“A thousand pounds! When is it?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Och, all the entries are in.”
“You can still register. Colonel Daicy was telling Daddy that a lot of people were dropping out because of the bad weather.”
Hamish brightened. “I’ll go over to Cnothan and see what I can do. Care for a drive?”
Betty’s coarse laugh sounded from the hall. Priscilla’s face took on a closed look. “I’m too busy.” She switched on the computer again. Hamish left, walking quickly through the reception area. He heard Betty call to him but he rushed out of the castle and leaped into the Land Rover, driving off at such speed that he sent a burst of gravel up against the windows of Priscilla’s office. He found, on reaching Cnothan, that he could still enter, and scraped together the necessary five-pound fee for doing so out of loose change in his pockets. Then he studied the course on a map. It looked gruelling and he wondered dismally whether he would be up to it or not. It ran across boggy tracts of moorland and then straight up the side of towering Ben Loss to the summit, down the other side, back round the flanks, and across the moorland again to the finishing line. But he had a purpose to drive him on. Without that thousand pounds, there would be no money to go to Glasgow, and perhaps the real identity of Randy would remain lost forever along with that of his murderer.
∨ Death of a Macho Man ∧
9
But at my back I always hear
Time’s winged chariot hurrying near
—Andrew Marvell
Priscilla told one of the maids early that evening that Hamish Macbeth was to take part in the hill-running at Cnothan the following day, and the maid told the rest of the staff, who told the guests, and so in an hour’s time the news had reached the village of Lochdubh and spread all over the place.
Many were determined to go over to Cnothan to see Hamish run. Ian Chisholm, the local garage owner, got out his carnival-coloured Volkswagon bus, painted bright red and yellow with the remainder of left-over paints to cover the rust, and put up a handwritten poster advertising a service to the Cnothan Highland Games.
The weather was calm and still, with a low sun shining on the waters of the loch. People were standing outside their cottages, gossiping. After the days and weeks of rain, Lochdubh was drying out and coming to life. Old resentments were forgiven and even Hamish’s affair with Betty was forgotten as the villagers prepared to go to Cnothan to cheer their champion to the finishing line. The fact that Hamish was still looking for the murderer of Duggan had mostly been forgotten and was generally put down to a sort of mental aberration on Hamish’s part. Murder had left Lochdubh, and the sun was shining.
Hamish took his kilt out of the wardrobe, but the moths had chewed several holes in it and the pleats badly needed pressing and there was an egg stain near the hem. He took out a pair of shorts instead and a pair of running shoes. Then he put any thought of the race to come firmly out of his head.
It was only when he awoke on the day of the race that he experienced the first real stab of apprehension. He had done no training at all. He was not particularly fit. He could only hope that the other runners were as ill-prepared. Cnothan was one of the small Highland games, not a big event the likes of Braemar.
Archie Maclean called round as Hamish was getting ready to depart. “I chust thought I would tell you,” he said, “that the water bailiff over at the Cnothan estates is entering. His name is Bill French.”
“So?” demanded Hamish impatiently.
“Himself was in the Special Air Service. Fit as a fiddle, made o’wire and steel.”
“These ex-army men let themselves go to seed pretty quickly,” said Hamish.
“Not this one. Heard he can run like the wind.”
“Och, away wi’ ye, Archie. You’re trying to make me scared afore I even get to the starting post.”
“Not me,” said Archie. “My money’s on you, Hamish, and don’t you forget it, and the whole village is turning out to cheer you on.”
And that made Hamish feel worse than ever.
It got even worse. As he moved off in the police Land Rover, the multi-coloured bus full of cheering villagers moved onto the road behind him, along with a long cavalcade of cars, and when the procession reached the gates of Tommel Castle Hotel, it was joined by even more cars. Hamish saw John and Betty and then Priscilla. He had a gloomy feeling that he was going to let everyone down and make a fool of himself into the bargain.
The sun shone remorselessly down and you could see for miles. No hope of the event being cancelled because of mist or rain. When the marquees and flags of the games appeared down in the valley and Hamish through the open window could hear the skirl of the pipes, he began to feel weak and helpless. He would not get near that prize money and he would have no hope of getting to Glasgow. Why had he been so stiff-necked and proud? Why hadn’t he accepted Priscilla’s offer of money?
He drove slowly into the large field reserved for parked cars and climbed down feeling stiff and old. It was because he no longer had a dog, he thought sadly. Towser had loved long walks in the hills.
Priscilla walked over the still-spongy grass to join him. “You don’t look exactly confident,” she said.
“It was a daft idea,” muttered Hamish in a low voice. “I havenae done any training, and there’s an ex-SAS man competing.”
“You could always cancel.”
“What! With the whole village here to see me! Don’t be daft, lassie.”
“Then just think of the money.”
Unluckily for Hamish, the hill-running was the last event of the day. By the time he had watched the piping championships, caber-tossing, pigeon-plucking, ferret-chasing and all the other many activities, his heart was in his running shoes.
But at last the loudspeaker called for the competitors in the hill-running race to go to the starting line. Priscilla felt sorry for Hamish as his long lanky figure in a brief pair of shorts and a T-shirt sloped up to the starting line, where about fifteen tough and fit-looking men were waiting. Hamish took up his position and waited with a dry mouth. “All the best, Hamish!” shouted some Lochdubhite and the rest of the village spectators began to cheer. He gave a limp wave and a weak smile.
They all crouched ready. Silence fell on the crowd. A curlew piped from the hillside. Then the starting pistol fired and they were off, Hamish set himself an easy pace, determined to do his best. He gained a good bit of advantage over the moorland, having run the course years before, knowing which treacherous bogs to avoid. Ben Loss was not a rock climber’s mountain. Family parties often climbed its heathery flanks to picnic on the top. But for men running flat out, it was a gruelling climb. Hamish could feel his bream getting ragged and hear his heart pounding against his ribs, and to each heartbeat a voice cried in his brain, “Failure, failure, failure.” And men, as he reached the summit and started the downward run, he saw the rest were ahead of him, with the powerful man he had earlier identified as Bill French, the water bailiff, leading the pack. All at once, he wanted to give up and sit down in the heather. His pace lagged. Then he decided to give it his best effort. He took a deep breath and prepared to run down that mountain and back across the moor as fast as he could. And then, just as he paused and stooped to retie the lace of one of his running shoes, there was the crack of a rifle from the heather over to his right and a bullet whizzed over his bent head. In a flash he realized that if he stopped any longer to find out who was firing at him, the marksman would take another shot at him. He set off, this time running for his life.
♦
“Here they come,” cried Archie, who had sharp eyes. Priscilla peered through a powerful pair of binoculars and then lowered them and said in a sad voice, “Hamish is nowhere in sight.”