“Time to join the ladies,” he said, making for the door. He added scathingly, “For tea.”
“I’ve nowt against your whisky, Duncan.” I went with him.
I felt three goals down.
Before Shona drove me back to Dubneath for my things, we settled my job amicably.
This means I listened to Elaine and agreed with whatever she said. My terms were a fraction of the profit and all found—free nosh and bed in a stableman’s loft among the outbuildings. They showed me a bare cube with a single bed, a cupboard, and one uncurtained window with a view of the barren fells. Great if you’re Heathcliff waiting for Cathy, but I played along. Duncan was there too, ruefully swigging what he conveyed was his first and last nonalcoholic drink.
“We’re assuming Ian proves capable, Miss Elaine,” he put in gently. That caffeine was getting to his brain.
“Are you capable, Ian?” Elaine asked innocently, looking across at Shona, a tease.
Shona turned aside, busied herself with the sugar for Duncan.
“Your bills for plastic wood will take a turn for the better, Elaine,” I said. Duncan had the grace to laugh at the gibe. Plastic wood’s the poor forger’s friend.
They came out to see us off, talking casually. I turned to admire the house’s clinging splendor, and saw the big ginger-headed bloke among the outbuildings. He was kilted, strong, and stridey. Just as long as he was on our side.
“I can trust Robert,” Elaine said to answer my thought.
“Thank God for that.” I climbed into the van. “Back before evening, then?”
“Ian.” Michelle came to my window as Shona hung back saying so long to Elaine.
Duncan was already off, anxious to be at work. His wife spoke softly, perfume wafting in. “I’m so relieved you’re here. It’s time all was… resolved.” Her fingers, probably accidentally, rested on mine. But the pressure and that faint scratch of her nails down my hand was communication. I swallowed, too near her large eyes to think straight.
What was she saying?
“Oh, er, ta. I’ll do what I can.”
“We’ll make sure you exceed your potential, Ian,” Elaine called. She rippled her fingers in a child’s wave. She must have hearing like a bat.
Shona marched up, flung in and revved noisily. She hadn’t liked seeing Michelle speaking to me in confidence. She reversed at speed with a crash of gears, but Michelle anticipated the maneuver and glided away in time.
We made Dubneath at a record run, with Shona not speaking a word. Disembarking, I was jubilant at how things had gone. I was in. My thin disguise was holding. I was blood cousin umpteen times removed to this barmy load of clannites. Very soon I’d have the lion’s share of a sound antique fakery scheme, at least. Stupidly overconfident, I decided to buy some curtain material before phoning Tinker.
Now the bad news, as they say.
« ^ »
—— 13 ——
The best about little towns is that most things are crammed into a few shops. I found the drapery/general/household stores by spotting the only building in Dubneath with more than two parked cars. Women are the trouble, though. They immediately sensed I was curtain-hunting and started eyeing the swatches. The stores lady, Mrs. Innes, hung about itching to decide for me.
“A pastel,” I hazarded, playing it close.
“You’ll be Ian McGunn,” she said smiling. “That converted loft’s a drafty old place.”
So much for secrecy. How the hell did they do it? “You shouldn’t know that. Naughty girl.”
She laughed, coloring. “I meant, Joseph was always complaining. No wonder the poor man drank.”
“Joseph?”
Instantly she changed back. “And that poky little window. You’ll only get one pattern if you choose a large floral.”
“Boss me about and I’ll go elsewhere.”
“You can’t. The Wick bus left an hour gone.”
Her brass measuring rod was screwed to the counter. She fell about when I offered her eight quid for it and laughingly told other customers how I’d started to buy her out. I settled on a bright oriental print, bamboos and japonicas, and ballocked Mrs. Innes for not knowing the window’s dimensions. We parted friends. I crossed to the tavern.
Joseph? Who had been my predecessor at Tachnadray. Something had driven the “poor man” to drink. Not the draft, that’s for sure. I didn’t like the sound of all this.
I told Mary MacNeish I’d be leaving. By purest coincidence she already happened to have me booked out.
“You guessed,” I said dryly. If they introduce gossip at the next Olympics we’re a cert.
Dubneath’ll get the gold.
“Eat your fill before you go, Ian.” It was the mildest of mild cautions, a very natural expression. So why the Mayday hint? “Tachnadray’s bonny but can chill a man’s marrow.”
“I’ll slink back for your pasties, Mary.”
