‘Goodness knows! Anyway, there doesn’t seem any doubt that he believed I would be received and warmed and fed – unless he expected me to take shelter in the boathouse. However, old Macbeth took care of all that. You know, in spite of the battiness and the guile, I believe that old man possesses a sense of humour.’
‘Indeed? It may be a macabre one, though, don’t you think?’
‘Oh, you’re thinking of the body in the barrel, but there’s no evidence yet that he put it there.’
‘I agree.’ There was silence while both stared ahead, engaged in thought and surmise, then Dame Beatrice added, ‘This furtive young man we’ve just seen interests me very strangely. He is quite a new factor in the case.’
‘The nigger in the woodpile, you mean? We’ve nothing whatever to go on in suspecting that, though, have we?’
‘No. All the same, I am glad I caught a glimpse of him.’
‘Would you know him again, do you think?’
‘Certainly I should. I saw him quite distinctly.’
‘You know, Mrs Croc. the more I think about it, the more certain I am that he had some ulterior motive in sending me over to Tannasgan that evening. By the way, where are we going next?’
‘Back to Mrs Grant. There are points which she must clear up.’
‘Such as which island really
Dame Beatrice did not reply, but gave George directions. George eased the car on to the single-track road and they went westwards, and slightly north, on the way to Mrs Grant’s lonely and cut-off house. Nobody was at home.
Laura ceased hammering on the front door and tried the handle, but the door was locked.
‘Stymied,’ she observed. ‘Now what do we do?’
D ame Beatrice was saved from the necessity of replying by the arrival of a station wagon driven by a man whom Laura recognised as the passenger to Inverness whom she had met in the rain at the station. It seemed at least three months since she had seen him. He pulled up behind George, who was still in the driving-seat of Dame Beatrice’s car, and got out, raising his tweed hat with a smile of recognition.
‘Hullo,’ said Laura. ‘We came along hoping for a chat with your wife, but she seems to have gone shopping or something.’
‘No, no, she’s away to her mother in Dingwall. Did you want her for anything in particular? I have to thank you for driving her home that bad night.’
‘I was the lucky one. She put me up,’ said Laura. She glanced at Dame Beatrice. ‘This is Mr Grant. Mr Grant, Dame Beatrice Lestrange Bradley, my boss.’
They acknowledged the introduction and Laura received a slight nod from her employer which she interpreted as an indication that she was to carry on the conversation. Before she could do so, Grant spoke, producing, as he did so, a latch-key.
‘Do please come in,’ he said, and opened the door. ‘I hope my wife has left us a fire.’
This, it appeared, was the case. A good fire was glowing red in the dining-room and a basket of peats and a scuttle of coal stood one on either side of it Grant tossed his hat and driving-gloves on to a chair, advanced to the fire and put coal on it.
‘And now, do you sit down while I find the whisky,’ he said. He produced whisky, a syphon and a decanter. ‘Maybe ladies would prefer sherry?’
Laura accepted the whisky, Dame Beatrice the sherry. Their host joined Laura and solemnly wished them good health.
‘And now,’ said Laura, ‘we came to ask a question of Mrs Grant, but I expect you can answer it. You’ll have heard of the death of the laird of Tannasgan?’
‘I have that. Nothing else is talked of around these parts. We get little excitement hereabouts as a rule.’
‘Well, I’ve been mixed up in it all.’
‘You don’t tell me!’
‘I have, in a way.’ Briefly she told the story of her adventures after she had left Mrs Grant for the first time. She concluded by saying, ‘So, you see, we’re wondering whether the island we’ve just left
‘That,’ said Grant, ‘is very easily settled. There is nothing I need attend to at the moment, so why don’t we go along and see? From your description I would say that you have certainly been across Loch na Greine and on Tannasgan, but there’s nothing like making sure. Shall we go in your car? Then your man can show me where it is you want to take me.’
‘Certainly,’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘George knows the way.’
Grant nodded and then asked: ‘
‘Malcolm Donalbain Macbeth.’
‘Oh, ay. That will be a pseudonym, no doubt.’
‘It seems rather more than likely.’
‘A red-headed, red-bearded man?’
‘Yes, and of pretty hefty build and about five foot ten in height,’ said Laura ‘An odd bod in many respects, but likeable, I thought. Drinks whisky, sometimes to excess, and has a fixation on fabulous beasts.’
