"Well, we found a sleeping bag near the scene, literally saturated with blood," Chisholm replied. "When we examined the bull hide, it showed signs of somebody maybe having been sewn up inside it, so we're hoping it's bull's blood on the sleeping bag, but we just don't know yet. We had a man fly the bag over to Grampian Labs in Aberdeen this afternoon, but we won't have the results until sometime tomorrow. It'd be just our luck to find that some wretched camper has been done in."
McLeod had been busy jotting down the details as Chisholm relayed them. Now he paused, pen in hand, and scowled at the page before him.
"We'll hope it doesn't come to that," he observed. "Who made the initial discovery?"
"A young chap, name of lolo MacFarlane. He's a bit of an eccentric, but reliable enough. I've known him since he was a wee tad. He's got a New Age sort of group who style themselves latter-day Druids, and they occasionally stage ceremonies up at the circle - all quite harmless, we thought, at least until now."
"Any chance he could have reported the incident to cover his own group's activities?" McLeod asked.
"lolo? Not a chance. Like I said, I know him; hell, I know most of his lot. They were slated to do a Winter Solstice ceremony at noon today. Needless to say, that had to be cancelled. No, he went up to the site just after sunrise, planning to start setting up, and immediately roused one of the neighboring villagers - who phoned the station officer up at Carloway, who phoned me in Stornoway when he'd had a look. The rest you know."
Chisholm sounded anything but happy about it, and the inspector couldn't blame him.
"How are the press reacting?" McLeod asked. "I assume that's at least part of the reason you called me."
"Aye, they've been sniffing around all day. The Solstice 'do' would've brought them out in any case, and this was just an added bonus, where they were concerned. It's hard to keep something like this under wraps on an island this small. I've got a man out at the site tonight, but I didn't want to dismantle too much until I'd talked to you."
McLeod could sense the incipient request to come in person, but he decided to forestall it for as long as possible.
"How about your neo-Druids?" he asked. "Are they apt to talk, if some reporter buttonholes one of them?"
"I doubt it," Chisholm replied. "Any publicity connected with this case is apt to be bad, so they'll want no part of it. They've worked hard to keep up a a good public image. I can't guarantee their silence, of course, but I expect they'll have the sense to keep their mouths shut."
McLeod shunted aside the question of press curiosity for the moment in order to focus on more practical matters. "How about the bull?" he asked. "Have you been able to find out where it came from?"
"Not yet," Chisholm replied, "though I've got a man checking that angle. We've mostly sheep here on the island, but there are a few farmers who raise cattle, mostly for dairy herds. They'd know who has bulls, but someone could easily have brought one in for last night's piece of work. Horse-boxes come and go all the time, and no one would notice if a bull was in one."
"And no one's reported a stolen bull?"
"Not on the island - though it's early on. Farmers don't always check their fields every day. I'd hate to think any of our local men might be mixed up in something like this, but the evidence - or rather the lack of evidence - seems to be pointing that way. Unless you have a better suggestion, I intend to press on with this line of inquiry until I get an answer.''
The only alternatives McLeod could think of demanded the exercise of talents beyond the scope of an otherwise competent investigator. Chisholm, meanwhile, was worrying out loud.
"Legally, we're on uncertain ground here, even if we do find the perps," he went on. "Unless that turns out to be human blood on the sleeping bag, we've only got offenses relating to the defacement of a public monument and violations of various public health statutes. You should have seen the carrion crows flocking around the site by the time we got there.
"At the same time, I don't like to think of some weird cult setting up operations here in my patch. There's a degree of depravity at the back of this affair that really puts my hackles up. I know it's a long way from Edinburgh up to the Hebrides," Chisholm finished, "and I know it's a terrible time of year to ask this, but I'd really feel easier in my mind if you could manage to fly up here and examine the site for yourself - and maybe help me deal with the press."
It was the appeal McLeod had known would be forthcoming - and if the Stornoway officer's instincts were correct, then the sooner a full investigation could be implemented - McLeod mentally emphasized "full" - the better the chances for arresting the evil before it could spread. Chisholm, meanwhile, was still talking.
"I know you can't get up here tonight," he said, "but how about tomorrow? I feel really out of my depth, Inspector."
"I'll see what I can do," McLeod told Chisholm. "Leave me a phone number where you can be reached, and I'll get back to you as soon as I've managed to sort out the necessary travel arrangements. I'm going to have to call in a few favors."
"I do appreciate this, Inspector," Chisholm said, sounding greatly relieved. "I'll wait to hear from you."
The Stornoway policeman rang off with a promise to fax McLeod a copy of the incident report. Returning his telephone receiver to its cradle, McLeod mentally reviewed his assignments for the following day and decided there was nothing on his agenda so urgent that it couldn't be either delegated or left to lie fallow for a day or two.
Chisholm's report was waiting for him out in the fax room by the time he finished jotting off a note to Cochrane to cover for him the next day. He read it through once, clipped it to Cochrane's memo, then ran a finger down his address file to check a number. If Harry Nimmo was available, he was the perfect man for the job. And Peregrine Lovat's talents would be useful, as well.
The harp notes drifting in from the adjoining room had the light, bell-like clarity of music-box chimes. Pausing to listen, Peregrine recognized the hauntingly beautiful melody of the Hebridean carol known in English as "The Christ Child's Cradle Song."
It was one of several pieces Julia had been practicing all week in preparation for her Christmas Eve concert, now only two days away. Peregrine was privately of the opinion that his wife could hardly hope to improve her already-perfect performance, but he was always happy to listen whenever she played.
Shortly after coming to live at the gate lodge, he had converted the smaller of the two upstairs bedrooms into a studio. It was here that he still did most of his painting in the daytime. Whenever he had any additional work to do in the evening, however, especially research, he preferred to do it downstairs in the sitting room, where he could enjoy simultaneously the glowing warmth of an old-fashioned fireplace and the pleasure of his wife's company.
Just now he was ensconced in one of the armchairs by the hearth with a notebook on his knee and a stack of art history books on the table at his elbow. The local chapter of the Saltire Society had invited him to give a lecture on the history of Scottish portraiture, and having agreed to do it, he was now reviewing the subject by way of advance preparation. His efforts at note-taking were being somewhat hampered by the latest addition to the household, a roly-poly black and white kitten whom Julia had christened Hero. Having had his pencil knocked twice from his hand, Peregrine was attempting to fend off yet another spirited mock attack when the telephone rang.
"I'll get it!" he called through to Julia.
Surrendering his pencil to Hero, he reached for the receiver. The caller was McLeod.
"What's your schedule like tomorrow?" the inspector wanted to know.