"Yes, his answer was: 'You could say that.' "
"And then he laughed. Now why would he do that?"
Hannah shrugged. "Some private joke?"
"Exactly. Quite a mystery, and I came across another tonight."
"What was that?"
Dillon said, "When I was snooping around earlier at the castle I saw Morgan and Asta going up to bed."
"So?"
"It wasn't what I expected, not a hint of a sexual relationship. At the top of the stairs he kissed her forehead and they went their separate ways."
"Now that is interesting," Hannah Bernstein told him.
"It is if you consider any theory that says his motive for killing the mother was because he had designs on Asta." Dillon finished his tea and grinned. "You can put that fine Special Branch mind to work on that one, my love, but as for me, I'm for bed," and he left her there.
The following morning it had stopped raining for the first time in two days. As the Range Rover drove up to Loch Dhu Castle, Kim at the wheel, Asta and Morgan came out and stood waiting. She wore a Glengarry bonnet, leather jacket, and a plaid skirt.
"Very ethnic," Dillon said as he got out.
"Morning," Ferguson boomed. "A good day's sport with any luck. I'm glad this damn rain's stopped."
"So am I," Morgan said. "Did you have a good night, Brigadier?"
"Certainly. Slept like a top. It's the Highland air."
Morgan turned to Dillon. "And you?"
"I'm like a cat, I only nap."
"That must be useful." Morgan turned back to the Brigadier. "Dinner tonight? Seven o'clock suit you?"
"Excellent," Ferguson said. "Black tie?"
"Of course, and bring that secretary of yours and I'll try and persuade Lady Katherine to join us."
"Couldn't look forward to it more. We'll see you this evening then," and Morgan ushered Asta down the steps into the Shogun.
As the sun came up and the morning advanced, Dillon almost forgot why he had come to this wild and lonely place as they proceeded on foot, climbing up and away from the glen. He and Asta forged ahead, leaving Ferguson and Kim to follow at their own pace.
Dillon was aware of a kind of lazy content. The truth was that he was enjoying the girl's company. He'd never had much time for women, the exigencies of his calling he used to say, and no time for relationships, but there was something elemental about this one that touched him deep inside. They didn't talk much, simply concentrated on climbing, and finally came up over an edge of rock and stood there, the glen below purple with heather and the sea in the distance calm, islands scattered across it.
"I don't think I've ever seen anything more beautiful," Asta said.
"I have," Dillon told her.
The wind folded her skirt about her legs, outlining her thighs, and when she pulled off her Glengarry and shook her head, her near-white hair shimmered in the sun. She fitted the scene perfectly, a golden girl on a golden day.
"Your hair and mine are almost the same color, Dillon." She sat down on a rock. "We could be related."
"Jesus, girl, don't wish that on me." He lit two cigarettes, hands cupped against the wind, gave her one, then lay on the ground beside her. "Lots of fair hair in Ireland. A thousand years ago Dublin was a Viking capital."
"I didn't know that."
"Did you tell Morgan about my visit last night?"
"Of course I did. In fact, you almost came face-to-face. The noise you heard in the hall was Carl."
"And what did he have to say?"
"My goodness, Dillon, you do expect a lot for your cigarette." She laughed. "All right, I told him everything you told me, the Chungking Covenant and so on, but that was because you wanted me to, didn't you?"
"That's right."
"Carl said he didn't mind. He checked on Ferguson the moment he discovered he was at the lodge, knew who he was in a matter of hours and you. He knew you must have been aware of what was going on, otherwise why would you be here. He's no fool, Dillon, he would hardly be where he is today if he was that."
"You really think a great deal of him, don't you?"
"As I said last night, I know all about you, Dillon, so don't waste time telling me what a bad man Carl is. It would be the pot calling the kettle black, don't you agree?"
"A nice turn of phrase you have."
"I had an excellent education," she said. "A good Church of England boarding school for young ladies. St. Michael's and St. Hugh's College, Oxford, afterwards."
"Is that so? I bet you didn't get calluses on your knees from praying."
"You are a bastard," she said amiably, and at that moment Ferguson came over the rise, Kim following with the gun case, a pair of old-fashioned Zeiss binoculars around his neck.
"There you are." Ferguson slumped down. "Getting old. Coffee, Kim."
The Ghurka put down the gun case, opened the haversack that hung at his side, took out a thermos flask and several paper cups which he filled and passed round.
"This is nice," Asta said. "I haven't been on a picnic in years."
"You can forget that notion, young lady," Ferguson told her. "This is a serious expedition, the object of which is to expose you to the finer points of deer stalking. Now drink up and we'll get on."
And so, tramping through the heather in the sunshine, he kept up a running commentary stressing first a deer's incredible sense of smell so that any successful approach could only be made downwind.
"You can shoot, I suppose?" he asked her.
"Of course, Carl trained me, clay pigeon shooting mostly. I've been out with him after grouse during the season many times."
"Well that's something."
They had been on the go for a good hour when Kim suddenly pointed. "There, Sahib."
"Down, everybody," Ferguson told them, and Kim passed him the binoculars.
"Excellent." Ferguson handed them to Dillon. "Three hundred yards. Two hinds and a Royal Stag. Quite magnificent antlers."
Dillon had a look. "My God, yes," he said and passed the binoculars to Asta.
When she focused them, the stag and the hinds jumped clearly into view. "How marvelous," she breathed and turned to Ferguson. "We couldn't possibly shoot such wonderful creatures, could we?"
"Just like a bloody woman," Ferguson said. "I might have known."
Dillon said, "The fun is in the stalking, Asta, it's like a game. They're well able to look after themselves, believe me. We'll be lucky to get within a hundred yards."
Kim wet a finger and raised it. "Downwind, Sahib, okay now." He looked up at the sky where clouds were forming. "I think wind change direction soon."
"Then we move fast," Ferguson said. "Pass me the rifle."
It was an old Jackson and Whitney bolt action. He loaded it carefully and said, "They're downhill from us, remember."
"I know," Dillon said. "Shoot low. Let's get going."
Asta found the next hour one of the most exhilarating she'd ever known. They moved through gulleys, crouching low, Kim leading the way.
"He certainly knows his stuff," she said to Dillon at one point.
"He should do," Ferguson told her. "The best tracker on a tiger shoot I ever knew in India in the old days."
Finally, they took to the heather and crawled in single file until Kim called a halt and paused in a small hollow. He peered over the top cautiously. The deer browsed contentedly no more than seventy-five yards away.
"No closer, Sahib." He glanced up. "Wind changing already."
"Right." Ferguson moved the bolt and rammed a round into the breech. "Your honor, my dear."
"Really?" Asta was flushed with excitement, took the rifle from him gingerly, then settled herself on her elbows, the stock firmly into her shoulder.
"Don't pull, just squeeze gently," Dillon told her.
"I know that."
"And aim low," Ferguson added.
"All right." What seemed like rather a long time passed and suddenly she rolled over and thrust the rifle at him. "I can't do it, Brigadier, that stag is too beautiful to die."