“Air, road, or sea?” I asked. “Same as usual?”
And Old Mac, bless him, said, “Och, yon sounds a terrible lot for a…” Hector shut him up by a double nudge.
“. . . for a wee ketch like Jamie’s,” I finished for him, nodding. “And your old lorry, Mac.
I’d better organize a road convoy. The airport at Wick’s too obvious.”
Elaine was smiling. “Congratulations, Ian. We can’t be blamed for trying to conceal our method of delivery. I hope you don’t think us too immoral. The fewer people know, the better.”
“Is it agreed, then?”
“Yes.” Elaine’s pronouncement gained no applause. The atmosphere smoldered with resentment. “How long does this… papering take?”
“A month. First, we need a compliant printer.”
“Hamish in Wick is clan,” Elaine said.
“Next, I’ll need a secure helper. Can I choose?”
“Of course,” said the young clan leader, and everybody looked expectantly at Shona.
Shona spoke first. “I can start anytime.” She gave me her special bedroom smile.
“Thanks,” I said, beaming most sincerely. “But no, ta. Ready, Michelle?”
We were given an office in the empty west wing. Hector and a couple of men fetched some rough-and-ready rubbish for us to use as furniture. Michelle was awarded a desk: a folding baize-topped card table. They found a lopsided canvas chair from somewhere, and unbelievably for me a discarded car seat nailed to a stool. An elderly lady appeared from nowhere and contributed a brass oil lamp. Elaine ordered herself carried upstairs by Robert to inspect our progress.
“I’m ashamed this is the best Tachnadray can offer, Ian.” She directed Robert as an infant does its dad, by yanking on his nape hairs. She held a fistful of mane.
“I’ve done nowt yet, love. Got some carrier pigeons?”
“The phone was… discontinued. I’m sorry. Mrs. Buchan will gong your mealtimes. I’ve sent for writing paper.”
Just then it arrived, two incomplete schoolbooks and half a letter pad, and a bottle with an ounce of ink dregs. Michelle was pink with embarrassment. Even Elaine, who was anti-prestige, looked uncomfortable. But to me rubbish is about par.
“One thing, Elaine. I’ll want to ask questions occasionally. If Robert assaults me every time we’ll get nowhere.”
“Robert,” promised our chieftainess, “will not hurt you. Ask away.”
“Question one: nearest telephone?”
“Dubneath.”
“Two: nearest stores which’ll give us credit?”
“Innes in Dubneath.”
“No, love. I’ve had to pay for everything there.”
“We never shop in Wick,” Elaine said, aloof but mortified.
Lucky old Wick, I thought. “Then I’ll break with tradition. Three: transport. Old Mac’s lorry, I suppose?”
Elaine hesitated. “There’s the laird’s car. It’s old.”
Laird? Presumably her late dad. “Tell Old Mac to siphon petrol out of his wagon, enough for a run to Wick. I’ll manage after that. And four,” I added as Robert became fidgety at my peremptory manner, “I must be given a free hand. Okay?”
An instant’s thought, then Elaine’s see-through gaze turned on Michelle. “Very well.
You, Michelle, will be responsible for his movements. Entirely. You do understand?”
“Yes, Miss Elaine.”
I didn’t, though the threat was evident to all. Michelle and I stood and watched the red-haired giant clump down the corridor. I reached out and shook Michelle’s hand. She was puzzled.
“Yes, Ian? What…?”
“Welcome to the antiques game, love,” I said. “It’s murderous, packed with deceit, wonderful. We begin, you and I, by making a promise to each other. I tell you everything I’m doing, and you do the same for me. Deal?”
That took a minute to decide. She nodded at last, and smiled, but with that familiar despair hidden in her face. It occurred to me that she was as imprisoned as Joseph, in her way. Interesting thought, no? I laughed as she flapped her hand helplessly at the room.
“It’s ridiculous,” she said. “All we’ve done is put some scraps in a bare room, and you’re grinning all over your face. Why?”
A windowpane had lost a corner. Putty flaked the sills. Patches of damp showed at two fungus-hung corners. Plaster had fragmented here and there, exposing laths and bricks, and powdered mortar lay in heaps ready for a dustpan, if we ever acquired one. An old wall cupboard had lost its doors, its wallpaper blebbing in the recess. Three cavities showed where somebody had wrenched out the gas fittings. How very thorough, I thought. Laird James Wheeler McGunn must have been harder up than me, even. The floor lino was reduced to a torn patch.
