September

Henry. He thought this very nice of her but, once more, made no reply. It wasn't easy to say something with a Balaclava over your mouth.

Once more, they set off. Now, there were only half a dozen people on board. The engine of the bus made a grinding sound as they climbed the hill out of the little market town, and at the top of the hill it became quite foggy. The driver turned on his headlights, and thorn hedges and wind-bent beeches raced towards them out of the gloom, wreathed in mist and looking ghostly. Henry thought about the five empty miles between Caple Bridge and Strathcroy, which he was going to have to walk because Caple Bridge was where he had to get off the bus. The prospect scared him a bit, but not all that much, because he knew the road, and the difficult bit was over, and he was nearly there.

At Pennyburn, Violet prepared herself for the rigours of the evening that lay ahead.

She had not been invited to a proper dance for longer than she could remember, and, at seventy-eight, it was unlikely that she would ever be invited to another. For this reason, she had decided to make the most of the occasion. Accordingly, this afternoon, she had driven to Relkirk, and there had her hair professionally washed and waved. As well, she had indulged in a manicure, and the nice girl, with her cushion, had spent some time digging earth out of Violet's nails and pushing back her neglected cuticles.

After this little beautifying session, she had called in at the bank, and withdrawn from its vaults the battered leather box that contained Lady Primrose's diamond tiara. It was not very large, and had to be held together at the back with a loop of elastic, but she had brought it home and cleaned it up with an old tooth-brush dipped in neat gin. This was a household tip that she had gleaned, long ago, from Mrs. Harris, who had once been cook at Croy. It worked well, but still seemed to Violet a terrible waste of gin.

Then, from her wardrobe, she had taken down her ball-dress, black velvet and at least fifteen years old. The frill of black lace at the neck had come away a little, and needed the attention of a needle and thread, and her evening shoes, black satin with diamante buckles, proved, on inspection, to have grown a few whiskers around the toes, so she took up her nail scissors and gave them a trim.

When all was ready, she allowed herself a little relaxation. She was not due at Croy until half past eight. So, there was time to pour a restoring whisky and soda and settle down by the fire to watch the news on television and then 'Wogan.' She enjoyed Wogan. She liked his cheerful Irish charm, his blarney. This evening, he was interviewing a young pop star, who, for some reason, had become deeply involved in the preservation of rural hedgerows. People were really quite extraordinary, Violet decided, watching the young man, with his punk hair and his earring, burbling on about nesting yellowham-mers.

Then Wogan finished, and a quiz-show came on. Four people were meant to guess the value of various bits of antique junk which were set before them. Violet, all on her own, joined in the guessing game, and became certain that her assessments were far more accurate than anybody else's. She was beginning to enjoy herself when the telephone rang.

How tiresome. Why did the wretched thing always ring at the least opportune moment? She set down her glass, heaved herself out of her comfortable chair, turned down the television, and picked up the receiver.

'Hello?'

'Mrs. Aird?'

'Yes.'

'This is Dr. Martin. From the Relkirk Royal.'

'Oh, yes.'

'Mrs. Aird, I'm afraid we have a little trouble on our hands. Miss Carstairs has disappeared.'

'She's disappeared?' It sounded like some sort of a dreadful conjuring trick, bringing visions of an explosion, a puff of smoke, and Lottie fading into nothing. 'How could she possibly have disappeared?'

'She's gone. She went out of doors for a walk in the garden with another patient. She never returned.'

'But that's perfectly terrible.'

'We think she must have simply walked out through the gates. We've alerted the police, of course, and I'm certain that she cannot be far away. She'll probably come back here of her own accord. She's been quite content, responding to treatment, and not troublesome in any sort of way. There is no reason why she shouldn't return. But I felt I should let you know…'

Violet thought that he was being very feeble.

'Surely you should have taken more care of her?'

'Mrs. Aird, we are overcrowded here and understaffed. Under the circumstances, we do the best we can, but ambulant patients, whom we consider able, up to a point, to take care of themselves, have always been allowed a certain amount of freedom.'

'So what do we do now?'

'There is nothing to be done. But, as 1 said, I thought you should know what has happened.'

'Have you spoken to Miss Findhorn, her next of kin?'

'Not yet. I thought it better to have a word with you first.'

'In that case, I shall tell Miss Findhorn.'

'I'd be very grateful if you would.'

'Dr. Martin…' Violet hesitated. 'Do you think that Lottie Carstairs will try to make her way back to Strathcroy?'

'It's possible, of course.'

'She would go to Miss Findhorn's house?'

'Possibly.'

'I shall be honest with you. I don't like the prospect at all. I fear for Miss Findhorn.'

'I appreciate your fears but consider them groundless.'

'I wish,' Violet told him drily, 'that I could be so certain, but thank you, Dr. Martin, for calling.'

'If I have any news, I'll ring you.'

'I shan't be here. But you will be able to reach me at Croy, because I shall be dining with Lord Balmerino.'

'I'll make a note. Thank you. Goodbye, Mrs. Aird. And I'm sorry to have bothered you.'

'Yes,' said Violet. 'You have bothered me. Goodbye.'

And she was more than bothered. All peace of mind had been shot to ribbons. She was not only bothered but filled with fear. The same reasonless panic she had experienced sitting by the river with Lottie that day in Relkirk, and with Lottie's fingers clenched, viselike, around her wrist. Then, she had been tempted to leap to her feet and run. Now, she felt the same way, her heart pounding in her chest. It was the fear of the unknown, the unimaginable, some lurking danger.

Analyzed, she realized that this fear was not for herself, but for Edie. Her imagination leaped ahead. A knock on Edie's cottage door, Edie going to answer it, and Lottie, with her hands outstretched like claws, leaping upon her…

It didn't bear thinking about. On the television screen, a woman, presented with a flowered chamber-pot, dissolved into silent, embarrassed laughter, her mouth open, her hand over her eyes. Violet turned her off, picked up the receiver, and dialled Balnaid. Edmund must be back from New York by now. Edmund would know exactly what to do.

She heard the ringing sound. It continued to ring. She waited, became impatient. Why did none of them answer her call? What were they all doing?

Finally, exasperated, and by now in a state of fluster, she slammed the receiver down, and then picked it up again and dialled Edie.

Edie, too, was watching television. A nice Scottish programme, country dancing, and a comic in a kilt, telling rare stories. She sat with her supper tray on her lap, grilled chicken legs and chips and mushy peas. For afters, there was some left-over Apple Betty in the fridge. This evening, she was eating late. One of the good things about being on her own again was that she could eat when it suited her, without Lottie on at her all the time about when was the next meal coming. There were other good things. Quiet was one of them. And being able to get a good night's rest in her own bed, instead of tossing and turning on the inadequate Put-U-Up. Getting a good night's rest had done more than anything to restore her energy and good spirits. She still felt guilty about poor Lottie, back in the hospital, but there could be no doubt that life was a great deal easier without her.

The telephone rang. She set aside her tray and got up to answer it.