THERE HAVE BEEN many May Day's Eves at Tressock in recent centuries when the sun has hidden itself behind a uniform grey sky, without much rain, just damp and cold. Some might think, some still do, that the absence of sun, when so much has been done to celebrate and propitiate it, makes for an especially bad omen.
On the particular May Day's Eve morning when Steve and Beth were present in Tressock waiting to play their starring parts in the local ceremonies, the sun rose, unveiled by cloud or mist, over the North Sea and Scotland's south east coast. Gather your omens where you may; Lachlan and Delia were cheerfully optimistic, and Steve took the view that God was in His heaven and he was going to have one heck of a ride on that wonderful horse, so all was right with the world. His desire to high-tail it back to Texas had not been entirely forgotten, but put on hold.
Just as he emerged from the shower a knock came on the door. It was Peter, the innkeeper, carrying a smart blue hunting jacket, britches, boots and a peaked black riding hat.
'Your uniform, Laddie,' announced Peter. 'Hope it fits. We took the liberty of checking out your suit in the cupboard for size. So it should.'
Steve had to admit that he really liked the costume. Just for once he'd look like a real old European dude. Except for one thing:
'Looks great, Peter,' he said. 'But I just gotta wear my own hat. It's, like, my lucky charm. Is that OK?'
'Anything the Laddie asks, the Laddie gets,' said Peter. 'So I'm sure it'll be OK.'
Steve who, fresh from the shower, was wrapped only in a bath towel, tucked in round his waist, now tried on the jacket and went to look at himself in the mirror.
'Looks good,' he said to Peter. 'Can someone photograph me when I get dressed? My pa, he'll sure be impressed as hell to see me in this outfit.'
Peter hesitated. Then he smiled.
'Actually we don't usually take photographs before the riding,' he said. 'But I'd be happy to take one for you afterwards.'
While people were riding into Tressock from outlying farms on ponies and cart horses, hunters and eventers, piebalds, greys, bays and browns, to join their friends and relations in the little town, up in the castle's west tower guest room Beth still slept undisturbed.
She did not even stir when her hostess opened the door a crack and peered in. Delia was dressed in well-cut beige jodhpurs, a smart black hacking jacket and carried an ivory-handled riding crop. It was at once clear that even if Beth was deeply asleep, the cat that lay on the floor beside the bed was dead. She entered the room and turned Magog over with her crop to make quite sure. Stone dead. By the look of the glass debris next to the bed he had certainly drunk the milk. Delia hurried from the room, quietly closing the door behind her.
In the dining room of Tressock Castle the Morrison family's routine for a May Day morning was much as it was for any other. On the heavy Victorian serving table more than half a dozen silver chafing dishes simmered over tiny methylated spirit lamps: porridge, devilled kidneys (a favourite of the master of the house), sausages, bacon, kedgeree, kippers, eggs scrambled, eggs poached, salted and unsalted butter, and two different thicknesses of cream.
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.