The Case of the Scottish Nobleman

Act I

     Since the Duncan family has consented to this publication of the unfortunate and bloody events that befell them, I will now reveal to the world the part that my friend Hercule Poirot played in uncovering the grisly truth. Though I myself, Captain Arthur Hastings, witnessed many of these circumstances, I did not grasp their significance at the time.  It is true that, as my friend says, I am rather obtuse when it comes to solving mysteries; and yet I hope I may have consoled the family in the outcome of this tragic affair.

(ACT I)

     My friend had accompanied me to Loch Ness in the Scottish Highlands at my behest to see a motorboat race. Though not a sporting man, he often comes with me on these excursions to see the country and, I am sure, for his own amusement. Unfortunately, the rain and cold winds that day made for poor racing conditions. The lake surface undulated in whitecaps and splashed freezing spray on the rocks. It was feared that the cockpits would be swamped; hence, the racers were obliged to start off sooner than expected. The winner won with little good temper, while one of the losers complained that he might have hit something that bent his propeller. That was the first interesting thing that happened that day. The talk of something underwater damaging the boat led to a lot of talk about the famous supposed monster, though I don’t believe in it myself.

     “You don’t really think it was any sort of underwater creature that Macduff hit, do you?” I asked my friend.

     “He may have hit any number of things, Hastings, but the power of suggestion, it is very strong,” he said as we walked back to the car, struggling against the wind to keep hold of our umbrellas.  

     The omnibus wobbled in the wind as we drove south to Dundee; the rain lashed the windows on all sides.  It continued lashing as we were lunching at the Blasted Heath.

    “So many people are seeing it now, Poirot. Could they all be deluding themselves?”

     My friend looked suspiciously at his swirling bowl of soup.

    “This monster may or may not exist, but when people believe very strongly in something, their imaginations play tricks on their little gray cells and they see what they want to see, even if it is something commonplace.”

      I don’t know what imaginary horrors he was seeing in his soup, but that’s when I saw someone I recognized sitting two tables down from us. Two gentlemen sat there smoking. The one facing us I recognized from a newspaper photograph.

    “I say, isn’t that Ewan, Lord Banquo?”  I pointed him out to Poirot.

    “Exactly how should his name be significant to me?”

    “I’ve met him at these boat races before.  Right now his name is in the newspapers regarding a legal case of property ownership; Saul, Lord Macbeth is supporting Lord Duncan in his right to divide the estates of the Thane of Cawdor.  Lord Banquo’s put a lot of money into the case, but not as much as his partner, Lord Macbeth; that must be the other man at the table.”

    “Such controversy over a little patch of ground that has in it no profit but the name,” said Poirot.

     Lord Macbeth was a man of small stature with thick black hair and a beard that broke out in large tufts. His face was pale, cracked, and creased with care and weathering; his eyes were as dark as his hair, and they possessed a certain naïve quality in the way he looked at his fellow men.

     “However this battle turns, it’ll be my head or Cawdor’s,” I heard him say to his partner in guttural “Scots.”

     “And do you know what Duncan plans to do with the stone monoliths on the property?” asked Banquo.