‘Oh, that!’ said Mrs Grant. She seemed at ease. ‘Why, as to that, I gave your car a wee fill-up before I called you down to your breakfast. It was the least I could do, after your kindness in driving me home through all that downpour of rain.’
Dame Beatrice decided that the time had come to change the subject. She had no doubt that Laura’s car had been used, but there seemed no point in prolonging the discussion. She said:
‘We’re on our way, not, so far, in rain, to visit Gàradh. Do you know it?’
‘Indeed I do, then. The Mrs Stewart who lives there opens the gardens once a week to visitors. She charges half-a-crown and gives the money to charity. It’s a grand place and very wonderfully kept. I can’t get my man to go, but as it is always on a Wednesday, I doubt if he would care to ask for the time off, even if he cared about flowers, which he does not. I myself go every year, though. We make up a small party and Maclean drives us there and back. This year I’ll be able to take the wean. I used to leave her with Kirsty to mind her, but she’ll be old enough to go with us this year. Have you a special permit, I wonder? The gardens will not be open to ordinary visitors today.’
‘We have a special permit,’ Dame Beatrice replied. ‘And, as our time is limited, I think we had better be making our way there.’
‘I thought you intended waiting until her husband came home,’ said Laura, when they had left Coinneamh and had bumped carefully on to the road for Tigh-Osda and Crioch. ‘Hadn’t you some such idea?’
‘Yes, but I have a better one. I want George to stop when we get to the hydroelectric power station. There is certain to be somewhere on their ground that he can park.’
‘You are going to beard Mr Grant in his lair, so that Mrs Grant won’t be present?’
‘We shall see. You will remain in the car. Two of us will be an embarrassment of riches to the executives.’
She returned to the car at the end of twenty minutes and remained silent until they were in sight of the coast at Crioch. Then she said:
‘It is all most interesting. They know only of the young Mr Grant who lives in the place we are approaching. He is a reporter on the Freagair Advertiser and Recorder, and it’s his job to collect all the news of this part of the country and relay it to his office. He uses a motor-cycle for this purpose. The paper does not function in the extreme winter months, owing to the difficulty of supplying copies to its subscribers in time of snow, when many roads are impassable.’
‘So he isn’t the murderer, anyway,’ said Laura. ‘I’m rather glad. He’s not a bad youth, although he’s rather in favour of preserving a whole skin. But what price Mrs Grant telling me that her husband was employed at these works if he isn’t?’
‘I am hoping that young Mr Grant will be able to help us there. It may be a forlorn hope, however, and I think we shall need to find out, if we can, what, if he really goes there, the married Grant finds to do in Inverness and Edinburgh. If he is not there in connection with the hydro-electric project—’
‘A tall order, isn’t it?’
‘I do not think so. We have been in touch with the Inverness police, who, although taciturn, were polite, and that Conference I attended in Edinburgh brought me into some small contact with the Press. My connection with the Home Office was remarked upon, and the police, no doubt, read the papers. Besides, I am fortunate enough to know a number of people in Edinburgh. I think we may be able to conduct an unobtrusive investigation without much let or hindrance. I am not without a certain amount of—’
‘Satiable curiosity,’ said Laura.
The post office at Crioch was small and dark. Behind the counter was a small, dark woman engaged in checking some sheets of postage stamps.
‘I’ve no picture postcards,’ she announced, as Laura entered to a jangle of bells. ‘Those you saw in the case outside are for advertisement, no more.’
Laura, thinking that to advertise a product which was non-existent was strikingly reminiscent of Through the Looking-Glass, asked for a five-shilling book of stamps and opened her handbag.
‘You’ll get separate stamps, as you’re requiring them. I have no books of stamps. There’s no call for them around here,’ said the woman.
‘Six threepenny ones and a dozen twopenny ha’penny ones, then,’ said Laura.
‘Very good. You might get a postcard or two at the hotel, if you’re anxious for them.’
Laura received the stamps, paid for them and put them away.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Oh, I remember! I have a message for Mr Grant’
‘For Mr Grant?’
‘Yes. From his editor in Freagair.’
‘You’ll need to write it down. He’s away to Strathpeffer. There’s a flower show. Does it need an answer?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid it does.’
‘Ah, well, here’s a wee jotter, ninepence, and I can sell you an envelope for a penny. I keep stamped envelopes, but you’ve laid out your siller for stamps already, so you’ll need nothing but a plain envelope the now. There’s pens, unless you have your own.’ Laura had her own, and, in any case, had no intention of writing any messages to Grant until she had consulted Dame Beatrice, who, in accordance with plan, had just come into the post office.
‘A pound of peppermint bullseyes, please,’ she said.
‘Do you need a whole pound of the peppermint cushions?’
‘Yes, if you please.’
‘Good for you. That’s a very wholesome sweetie. Now some would be stuffing themselves with chocolates. I’m right glad to know you’ve more sense. There you are. That will be two shillings and eightpence.’
They took their leave. In fact, Laura had already gone out to the car before Dame Beatrice’s purchase had been shot into a paper bag and paid for. Dame Beatrice placed the bag on the seat between them and Laura grabbed a handful of the sweets.
‘Good old-fashioned stuff,’ she said, approvingly. ‘No luck there, though. Most unfortunately Grant isn’t at home. He’s covering a flower show in Strathpeffer.’
‘Something of the kind was to be expected. Never mind. It may turn out for the best. If I read the postmistress aright, she will most certainly furnish Mr Grant with an unmistakable picture of yourself.’
‘You think he’d recognise the description?’
‘I do not see why not.’
‘I wonder what you mean by that? Anyway, this message. What do I inscribe on this gosh-awful little writing tablet?’
‘Nothing, child, unless you have something to suggest.’
‘I could ask him again what relation he is to the other Grants, although I suppose we’ve had his answer to that. I could tell him that, now we know he’s a cub reporter, we’d also like to know what he was really after when he squatted in the boathouse on Tannasgan that night. I feel that I must leave him a note. After all, I have spent tenpence on him and the stamp represents another threepence. When I’ve posted it we might as well have some tea at the hotel. Oh, yes! And if Grant’s paper doesn’t circulate during the winter, is that when he’s had employment at An Tigh Mór?’
Laura, seated in the car with the nine-penny writing-pad on her knee, scribbled busily. Then she addressed and stamped an envelope and, jumping out of the car, posted the letter in the box outside the post office. She realised, when she had done so, that the sardonic eye of the postmistress had been watching her through the shop window.
It had been impossible to drive fast on the narrow road between Tigh-Osda and Crioch, so it was half-past five when they left the seafront hotel after tea and seven o’clock in the evening when they reached the hospitable home of Mrs Stewart at Gàradh. Dinner was at eight, and the talk, as was to be expected, turned on Dame Beatrice’s experiences at the Conference, news of mutual friends in Edinburgh and then Laura had to give an account of her adventures since she had left Gàradh after her first visit.