‘On only a handful of Summer evenings, when the ban-gull dies down after dusk, and the last tendrils of nebulous humidity exuding from the clammy moss have evaporated into the coming night, is it possible for the discerning eye to glimpse the Raglin Horsemen. Over the centuries, optometrists and meteorologists have essayed various hypotheses to demystify these rare equestrian outings, ranging from theories of atmospheric interference to fanciful expositions on spectral diffraction of the vanishing sunlight, but the most compelling, and by far the most poetic explanation for their nocturnal sojourn, is the traditional tale known only to the islanders. And so it was, on another short stay on this wind-beaten isle more than twenty years ago, that I learned of the true origin of the Raglin Horsemen.’
The young couple laughed politely at the old man’s curious turn of phrase.
‘Come on, Lord Rutherford, it’s just an optical illusion, like a mirage in the desert,’ said the young man. ‘You don’t believe that old wives tale?’
‘My dear Gordon, if I have ever so much as hinted at the shadow of a falsehood in all the years you’ve know me – and God knows I may have resorted to the occasional elephantine distortion of the truth in my younger days, but none these past ten years – then, pray declare it, and I shall have no choice but to deny you on the spot!’
Gordon looked pensively up to the heavy oak beams supporting the ceiling of the Lockham Inn. ‘Let me see...’
Suzie pulled at his elbow.
‘Just let him tell the story, Gordie.’
‘Thank you for interceding on my behalf, my dear.’ Lord Rutherford took a deep draw of Whisky and began.
‘In the dark ages – a time of fear and uncertainty for the Scots – Muirgheas, the Laird of Kildonnan, by all accounts a fair and even-handed land owner, fell hopelessly in love with Luighseach, daughter of the giant who lived in a cave under the waters of Lake Papadil, a ravishing beauty full of grace and feminine charm – the daughter, of course, not the giant.’
The couple laughed again, giving Rutherford a chance to down another mouthful of his Springbank. In the corner of the tiny inn the fire crackled and spat, the quaint wrought-iron companion set of dust brush, poker and shovel standing guard. His glass settled carefully onto the tartan beer mat, and Lord Rutherford reared up suddenly as if he were reciting some Sophoclean drama.
‘The giant would hear none of it! He locked Luighseach in the deepest, darkest dungeon and swam out across the sound to deal summarily with Muirgheas. When the Laird heard of the giant's plan, he amassed an army and awaited his arrival at the shoreline. Two hundred horsemen stood for a week on the rocks, but there was to be no sign of the giant. Now, the Laird was eager to see an end to this matter, and began to wade out into the sound, thrusting his sword down into the turgid black water in the hope of killing the giant. He ordered his horsemen to follow him, and before long all two hundred cavaliers were totally submerged in the brine. They slashed and jabbed at the sea for days. Eventually they ventured so far from the shore that they were lost from sight. For a whole year the people of the island counted them for dead – drowned chasing the dream of a man driven mad with love. But then, one summer night, not unlike tonight I may add, a young couple were strolling along the shore when they saw two hundred horsemen riding along the horizon. Of course, they knew the story of the Laird of Kildonnan and realised exactly what was happening. The Laird and his army were coming for them. It had been said that if he couldn’t have his beloved Luighseach, then he would jolly well make sure no one else would know the joy of true love. So, at the orders of the Laird, the horsemen dragged the two lovers down into the sea and they were never seen again. The poor boy’s name was Findlay Raglin, and ever since, the ghostly riders have been known as the Raglin Horsemen.’
‘Of course they could have just fallen into the sea and drowned,’ said Suzie.
‘God, you’re such a spoilsport!’ laughed Gordon.
Lord Roxburgh’s eyebrows raised slightly.
‘If you’re really such a skeptic, Suzie, why don’t you two lovers take a walk along the shore tonight? They say the conditions are perfect for the Raglin Horsemen.’
Lord Rutherford drank the last of his Whisky and got up.
‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a case to look over before tomorrow. Good night.’
The couple wished Lord Rutherford good night.
***
Down on the craggy granite shore where the sky was still a petrol green and a hairline of peach glow hovered precariously just above the horizon, Gordon and Suzie kicked pebbles into the incessant waves and surveyed the quivering border between the sea and the firmament.
‘What if the Horsemen come and drag us off to a watery grave?’ Gordon asked with a wry smile.
‘It’s just the light refracting through the different temperatures in the atmosphere like a mirage in the desert.’
‘Hmm. Well what about the giant? He’s been swimming around out there for hundreds of years. It’d be just our luck if he has to come up for air tonight.’ Gordon took Suzie’s hand and held her close while he gazed out to sea. Then he saw them.
‘Look! It’s the Horsemen. Right there.’ He guided Suzie’s gaze to a point on the horizon.
‘Bloody hell. They really do look like horsemen! That’s amazing!’
‘See, I told you the trip would be worth while.’
They watched as the distant ripples of inky black galloped towards the North. Less than a minute later the phenomenon had disappeared along with Gordon and Suzie.
