"This is a neat place!" Owen exclaimed. "I don't know much about medieval Scotland, though. Except for Sawney Bean."
Cameron and Denny exchanged blank looks.
"You've never heard of Sawney Bean?" Owen asked incredulously. "But you're from Scotland!"
Cameron shrugged. "He didn't write seal monographs."
"No, he was a cannibal."
"And is he coming to dinner tonight as well?" Denny asked politely.
While the waitress took their orders for venison and steak with peppercorns, Owen Gilchrist was silent, his sense of dignity struggling with his desire to show off. The latter won.
Finally, staring into the candle flame for inspiration, he began in a ghost-story whisper. "Sawney Bean lived on the coast of Ayrshire in the fifteenth century. Travelers in that part of Scotland kept disappearing. They hanged an innkeeper, thinking he had been killing off his guests, but the disappearances kept on. Finally, a traveler got away!"
Elizabeth ignored Cameron's stern look. It meant either "What an odd lot you archaeologists are!" or "What an odd lot you Americans are!" She didn't like shouldering responsibility for either group. After all, Cameron's friends wouldn't win any prizes, either. They talked forever about seal research and left dinner parties early to return home and feed their ferrets. For spite she gave Owen her most encouraging smile.
Owen's face glowed in the candlelight as he described the wounded traveler making his way to the nearest town and reporting being attacked by a band of savages. A search party was formed to scour the countryside. "They found nothing," Owen said dramatically. "Until they looked in a cave that could only be entered at low tide."
The waitress looked a bit disconcerted as she set the salad
plates in front of them, but Owen was too deep in his recitation to notice. "When they entered the cave, they found Sawney, his wife, and a tribe of their children and grandchildren-by-incest, living among piles of stolen gold and jewels. Hanging from the roof of the cave were human arms and legs—like a smokehouse!"
Denny set down his fork. "Well, that's done it for dinner." He sighed.
"What happened to them?" asked Elizabeth.
"They were taken back to Edinburgh and burned at the stake," Owen said. "Even in the fifteenth century they were considered subhuman savages."
"Whereas burning them in public was mature and civilized behavior," Elizabeth said sweetly. She returned Cameron's stern stare, hoping that he would feel a collective responsibility for Scots of all eras, but it did not work. Cameron was not checking Sawney Bean into his emotional baggage.
"You're an unusual sort of tourist," Denny remarked. "Even for an American. Most of them seem to have a Robert Burns fixation."
"Or Macbeth," Cameron grunted.
Owen flushed. "Murder is sort of a hobby of mine," he mumbled. "I'm not a kook or anything. I just like scary stories that happen to be true. The tour tonight should be great!"
Cameron smiled faintly. "I’ve always thought of Edinburgh as a sleepy old lady. I'm sure this will provide a new perspective."
Owen grinned. "She may be sleepy now, but she's had quite a past!"
* * *
For the rest of dinner the conversation proceeded along tamer lines. The three archaeologists discussed Marchand's lecture and details of the Banrigh dig. Owen was stunned to learn that neither of the two native Scots could help him at all in his efforts to learn to play bagpipes. Denny announced that he preferred the banjo, and Cameron disavowed all knowledge of music. Elizabeth said carefully that she didn't think it was necessary to practice too much in order to become a good player.
Cameron explained his seal migration project to Owen, who countered with his own marine biology story—that of a shark in Australia who vomited up the tattooed arm of a murder victim, thus enabling police to solve the case.
Just as they were finishing their coffee, a sudden hush fell upon the restaurant as a tall young man in a vampire cloak swept into the room. His face was covered with white stage makeup, and his dark hair was slicked down like paint on a porcelain doll. One by one, the Witchery guests who had signed up for the tour left their tables to form a cluster around their strange guide. When everyone was ready, he led the gaggle of tourists out into the twilight and up the cobbled street to the castle esplanade.
In the gathering darkness the street seemed old and empty, hardly part of the present century at all. The group shivered with anticipation as they circled around the shadow man.
"My name is Adam Lyal," the guide said in a smooth Edinburgh accent. "Deceased," he added with a grin.
The crowd of tourists tittered nervously. The night air was chilly, and the deepening shadows heightened the effect of the ghoul makeup.
"I was a highwayman here in Edinburgh in the eighteenth century. Got hanged for it, too. But the devil has allowed me to come back to earth on the condition that I guide the living along the Murder Walks of Edinburgh's dark history. Every night I take groups like this one up and down the closes, searching out the darkest corners of Auld Reekie's grimy past."
"Will we be visiting the Merrett house?" someone called out.
Adam Lyal (deceased) frowned. "No, he's not on our tour," he answered. "It would be a considerable departure to get to his house. He's small potatoes anyway. Compared to some of us," he added menacingly.
At the mention of his latest crime obsession—by someone other than himself—Owen became instantly alert. "Another crime buff!" he whispered to Elizabeth. "I'll be back."
As the tour wound its way farther up the hill into the shadow of the castle to the spot at the barricade where the witches had once been executed, Owen threaded his way through the crowd and finally reached the side of the man who'd asked the question: a tall, stocky Englishman in a green anorak.
"I visited the Merrett house this afternoon," Owen offered as an opening gambit. "I don't think the people know it's a crime scene."
The older man nodded. "Not very dramatic looking, is it? Still, a black and white shot in the right light might set it off."
"Are you interested in murders?" whispered Owen, trying to appear casual.
"Well, it's a living." The man smiled, turning his attention back to the guide.
The young soldier on guard at the castle entrance had been listening to Adam Lyal's account of the witch-burning. "Looks like they missed a few," he remarked in tones suggesting that the banter was a nightly occurrence.
The deceased highwayman was ready with a reply. "And this young man," he said, pointing to the soldier, "will have to stay up here a-aaall night. . . a-aaall alo-oone."
"Right. Well, I'll stock up on holy water," the guard called out as the party trooped off.
Owen, still intent upon his private conversation, followed the Englishman. "Are you a detective, then?" he persisted.
"I suppose I am, in a way," the man replied. "I'm Kevin Keenan."
Owen knew that he was expected to recognize the name, but since he had only been in Britain a week, he hadn't a clue. Except that Kevin Keenan wasn't a famous murderer; he knew all of them. "Oh, really?" he murmured.
"Yes. Just thought I'd have a listen to this tour. It's good stuff. Well presented."
Owen decided that the man must be in show business, perhaps a writer for a BBC crime show. "Are you interested in Ian Brady?" he asked breathlessly. The Moors Murders were among Owen's favorite cases.
Keenan sighed. "Not particularly," he whispered. "But I know that Myra recently came up for parole. She thinks she'll get out, poor cow."