An ancient lairdship’s marketable—”
“Because,” she said. The little girl’s defiant silencer.
I wasn’t having that. “Because Shona’s mob won’t let you?” It was my pennyworth. I’d wrestled the great Mawdslay as far as Dubneath Water before she answered.
“Whose side are you on, Ian? Tradition’s?” That last word was spat out with hatred.
Well, I couldn’t really say until I’d visited her mother’s grave, but I gave her my best fillin. “The prettiest bird’s.”
“Me?” She was smiling.
“Bull’s-eye.” So far I’d counted two men watching on skylines, plus Robert.
“Then I’ve a problem for you.” A pulse beat, then, “I’m still a virgin, Lovejoy. Which means I require information about sex techniques… Why’re we stopping?”
“What did you say?”
“It’s a golden opportunity. There’s no one else I can ask. Tell me. Do women mostly make love on their sides sometimes, with their leg over the man? Only, with my handicap—”
The lumbering Mawdslay, slightly shocked, resumed its journey. “Look, love,” I said anxiously.
“Don’t go all coy, Ian.” She was quite reasonable. “I read once that sexual intercourse…”
Shona’s van caught us up by the first houses. She’d been following us, naughty girl.
And Jamie was waiting in Dubneath’s market square. All smiling friendliness, but very definitely there.
« ^ »
—— 22 ——
Shona’s presence in Dubneath put the kaibosh on any further interrogation—me of Elaine about crookdom, Elaine of me about sex. Elaine had to visit the one bank, and Shona seemed determined to accompany her. Innocently I said I’d sightsee, happy to be squeezed out. Shona’s furrowed brow cleared at that. Jamie went off down the harbor after we’d lifted Elaine’s wheelchair to get her mobile. I walked to the chapel, slow and idle.
Reverend Ruthven was a pleasant balding man who told me, “Two things, Ian. I’m a pastor, not a vicar. And secondly, I’m the exception that proves the rule.” He had to explain that Ruthvens were addicted to assassination over a long and bloody history.
“I’m probably the first peaceable Ruthven on earth!”
“Lineage seems a right pest.”
He sighed. “It can be, Ian, heaven knows. Come. I expect you’re here to see the McGunns. A fated clan, if I may say so.”
“Fated? Everybody’s fated. Why McGunns especially?”
“Conflict dooms life. They say your very name is Norse, gunnr, meaning war.
Etymological pilf, of course. But the war between those wretched Sinclairs and the Sutherland Gordons crushed the poor McGunn clan. It’s a wonder there’s any of you left. The Gordons are a rapacious breed.”
He took me among the chapel’s gravestones, and pointed out Elaine’s mother’s. And the laird’s headstone, coat-of-arms on marble, a little way off. James Wheeler McGunn.
“Elaine was telling me about her mother, Pastor. How very sad.” I shook my head sorrowfully, as if I knew so much.
“Aye, Ian. Isn’t that life all over? Unable to come to terms with The McGunn’s fanaticism. Clan was everything to the poor man. Driven. It’s often the way, with converts. Reasoning erodes. Jesuits call it a state of erroneous conscience.”
“I understand.” I was very knowing, and lied, “My mother and she used to correspond, until matters…”
We both sighed. Pastor Ruthven determined to exonerate Elaine’s mother. “Then you’ll know how hard The McGunn took it. Women tend to blame themselves in those circumstances.”
“And needlessly.” I was busy working out in what circumstances.
After that it was sundry graves, the chapel foundation stone, a list of former pastors, gold lettering on stained mahogany, before I decided it was time to go. “You’ll have had your bite, Ian…?” An Edinburgh man. He said to call again. I promised to, but wouldn’t need. How come Ruthven likened James Wheeler McGunn to a “convert,” when he in fact was The McGunn?
Shona, Elaine, and me sat down for a nosh at the MacNeish tavern. Mary told me that two letters had come addressed to me, care of Michelle, with only half the requisite postage. Elaine looked across. I went all innocent and said my friends were sometimes careless. My granny actually taught me the trick: Registered letters hint at riskily valuable contents. But skimp the ordinary postage and the postman’ll beat a path to your door to recover that outstanding penny. It’s cheaper than registration and far more reliable.
“Just think, Mary,” I told her through a mouthful. “Soon we McGunns’ll be able to start paying for these twopenny pasties of yours.”
She blazed up at that. “Twopence? I’ll have you know, Ian McGunn, that my cooking’s worth more than—” et cetera, et cetera. A pleasant meal, with me prattling away and inspecting Elaine’s and Shona’s respective faces. Faces are fascinating, but I’ve already told you that.
Shona followed the Mawdslay back. I was determined to tell Elaine about attribution.
Elaine was determined to ask about sex.
