Safety? For heaven’s sake, Forby, this isn’t the middle of the jungle. You’re just a bit jumpy because you miss the Banner more than you thought you would—or perhaps because you’ve just discovered you’re an alcoholic . . .
“A double whisky, please,” she said firmly, when Hamish asked her what she wanted. “With a treble orange juice for starters, though,” she added, remembering that when she left her room she had, after all, been thirsty. Orange juice to settle the dust, whisky for her nerves—not her preferred tipple, but, since she was in Scotland, better make like the natives. Nerves, natives . . . why was everyone still staring at her in that peculiar way? Mel shrugged, grinned round at her audience, and hitched herself up on a polished oak stool to lean her elbows comfortably on the bar.
Only Hamish McQueest seemed to regard her appearance as something unremarkable. He returned her grin, leaned across the counter, and asked whether she wanted a single malt or a blended scotch. Mel’s ears were sharp. Even as she responded (the good reporter’s ever-enquiring mind) with a request for enlightenment as to the difference between single malts and blends, she was able to hear conversation starting up again behind her back.
And one of the most audible snippets she could make out was the muttered “Aye, there’ll likely be a white sheet for yon lassie, I’m thinking . . .”
Fearless Forby, Fleet Street’s Finest. Mel told herself this unexpected threat of a shroud was just the booze talking. With a further shrug—on the Street, you had to look tough, act tough, or go under—she sat up straight. Knives in the back she didn’t seriously expect—too public, for one thing. Pity there wasn’t a mirror, though, behind the bar, the way there always seemed to be in the movies. She’d like to know which of the Pock and Tang’s clientele objected so much to her presence. What had happened to that famous Highland hospitality she’d read so much about in the travel pages of the Negative?
The Negative—the chance here for another scoop, maybe . . . Mel’s pulses quickened, every instinct telling her there must be a story somewhere around, if they were all so keen to get rid of her—never mind the recent arrival of Miss S., who, even on her most cracking form, usually took more than a few hours to set things humming . . .
Though it seemed that, on this occasion, they’d already started. What was the Oracle’s favourite term? Embroiled, that was it. Whenever Miss S. became embroiled in a mystery of any sort, it invariably made headline news—and here was Amelita Forby with a watching brief, right in the heart of the tiny village of Glenclachan, which already seemed to be doing a nice little line in home-grown mystery—and slap into the middle of it all had walked Miss Seeton . . .
Mel sipped her whisky with a secret, gleeful smile. Her expression was not lost on Hamish McQueest. “I hoped you’d be pleased with the Lairigigh, Miss Forby. Not many of our Sassenach palates do justice to its finer points, I fear. Would you care for another?”
As he reached for the bottle, Mel said quickly, “And one for yourself, Mr. McQueest. I’m sure your palate appreciates it far better than mine. Doubles for both of us—oh, and is there a dinner menu I could see?” Better, of course, if she’d eaten before starting to pump the proprietor, rather than after—all that scotch sloshing round on an empty stomach—but she didn’t see how even the landlord of a Highland hotel could drink as much as certain of her Fleet Street colleagues. Mel Forby had long ago trained herself to keep up with those colleagues, if not to beat them at their own game. Her lips curved upwards as she thought of Thrudd Banner.
Hamish had been dispensing whisky with his back to her, and turned round in time to catch the tail end of what had been a dazzling smile. He smiled back, then winked as he pushed Mel’s fresh glass across. “Thank you, Miss Forby, and your very good health.”
“Thanks,” returned Mel, raising her glass in reply, “and cheers, Mr. McQueest. You have a nice place here.” Start by asking a few easy questions, and don’t go for the hard-nosed stuff until he’s nicely off his guard. “An unusual name,” she went on. “What does it mean? Something to do with the plague, or the Black Death? I didn’t realise they’d come so far north.”
Hamish stared at her for a moment, then forced a chuckle as realisation dawned. “Pockmarks and the smell of death, of course. Dear me, what a grisly imagination! There were no such horrors round these parts in the past, I’m happy to say—the name’s nothing more than a reference to the pearl fishing that goes on hereabouts.”
