp. A ghillie’s eyes . . . He could have spotted the piper coming down the glen before anyone else took notice.

  Meanwhile, it had been Bethune, forced to take on Abernethy as his guide, who’d seen to it that someone was with him when they found where the piper’s body lay.

  There was one last question to resolve.

  Hamish moved before Bethune or the bewildered constable quite realized what he was about. The Inspector fought hard, but he was no match for the tall Scot. The constable, protesting vociferously, tried to intervene, while Ogilvie saw his chance and stepped forward to bar Scott’s way.

  “Mind yoursel’, laddie!” Ogilvie was saying sharply. “I’ve seen him in Edinburgh, and he wasna’ doing the law’s work then, I can tell ye. He runs a verra’ troublesome house of cards, and if ye do na’ pay your debts, you find yoursel’ in the Nor’ Loch!”