“I only invite my most privileged associates,” he said. Donald by this time had put up with quite enough smarminess. He let the conversation lapse and watched the scenery flow by. Mile after mile of screes, bare oak woods, orange slopes of bracken and boiling green groves of rhododendron. This area had been sparsely inhabited even back in the Public Era. The flying boat’s shadow swept over a neat white motor ship running at speed, her bows throwing off sheets of spray. Donald waved down and was amused to get a wave in return from an officer on the bridge.
“Is that the Lydia?”
“Yes.”
“Where’s she going?”
“The same place we are—in there.”
Nightminster tipped the flying boat on one wing and banked north to fly into a narrow sea loch meandering inland as far as the eye could see. The mouth of the loch was sealed by a floating barrage topped with barbed wire. To either side, wooded slopes rose up into screes and higher still to crags scowling down at the flying boat.
“This is Loch Sunart nature reserve, the garden your brother was accused of plundering. Look—see the elephants?”
Nightminster pointed to the shore below. Donald was astonished to see a herd of elephants ripping up clumps of seaweed with their trunks.
“Elephants? Seriously?”
“There is a favourable micro-climate here. Global warming and all that. Look there! A pride of lions dozing in the sun.”
“Good God!”
“This is TK’s private delight. He was outraged to discover that leading citizens of Oban were in a conspiracy to rob him—and had sent an innocent man to the Fog. TK is in a dangerously touchy mood. If you want to stay out of the Night and Fog, Donald, tell the total truth and do not cheat.”
Nightminster backed off the throttles and put the nose down. After a deliciously creamy landing on the sheltered water, they taxied towards a stone house perched at the top of a pebble beach. It was built of thick, dark blocks, the windows were small and barred, peering out from under a roof of slates an inch thick.
Donald eyed the windows. A man could waste his life staring through those bars…
“Sunart Sans-souci,” Nightminster said. “You are honoured to be here. Not even TK’s wife has ever visited—you’ll see why when we get inside.”
Nightminster enjoyed another of his chuckles.
*
Just before Nightminster reached the iron-studded front door, it was pulled open by a welcome of two tall young women, one blonde and the other red haired. They wore tight black skirts and Harris tweed waist coats. Their hair was pinned up in chignons. As they smiled, the eyes of the two men devoured them alive.
“Welcome back to Sunart Sans-souci,” the blonde said. She stepped forward and held out her hand to Donald. “I am Vanessa.”
“And I am Isabelle.”
Donald kissed both their hands, growing vaguely aware there was more to this pair than just décor. They had strong, square shoulders for women, their smiles held a restrained contempt.
TK broke out into the sunlight. He wore his favourite dark green woollen jumper, full of holes, oil-stained tweed trousers and woollen slippers. He glared at Donald and then at Nightminster.
“What the fucking hell did you bring him here for?”
“Your hospitality is famed the world over, Your Decency”
“Answer the question Nightminster.”
“I think he deserves to see this. After all, it’s his brother.”
TK was forced to accept what was done was done.
“Come in Donald—I was not expecting an extra visitor, or I would have made arrangements.”
“Yes, Your Decency.”
Donald’s legs were a little wobbly after the confrontation. He kept in the background and was relieved that Wingfield did not make an appearance.
Nightminster informed TK they had flown over the Lydia and she should be at the dock within the next half hour.
TK said: “OK. Isabelle and Vanessa, I want you to receive our four guests and show them into the lounge, stoke up the fire and give them drinks and snacks. After about ten minutes I will enter and give them a spiel, after which, I will interview them one by one to check their stories. You, Vanessa, will lead them to the Gun Room. Donald, you can wait in the adjacent store room. You must be quiet. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Your Decency,” the two women and Donald said together.
“Good. To your stations.”
TK led Donald down the main corridor, through a large white-washed rustic kitchen and on into what was obviously the more utilitarian end of the residence. The Gun Room was hung with racks of Lee Enfield and Mauser bolt-action rifles. Donald helped TK lift a desk and some rude chairs into the Gun Room from a store piled up with large white, sheet-metal caskets, obviously of Public Era vintage.
“What are those, Your Decency?”
“You can drop the ‘Your Decency’ here. Those are heirlooms. In the Public Era, they were known as white goods, they did the chores we employ servants for today: washing dishes, washing clothes and so forth. I think they still run if you put the right juice in them. They used AC in the Public Era, as I expect you’re aware.”
Donald had not the slightest idea what he was talking about.
TK continued: “Somewhere I’ve got an old 240V AC generator about. We may need all that stuff once again, if Mr Banner and his National Party get their way. Now, you keep out of sight in there and I shall get dressed. Whatever happens, do not make a sound.”
Donald secreted himself in a small store room adjacent the Gun Room. It was stacked with cases of ammunition. Presently, he heard voices and laughter followed by TK’s
