Dragonfire (3 page)

The following morning, the mist still crept, thick and heavy, through the streets of Edinburgh, chilling its inhabitants as it billowed in from the sea. In the middle of town the solid bulk of Edinburgh Castle, perched on its massive rock, might well not have been there for all that could be seen of it.

Despite the mist, the castle that morning was a hive of activity as preparations were in full swing for the most important event in its calendar: the Edinburgh Military Tattoo.

In a rich, panelled room inside the castle itself, a committee meeting was just breaking up.

“Well, gentlemen,” remarked its chairman, Lord Harris, slipping a pile of papers into his briefcase, “I think we can congratulate ourselves this year. We’re well ahead of schedule and apart from the moving walkways that the French are insisting upon, there doesn’t really seem to be much that’s problematic!” He looked round the table appreciatively. “I must thank you all for your hard work, gentlemen. It’s because of your individual skills and expertise that we’ve made such a good team. I’m sure that Sir James will agree with me.”

Sir James Erskine who, as commentator for the Tattoo, had been invited to sit in on the meeting, nodded his head in agreement, as they packed up and moved towards the door.

“Good heavens!” exclaimed one of the committee. “The mist is still hanging around! Let’s hope the weather is a bit better when the performances begin!”

“Early days yet, Cameron,” replied Sir James.

“Whatever the weather,” interrupted Lord Harris, “I’m sure you’ll sail through it all magnificently, James. Isn’t this your fifth year of giving the commentary? It must be pretty
nerve-wracking 
for you up there in the commentary box.”

“Yes,” agreed Sir James, “I enjoy it, but I must admit that there are times when I wonder why I ever volunteered for the job. If anything goes wrong it can be a nightmare! I always have a fund of stories ready in case I have to fill in any gaps.”

“Where are these moving walkways for the French horsemen going to be installed?” Lord Harris asked as they reached their cars.

“For the Spahis? Round about here,” Cameron indicated, “one on either side of the esplanade. Just a few yards from the audience.”

“Is that wise having the horses so close to the crowds?”

“The problem is space. Customs and Excise have a team of precision marchers and their leader … what’s his name …?”

“Dougal MacLeod, isn’t it?” frowned Lord Harris.

“That’s it, Dougal MacLeod. Yes, well, he said that they wouldn’t have enough room if the walkways were any closer.”

Sir James smiled wryly. “He and Colonel Jamieson almost came to blows about it, I understand. MacLeod’s always been a bit of a stickler. Actually he’s due at the distillery today to make one of his inspections so I’ll be seeing him later. I’ll mention it to him, but he isn’t the most co-operative of people.”

“In my opinion, it would be better if we didn’t have these walkways at all!” Lord Harris muttered. “They’re too close to the audience for comfort and in my experience anything involving animals is an open invitation to disaster. Do they really need them?”

“Well, you know the outline of the pageant,” Cameron said patiently. “The Touareg attack the desert fort and capture the women, and the Spahis want to give the impression of galloping miles across the desert to the rescue — hence the moving walkways. I understand they’re using one in France to practise on so that the horses will be used to them by the time they arrive.”

“Hmmm!” Lord Harris was not impressed. “Hope it’s not a disaster!”

Sir James, however, had every faith in the horsemanship of the Spahis and left the castle feeling cheerful and quite up-beat about his role in the forthcoming Festival.

Sir James’s distillery, one of the few privately-owned
distilleries
in Scotland, is a high-walled, rather ugly building made from old, grey stone. Nestling unobtrusively among the lower slopes of Holyrood Park it is completely overshadowed,
however
, by the eye-catching grace of its more elegant neighbour, Holyrood Palace.

As Sir James drew up in the cobbled forecourt of the distillery, his heart sank as he saw a car emblazoned with the insignia of HM Customs and Excise parked beside the office block. MacLeod had already arrived!

The feeling of anxiety that crept over him was compounded by the strange behaviour of his secretary, who, unaccountably flustered, met him on the stair.

“Thank goodness you’re here, Sir James,” she whispered. “I thought I’d warn you! The Excise man arrived early and there seems to be something wrong with the vats.”

“Thank you, Janice,” he murmured, holding the door open for her. “Where is Mr MacLeod now?”

“He’s in the waiting room, Sir. I gave him a cup of coffee.”

“Better make me some too please, Janice,” her boss rejoined, “and ask Jamie Todd to come up as soon as he can, so that we can sort things out.”

He walked to the waiting room where the lanky figure of Dougal MacLeod sat hunched over a pocket calculator. The Excise man was a tall, hatchet-faced man with a beak of a nose and bushy, sandy eyebrows. He had eyes like gimlets that seemed strangely triumphant. Sir James felt a prickle of fear as he strode forward, nerves making his voice sound friendlier than usual.

