by Robbie Carnegie
Across the mountains he came, across the rolling glens, his sinewy legs tanned beneath the folds of his kilt, his body grimed with sweat, blood and war-paint, his biceps bulging beneath the weight of his claymore, his red beard flecked with spittle, his eyes almost mad, as his mouth formed a single word: "Freedom!"
Maggie O’Connell sat up with a start, the vision still in her head. All was quiet in her bedroom, only the chill of the Alaska night there to keep her company. Switching on the bedside light, she looked at herself in the mirror, her dark hair tousled, her eyes clouded by sleep. Another dream. "Oh, God," she muttered, and rolled over.
"Greetings Cicely, this is Chris in the Morning with news of our Highland visitor. Yes, today sees the arrival of Constable Hamish Macbeth of Lochdubh, Scotland, here on a fortnight’s police exchange with our own officer Barbara Semanski. He’ll be finding out the way we do things here, and hopefully experiencing our own brand of Northern hospitality."
Maurice Minnifield was feeling at peace with the world. His beloved fiancée might have just flown off for a fortnight, but it wasn’t every day that a genuine business opportunity of this kind presented itself. He hummed a few bars of Brigadoon to himself as he waited for Maggie’s plane to touch down bearing their guest on an internal flight from Anchorage. It was a warm day, for Cicely, and his bulky frame rested easily inside his flying jacket, beneath his habitual NASA cap. He stood as the light aircraft came into view, grinning as it taxied along the field that answered for a runway in these parts, bouncing slightly over potholes and furrows. He waited for the props to slow, and for Maggie to jump out, before approaching.
If Maurice had any expectations of Hamish Macbeth, the slightly built man in the regulation anorak didn’t match them. However, he was too seasoned an operator to let any surprise show on his face, which was a mask of bonhomie.
"Constable Macbeth," he boomed, extending a bearlike arm in greeting, "Welcome to Cicely. I’m Maurice Minnefield.
Hamish Macbeth smiled shyly. "Mr Minnifield."
Maurice hooted, "Ah, that accent! Why, you’re a tonic in these parts, Constable Macbeth, you really are. Maggie, isn’t it great to have someone visiting from the auld country?" Maurice’s vowels became strangled into an approximation of a Scottish burr.
"Sure, Maurice." Through the stories of her beloved Grammy, Maggie knew enough about "the auld country" to know that the taciturn Scott must be wincing at Maurice’s attempt at levity.
"Listen, Hamish – can I call you Hamish?" Maurice threw a manly arm around Hamish’s shoulder, not waiting for an answer. "What say I get you settled in at our local hostelry – the Sourdough Inn, pleasant ambience, though the proprietors leave a bit to be desired – and later on we can meet up for a drink. I’ve got a business proposition for you, Hamish."
Hamish nodded. "Well, that’s very kind of you, Mr Minnifield, but I don’t know if I’ll have time for…"
"It’s a deal, then," Maurice interrupted. "I’ll have my man, Ed Chigliak, pick you up at eight. Come on, let’s get you a bed for the night."
Maggie watched as Maurice bundled the Scott into his pickup and drove off at speed, a cloud of dust kicked up in the vehicle’s wake.
Maurice had been right about the hotel at least, Hamish mused. The Sourdough Inn was nothing if not comfortable, its decor and accoutrements a testament to the obvious taste of its owners, a gay couple who had introduced themselves simply as Ron and Eric. Clearly there was a tension between them and Maurice, brought on by Maurice’s thinly disguised homophobia battling it out with his admiration for their style and business acumen.
As Hamish dialed the numbers on the phone – long distance – he looked around him at the tasteful rush blinds, the simple, but smart pine furniture, the stripped floorboards. As he waited for the phone to connect, he dangled a hand-rolled cigarette from his lips, lighting it leisurely. A pile of papers and files lay on the bed beside him. At last, the phone was picked up.
Hamish and Isobel had been together for a few months now, but he still couldn’t stop feeling that old excitement whenever he heard her voice. Years of unresolved passion can do that to a man.
"Hello Isobel. Aye, it’s me, Hamish."
"Hamish, it’s good to hear you. How’s Cicely?"
"Well, I’ve not seen much of it, but it seems a bit weird to me."
"This from Mr Lochdubh."
"Aye, I know. Listen, Isobel, I just wanted to check you were okay."
"I’m fine. Feeling a wee bit fat and frumpy, but fine. There’s no need to worry, you know, Hamish. The baby’s not due for three months yet."
"Aye, I know. How’s Wee Jock? Missing me?"
