“Since midnight? Well, last night I went to the HillSing with a girl and a bobcat, and-this morning about eight, I-”
“Whoa! Back up. I ain’t even going to speculate about the bobcat, but are you telling me in an understated English way that you spent the night with her?”
One did not, Cameron presumed, lie to law-enforcement persons. “Yes.”
Lightfoot gave him a look of open admiration. “Boy, you limey spies are something else, man! And I thought James Bond was all hog wash! You are something else!”
CHAPTER TEN
MARGE HUTCHESON sat in the refreshment tent, brooding over a cup of coffee and an ashtray full of cigarettes. Across the table, Elizabeth tapped her can of Irn Bru and looked again toward the hospitality tent.
“He’s been in there a long time,” she murmured.
Marge smiled briefly. “Stop being such a mother hen. He’s fine. I’m sure the sheriff has sense enough to realize that no one who just arrived in this country could have anything to do with all this.”
“I guess not.”
“Poor Colin.”
Elizabeth frowned. She had been shocked that anyone should be murdered at a Highland festival, but his being Colin Campbell was not particularly surprising. She wondered what to say to Marge without having to lie about her own reaction to the death. “Did you know him well?” she finally asked.
“Oh, the way people do. We’ve all belonged to the Scottish society for donkey’s years, and I never found Colin particularly hard to get along with. I think he was lonely, but he couldn’t be bothered with meek or unintelligent people.” Marge grinned. “Fortunately, I am neither.”
“I wonder why he was killed?”
“I wonder if we’ll ever know. So many crimes seem to go unsolved these days. And this certainly can’t be the sort of case or the class of people that the sheriff is used to dealing with.”
Elizabeth looked thoughtful. “Maybe he needs some help,” she murmured.
“I suppose it would be useful to know whom Colin annoyed in the past two days,” Marge remarked. “There’s your cousin Geoffrey with that Carson man. Now if he ever gets murdered, you can put me down as chief suspect.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “There’s a waiting list of people wanting to kill Geoffrey,” she sighed. “But I am sorry about the dog trials.”
“It is kind of you to take an interest in this, Sheriff,” said Geoffrey Chandler grandly, before anyone could speak. “However, I do not wish to press charges against my assailant. What’s done is done and cannot be undone.”
The sheriff looked at Cameron for clarification. “The bagpipe,” said Cameron. “You remember. This is His Lordship, the Earl.”
Geoffrey frowned. More improvisational theatre, he thought. “Is this not about my little contretemps this morning?” he purred.
“No, sir, this is a murder investigation, which we believe to be connected with terrorist activities. I understand that your code name is Earl of Strathclyde?”
Geoffrey sank into the nearest folding chair. “I think perhaps that my injuries may have been more severe than I thought,” he murmured. “But do carry on. I shall be fine.”
“Tell us what you know about the Scotch Republican Army,” said Lightfoot grimly.
It was too much for Cameron. “Scottish!” he said. “Scottish! Scottish! Not Scotch. Scotch is a drink.”
“The Scottish Republican Army, then,” said Lightfoot MacDonald. “I thought you said there wasn’t one, Dawson.”
“No, but if there were, it would be Scottish, not Scotch.”
“There isn’t one?” asked Geoffrey brightly. “Are you certain?”
Cameron hesitated. “There may be some group of loonies somewhere who play at it, but as a serious political organization in Scotland-no, definitely not.”
Geoffrey grinned. “Brilliant! It’s foolproof.”
“What is?”
“The plot of Macbeth… the cathedral at Rheims… guacamole dip. What was that, Sheriff?”
“You’re talking rubbish,” Cameron told him.
“Sorry… Must be that head injury kicking in again. I think I should go and lie down, don’t you?” He stood up. “Let’s do this again soon, Sheriff, shall we?”
“Count on it,” growled Lightfoot.
“Do you need any help getting back to the cabin?” asked Cameron. He knew a performance when he saw one, but he wanted to talk to Geoffrey alone.
“Siddown, Scotty,” the sheriff snapped. “We’re not through yet.”
A man in a brown uniform appeared at the entrance to the tent. “Got the reports for you, Lightfoot!” he announced.
The sheriff looked from the suspects to his deputy. Geoffrey, seeing his hesitation, pitched against a table. “Dark Victory…” he intoned.
“I’ll come straight back,” Cameron promised, helping Geoffrey up.
“Ten minutes,” growled the sheriff. He watched the two of them stumble away in a grade-B performance of the walking wounded. He didn’t think Geoffrey’s information would be relevant to the case, but he might follow up on it anyway, just to see what was going on. “Assholes!” he grumbled.
The clan tents and the festival meadow had vanished around the last bend in the trail. “Are you going to cut it out now?” Cameron demanded. “I’m letting go.”
Geoffrey straightened up. “I nominate you for best supporting actor,” he said generously. “Not bad for a novice.”
“Right. Now what the fuck are you up to?”
“Oh, do they have that word in Scotland? How interesting!”
“We have a lot of words you might be familiar with. Mayhem… kidney punch… disfiguration…”
Geoffrey shuddered. “I’ll bet you paint yourself blue when you’re angry.”
“One of us will be blue,” Cameron assured him. “Now, look, Geoffrey, come off it. That Campbell guy is really dead, and the sheriff has got some daft idea that I’m a spy, and I get the feeling that you’re up to your neck in all of it. Now, I know you’re Elizabeth’s cousin, and I don’t want to get you in trouble, but I’m going to find out what’s going on.”
“I was going to tell you,” Geoffrey said with a pout. “Seeing as how we’re duck-brothers. I just didn’t want to reveal anything in front of the sheriff, because Lachlan is such a decent old man and really, those clowns deserve it.”
“Lachlan Forsyth-the souvenir man?”
“Yeah. And the head of the S.R.A.”
They were passing a wooden picnic table tucked away in a small clearing, and Geoffrey motioned for Cameron to sit down. “It’s very simple, really. The old guy noticed how Irish Americans were so hot to support the I.R.A., and he figured that the Scots, who have even more money, ought to be just as eager to kick in a few bucks for a cause. We’re very big on causes over here.”
Cameron nodded. “It’s quite shocking. We drove past a bank yesterday, and a big sign in the window said, OPEN AN I.R.A. ACCOUNT WITH US TODAY. I couldn’t believe it.”
Geoffrey sighed. “No, idiot. That’s an Individual Retirement Account. I’d explain it to you, but it’s boring. Anyway, the plan was absolutely foolproof. He gets these clowns to give him money to support a secret terrorist organization in Scotland, right?”
“Okay. What does he do with the money?”
“He keeps it! That’s the beauty of things. They feel all noble and committed, and nobody gets hurt.”
“But what happens when they notice that things aren’t getting blown up in Glasgow?”
“Hasn’t anything happened in Scotland over the past year? Shipwreck? Train wreck? Bridge collapse?”
“Nope.”
“Well, if it had, he’d have claimed credit for it, I bet. And if nothing did happen, he’d just say that they weren’t ready to make their move yet, and he’d advise them to be patient for a while longer. Better yet, he’d hit them up for another donation.”