Forty-four
East Lothian is one of the driest counties in Scotland, but when it rains in summer it does so in full measure.
A brief visit to the practice ground had convinced Skinner that while the opening day of the tournament had been the finest of his life on a golf course, the second round would be an ordeal to be endured. Like most good links golfers, he was accustomed to windy conditions, but he detested heavy, still days with rain pouring from leaden skies.
He had begun his practice wearing his favourite waxed cotton hat, made by Christy and guaranteed waterproof, only to find that it lived up to its warranty so well that as he stood over the ball, rainwater flooded off its brim like a waterfall, obscuring his vision. Laughing helplessly at the ludicrous picture which he offered to the three foolhardy spectators who stood, huddled under umbrellas, around the practice area, and to the television camera on its rostrum behind him, he zipped his Gore-Tex jacket as high as it would go and retired, stopping in at the professional's shop on the way back to the clubhouse to buy a brimless rain hat and a new non-slip glove.
Now he stood in the changing area corridor, studying the full list of scores from the opening day. At 14 under the Darren Atkinson team had a six-shot lead. Of the twenty-four amateurs in the field, fifteen had handed in completed cards having played out every hole. Skinner saw with satisfaction that in the handicap section his nett 67 put him two shots clear of a Japanese player, off 12, named Hirosaki, while in the scratch calculation, his 74 was one clear of Everard Balliol, an American three-handicapper, and a member of Team Nakamura. He checked its line-up and saw that Mike Morton was among their number, but that he had posted an incomplete card, littered with wasted shots and conceded holes. 'Must have something on his mind,' he muttered to himself with a grim smile.
He stepped out of the clubhouse into the pouring rain, and squelched across to the first tee.
Even in the morning gloom, Sue Kinture shone out like a beacon. She wore a Day-Glo hat and cape and carried a huge umbrella bearing the Witches' Hill name and crest. A tall young man stood beside her wearing weatherproofs and carrying a second umbrella.
`Hello Bob,' she called as he approached. 'This is Joe, from the estate. I thought we could use an extra umbrella-carrier today. Hope it's not against the rules.'
Beside her, Darren Atkinson laughed. 'No Susan, that's OK. No more than fourteen clubs, but as many Witches' Hill umbrellas as you like — especially when there's a chance to flash the logo at a few million television viewers!' She loioed at him with a faint smile, but the downpour seemed to have drenched some of her sparkle.
`Ready for battle then, team?' called Atkinson. 'We're off first today, so the rest of the field will be shooting at us. In these Conditions, the idea is just to get round. Forget all about yesterday and the day before. This is a different golf course today, and you'll need to take a fresh look at every shot.
Whatever your caddies tell you to do, take their word for it and do it.'
He put a hand on Norton Wales's shoulder. 'Today is made for you, friend. So far everyone's been expecting you to be a showbiz clown..
And I haven't let them down! Given them some bloody laughs so far,' said the singer, emphatically.
`So what? Today they'll be saying, 'My God, but he's game to be playing in that.' They'll cheer every decent shot you play and go 'Shame' if you duff one. How about you, Hideo, you OK?'
The heir to the automobile fortune laughed softly. 'You think it doesn't rain on Japanese golf courses? This is nothing for me.' He pointed up at his umbrella, on which the nameMURANO' was emblazoned in huge blue lettering. 'And I can do my advertising too!'
`Bugger this,' said Skinner. 'I should have brought one with a black-and-white check band around it!'
The announcer introduced the team through a PA system which crackled in the rain, and Atkinson stepped up to the tee. He chose a three-wood, rather than the driver which he had used on the earlier rounds. Teeing up his ball, he stood back under his umbrella, which Bravo held aloft until the last possible moment, before booming out a long, high shot which faded in flight along the line of the dogleg. It carried around 260 yards before pitching and pulling up short.
`Remember, Bob,' he said, stepping back amid the applause. 'Give it height off the tee. If you use your driver, tee it high, or the rain will force the ball down. You won't get much run either. Today we're playing target golf.'
Skinner nodded. Normally he detested umbrellas on the golf course, but on this occasion he was glad of Joe, the estate worker, shielding him from the rain as he surveyed his shot. He took out his driver and set the ball as high as he could on the tee, concentrating as hard as he could on keeping his head down and swinging smoothly. The click of the club-face sounded almost damp, and he had trouble in picking the ball up in its flight, but eventually he saw it, soaring high and pitching around 230 yards away, to the right of the fairway, and stopping dead. His sigh of relief was so loud that the television effects microphones picked it up, even above the applause.
He looked over his shoulder and saw Mike Morton, in the gallery less than twenty feet away, glaring towards him from under an umbrella, with a dark, sullen look on his face.
He waved to him as Hideo Murano stepped up to the tee. Enjoy your round when it's your turn, Mike,' he called, with a soft smile. But watch where you put your feet. It's helluva muddy out here!'
Forty-five
‘To think, Inspector Rose, that this was once part of a department store.' He paused, awkwardly. 'But pardon me, you'll barely be old enough to remember those days.'
Maggie laughed. 'Oh no, Mr Wills. My mother used to drag me around Patrick Thomson's every Saturday morning. Usually she didn't buy anything, but it was part of her ritual.
Nowadays, your behavioural psychologists would call it mother/daughter bonding. I just remember girning all the time, because I wanted to be playing with my pals, not looking at school shoes, new lampshades and God knows all what.' She looked nostalgically around Carlyle's Coffee Shop on the North Bridge, where Henry Wills had suggested they should meet. 'I guess this would have been the cosmetics section. Another regular stopping-off point.'
She smiled. 'Rituals don't change, you know. Only their locations. She still drags me out on the odd Saturday morning… except now we go to the Gyle Centre, together with half the folk in South-east Scotland!'
A fresh-faced young waiter appeared at their table, order pad in hand. 'Hello there,' said Wills. 'You're a student, aren't you? Law Faculty, yes?'
`That's right, sir.'
I thought so. May we have a pot of coffee for two, and something self-indulgent for me, an eclair, I think? Miss Rose?'
The Inspector shook her head. 'I wouldn't dare. My wedding dress will be tight enough as it is. That's something else I'm doing for my mother on a Saturday morning. Personally I'd rather get married in uniform!'
The young waiter left a copy of their order on their table and disappeared towards the kitchen. 'You've got a good memory for faces, Mr Wills. You have thousands of students in the University.'
The Registrar smiled at the compliment, and heavy laugh lines creased his eyes. 'I always have had. Every so often I'll see a face I think I recognise, and it'll come to me a day or two later that it was someone I taught twenty years ago. My trouble is that I'm not so good at putting names to the faces.'
He paused. Now, talk of names brings us to Elizabeth Carr. What can we find out about her?
Why don't you begin by telling me about your meeting with the former Lisa Soutar.'
Step by step Rose took him through her visit to Germany, and through Lisa's story. From her briefcase, she produced her copied version of the family tree and handed it to him. He read it eagerly. 'Fascinating,' he said, when he had finished. `Parentage is traced back through the line, until Elizabeth Carr. We are given no clue as to who she is, or why Matilda Tod chose to entrust her story to her.
And what of Matilda Tod herself! The sister and last witness of a doomed woman accused of witchcraft, and
