The Wicker Tree (23 page)

Lachlan was already well advanced with his meal and reading the
Financial Times
when Delia entered the room. Seeing that Beame hovered with the coffee pot, ready to refill Lachlan's enormous cup, she went to help herself to the kedgeree, which was her usual choice for breakfast if the day promised to be strenuous. She did not want Beame to sense in any way that she was panicked by what had occurred upstairs.

'Lolly called to say that she has hospitalised the policeman. She thinks he will be away for a few days.' Lachlan spoke from behind his newspaper.

'Well, I'm afraid we have not been so successful with Beth. Magog is dead, having drunk the milk. What will only drug a woman will apparently kill a cat. Not entirely your fault, Beame. Beth had somehow dropped the glass. The cat which, of course, should not have been there, obviously drank the milk.'

'Oh damn,' said Lachlan, putting his paper aside. 'Well, Beame you'd better go and deal with her after breakfast. Give her a shot of the usual. You know what to do?'

Beame was being charged with what might turn out to be a very delicate task. A realist, Beame knew that delicacy was not his strong point.

'Beg pardon, sir,' he therefore said. 'What if she's awake?'

'Then put her to sleep. Good god, man, how long have we been doing this?' It was Lachlan's nature to be a planner; he expected others

to see to the details.

Beame took these instructions in silence. He poured Delia's coffee and added hot milk to it, measured just as she always preferred.

'Pity about Magog. A nice cat. We'll miss him,' said Delia.

'The mice won't,' said Lachlan. 'He was a good mouser. Beame, you'd better get Miss Beth ready for tomorrow before there are any more mishaps. Daisy will help you.'

'Daisy always frets a bit, sir,' confided Beame. 'She doesn't really like helping me. She'd rather be following the riders. "Gruesome" was a word she used. Ah well, the weaker sex, you might say. Although – not, of course, you, ma'am.'

Delia's cold stare confirmed this. Then she and Lachlan got on with their breakfast and as Beame went about his unwelcome task she raised her voice slightly and leaned across the table to attract Lachlan's attention:

'Mary Hillier asked me a very odd question yesterday. She said: "Does Sir Lachlan believe in the old religion? Oh I know he loves the rituals of it. But does he really believe the sacrifices we make will do any good?"'

'And what did you say?' asked Lachlan.

'"Of course he does," I said. "How can you possibly doubt it?".'

'The right answer surely?'

'Is it?'

'If I am a Rabbi, Jehova is my God. If I am a Mullah, Allah the merciful is He. If a Christian, Jesus is my Lord. Millions of people worldwide worship the sun. Here in Tressock I believe the old religion of the Celts fits our needs at this time. Isn't that all you can ask of a religion?'

'You haven't answered my… Mary's question.'

'Oh, I think I have,' said Lachlan, returning to his breakfast.

THE CROWD OUTSIDE the inn was so big that it spread right down the street in both directions. But of course it was not just the people who took up all that space. Almost everybody had some kind of horse. Immediately outside the front door of the inn was a roped-off area where Lachlan, Delia, Murdoch and other senior members of the Tressock community were gathered. All three, like almost everyone else, were already mounted. Donald Dee, Carl and Paul were close by, eagerly discussing tactics for the coming ride. No one doubted that this Laddie was going to be a real challenge. Circulating among the crowd were several young women carrying trays of Stirrup Cup. Their horses, by special dispensation, were tethered at the back of the inn, where Lolly was in charge. No one ever wanted to miss the 'off', although inevitably it tended always to be a bit ragged, the beautiful hunters of some getting away a lot faster than the shire horses and ponies of others.

Inside the inn, in the main bar, Steve sat drinking coffee with Peter.

'I'm glad to see the sun god has decided to shine on you guys today,' joked Steve.

Peter just smiled at this, because both were now listening to a speech Lachlan was making to the crowd outside. With the windows open to the spring sunshine, they could hear him clearly enough.

'In just a few moments, my friends,' he was saying, 'I will introduce you, those of you who have not already met him, to your Laddie. This year we are exceptionally lucky to have elected a man who is both handsome and an excellent horseman. He is a really good man, worthy to be your Laddie…'

Steve heard a commotion at the back of the bar. Some double doors, used in summer as an entrance to the patio and garden at the rear, were being opened. Through these, a rather skittish Prince was led into the bar by Lolly. Other horses were being held by Anthea and another groom outside on the patio.