Hamish broke off suddenly as, unannounced, the door swung open and in walked a tall, gangly, native American youth with long black hair. Hamish stared at the interloper. "Do you mind? Have you not heard of knocking?"
"Oh, sorry," the youth replied, and swiftly left the room.
Hamish returned to the phone. "Listen, Isobel, something’s come up. I’ll speak to you again soon, okay?" Putting the phone down, Hamish sat back on the bed and waited.
Eventually, a tentative knock sounded at the door.
"Come in," called Hamish.
The door opened slightly and the youth peered in. "Sorry, Mr Macbeth. I’m Ed. Maurice asked me to come and bring you down to the Brick."
The Brick was a large turn-of-the-century building. If it weren’t for the neon signs advertising beers, Hamish might have stumbled into the Alaskan frontier itself. Ed led him towards the long bar which stretched the length of one wall.
The proprietor, a tall, dignified man, with a straightness of carriage and an inner strength which belied his grey hair, smiled a welcome. "Ed," he nodded. "What can I get you and your friend?"
Ed seemed enthusiastic to introduce his charge. "Oh, Holling, this is Constable Macbeth. Constable Macbeth, this is Holling, he owns the Brick."
Holling stuck out a hand, enclosing Hamish’s palm with one hardened by years of physical labour. "Holling Vicoeur, Constable Macbeth. Mighty pleased to make your aquaintance. Shelley!" he called out to the small kitchen.
A pretty blonde woman in her early twenties with the bouncing enthusiasm of a cheerleader stepped out. "Yes, H?"
"Shelley, I’d like you to meet our visitor. Constable Macbeth, this is my wife, Shelley."
"Hamish, please," Hamish corrected.
"Wow. I’m totally pleased to meet you," Shelley beamed. "C’mon, H, where’s your hospitality? Get Hamish a drink. I guess whiskey’s your drink, Hamish?"
Holling looked pained. "Oh, now, Shelley, you know that wouldn’t be polite. He won’t be allowed to drink on duty."
"Well, actually…" Hamish corrected.
"See," Shelley beamed, sensing victory. "Of course he’ll have a drink. He’s not some tight-ass like Officer Semanski. Go on, H, crack open that vintage malt you keep over back there."
Holling scowled, but reached for a dusty bottle behind the bar. However, just as he was about to pour, a shout came from the door through which Maurice was entering.
"Belay that whiskey," Maurice ordered. "I’ve got something right up Hamish’s street."
Holling smiled at Maurice’s impressive timing, and replaced his prize malt on the shelf.
Maurice strode up to the bar and purposefully placed an unmarked bottle in front of the bemused Scott. "Hamish, let me present a new arrival from the Minnifield Distillery. I call it the Braveheart Brew. Go on, don’t be shy. Have a taste." He poured a slug of the golden-brown liquid into a shot glass.
Hamish looked at the drink cautiously, lifted it to his mouth and took a sip.
The drink was good. Maybe not as good as some whiskeys he’d tried, but, nonetheless, good. Hamish took another, larger slug of it. "You know, Maurice, this is really very good."
Maurice grinned knowingly. "It is, isn’t it? Now do you see why we’re on the brink of a bright business future together, you and I?"
Hamish blinked. "I’m sorry, I don’t quite…"
"What’s the most important thing in advertising these days, Hamish? I’ll tell you – endorsement. Endorsement’s the name of the game, and here we are with a bona fide Scott who can lend his name – and might I say, his historical name – to this venture."
Hamish smiled back. "Well, I hope you understand that I can’t…"
"Of course, of course," Maurice interrupted smoothly. "You’ll need some time to think it over."
"No, Maurice I won’t. Thank you for the drink, but I’m not putting my name to anything."
Maurice’s eyes grew steely, his mouth turning cruel. "Now, you listen here," he barked. "Who do you think set up this little shindig? The sheriff’s committee? Hell, I am the sheriff’s committee. I fly you half way across the world, kiss goodbye to my fiancée – I think I’m within my rights to expect something in return. Don’t you?"
Maurice stared at Hamish, who met his look evenly. "Well, I’m sorry if you’ve wasted your time, Mr Minnifield. I think I’ll be away back to my hotel, don’t you?"
The Alaskan night was cold as Hamish walked down the rough track leading from the town up to the hotel. He drew heavily on his cigarette, his shoulders hunched up inside his parka. Hamish didn’t care for being stitched up, particularly not so far from his home turf.
A voice sounded beside him. "Well, you cannot say you were surprised, can you Hamish? You should have known there was some scam being pulled."
"I thought you were keeping an eye on Isobel, John," Hamish muttered.