***
The following morning Lord Rutherford, who always rises earlier than is necessary, was taking breakfast at the Lockham Inn. He had arranged for the innkeeper to serve his favourite quail and turnips. Something that required the innkeeper to rise a whole hour and a half before serving. But he was happy to do so, for his Lordship always paid handsomely and in advance for his bed and board, saying ‘here, please don’t try to give me any change, my dear fellow. I can’t count in numbers less than a hundred, anyway.’
Dozens of fine points of legal ambivalence relevant to his current case snaked through his consciousness unfortunately dulling the perfectly balanced acidity and sweetness of the dill and lime sauce for which the tiny island hotel had been awarded the only Michelin star in a fifty mile radius. As if that were not enough, his crepuscular solitude, too, was not part of his program. Contrarily, Gordon had promised to join him, and the second dish was now in serious danger of absolute ruination.
Gordon, as Lord Rutherford knew, was also prone to getting the worm. Often up before six, he would throw himself into his work without as much as a cup of coffee, creating those masterpieces of graphic fiction for which he rightfully enjoyed a certain popularity among Scotland’s younger readers. But was it possible that he had now slept in on this, the day of the island carnival?
With bitter disappointment the old judge left the second quail on the hot plate, the sauce now coagulated beyond redemption, and went in search of his young companion. He climbed the narrow spruce staircase to the first landing and knocked on the door. No answer. Perhaps they were both tired from yesterday’s difficult crossing. Nevertheless, Lord Rutherford was quite doubtful Gordon had heard his discreet tapping. He repeated the process, again with the same result. A most unexpected turn of events, he thought.
At the reception desk, compounding his already galloping anxiety, his Lordship was informed that the key to the couple’s room was unused since the previous evening.
***
A local fisherman found the bodies. Two of them – a man and a woman. The news reached the inn at about ten o’clock and the innkeeper immediately went to find Lord Rutherford.
‘Excuse me, your Lordship, there’s an inspector at reception with some news. I hope not, but it might be about your friends.’
Lord Rutherford laid the court documents on the table and folded his glasses.
‘Pray why should you hope this news not concern my friends?’
‘They found two dead bodies, at the old Kildonnan wharf. A man and a woman.’
The judge leaped to his feet and followed the innkeeper to the reception desk where a gloomy unshaven man stood, hands in pockets, examining the dozens of historical photographs decorating the tiny hall. Lord Rutherford, in turn, examined the man.
‘Good morning. Lord Rutherford, Justice of the Peace. How can I help you?’
‘A J.P.? On the island? Stroke of luck, then.’
‘I’m sorry, who are you, sir? And why should you consider my presence at all auspicious?’
‘Eh? Of course. Inspector Swindale, from the mainland. Helicopter. Been up to the scene.’
‘What on earth are you talking about, Inspector? And please, do talk in sentences. I find your little fragments most disconcerting.’
‘Sorry, Mr. Rutherford. It’s regulation Scandinavian crime fiction talk. Can’t help it. But there you are.’
‘Where exactly am I, Inspector? I do wish you’d make sense.’ Lord Rutherford could see he would need a large Springbank to cope with this incoherent fool. The innkeeper scurried off to the bar and reappeared seconds later with Glenrothes crystal glass two thirds full of a dark tan nectar, the preference of his Lordship, balanced on a wooden tray. He offered the glass to the old man and whispered:
‘Puts me in mind of that fat Belgian chappie, my Lord.’
‘Indeed. A bowler hat and that ridiculous moustache, and he could be the man’s brother.’
‘What’s that?’ snapped Swindale. ‘Talking about me?’
‘We were merely remarking on your uncanny resemblance to another noted law enforcement professional of yesteryear, Inspector. You were talking of having visited some crime scene, were you not?’
‘Ah yes. Up by the wharf. Not a pretty sight. Mangled beyond recognition.’
‘What was mangled beyond recognition, Inspector? Please make some attempt to use more than four words in your sentences. I’m getting quite a headache from all this verbal economy.’
‘Not what. Who? A man and a girl.’
‘There you go! That was five words all in the one sentence. Now try longer words – more than one syllable.’
The Inspector’s face twisted like a constipated bulldog.
‘I suspect the victim’s may have been traveling with you, Mr. Rutherford.’ The inspector gasped for breath after his superhuman effort, and the Justice of the Peace turned to the innkeeper and spoke behind his raised palm.
‘Get the poor man a glass of water right away.’
He then addressed the inspector.
‘Could you be so kind as to describe the physiognomy of the victims to facilitate an accurate assessment of their identity?’
The Inspector fished in the inside pocket of his raincoat.
‘Here. Have a look.’
Lord Rutherford shook his head in dismay.
‘Back to square one,’ he sighed. Then he looked at the photographs.
‘I’m very sorry to tell you, Inspector, that I recognise neither of these poor souls.’
‘Damn shame.’
Lord Rutherford rubbed his narrow jaw between his thumb and forefinger for a moment.
‘Inspector, do you think I could examine the bodies? After all, my two friends have failed to appear for breakfast – I especially order the quail, an exceptional dish if I may say – and I’m now in need of a little diversion.’
‘Diversion?’ grunted the Inspector.