“Pearl fishing.” Mel regarded him doubtfully. Poking fun at the dumb tourist, it seemed—when she’d just bought the man a drink, what’s more. “Oh, yes?”
“Yes,” he replied at once, nettled by her obvious doubt. “Glenclachan’s famous for its fresh-water pearls, and quite a number of people have made a living out of them, over the years. Not that it’s any of your deep sea diving. Was that what made you suspect I was having you on? It’s the rivers, you see,” he continued, above her attempted protests. “They are extremely cold, and clean, and fast-flowing, which is what suits the creatures best, I gather. The cooler the climate, the slower the growth; the slower the growth, the better the pearl. Prized for centuries, the pearls of Scotland have been, from the time of Julius Caesar and earlier; traded by the ancient Phoenicians thousands of years ago, as I understand.”
He absently topped up Mel’s glass before continuing: “Of course, you have to know where to find them, and how to find them, too. They use special equipment—a forked stick for lifting the mussels from the riverbed, and that’s called a tang; while the pock is the sack tied round a fisherman’s waist or over his shoulder as he wades through the stream. That’s for carrying the mussels to the riverbank to search them for pearls. Hence, you see, the name.”
“Pock and Tang,” muttered Mel. “Yes, I see.” There was the chance for a Piece in all this, whether or not the Seeton story broke as expected; though she still had every hope, of course, that it would.
She had made her tone professionally prompting. Duly prompted, Hamish began to expand on his theme. “There’s a specially adapted bucket they use, an old one with its bottom bashed out and a sheet of glass fitted—along the lines of an upside-down periscope—for holding the surface of the water steady so that they can peer down at the scaup, which is what they call the mussel bed. And, perhaps most important of all, waders, for going out into deep water.”
He looked at Mel in quizzical fashion. “But I hardly suppose that you came here to fish for pearls, Miss Forby. You said yourself that, er, your job requires you to travel light, and I can’t seriously believe you had a bucket and a pair of waders in your bag—though no doubt you could make a fine tang for yourself by cutting a long branch, and Pictarnitie’s stores would sell you a bucket, and the glass to go with it, too. But it’s a hard life, they tell me. The local rivers run deep as well as fast, and when they’re in full spate the current is hard to withstand, especially, if you’ll excuse me, for a young woman who can’t weigh very much. Stones slippery with weed, that sort of thing—people have drowned fishing for pearls, you know.”
As he paused to shake his head wisely and sip a libation to the departed from his glass, Mel contemplated him with an air of interest. Rather than let him learn her business in the village, it seemed a good idea to deflect him with a few friendly questions. She remembered Plummergen, and smiled. “How long have you lived in Glenclachan, Mr. McQueest? What made you decide to come to the Highlands to run a hotel?”
He was about to reply when there came the rattle of a latch, and the outside door opened. Another stranger, if Mel was any judge, stood on the threshold with the eyes of everyone in the bar turned towards him: a sallow, stooped, slit-eyed man with scraggy eyebrows and a cigarette depending from one corner of his mouth. He narrowed his eyes still more against the concerted stare of the room, studied every face as closely as his own was studied, then frowned, shrugged, and made his way warily towards the bar.
Conversation ebbed and flowed behind him as he passed, though it was clear this
was halfhearted pretence, that everyone was intent on learning the newcomer’s business with Hamish McQueest. Mel thought of a hundred westerns: double doors flung open at the arrival of the hero, gun by his side and challenge in his stance, glaring at the villain slouched over the poker table, daring him to a duel. She could hardly smother her giggles. Anything less heroic than this yellowy ratlike figure she never hoped to see.
She buried her nose in her whisky glass as the man drew near. Hamish eyed her sharply, then moved along to greet his latest customer. “Good evening,” he said, with a smile. “And what can I get you?”
The man glanced at Mel, then obviously dismissed her as a person of small importance. “I’m looking,” he said, in a tone someone far less shrewd than Amelita Forby would have recognised as pregnant, “for John Stuart Fraser. They tell me he’s to be found in these parts.”