“Sorry I’m late, Dougal,” he said as he shook hands. “I’m just
back from the castle and we stopped by the esplanade to work out where they’re going to put these walkways for the French contingent.”

Dougal stiffened at the mention of the walkways. “I was going to mention it to you, Sir James, for that Colonel Jamieson was no help at all, at all! He did not seem to realize that we cannot be altering our routine to fit in with the French. Just a few feet, he kept saying! Even a few inches make a difference!”

Now, as it happened, Sir James had seen the Customs and Excise’s team of precision marchers before and appreciated his argument. Dougal was not exaggerating when he said that inches mattered.

As he ushered MacLeod to his office, Janice entered with the coffee. “Mr Todd will be up in a minute, Sir,” she said.

“Ah, thank you, Janice,” he said, placing his cup on the coffee table. He waited for her to close the door before turning to MacLeod.

“Now, Dougal,” he made his voice as casual as he could, “Janice mentioned something about one of the vats?”

Dougal MacLeod smiled. It was a smile that struck terror into Sir James’s heart, for in all the time he had known him he had never seen Dougal MacLeod smile.

The Excise man was enjoying himself. This was his moment! There was no way that Sir James was going to talk himself out of
this!

“Well, now, Sir James, I have to tell you that there is a considerable amount of whisky missing from your vats. A very considerable amount! In fact,” he remarked with elaborate casualness, “I make it nearly twenty thousand gallons.”

Sir James, who had just taken a sip of coffee, promptly choked into his cup. “What did you say?” he gasped, getting to his feet to wipe hot coffee from his impeccably cut suit. “
What
did you say?”

Dougal MacLeod eyed him dryly, quite aware of the bombshell he had just dropped. “Twenty thousand gallons
of whisky are missing from your vats and you will agree, Sir James,” he went on in his soft, Highland voice, “that twenty thousand gallons is a tidy amount of whisky! Enough for a small loch, you might say!”

Sir James eyed his adversary with extreme dislike, but twenty thousand gallons
was
a lot of whisky and how exactly it had disappeared was beyond him.

“Twenty thousand gallons!” he exclaimed incredulously. “Twenty thousand gallons! I don’t believe it! You must have made a mistake! It’s impossible!”

“It’s not impossible, Sir James. It has happened. How it has happened,” he said sourly, “I couldn’t say but the fact remains that somehow, somebody is tapping whisky from your vats.” Dougal paused, his eyes glittering. For many years he had been trying to prove that there was had been a steady pilfering going on. Where or how, he had never quite been able to find out, but he had always had his suspicions. His long nose twitched. And now he had been proved right with a vengeance! “Maybe someone with a wee private pipeline of his own?” he suggested.

Sir James eyed him warily, conscious that he had broken out in a cold sweat. If only the man knew how right he was! But twenty thousand gallons was ridiculous! “We’ll have to look into it, of course,” he said. “Give me a few days to find out what’s been going on and I’ll ring you before the end of the week.”

“Don’t be leaving it too long, Sir James,” the other remarked. “I have a report to make out, as you know.”

Sir James rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Hang fire for a while, Dougal, won’t you. After all, it might just be that somebody got their sums wrong!”

“Not to the tune of twenty thousand gallons though, I’m thinking,” was the Excise man’s parting shot as he took up his cap and left the office, shutting the door gently behind him.

Sir James let out a long breath and stared blankly at the dark, oak panelling that lined his office. He just couldn’t get that dreadful amount out of his head. Twenty thousand gallons! It had never happened before. Something must be wrong, very wrong indeed. And how on earth was he going to explain it away this time? Pressing the intercom button, he spoke to his secretary. “Janice, what’s happened to Jamie? I want to see him at once!”

When Jamie Todd, the Distillery Foreman, entered Sir James’s office, he found his employer gazing out of the window at the red cliffs dominating the park.

“What the devil is going on, Jamie?” he asked, swinging round. “That Excise man has been ranting on about twenty thousand gallons of whisky having gone missing! Tell me it’s not true!”

Jamie Todd ran a hand through his hair. “I’m afraid it is that, Sir James. I was going to phone you at the castle when I realized, but MacLeod arrived early. By my reckoning, two vats must have been emptied over the holiday and Number Three is only a quarter full.”

“But they can’t have taken that amount, surely?” muttered Sir James. “It’s never happened before! They
know
we have to account for every drop! Dougal’s been treating me like one of the Great Train Robbers for years and this time he’s got me cold. How the devil are we going to explain away twenty thousand gallons of whisky?”

“We could always say the faeries took it!”

Sir James eyed him sourly. “If the faeries took it then there must be some very sore heads out there,” he snapped. “But can
we be sure that they have taken it?”

“Who else has access to the vats?”

“That’s true,” Sir James scratched his head. “I think, Jamie, that I’ll have to get in touch with them somehow. Dougal MacLeod’s deadly serious this time.”

