they lunched. This might turn out to be our lucky strike. Besides, it’s a wonderful drive from here to Kyle of Lochalsh. Do we go first thing tomorrow morning? Too late for a jaunt like that today.’
There was a glimpse of Ben Nevis after the car had left Fort William on the following morning, but nothing like the magnificent view of it which they could obtain on their return journey, as Laura knew. They met holiday traffic on their way to Spean Bridge, but after that they were fortunate. The glorious road to Kyle of Lochalsh was almost free of traffic and there was only a short wait at the ferry before Laura drove on to the boat for the very short crossing to Kyleakin.
Once clear of the village, the road up to Portree was comparatively dull after the amazingly lovely scenery of the mainland. However, Skye itself exercised its own magic and Laura, taking the coast road, found herself singing as they passed through Sligachan and headed north for their destination.
The post office at Portree seemed the obvious place in which to make enquiries and here the information Laura asked for was readily obtained. The town was small and compact, and, following the directions, she and Dame Beatrice experienced no difficulty in finding McFee’s shop.
It turned out to be, primarily, an ironmonger’s, but there were also picture postcards and small souvenirs of a kind likely to attract tourists, besides a collection of ornamental kilt-pins and a
The shopkeeper – McFee’s wife, the callers assumed – saw her looking at it and told her that, according to legend, it had belonged to one of Prince Charles Edward’s followers who had left it to a McFee when he crossed with the prince to Raasay. She and Laura got into conversation and it was a short step from this to a mention of the Fort William boatyard and MacGregor White.
‘My man will be back,’ said Mrs McFee, ‘to his dinner. Hae ye supped?’
‘Booked lunch at the hotel,’ said Laura. ‘Did your husband ever mention a foreigner who booked a boat from Mr White’s yard about a week ago?’
‘What way would he be mentioning that?’ Mrs McFee enquired.
‘Because the police are after the man and we’re hoping that Mr McFee may be able to tell us where he went. I suppose he returned the boat?’
‘That’s no business of mine.’ The woman, who had been friendliness itself up to this point, looked suspiciously at Laura. ‘You’ll be a police-woman?’ she asked.
‘No, but a man has been murdered and we are acting on behalf of the tour company which employed him.’
‘You’re no’ the police?’
‘No, but we are working in close collaboration with them. Is your husband likely to be long?’
‘Och, no. It’s gone noon. He’ll be here soon enough. I’ll get you a chair.’
‘We’d rather look round the shop,’ said Laura. Dame Beatrice, who had left them during the exchanges, came to the proprietress with a Highland brooch which, when she had paid for it, she pinned to the lapel of her tweed jacket. Laura also decided to make one or two small purchases and, as she was being given her change, a stocky man came into the shop and handed Mrs McFee a parcel.
‘I got it from McLeod,’ he said. ‘It’s a fush.’
‘The ladies wish to speak with you, Jock.’
‘Och, aye.’ He did not seem in the least surprised. Laura took it that this was his accustomed reaction to any news, good or bad. She herself, however, was surprised by Dame Beatrice’s question to him.
‘Would you have any idea,’ she said, ‘how long Mr Carstairs has been away?’
‘Carstairs?’
‘And whether he is married?’
‘Now how would I ken that?’
‘Because you are a sociable, gregarious man who likes to get to know the neighbours. I think you lived in your employer’s bungalow in Saighdearan while you were working down at Mr White’s boatyard in Fort William. Mr White seems to be a taciturn, unfriendly man and his wife has, I would think, the English suburban determination to keep herself to herself, but you are from…’
‘Kirkintilloch. Aye, White will be what I call a Black Highlander. You’re right enough there. But you were speaking of Carstairs. He isna married – that is, I never saw a wife. He took on yon wee house in Saighdearan maybe two years ago and he runs a big green car, a Wolseley. I dinna ken what might be his business, but it was seldom he stayed in Saighdearan, so at my guess he travelled in some kind of goods, but he was not a man you could question.’
‘We were told he was an artist.’
‘Och, weel noo, he micht be juist that same.’
‘Did he ever hire a boat?’
‘No’ to my knowledge.’
‘Was he an Englishman?’
‘Aye.’
‘How long is it since you gave up your summer employment with Mr White?’
‘Last Saturday.’
‘Was Mr Carstairs at Saighdearan when you left?’
‘He wisna, but he had been there, on and off, for the past year.’
‘On and off?’
