‘Does he, indeed? Very Spanish of him,’ said Dame Beatrice, holding out her somewhat monstrously bejewelled hands and embracing the young man warmly instead of allowing him to kiss her fingers. ‘And what are you doing in these borrowed French and Spanish plumes, my gay Lothario?’
Celestine, long a trusted and uninhibited member of Dame Beatrice’s household, stifled a giggle and withdrew to the kitchen where her husband, a superb and not particularly temperamental chef, was preparing a meal. As usual, as he cooked, he was alternately praising Laura’s appetite and lamenting that of Dame Beatrice.
‘This one,’ his wife stated, describing Stewart, ‘is, like all the Scots, demented but adorable.’
‘But yes,’ said Henri, busy with his own thoughts.
Meanwhile, the demented but adorable Scot under review was being introduced to Laura. His mother, he told her, had written eulogistically about the visits to Garadh and had expressed the hope that these would occur often. The courtesies having been exchanged, he was provided with a drink and called to order.
‘What do you know of a man named Bradan of Tannasgan?’ demanded Dame Beatrice.
‘Murdered, and then put into an empty hogshead, or whatever you call it, of rum? I knew him, in a sort of business way, very well.’
‘Expound.’
‘I met him first when I was working up a connection to export dried fish to the Canaries in exchange for bananas. It went all right for a bit, but then the ships – all owned or partly owned by him – seemed an unreasonable time in getting back, and I felt that my firm was losing money and – just as important – goodwill. In the end I stood him off and went to Liverpool for a tender. Their ideas tied in with mine, so I blew Bradan’s lot a nice fat raspberry and our relationship ended, just like that.’
‘You mean that you realised…’
‘No, not really. I just thought they were plucking me for a pigeon, and I didn’t want to be stood up, that was all.’
‘You have never received threatening letters from them?’
Stewart looked surprised.
‘Gracious, no!’ he replied. ‘There was a wee bit of a fuss when I turned them down, but I received the impression that they were just as pleased to see the back of me as I was to see the back of them.’
‘And when did the break take place?’ Dame Beatrice enquired. Stewart wrinkled his brow.
‘Oh, a couple of years ago. Yes, about that.’
‘Do you remember asking Bradan to stay a day or two at your mother’s house at Garadh?’
‘Yes, yes. There was snow. I got away in time, but I believe Bradan was snowed up there for a week or a fortnight. My mother was not very pleased. She did not take to Bradan overmuch.’
‘You are right. Is there any reason to think that this forcible exile at Garadh upset any particular plans made by Mr Bradan?’
‘I think not. He told me once that his real business was carried on only in the summer. Something to do with tourists, I understood.’
‘Do you carry on your own export business during the winter?’
‘Not really. In the winter we mostly do coastal trips, picking up cargo where we can. We carry coal, pit-props and light machinery and make out in a hand-to-mouth sort of way until the Atlantic gets reasonable enough for our rather small ships. Oh, and sometimes we carry potatoes.’
‘I see. I hesitate to use the word because I think it is used (in the sense I am about to use it) out of context, but did you ever form the opinion that some, if not all, of Mr Bradan’s activities were –
Stewart frowned thoughtfully.
‘Crooked?’ he repeated. ‘I don’t know. Now that you say it, I can see that they might have been, but, as we were not affected in any way except for the excessively slow turn-round (as it seemed to us) of his ships, I can’t say that I thought one way or the other about his general business dealings. There isn’t time to, you know. So long as the other party isn’t doing you down, I’m afraid you don’t worry.’
‘Yes, I see. Well, thank you very much for your help, my dear Alexander.’
‘I’m afraid it hasn’t really been of much help, Dame Beatrice, but if there is ever anything else I can do…’
‘Yes, there is,’ said Laura, surprising both herself and her employer. ‘What do you know about a red-haired, red-bearded man, obviously cuckoo, who calls himself Malcolm Donalbain Macbeth?’
‘Obviously cuckoo?’ Stewart considered this description with a truly Scottish mixture of humour and concern. ‘Oh, dear, oh, dear!’
‘You know him, then?’ asked Laura, pressing her point.
‘I met him once, and I agree with you.’
‘Well, what do you know of him?’
‘That he’s a great reader of strange tales.’
‘Would these strange tales include stories of fabulous beasts?’ asked Dame Beatrice. Stewart looked doubtful.
‘What kind of fabulous beasts?’ he asked. Dame Beatrice looked at Laura.
‘Oh, the basilisk, and those sort of things,’ she said. Stewart looked astonished.
‘You wouldn’t be referring to the lion and the unicorn?’ he asked. Laura looked to Dame Beatrice for guidance