Anyone else would have been startled by the way the tall, proud figure beside him had so suddenly appeared, not least because the man had been dead for six months, but Hamish was beginning to get used to the appearances of his old friend, TV John McKeever. "You told me your visitations were restricted to Lochdubh."
"Aye, well, so I thought, Hamish," John demurred. "But it seemed you had more need of me right now, so here I am. It’s a useful opportunity to test my haunting skills."
"But Isobel, John," Hamish continued. "What about her? What about Officer Semanski?"
"Oh, Isobel’s fine, and so’s the bairn. And as for Officer Semanski, well, she doesn’t know what hit her. I gather Lachlan’s taken rather a shine to her."
"Perhaps I should tell Mr Minnifield that. He’d hop on a plane straight away if he thought he had competition."
"Minnifield. This is the brewer chappie, yes? What’s the problem, Hamish? This whiskey no good?"
"No, no, it’s not that. The whiskey’s excellent. I just don’t like being used."
"So don’t be. You got a free trip out of this – it’s an impressive place. Surely there’s some way you can turn this to your advantage and still come out with your honour intact?" TV John looked pointedly at Hamish, a twinkle in his eye. "Anyhow, I must be going. You think on what I’ve said, Hamish. it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve managed to come out of this sort of thing smelling of roses, now would it? Goodnight, Hamish. I’ve got an Astral Plane to catch."
John chuckled at his own joke and turned, his physical form dissolving into the blackness.
Hamish smiled to himself, drew on his cigarette. "Goodnight, John," he murmured, as the cheery chuckling faded into silence, for a second joined by the faint, ethereal barking of a small dog.
Hamish sighed, memories of happy days enfolding his subconscious.
From the darkness that surrounded him a large shadow broke away. A strong, callused hand clamped over Hamish’s mouth and, with the efficient precision of one skilled in unarmed combat, the shadow dragged him away into the woods.
And Isobel was there beside him, once again in the icy mountain cave where they had consummated their desire under the pelts of animals, six months before. Hamish was aware of the cold outside, pricking his skin despite the furs. Isobel’s eyes flickered, "Wake up," she said. Then her voice deepened into a harsh growl, "Wake up, buddy."
Hamish opened his eyes and found himself staring at the swarthy, unshaven face of a large man, whose long, dark hair hung lankly down the sides of his face, held in place by a woolly hat. He stared evenly at Hamish, "Okay then. Now you're awake, what say we have a little chat?"
The Brick was alive with argument. Maurice sat at the table Hamish had left, his arms folded defiantly. "This is the problem nowadays," he growled, "Everybody wants something for nothing."
Behind the bar, Holling shook his head, "Well, I think it was embarrassing, Maurice. Here Hamish is, a visitor to our town, and you compromise him like that."
"Compromise my eye!" Maurice snapped, "If there’s one thing I hate, it’s a freeloader!"
Chris Stephens nursed a beer. "You know Maurice, I’m reminded of that other Macbeth, the Shakespearean one? What was it he said? ‘He’s here in double trust: First, as I am his kinsman and subject, Strong both against the deed; then, as his host, Who should against his murderer shut the door, Not bear the knife himself.’"
Maurice snorted, "Cut the BS, Stephens. No-one’s got a knife to Macbeth."
"I’m using it allegorically, Maurice. I’m talking about hospitality. As his host, you should stop others exploiting him, not exploit him yourself."
Maggie, beside Chris, nodded, "Yes, Maurice, that’s a pretty low trick."
Maurice sighed. It was going to be a long night.
Hamish pulled himself into a sitting position. He was lying on a bearskin rug on the floor of a run-down log cabin. A sturdy chain bound him to the leg of a heavy couch, on which his captor lolled.
"So..." The man studied him intently, "Minnifield brought you here, huh?"
Hamish nodded, "That’s right. Look, I don't know what this is all about, but if you let me go now, we’ll say no more about this, okay."
This appeared to anger the man, who stood up sharply, "Oh, yes, that would suit you just fine, wouldn’t it? You think I’m stupid?"
Hamish regarded the man. Something in his staring eyes and shambling gait made the Scotsman realise he was not someone to argue with; compliance seemed the better course of action. He allowed himself to relax on the rug, "So, what's all this about?"
The man snorted. "As if you didn’t know! I’ve been a thorn in Minnifield’s side for years. It was only a matter of time before he brought in a hired gun to get rid of me once and for all."