“John Stuart Fraser?” The landlord’s repetition of the name fell into an almost silent room. He nodded once in the direction of the farthest corner. “If you ask again over there, I dare say you’ll be put on the right track . . . And you know, that’s odd,” he added, once the man, with a curt acknowledgement, had turned away. Mel’s ears pricked, and she looked a question. Hamish frowned, and stroked his red moustache.
“I’ve lived in Glenclachan for nearly three years, Miss Forby, and to my knowledge there’s never been a Fraser with John Stuart as his forenames, yet that chap’s not the first to come asking for the man in person, and I doubt if he’ll be the last. I can’t help wondering what’s going on . . .”
And Mel couldn’t help wondering also.
chapter
~10~
“ARE YOU SURE you don’t mind amusing yourself this morning, Miss Seeton?” Liusaidh MacSporran regarded her guest with an apologetic air. “Only Mrs. McScurrie is”—she glanced over her shoulder: the dining-room door was safely closed—“in one of her moods today,” Lady Glenclachan concluded, and stifled a giggle. “I’d better placate her, especially after having been away in London for so long. We’re all utterly petrified of her, you know.” Miss Seeton blinked at this. The housekeeper had not appeared to be particularly awe-inspiring; she had fussed in a most kindly manner over such matters as a stoneware hot-water bottle in one’s delightful four-poster bed (although one would have supposed that, in August, even a Scottish castle would be neither damp nor cold) and the contents of the bedside biscuit tin. Liusaidh laughed at her evident bewilderment.
“Bless her, Mrs. McScurrie is a MacSporran institution, and has been for centuries. We’d miss her dreadfully if she wasn’t here to bully us.” Miss Seeton blinked again, then nodded, and smiled. The aristocratic sense of humour . . . dear Nigel, who at a far-distant (she sincerely trusted) date would inherit his father’s baronetcy, was also given to such amusing hyperbole. “In fact,” Liusaidh went on, “she’d run the place far better than I ever could, and we both know it; but she feels duty bound to humour me by asking my opinion all the time, so I have to humour her by giving it, even if we both also know”—she giggled again—“that she’ll do just what she wants in the end. She always has before!”
Miss Seeton nodded and smiled again, with feeling. “My own dear Martha is much the same, I am fortunate in being able to say. I feel sure she takes far better care of the house than I do, on the days when she doesn’t come—that is to say, on the days when she does—come, I mean. Take care of it. Better than I do. When she doesn’t.” Oh dear. The countess was looking rather uncomfortable. Miss Seeton came flustering to a halt, and frowned. Had she, perhaps, sounded a little too boastful? Surely Lady Glenclachan realised that Sweetbriars, so suitable a home for one who was merely a retired teacher, could never even hope to approach the splendour of an earl’s castle. How presumptuous—Miss Seeton pinkened—if one had given the impression, no matter how unintentionally, that one had a vast retinue of staff to do one’s every bidding—although, in the interests of accuracy (and had that not always been her aim throughout her entire career?) she supposed she should explain the rest . . .
“And then there is Stan, who looks after my garden and collects the eggs, which are so much better to cook with, Martha tells me—but only, of course, when he is not working on the farm. Than those from the shops, I mean. Martha is noted in Plummergen,” said Miss Seeton with pride, “for her fruitcakes.”
“Yes”—Liusaidh leaped into the breach as Miss Seeton seemed to have come to a merciful end—“I’ve no doubt she is. We must exchange a few recipes before you go home. I’d better warn you, though, that Mrs. McScurrie’s cakes are notorious, rather than noted. She drenches every last piece of fruit in whisky, and even old Lachlan Magandy, who’s a very strict elder of the kirk, ended up under the table when he called to see Ranald about something a few months ago.” Her eyes danced. “He kept telling us it must be heatstroke—in January! Oh, and talking of Ranald—I did explain, didn’t I, that he’ll be busy with the factor all morning?”
“Indeed you did, Lady Glenclachan. I had no idea that an earl was required to devote so much of his time to mathematics—and when you are supposed to be on holiday, what is more. I regret that my own teaching abilities, such as they are, incline almost entirely to the artistic side, even though one helped out with other classes, of course, should an emergency arise. But I am unable to assist his lordship, I fear. Mathematics, you see—factors, and decimals, and equations . . .”
