run over with a Rolls-Royce. What else was smart? She'd once heard of somebody's mother who'd died of a heart attack in the Food Hall at Fortnum and Mason. Presumably she'd been laid out…
Her mind wandered. There really wasn't time to sit here, remembering that poor dead lady.
… laid out by some kindly swallow-tailed gentleman; stowed away behind the jars of Larks' Tongues in Aspic…
She stopped to jerk off her high-heeled sandals and, straightening, felt her head reel as though some person had struck her a blow on the back of the neck. There is, she told herself with some deliberation, no time to lose. She shed her coat, left it lying, got to her feet, and walked the little distance that separated her from the loch. The stones were agony beneath her bare feet, but somehow it was a detached sort of agony, as though it were happening to another person.
The loch was cold, but no colder than other times, other remembered summers, other midnight swims. Here, the shore shelved steeply. A step and she was ankle-deep, another, and she was up to her knees. The filmy skirts of her dress dragged heavily with the weight of the water. Another step. And another, and that was it.
She plunged forward, out of her depth, and the water closed over the top of her head. She surfaced, gasping and spluttering for air. Her long wet hair clung to her naked shoulders, and she began to swim, but her arms felt feeble, and her legs were shrouded and tangled in layers of sodden chiffon. She could perhaps kick them free, but she was too tired… always too tired… to make the effort.
More restful, surely, just to float with the tide.
The hills were blurred now, but they were there, and that was comforting.
Always tired. I'll just have a little toes-up.
She saw, with grateful wonder, the night sky filled with stars. She laid back her head to gaze at these, and the dark water flowed over her face.
11
Saturday the Seventeenth
It was five-thirty in the morning when Archie Balmerino looked at his watch, realized the time, and heaved himself reluctantly out of the armchair in which he had been sitting, placidly sipping the last of the malt whisky, and having a crack with young Jamie Ferguson-Crombie.
The party was over. There was no sign of Isobel nor the rest of his house guests, the band had gone home, and the marquee was deserted. Only from the disco did the music still emanate and, glancing in, he observed two or three couples drooping around in the darkness, and looking as though they had fallen asleep on their feet. Nor was there any evidence of his hosts. From the kitchen could be heard voices, and he debated as to whether he should go and search for Verena, and then decided against it. It was time to head for home, and he would write his heartfelt thanks in a bread-and-butter letter the following morning.
He went out of the house, down the steps, set off in the direction of the car-park. The night had lightened, and the sky faded to grey. Dawn was not far off. It occurred to him then that perhaps he would find no form of transport waiting. The others, maybe returning to Croy in dribs and drabs, might well have forgotten all about Archie, and left nothing for him to drive. But then he saw Isobel's minibus standing in the middle of the field in lonely state, and knew that she had not forgotten him, and was filled with loving gratitude for her thoughtfulness.
He drove away from Corriehill. The Roman candles had burned themselves out, and the fairy lights had been extinguished. He knew that he was mildly tipsy, but, for some reason, felt totally clearheaded. He drove slowly, with concentrated care, only too aware that in the unlikely event of being stopped by the police, he hadn't a hope in hell of cheating the breathalyser. On the other hand, if he did meet a policeman, it would probably be young Bob McCrae from Strathcroy, and the last thing Bob would want to do would be to wheel the Laird in on a drunk-and-driving charge.
Dreadfully wrong; but one of the perks and privileges, he reflected wryly, of local gentry.
It had been a good party. He had enjoyed every moment of it. Seen a lot of old friends, made a lot of new ones. Drunk some excellent whisky, and eaten a splendid breakfast of bacon and eggs and sausages and black pudding and mushrooms and tomatoes and toast. Black coffee, too. Which was probably why he was feeling so wakeful and sparky.
All he had had to miss out on was the dancing. But he had taken great pleasure in watching some of the reels and listening to the toe-tapping music. The only time he had felt a little wistful was during the Duke of Perth. The Duke of Perth was the dance when, by tradition, your wife was your partner, and it had been a little galling to see Isobel being whirled off her feet by another man. No matter, she and Archie had shunted their way a couple of times around the floor of the disco, and very romantic and satisfactory it had been too, cheek to cheek, just like the old days.
The sun was edging its way over the eastern horizon as he turned into the front drive of Croy and mounted the hill. The sweep in front of the house was empty of cars. No Land Rover. Jeff, good fellow that he was, must have put it away in the garage.
He climbed out of the minibus and went indoors. Physically, he was very tired, and his stump hurt like hell, as it always did when he had spent too much time standing about on it. Haltingly, holding the bannister, he climbed the stairs. In their bedroom, he found Isobel, fast asleep. Evidence of her evening's finery lay across the floor in a little trail. Shoes, tights; the beautiful dark blue dress abandoned on the sofa which stood at the foot of the bed. Her jewels on the dressing-table, her evening bag on a chair. He sat on the edge of the bed and watched her sleep. There was still mascara on her eyelashes, and her hair was tousled. After a bit, he stooped and kissed her, and she did not stir.
He left her sleeping, went into his dressing-room, and slowly took off his clothes. In the bathroom, he turned on the taps, and the boiling water filled the air with steam. He sat on the lavatory seat and unbuckled his harness and his tin leg, and laid the awkward contraption out on the bath-mat. Then, with a cunning expertise perfected over the years, he lowered himself into the scalding bath-water.
He soaked for a long time, turning on the hot tap whenever the water threatened to turn chill. He soaped himself, shaved, washed his hair. He thought about going to bed, and then decided against it. The new day had begun, and he might just as well see it through.
Later, dressed in old corduroys and a polo-necked sweater of great age and thickness, he went back downstairs and into the kitchen. The dogs were waiting for him, ready for their morning outing. He put on the kettle. When he came indoors again he would make a cup of tea. He led the dogs across the hall and out through the front door. They raced ahead of him, over the gravel and off onto the grass, scenting the rabbits who had played there during the night hours. He stood at the top of the steps and watched them go. Seven o'clock and the sun was on its way up the sky. A pearly morning with only a little light cloud drifting about in the west. Birds were singing, and so still was it that he could hear the sound of a car, far below in the glen, starting up, and driving away through the village.
Another sound. Footsteps on the gravel, approaching from the direction of the cattle-grid. He looked and saw, in some surprise, the unmistakable figure of Willy Snoddy, his lurcher at his heels, walking towards him. Willy, as disreputable as ever in his tinker's cap and muffler and his old jacket with its bulging poacher's pockets.
'Willy,' Archie went down the steps to meet him. 'What are you up to?' A ridiculous question, because he knew perfectly well that Willy Snoddy, at this hour of the day, was up to only one thing, and that was no good.
'I…' The old man opened his mouth and then shut it again.
His eyes met Archie's and veered away. 'I… I was up at the loch… me and the dog… I…'
He stopped.
Archie waited. Willy put his hands in his pockets and took them out again. And then the dog, sensing something, began to whine. Willy swore at it and slapped its head, but a frisson ran down Archie's spine and he tensed, consumed by a dreadful apprehension.
'Well, what is it?' he demanded sharply.
'I was up at the loch…'
'You told me…'