Prince seemed uncomfortable in the bar and Lolly did her best to calm him as Steve came to greet her with a kiss on the cheek. She seemed to be controlling herself carefully as she gave him a quick peck of a kiss back.

'Good to see you, Lolly. Are you coming with me, Lassie?' He asked this with an attempt at a Scottish accent.

Lolly opened her mouth to answer, but oddly no words came. After a few seconds she managed to say: 'Wish I could. No, Paul and Carl are escorting you out of the village. Then when the church bell starts tolling…'

A curious gulping sound came from her, interrupting her sentence, which Steve didn't notice because he was in the act of mounting Prince. Peter McNeil, spotting Lolly's hesitation and guessing it was caused by an emotion which he would never normally have expected of her, quickly, loudly said: 'Lolly!'

'You were saying,' said Steve, now mounted, checking his stirrup lengths, '…when the church bells ring. Hey, I thought you didn't use the church anymore.'

'Just for this,' said Lolly, relieved to have found her voice again. 'We use the church bells just for this. So when they toll…'

'Toll? Isn't tolling for a funeral?'

'No, in this part of Scotland we use toll and ring interchangeably,' said Peter.

'I was going to say,' added Lolly, 'that when they toll – ring – whatever – dig your heels into Prince's flanks and ride like hell – because, after that, the whole town is after you, Laddie.'

Lolly squeezed Steve's thigh, the involuntary farewell gesture of a lover, and hurried out to where her horse awaited her on the patio. Anthea thought she saw tears in her eyes.

'They are waiting to greet you, Laddie,' said Peter McNeil, opening the front door of the inn. Steve nodded and rode Prince out into the sunshine and the hubbub outside. His appearance was greeted with a wild cheer that seemed to go on for several long minutes. Trying to make itself heard above the din was the voice of Lachlan:

'People of Tressock! Here is your Laddie! All hail the Laddie!'

There was a further roar from the crowd.

Paul and Carl had wheeled their horses around so they now flanked Steve on either side. A fiddle and an accordion and a kettle drum, all played by mounted musicians, were attempting 'The Ride of the Valkyries', which Steve only knew as the
Apocalypse Now
theme. Lachlan leaned forward and shouted to Steve:

'These lads will now escort you out of the village. The bells will ring and then you will be on your own. Remember what I told you yesterday. They can come at you from any direction. Now turn and wave to the crowd.'

Lachlan waited while Steve waved. Then he said: 'Go! Go! Go!'

The crowd parted for Steve, Paul and Carl, as they made for the

bridge. Paul and Carl could only join in the hunt when the bells had finished ringing and the rest of the field had joined them.

The bells began their toll, Steve dug his heels into Prince's flanks, and he took off, accompanied by a great roar from the assembled crowd.

He made for the Laird's Hill. His plan, such as it was, consisted of seeking cover as soon as possible in a place where he could watch his pursuers and see what routes they were taking. He had the advantage of riding a black horse. He figured that with this bright spring light, and the deep shade among the pine trees which lined one side of the Laird's Hill, he could enter the wood lower down and then ride up amongst the pines till he had reached a vantage point close to the top of the hill. If he had Prince stand well back from any patches of sunlight on the fringe of the wood, he would be able to see and not be seen.

This manoeuvre worked well enough. He saw the Tressock Pack (as he thought of them – although there were of course no dogs, only humans on horses, with a few straggling on foot behind) split into three groups. One, in which he was pretty sure he could see Lachlan and Delia, was heading alongside the Sulis River. Another, led by Carl and Paul, was coming straight up towards the Laird's Hill. A third, in which he thought he could identify Lolly and her friend Anthea, seemed to be riding right around the Laird's Hill, putting themselves behind him.

Steve decided to break cover now. It was hard to ride at any speed in the wood. He would make straight for the peak of the Laird's Hill, another vantage point. From there he should be able to see the King's Island and who, if anyone, had a chance of getting there first. Prince was jumping obstacles with ease and seemed hardly affected by the steepness of the climb. Steve felt glad he had accepted this challenge. In a short life spent almost entirely on or around horses, he had never had so much fun as this, never come near to riding an animal of the superb quality of Prince.