Miss Seeton sighed, and shook her head, and thus did not observe the countess’s eyes as they danced a regular reel. The note of control in Liusaidh’s voice as she replied was, fortunately, barely noticeable. “Miss Seeton, I do beg your pardon for misleading you, but in Scotland a factor is an estate agent—though not,” she added hastily, “in the English sense of someone who helps people to buy or sell a house. A factor manages the house and lands while the owner is away—and most of the time when he’s there, too, if he’s someone who can be relied upon, as we rely on Mr. Gleade.”
Miss Seeton went pink once more, discreetly, and she thanked Lady Glenclachan for having explained. Any addition to one’s knowledge and vocabulary was always of interest—she must remember to tell Jack Crabbe, once she was back in Plummergen, because it might be just what he was looking for as a clue. The compilers of crossword puzzles, she had been given to understand, always liked double meanings and cryptic clues, and Jack (although he was far too modest to say this himself) was one of the most skilful compilers in the country. Plummergen was very proud of Jack Crabbe.
“I shall walk down into the village,” said Miss Seeton, “and see if the shop has a copy of any of the magazines to which he contributes. If, that is, you would care to look at one?”
“I’m sure we should, though I can’t promise that either of us will be able to finish it. But it would make a pleasant stroll, and give you a chance to do a little exploration—though be warned by me, Miss Seeton, don’t believe a word the weather vane says. It was taken down for repairs after a bad storm last winter, and I’m afraid Dougall McLintie—our blacksmith—is a little too fond of a dram. Which, to be honest, isn’t that unusual a weakness in Glenclachan, but most of the others save their drinking for after work. Poor Dougall, being his own boss, doesn’t have anybody breathing down his neck except his customers, and he’s the only smith for miles around. In any direction!” And Liusaidh laughed. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen a weather vane where north and south are next to each other instead of opposite, have you, Miss Seeton? And west is next to east, too. There’s been some talk, I may tell you, of leaving it just as it is, to attract the tourists—there’s not much else for them in Glenclachan except fresh mountain air and wide open spaces.”
“Which are delightful, and so very different from my own dear Kent,” Miss Seeton assured her. “One might describe it all as dramatic, the grey crags and heather moors and little streams—I mean, burns,” she corrected herself, remembering the brief guided tour she had taken with Ranald the previous night. “Should auld acquaintance be forgot,�
� she found herself adding, no doubt under the influence of her surroundings. “And never brought to mind . . .”
“We’ll take a cup of kindness yet,” replied Liusaidh at once. “For auld lang syne—or, if you’d like another quote from the immortal bard—Freedom and Whisky gang thegither! They certainly do in Glenclachan, Miss Seeton. Has Ranald told you about the Jacobite rising we expect any minute?”
Miss Seeton was still smiling as, ten minutes later, she began her expedition to the village shop. The sun was warm and the sky was blue, though there were clouds on the horizon; but she had brought her umbrella, of course, and wore stout shoes with waterproofed uppers, as well as her favourite cockscomb hat and a sensible light jacket over her tweed skirt. One had been warned of the unreliability of Highland weather . . .
“And of Highland weather vanes,” Miss Seeton murmured, smiling again, and resolved that her first sight-seeing task should be to seek out the deviating direction-finder, thinking it might be worth a sketch.
It was, when she trotted down into Glenclachan and found the church—kirk, she amended promptly—indeed an unusual sight, and attractive, with the brass cockerel at the centre gleaming like gold in the bright August sunshine. Miss Seeton doubted, however, whether her pencil—and indeed her eyesight—would be adequate to the task. “Or my neck,” she added, for the height of the tower was considerable, and she had to squint upwards at an awkward angle to obtain the best view. She shook her head in silent amusement, smiling at her folly in wondering, albeit briefly, how the wind might be expected to know which direction it should blow from.
“Or, indeed, the rain,” she added, her attention having drifted to those distant clouds, which seemed to be drawing ever nearer, dark and ominous. “But I have my umbrella, of course,” regarding it with pride. “Although what dear Mr. Delphick would say if it were to be damaged—and Mr. Brinton as well . . .”
Miss Seeton Rocks the Cradle (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 13) Page 8