Hamish laughed, "Listen, I don’t know what sort of bad blood there is between you and Mr Minnifield, but it’s got nothing to do with me. Fact is, Maurice duped me into coming here myself. I thought I was here on a police exchange. Turns out he wants me to advertise a new whiskey."
The man eyed Hamish suspiciously, "You wouldn't be lying to me, would you? Because that would be very ill-advised." Hamish didn't answer, returning the man’s stare evenly. Finally the man sniffed, "Whiskey, huh? Sounds like Minnifield all over. Alaskan whiskey!" he scoffed, bending to unlock Hamish's shackles.
Hamish pulled himself up on to the couch, rubbing his ankle to return the circulation to it. He reached into his pocket. "Mind if I smoke?"
"Yes I do!" the man exploded. "Filthy habit!" However, he seemed to calm as Hamish put the tobacco away. "I guess you’re feeling peckish. You want something to eat?"
Hamish considered, "Aye, okay. Listen, maybe it’s time we were introduced. I’m Hamish Macbeth."
The man nodded at him. "Adam," he replied.
"What do you mean, he’s not there?" Maurice shouted into the payphone on the wall of the Brick. "Now you look here, you and your pantywaist boyfriend can go and tell him to come to the phone and stop playing hard to get!"
Coming down the phone line from the Sourdough Inn, the voice of its co-owner, Ron was as patient as Maurice’s was irascible, a fact that riled the former astronaut even more. "I’m sorry, Maurice, but when I say Constable Macbeth’s not here, I mean he’s not here. He hasn’t returned to the hotel since Ed picked him up this evening."
"Damn!" Maurice slammed the phone down. A small crowd had gathered round him, Holling, Shelley, Maggie, Chris, plus the newly arrived Ruth-Anne and Walt, fresh from closing the store, all expectantly waiting to hearing the unaccustomed words of an apologetic Maurice. They were to be disappointed. "Well, don’t say I didn’t try," he growled. "I phoned to apologise, like you said, and the guy doesn’t even have the decency to be there!"
Maggie looked concerned, "Not there? But, Maurice, he left here over an hour ago."
"So he went for a stroll! Am I supposed to feel guilty for that too?"
Holling’s brow furrowed, "Well, maybe we ought to go look for him, Maurice. He’s a stranger in these parts. It might not be safe if he got lost."
Maurice looked nonplussed, "Oh for goodness sake, Holling... a search party?"
Holling nodded. "Yes, Maurice, it’s about time someone started to take care of our visitor."
The food was astonishing. Hamish had never eaten food this good outside the top-class restaurant that his former partner Alex had taken him to years before. Then, Hamish’s fish-out-of-water status had all but mitigated against the pleasure of the dining. Now, there were no such problems. Three courses of sublime concoctions rested comfortably alongside Adam’s gruff, if enlightening conversation.
"So," Adam continued, "Minnifield flies you all the way over here just so he can use you, a no-name cop from some one-horse town in Scotland to endorse a new brand of whiskey, right?"
"Aye, well, it’s my name he’s after, you see? Macbeth? The fact that my connection with Shakespeare’s Macbeth begins and ends there doesn’t seem to worry him."
"Well it should," Adam chuckled to himself, an uncharacteristic smile breaking round the fringes of his mouth. "Here’s Minnifield going to all the expense of flying you out here, the paperwork of arranging this exchange thing, when he's got the real McCoy living on his doorstep, so to speak."
"The real McCoy?"
"I reckon I’ve got just the guy to help you out of this hole. Jimmy Stuart."
"Jimmy Stewart? Isn’t he dead?"
"Not Jimmy Stewart! Jimmy Stuart! With a ‘u’'!" Adam nodded meaningfully. "That ‘u’ makes all the difference."
Half an hour later, Hamish found himself, once again in the woods, moving uphill. For a large man, and despite his hulking appearance, Adam was surprisingly fleet of foot, climbing with the ease of one not only familiar with the terrain, but practised in the art of moving over uneven ground. Once again, Hamish was struck by an intuition he had before, that there was a great deal more to Adam than met the eye.
"Adam, the way you move — were you in the army or what?"
Adam wheeled on him and pinned him against a tree. "I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. You’ll pretend you didn’t think it. There are things about me you don’t want to know. All you need to know is that I’ve got the training to break your neck like a twig. And, when this is all over, you tell anyone you saw me — anyone — and I'll track you down to the ends of the earth - understand."
Hamish put up his hands in a gesture of surrender, "Okay, pal, okay. Understood."
Adam stared at him for a second, then: "Good. Well, we’re here."
And now, through the darkness, against the organic shadows of trees and undergrowth, Hamish began to make out a man-made shape, the rectangular outline, of a cabin.