Steve had been right in identifying Lachlan and Delia in the group riding along the banks of the Sulis. Bella and Danny were just ahead, with dozens of others stretched out behind. These groups had some of the best horses and they surged over fences, hedges and walls like a continuous wave.

'Aren't you glad we went through with it, Delia?' asked Lachlan, remembering her attack of nerves when they were heading for Glasgow Cathedral.

'Very glad,' she agreed. 'You were right. Once it gets this far, I absolutely love it. But picking them up is the hard part. I always rather dread that. Dangerous, too.'

'Wouldn't be any fun if it was risk free,' said Lachlan. 'I see he's making for the peak now. A good move. Who's that coming at him just across from the pine woods?'

It was too far for Lachlan or Delia to see. Their quarry had disappeared over the brow of the hill.

BEAME, WHO HAD been busy readying all his taxidermist paraphernalia for the preparation of the Queen of the May, was climbing the winding stone staircase to her room. Still kilted – it was part of his butler's uniform – he was a threatening figure to view from the rear as he mounted the stairs. His hairy piano legs protruded from a kilt that left the mottled backs of his huge thighs on view, while in his right hand he held a large veterinarian's syringe, like a gunslinger at the ready.

Nevertheless, like many corpulent men, he was remarkably light on his feet. His entry into Beth's room was virtually noiseless. The lovely girl lay flat on her back, her arm folded over her brow, her breathing irregular, showing that she was near to awakening. In his concentration on reaching Beth, Beame somehow forgot the cat. He had just calculated that one more long step would bring him to Beth's side, when his foot hit the dead Magog and he staggered forward, only saving himself from falling by reaching out with his free hand to the side of the bed.

Beth woke from a dream about Steve. They were back in Texas at the Cowboys for Christ church and Steve had decided to be 'born again' which meant being ritually immersed in the big zinc cattle trough kept in the front of the auditorium during a service. Being born again would mean he could resume with the Silver Ring Thing after whatever his lapse had been (Beth had not wanted to know) and a sopping wet Steve, re-emerging from the trough, was able to continue with their mission as if nothing much had happened. But Steve was hyperventilating, staggering against her, as he stepped from the trough. She opened her eyes with a start.

The huge head of Mr Beame, snorting like a hog, was only feet from her face. He seemed to have collapsed by her bed. She smothered a desire to scream. There must be some rational explanation. He was picking something he had dropped up off the floor. It was an ominously large syringe and he picked it up from beside the shattered glass. Magog lay there, clearly a very dead cat. Surely, she thought, this is just a nightmare. Soon I'll be awake. But as he regained his balance, Mr Beame, an unmistakably, hideously real Mr Beame, looked her straight in the face:

'Just lie very still, Miss,' he said, his face screwed into a repellent smile. 'I'm just going to give you a shot and you'll wake all nice and peaceful for your coronation. Looking your best you will after this.'

'No!' she yelled. 'No shots!'

But a great hairy hand had covered her mouth and he was hunting for a vein in her arm. She snatched her arm away and her hand connected with the broken glass beside the bed. Grabbing the stem of the glass she drove its jagged lip upwards hoping somehow to stop him using the syringe. Her hand struck with a desperate speed and force, up under his kilt, not stopping till the jagged glass connected with his soft ganglia.

The sound of his howling, his shrieks of pain, must have penetrated and echoed around the thick stone walls of the castle's guest tower. In an instantaneous reflex, the syringe had fallen from hands that now clutched protectively at his groin.

Beth, barefoot and clad only in her terry towel robe, was running, running, whimpering with fear, for the spiral staircase that led down from the tower to the kitchens. She had a good lead on Beame. After a couple of long minutes' delay, while his agony receded to mere acute pain, he too was running down the stairs, leaving a trail of blood behind.

The sound, as it were of a wounded beast, had reached the kitchen and Daisy, the cook, knowing that Beame had been going up to start 'preparing' the Queen, sensed a real crisis and rushed to the foot of the spiral stair. It was standing there that she was suddenly aware of a human projectile in the shape of Beth hurtling towards her. Daisy spread her arms in a futile attempt to stop her. But Beth was charging, leading with her head like a good all–American girl who has watched her share of football plays. Daisy went down like a ninepin and Beth was through the kitchen and out into the vegetable garden beyond, before Beame reached the foot of the stair.