It was reasonably quiet in the marquee, most people preferring to take advantage of the good weather. Ferguson went to the bar, which was laid out on a large trestle table. Dillon and Hannah sat at another of the tables and she took out her handkerchief and soaked it in the jug of water on the table. "Dillon, it's split. I think you're going to need stitches."
"We'll see. I can't feel a thing at the moment."
"Well, hold that handkerchief to it for a while."
"Better to let it dry up." He lit a cigarette.
"And you're slowly killing yourself with those things."
"A Fascist, that's what you are. It'll be booze you're banning next, then sex." He grinned. "Nothing left."
"I always thought you had a death wish," she told him, but she was smiling.
Ferguson came back with drinks on a tray. "Scotch for us, gin and tonic for you, Chief Inspector."
"I'd rather have tea, sir, and it wouldn't do Dillon any harm either," and she got up and went to the refreshment bar.
"I knew it," Ferguson said. "When that girl marries she'll be one of those Jewish mothers you read about, the kind who rules her husband with a rod of iron and tells everybody what to do."
"Jesus, Brigadier, but you must be getting old. I've news for you. There's many a man would happily join the queue to be ruled with a rod of iron by Hannah Bernstein."
At that moment, Asta appeared in the entrance, looked around, saw them, and came over. "There you are."
She sat down and Dillon said, "Where's Morgan?"
"Taking Marco down to the local hospital at Arisaig. He thinks you may have broken a rib. I said I'd make my own way back to the castle."
"What perfectly splendid news," Ferguson said.
Hannah joined them with a tray piled with cups and two teapots. "I saw you coming," she told Asta. "Help yourself."
Asta laid the cups and saucers out on the table as Hannah poured. "Wasn't Dillon wonderful?"
"I suppose it depends on your point of view."
"Oh, come now, Chief Inspector, that wretched man had it coming, deserved every minute of it."
Hector Munro came in and went to the bar. As they watched he purchased half a bottle of whiskey and turned to leave. He saw them sitting there, hesitated, and came over.
"Ladies," he said politely and then to Dillon in Gaelic, "You'll be expecting my thanks, I'm thinking?"
"Not really," Dillon said in Irish. "How is he?"
"The hard head, that one, but that bastard hurt him." He grinned suddenly. "Mind you, you're a bit of a bastard yourself, Mr. Dillon."
He walked away and Asta said, "Was that Gaelic?"
"That's right and I used Irish. They're very similar."
"Was he thanking you for saving his son?" Hannah asked.
Dillon smiled. "He never thanked anyone in his life, that one."
Someone called, "There you are," and as they turned, Lady Katherine came through the crowd, leaning on her stick, Jeannie holding her other arm.
"My dear lady." Ferguson got up. "I'm amazed to see you and in all this crowd of people."
Jeannie helped her into a seat and Lady Katherine said, "I have to put in an appearance, they expect it, you know." She turned to Dillon. "I saw you from a distance over the heads of the crowd. Rather a nasty business and hardly sporting. My goodness, he made a mess of your face."
"True, ma'am, but he looks worse," Dillon said.
She smiled and turned to Ferguson. "I really must go, can't afford to overdo it, but I've been thinking."
"Thinking, Lady Katherine?"
"Yes, the Bible. I've had a thought. Why don't you drop in on your way home?" I'll discuss it with you." She pushed herself up. "Come on, Jeannie, let's make a move. Goodbye all."
She moved away through the crowd leaning on Jeannie's arm and Hannah said, "Now there's a turn-up for the book."
"It certainly is," Ferguson said. "Frankly I can't wait to hear what she's got to say. What do you think, Dillon?"
Dillon lit a cigarette, frowning. "Whatever it is, it's going to be special. I don't think she's going to say look at the back of the third drawer down in the writing desk in the study or anything like that." He nodded slowly. "No, something we haven't even thought of."
"And neither has Carl." Asta turned to Ferguson. "Can I come too, Brigadier? I'd love to see you steal a march on him."
Ferguson smiled. "Of course, my dear, why not? After all, you are on our side now."
Dillon drove the Range Rover on the way to Loch Dhu Castle. Before leaving the fair he'd visited the first-aid tent, and now sticking plaster adorned his right cheek, although the lady on duty from the St. John's Ambulance Brigade had advised him to seek proper medical attention.
"Are you all right, my boy?" Ferguson asked as they got out in front of the gate lodge.
"I'm fine, just forget it," Dillon grinned. "It's all in the mind."
Ferguson knocked on the door and Jeannie opened it after a few moments. "Her ladyship is in the drawing room."
Ferguson led the way in. Lady Katherine sat in a chair by the fire, a rug over her knees. "Ah, there you are. Come in, sit down. Tea and biscuits, Jeannie, and open the French windows. It's far too close in here."
"Certainly, your ladyship." Jeannie did as she was told.
Everyone settled down, Dillon leaned on the piano and lit a cigarette. "This is nice," he said.
"You can give me one of those cancer sticks, young man, and pass around that photo in the silver frame on the end of the piano."
"Certainly, ma'am." He did as he was told, lit the cigarette, and went and got the photo. It showed a young woman in an RAF flying jacket and helmet of Second World War vintage standing beside a Spitfire. It was quite obviously Lady Katherine.
"You look like some film star in one of those old war films," he said and passed it to Ferguson.
The Brigadier smiled. "Amazing, Lady Katherine, truly amazing," and he handed it to Hannah and Asta, who were sitting together on the couch.
"Yes, those were the days. They gave me the M.B.E., you know. Telling you about it at dinner last night brought it all back. I started thinking about it all in the early hours today, couldn't sleep, you see. So many amazing incidents, all those brave women who died, and I suddenly recalled a rather strange affair. A wonderful flier called Betty Keith-Jopp was piloting a Barracuda over Scotland when she ran into bad weather. Landed in the Firth of Forth and sank forty feet. She got out and made the surface all right. Was picked up by a fishing boat."
"Amazing," Ferguson said, "but what has that to do with the Bible?"
She said patiently, "Because thinking of that reminded me of the Lysander that crashed into Loch Dhu while trying to land at Ardmurchan RAF base. You see I've remembered now, that was the plane carrying my brother's belongings."
"It was nineteen forty-six, March as I recall. I should tell you that besides the injury to his brain in that terrible crash in India, my brother sustained some quite severe burns to his right arm and hand so when he was thought fit enough he was transferred to a place called East Grinstead."
"Now that I do know about," Ferguson said. "It was the unit pioneered by Archibald McIndoe. He specialized in plastic surgery for aircrew who'd suffered severe burns."
"A wonderful man," she said. "His patients weren't always RAF. My brother, for instance."
"What happened?" Dillon asked her.
"Ian suffered a serious relapse that needed further brain surgery. Jack Tanner was with him still acting as his batman. Anyway, they gave up on him, expecting him to die at any time."
"So?" Ferguson said.
"At that time he had a visitor, an RAF officer who'd been a fellow patient for some months, but was now returned to duty, a Wing Commander Smith-Keith Smith. I believe he rose to some very senior rank later. It turned out that he had been given command of the RAF station on the Island of Stornaway in the Outer Hebrides and was due to fly up there in a Lysander, piloting himself."