‘Something to take my mind off the case I’m trying,’ Lord Rutherford explained.
‘Ah.’
Lord Rutherford replaced the empty Whisky glass on the tray and, after tightening his neck-scarf, left in the company of the inspector.
***
The police Range Rover had left deep tyre tracks behind it all the way down the muddy incline to the wharf. Three officers, one holding a digital camera, formed a triangle over the corpses. Lord Rutherford and the inspector followed the tracks down to the shore where the triangle opened to form a pentagon.
The inspector watched as the old man examined the two bodies.
‘What do you think?’
‘My opinion may come as quite an unexpected development in your investigation, Inspector, but I believe them to be the Laird of Kildonnan and his beloved Luighseach.’
Inspector Swindale looked him in the eye.
‘Christ, man! How many have you had?’ He raised an imaginary Whisky glass to his mouth.
‘My dear Inspector, I am quite in control of my faculties, thank you very much. Just look at their clothes!’
How could Ralwston have missed it. The man was wearing a long velvet overcoat and high leather boots with stirrups, while the girl, still full of grace and feminine charm, was draped only in a simple white linen dress tangled with strands of kelp. The Justice of the Peace lifted the wrist of the woman.
‘Look here, the marks from those manacles with which she was imprisoned in that dreadful oubliette are quite visible.’
‘Get a shot!’ Swindale barked at the policeman with the camera.
The officer knelt beside Lord Rutherford and focused on the girl’s wounds.
***
While the inspector and Lord Rutherford were puzzling over the two unfortunate souls on the shore, Suzie and Gordon were finally crawling out of bed at the Lockham Inn. Suzie pulled a tight T-shirt over her head and tightened the laces of her Doctor Marten’s.
‘I’m starving.’
She grabbed the remote and flicked on the television. In the corner of the screen a tiny clock read a quarter past eleven. ‘Will they still be serving breakfast?’
‘Sure,’ Gordon called from the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face to wake himself up.
Suzie sat watching the TV for moment.
‘Gordie?’ Suzie asked in a voice full of concern. ‘What case is Lord Rutherford working on?’
‘The couple that own the restaurant next to the wharf filed a law suit against the innkeeper. They claim he’d bribed an inspector to get a star in the Michelin guide,’ Gordon said wiping the last traces of soot from his jeans.
Suzie wasn’t listening.
‘You have to come and see this!’
***
Lord Rutherford stood up with Herculean effort and caught his breath. His knees finally locked into place and he turned to Swindale.
‘I could really use a drink about now, Inspector.’
The inspector reached into his raincoat pocket and pulled out a polished brass flask. Lord Rutherford took the flask, filled the attached brass cup almost to the brim, and sank its contents in one long draw. His eyes opened wide and his jaw dropped.
‘Inspector! This is a fine Torres Jaime, if I’m not mistaken. Thirty-year-old, yes?’
The inspector only nodded. Lord Rutherford pushed his aquiline nose deep into the flask and inhaled.
‘So you’re not a police inspector?’
The three police officers were now too busy winding yellow plastic tape around all the bollards on the wharf, the old fence by the dirt track, and the upturned fishing boat, to worry about whatever nonsense the two strangers were discussing. The inspector sighed.
‘No, only a restaurant inspector. I’m responsible for awarding Michelin stars.’
‘So why, may I ask, have you gone to all this trouble to get me out here to look at a couple of dead bodies?’
‘The Lockham Inn deserves that star, my Lord.’
‘Ah, now I understand!’ Lord Rutherford pointed to the bodies. ‘These must be the plaintiffs in my case. But are you telling me the innkeeper is responsible for their death?’
‘Believe what you want, Lord Rutherford. The police have already drawn their conclusions. They swallowed my Harry Hole routine hook, line and sinker, so they’ll be looking for some heavy-handed ex-con strangler.’
‘Goodness!’ gasped the Justice of the Peace. ‘Well there’s still a quail on the hot-plate back at the inn. The sauce is beyond hope by now, of course, but never the less...’
***
On the TV screen Detective Inspector Sorrenson of the Scottish Police was making an official statement for the press.
‘...Two bodies. Possibly strangled. Dressed for the carnival...’
Suzie turned it off and threw the remote on the bed. Gordon laughed as he opened the door.
‘Let’s get some breakfast. We should catch Lord Rutherford, if we’re lucky.’
In the dining room of Lockham Inn, they found Lord Rutherford sitting with a tall man busily pushing around some roasted fowl with a fork. The couple pulled out the rustic chairs opposite them, and Gordon waved to the innkeeper.
‘Springbank for everyone, I believe.’
Swindale looked up from the bird.
‘Can you see what’s missing, Lord Rutherford?’
‘I thought you’d never ask!’ smiled the Justice of the Peace. ‘The companion set, of course. There should also have been a pair of tongs, but that’s what the killer used to make the shackle wounds on that poor woman’s wrists, if I’m not mistaken?’
‘Exactly! And may I say, a job well done! Might even get another star.’
‘Here’s to the Lockham Inn!’ cried Lord Rutherford, raising his glass.
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