Jack Higgins - On dangerous ground

"Is that so?" Hector Munro said.

"So bare your head, you mannerless dog," Murdoch told him, leaned down from his horse, and plucked the old man's bonnet from his head and threw it down.

Rory took a step forward and Dillon said in Irish, "Easy boy, there's a time and a place for everything."

Rory turned, frowning, and his father said, "The man Dillon was fishing in the loch, we were only doing our duty."

"Don't lie to me, Munro," Murdoch told him. "Mr. Dillon is nephew to Brigadier Ferguson, tenant at Ardmurchan Lodge, and don't tell me you didn't know that. You scoundrels know everything that goes on in the district before it bloody well happens."

"Enough of this," Morgan said and looked down at Munro. "You wish to continue to work for the estate?"

"Why yes, sir," the old man said.

"Then you know how to behave in future."

"Yes, sir." Munro picked up his bonnet and put it on.

"And now that son of yours, Fergus. He assaulted my daughter. I want him."

"And we have not seen him, sir, as I told Mr. Murdoch. If he gave offense to the young lady I'm sorry, but the great one for wandering is Fergus."

"Away for days sometimes," Rory said. "Who could be knowing where he might be?" He glanced at Dillon briefly, but Dillon said nothing.

Morgan said, "I can wait. We'll go now, Mr. Dillon."

"I'll be fine," Dillon said. "I want to get my fishing tackle. I can walk back." He moved to Asta's stirrup and looked up at her.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"Just fine," Dillon said. "I do this kind of thing most mornings, it gives me an appetite for lunch."

Morgan said, "I'll be in touch, Dillon. Come on, Asta," and he cantered away.

Dillon turned to look down into the hollow at the Munros. Fergus crawled out from under the wagon and Dillon called in Irish. "So there you are, you little rascal. I'd take care if I were you."

He went down to the shore and retrieved his rod and fishing basket. As he turned to go, Rory Munro moved out of the trees. "Now why would you do a thing like that for Fergus, and you and he bad friends?" he asked in Gaelic.

"True, but then I dislike Morgan even more. Mind you, the girl is different. If Fergus touches her again I'll break both his arms."

Rory laughed. "Oh, the hard one are you, small man?"

"You could always try me," Dillon told him.

Rory stared at him, frowning, and then a slow smile appeared. "And perhaps that time will come," he said, turned, and walked back into the trees.

Dillon drank tea by the fire at Ardmurchan Lodge while he detailed the events of the morning to Ferguson and Hannah Bernstein.

"So the plot thickens," Ferguson said.

"Lucky for you that Morgan turned up when he did," Hannah said. "You might have been a hospital case by now."

"Yes, a useful coincidence," Ferguson said.

"And you know how much I believe in those," Dillon told him.

Hannah frowned. "You think Morgan was behind the whole thing?"

"I'm not sure about that, but I believe he expected it. That's why he turned up."

"Very possibly." Ferguson nodded. "Which raises the question of how he knew you were going to go fishing this morning."

"I know, life's just one big mystery," Dillon said. "What happens now?"

"Lunch, dear boy, I thought we might venture into Ardmurchan Village and sample the delights of the local pub. They must offer food of some sort."

"Pub grub, Brigadier, you?" Hannah Bernstein said.

"And you, Chief Inspector, although I hardly expect it will be kosher."

"I'll find out," she said. "I think that chap Angus is working in the garden." She opened the French windows and went out, returning a few moments later. "He says the Campbell Arms does do food. Shepherd's pie, things like that."

"Real food," Ferguson said. "How wonderful. Let's get going then."

Morgan was standing on the terrace at the top of the steps with Asta when Murdoch joined them. "I've just had a phone call from Angus. Our friends are going to the Campbell Arms for lunch."

"Really?" Morgan said.

"It could lead to an interesting situation. The day after tomorrow is the local fair and Highland Games. There are tinkers around, horse traders, and so on. The Munros will probably be there."

"Is that so?" Morgan smiled and turned to Asta. "We couldn't possibly miss that, could we?" He raised his voice and called, "Marco!" Russo appeared in the open windows. "Bring the estate car round, we're going to the village for a drink and you drive. I've a feeling we might need you."

The Campbell Arms was very old, built of gray granite, but the sign that hung above the door was freshly painted. Dillon parked across the street and he and Hannah and Ferguson got out and crossed, pausing as a young gypsy rode by bareback on a pony leading three others behind. There was a poster on the wall advertising the Ardmurchan Fair and Games.

"That looks like fun," Ferguson said and opened the door and led the way in.

There was an old-fashioned snug bar, the type that in the old days was for women only. This was empty, but a further door gave access to a large saloon, beams in the ceiling. There was a long bar with a marble top, scores of bottles behind ranged against a great mirror. There was a peat fire on an open hearth, tables, chairs, booths with high-backed wooden settles. It was not exactly shoulder-to-shoulder, but perhaps a crowd of thirty or more, some obviously gypsies to do with the fair, others more local, old men wearing cloth caps and leggings, or in some cases Highland bonnets and plaids like Hector Munro, who stood at one end of the bar with Rory and Fergus.

There was a buzz of conversation that stopped abruptly as Ferguson stepped in, the others at his shoulder. The woman behind the bar came round wiping her hands on a cloth. She wore an old hand-knitted jumper and slacks. "You are welcome in this place, Brigadier," she said in a Highland accent and took his hand. "My name is Molly."

"Good to be here, my dear," he said. "I hear your food is excellent."

"Over here." She led them to one of the booths by the fire and turned to the room. "Get on with your drinking while I handle the damned English," she told them in Gaelic.

Sean Dillon said in Irish, "A bad mistake you make in my case, woman of the house, but I'll forgive you if you can find me a Bushmills whiskey."

She turned, her mouth open in surprise, then put a hand to his face. "Irish is it? Good lad yourself and I might surprise you." They settled down and she added in English, "Fish pie is what there is today if you have a mind to eat. Fresh cod, onions, and potatoes."

"Which sounds incredible to me," Ferguson told her. "I'll have a Guinness, lager beer for the lady, and whatever you and my friend here have decided."

"A man after my own heart and a good Scots name to you."

She went off and as the conversation flowed again Dillon lit a cigarette. "The old man with the granite face and the bonnet at the end of the bar is Hector Munro, the damaged one is Fergus, and the bit of rough with the good shoulders that's looking at you so admiringly, Hannah, my love, is Rory."

She flushed. "Not my type."

Dillon turned and nodded to the Munros. "Oh, I don't know, with a couple of drinks in you at the shank of the night, who knows?"

"You are a bastard, Dillon."

"I know, it's been said before."

Hector Munro wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and came over, shouldering men aside. "Mr. Dillon, you did my son a service," he said in English, "and for that I thank you. Maybe we got off on the wrong foot."

"This is my uncle, Brigadier Ferguson," Dillon said.

"I ken the name Ferguson," Munro said. "There are a few not many miles from here Tomentoul way, they were on our left flank at Culloden fighting King George's bloody Germans."