“Do you know where to go?”

“I thought, perhaps, there might be an entrance near the well — you know, St Anthony’s Well. Have you ever tried to find out?”

“No, Sir, although I’ve always had the impression that there’s something … dreadful under Arthur’s Seat.”

Sir James frowned. “Your father gave you no hint as to what it might be?” he asked. “After all, he was the one that helped them with the pipeline.”

Jamie Todd thought for a few seconds. “The old Park Ranger helped as well,” he said eventually. “My father always said that
he
knew more about the MacArthurs than he cared to let on.”

“But he died a while ago, didn’t he?”

“Aye, but his son took over the job after him. Nice chap. I know him quite well. If anything’s going on in the hill then I reckon MacLean will know about it.”

“Do you think it’d be worth paying him a visit?” frowned Sir James.

“I’ll give him a ring and ask him to drop by. I’m sure he won’t mind and, with any luck, he might even know the way into the hill.”

The Ranger, as it happened, was at home when Jamie called and, anxious to hear anything he could about the MacArthurs, arrived at the distillery ten minutes later.

Sir James took an immediate liking to the tall,
weather-beaten
man that Jamie ushered into his office.

“Ranger MacLean,” he smiled, rising to his feet and shaking his hand firmly. “Nice to meet you.” Suddenly Sir James was uncertain how to continue.

“It’s all right, Sir James. I told John on the way up that we were losing a lot of whisky and that you wanted to ask him about the MacArthurs,” Jamie said helpfully.

“You do know about the MacArthurs, then?” Sir James asked.

“Aye, my father told me about them and ten years ago they rescued me from a snowdrift. I owe them my life.”

“What exactly do they look like?” asked Sir James curiously. “I’ve never seen any of them myself, you see, and well … I’ve often wondered.”

“You mean, do they have pointed ears and the like?” grinned the Ranger.

“Well …”

Ranger MacLean shook his head. “Actually, they look pretty much like us, but smaller. Otherwise you’d never know the difference. What I’ve always wondered is how
your
father got involved with them in the first place.”

Jamie Todd leant forward and put his cup and saucer on the table. “It all started when my father noticed that small quantities of whisky were going missing from one of the vats.”

“So he told my father,” continued Sir James, “and between them they set a trap to catch the thief. It was quite an ingenious arrangement and it worked with unexpected results because it wasn’t a man they caught but one of the MacArthurs; a young chap wearing a sheepskin jacket. Well, by the time they had fished him out of the vat, you could smell the whisky off him at a hundred yards. My father said that if he hadn’t been in the state he was in, he would never have taken them into the hill. But he did, and when they came out they were both changed men, weren’t they, Jamie?” He looked to his foreman who nodded solemnly in agreement.

“Neither my father nor Jamie’s ever told us what happened in there but from that day on they were firm friends with the little folk and helped them rig up a secret pipeline from the distillery into the hill. That’s where your father
came into the picture, I should imagine. Being Park Ranger they would have had to take him into their confidence. Of course, it has always involved us in a wee bit of
double-dealing
as far as Customs and Excise are concerned but they’ve never been able to prove anything … although,” and here he grinned wryly, “they’ve always had their suspicions. As I say, it hasn’t been much over the years but today they found a big discrepancy, a big discrepancy indeed, and I don’t mind admitting that I find it very worrying. In fact, if I don’t manage to get in touch with them to find out what is happening I might well end up in prison.”

The Ranger looked thoughtful. “There’s something very strange going on inside Arthur’s Seat at the moment, but to be quite honest with you, I have no idea what it is,” he admitted frankly. “The children say that they haven’t seen any of the MacArthurs for some time. All the ducks and geese have left the lochs and strange noises have been coming out of the well. I heard them myself last night.”

“You heard noises from the well?”

“I did. The children went there on their own to see if the MacArthurs were only coming out onto the hill when it was dark. They were at the well when a huge bird appeared out of the mist and attacked them. I’ve been out on the hill all day trying to spot it in case it attacks anyone else.

“You don’t by any chance know the way into the hill, do you?” asked Sir James.

“I don’t, but Neil and Clara might.”

“It’s most important that I meet with them,” stressed Sir James. “In all honesty, I face ruin if I don’t.”

“You said a
lot
of whisky had gone missing …?” queried the Ranger.

“Twenty thousand gallons have gone missing!” said Sir James savagely.

The Ranger stared at him in disbelief. “Twenty thousand gallons!” he whispered in awe. “That’s an awful lot of whisky!”

“Now do you understand why I have to talk to them?”

“I do that!” answered the Ranger.

“Can we ask your children where the entrance is then?”

The Ranger looked at his watch and got to his feet. “They’ll be home from school by this time,” he said. “Let’s go!”