Adam pounded on the door with his fist. Following a minute’s silence, he began to hammer on the door again. Eventually, the sound of a shuffling came from within, and the light of an oil lamp appeared in one of the windows.
"Come on, Jimmy," Adam shouted. "Open up."
The door opened a fraction, and the face of a middle-aged man, his face shrouded in a heavy beard and long, ragged hair squinted out. "Oh. Adam," he muttered. "I should have guessed. Who's your friend?"
Dawn was breaking over Cicely as the searchers rendezvoused back at the Brick. Shelley bustled about, aided by Ruth-Anne and Marilyn Whirlwind, the doctor’s taciturn receptionist, doling out coffee or soup to the cold would-be rescuers. An air of despondency had settled over the room, as the hours had passed with no sign of Hamish.
Dr Philip Capra, his handsome Italian features lengthened by exhaustion, looked up from his mug. "So, Maurice. I hope you’re pleased with yourself. This is what your great hospitality has cost you."
Michelle, his wife, touched his arm, "Come on, Phil, Maurice didn’t want this to happen any more than any of us did."
"Oh, no, of course not," Philip corrected. "Don’t want to lose your investment, do you, Maurice?"
Maurice lifted himself from his bar stool, "Now you listen here, Capra..."
The door swung open, and Hamish Macbeth, followed by a shambling, bearded figure, walked in.
Holling ran up to him, "Hamish, are you okay? We were real worried about you, there. Where have you been?"
Maurice grinned broadly. "Listen, Hamish, I’m just so pleased you’re okay. I’d hate to think I’d caused you to get yourself into danger..."
Hamish interrupted, "Don’t bother yourself, Mr Minnifield. I’ve got someone here I think you’d like to meet."
For the first time, the inhabitants of the Brick noticed Hamish’s companion. The man nodded modestly. Hamish smiled. "Maurice. Everyone. This is Jimmy Stuart."
Ed brushed his hair from his eyes. "Woh," he muttered.
Hamish lit a cigarette. "No, Ed, not Jimmy Stewart. This is Jimmy Stuart. Descended in direct line from the former kings of Scotland. Isn’t that right, Jimmy."
The man cleared his throat, "Well, hey, it’s not something my family like to talk about. I mean, hey, life’s too short for all that stuff, right? But yeah, since you asked, that's me."
Maurice put a hand on the man’s shoulder. "Let’s get this straight. You’re..."
"Maurice," Holling interposed. "Let the man tell his story. Take a seat, Jimmy."
"Thanks. Listen, I suppose a drink’s out of the question?"
As Holling busied himself with a pitcher of beer, Jimmy began his story, "Well, I guess British history’s not your strong suit, Mr Minnifield. I mean, you’re American, right? So I guess I’d better fill in the blanks. So: 1746. Culloden. The army of Charles Edward Stuart, ‘Bonnie Prince Charlie’, the Young Pretender, is massacred by the English forces led by the Duke of Cumberland. Charlie goes on the run, fleeing over the seas to France, where he lives on, starts a family. But France doesn’t turn out to be so safe in time for his descendants. The Revolution leaves anybody with noble blood in risk of their lives. The Stuarts can't go back to Britain, so they flee East.
"But so it goes on, from generation to generation. Just their luck that the 19th Century turns out to be pretty turbulent centuries for the nobility of Europe. Every generation that passes, finds themselves running for their lives, ending up in Russia.
"Now, you know, of course that, following the October Revolution, Anastasia Romanov and a party of supporters crossed the Baring Straight and came to Alaska. My grandfather was with them, but something had changed in him. My family had run for long enough. When Anastasia left, he stayed, realising finally, I guess, that the family can settle somewhere. Any hopes for the grand life have gone. Any pretensions to royalty dissolved. Like I said, it’s all too much trouble. So, he sets up home here, near Cicely, and that's how I get to be here."
Maurice’s grin, had taken on a fixed quality, "Well, hell, Jimmy, Mr Stuart, why didn’t you say. Scottish royalty, huh? Listen, I might just have a way of making you a bit of extra cash. What do you say?"
Hamish made his way to the door. He had some sleep to catch up on, then some work to do. The small matter of an exchange visit loomed before him.
He heard a sound behind him and turned. Holling Vincoeur was appraising him, smiling. "Hamish, you didn’t just stumble on old Jimmy, did you? You met Adam, if I’m not much mistaken."
Hamish smiled, "Adam? Holling, I don’t know what you mean."
Holling nodded, "Sure you don’t, Hamish. Sleep well, huh?"
The End
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