To the hilt [en]

'We'll see what we can do,' he promised. 'How's that?'

'I'll paint your portrait if you find my pictures.'

He spread out on his desk the drawings I'd done at Dalwhinnie station of my assailants, and changed his challenging attitude to one of convinced interest.

'Paint my wife,' he said.

'Done.'

A few doors along from the police station I visited a shop that was a campers' heaven aimed at tourists, and there acquired a sleeping bag and enough essentials to make living in the stripped bothy possible, and then drove a long detour to Donald Cameron's far-flung post office to see if any letters had arrived for me in the past week, and to stock up, as I usually did, with food and a full gas cylinder.

'Will you be wanting to use my telephone, Mr Kinloch?' old Donald asked hopefully. 'There's something amiss with the one outside.'

I bet there is, I thought; but to please the old beggar I made one call on his instrument, asking the bagpipe restorers if there was any chance of their delivering my pipes either to Jed Parlane's house or to Donald Cameron's shop.

Old Donald practically snatched the receiver out of my hand and told the pipe people he would be going to Inverness on Wednesday and would collect my pipes for me personally: and so it was arranged. Donald, restoring the phone to its cradle, beamed at me with expectation.

'How much?' I asked, resigned, and negotiated a minor king's ransom.

'Always at your service, Mr Kinloch.'

It rained all the way up the muddy track to the bothy. Once there I sat in the comparative comfort of the Land Rover outside my locked front door and made inroads into the battery power of Jed's portable phone. Poor reception, but possible.

It was still office hours in Reading. I tried Tobias Tollright first with trepidation, but he was reasonably reassuring.

'Mrs Morden wants to talk to you. She held the meeting of creditors. They did at least attend.'

'And that's good?'

'Encouraging.'

I said, 'Tobe…'

'What is it?'

'Young and Uttley.'

Tobias laughed. 'He's a genius. Wait and see. I wouldn't recommend him to everyone, or everyone to him, but you're two of a kind. You both think sideways. You'll get on well together. Give him a chance.'

'Did he tell you that I engaged him?'

'Er…' The guilt of his voice raised horrible doubts in my mind.

'He surely didn't tell you what I asked him to do?' I said.

'Er…'

'So much for discretion.'

Tobias said again, lightheartedly, 'Give him a chance, Al.'

It was too late by then, I thought ruefully, to do anything else.

I phoned Margaret Morden and listened to her crisp voice.

'I laid out all the figures. The creditors all needed smelling salts. Norman Quorn took off with every last available cent, a really remarkable job. But I've persuaded the bank and the Inland Revenue to try to come up with solutions, and we are meeting again on Wednesday, when they've had a chance to consult then-head offices. The best that one can say is that the brewery is basically still trading at a profit, and while it still has the services of Desmond Finch and the present brewmaster, it should go on doing so.'

'Did you… did you ask the creditors about the race?'

'They see your point. They'll discuss it on Wednesday.'

'There's hope, then?'

'But they want Sir Ivan back in charge.'

I said fervently, 'So do I.'

'Meanwhile you may still sign for him. He is adamant it should be you and no one else.'

'Not his daughter?'

'I asked him myself. He agreed to speak to me. Alexander, he said. No one else.'

'Then I'll do anything you need, and… Margaret…'

'Yes?'

'What are you wearing today?'

She gasped, and then laughed. 'Coffee and cream.'

'Soft and pretty?'

'It gets subliminal results. Wednesday - a gentle practical dark blue, touches of white. Businesslike but not threatening.'

'Appearances help.'

'Indeed they do…' her voice tailed off hesitantly. 'There's something odd, though.'

'Odd about what?'

'About the appearance of the brewery's accounts.'

Alarmed, I said, 'What exactly is odd?'

'I don't know. I can't identify it. You know when you can smell something but you don't know what it is? It's like that.'

'You worry me,' I said.

'It's probably nothing.'

'I trust your instincts.'

She sighed. 'Tobias Tollright drew up the audit. He's very reliable. If there were anything incongruous, he would have noticed.'

'Don't alarm the creditors,' I pleaded.

"They are interested only in the future. In getting their money. What I feel - a whisper of disquiet - is in the past. I'll sleep on it. Solutions often come in the night.'

I wished her useful dreams, and sat on my Scottish mountainside in the rain-spattered Land Rover realising how little I knew, and how much I relied on Tobe and Margaret and Young (or Uttley) for answers to questions I hadn't the knowledge to ask.

I wanted to paint.

I could feel the compulsion, the fusing of mental vision with the physical longing to feel the paint in my hands that came always before I did any picture worth looking at: the mysterious impetus that one had to call creation, whether the results were worth the process or not.

Inside the bothy there was an old familiar easel and the new painting supplies from London, and I had to instruct myself severely that two more phone calls had to be made before I could light a lamp (new from the camping shop) and prepare a canvas ready for morning.

Tack cotton duck onto a stretched frame. Prime three times with gesso to produce a good surface, let it dry. Lay on the Payne's grey mixed with titanium white. Make working drawings. Plan. Sleep. Dream.

I phoned my mother.

Ivan was no worse, no better. He had agreed to talk to some woman or other about saving the brewery, but he still wanted me to act for him, as he couldn't yet summon the strength.

'OK,' I said.

'The real trouble at present,' my mother said, 'is Surtees.'

'What about him?'

'He is paranoid. Patsy is furious with him. Patsy is furious about everything. I do wish you would come back. Alexander, you're the only person she can't bully.'

'Is she bullying Ivan?'

'She bullies him terribly, but he can't see it. He told Oliver Grantchester he wants to write a codicil to his Will, and it seems Oliver mentioned it to Patsy, and now Patsy is demanding to know what Ivan wants a codicil for, and for once Ivan won't tell me, and oh dear, it's so bad for Ivan. And she's practically living here, she's at his elbow every minute.'

'And Surtees? Why is he paranoid?'

'He says he's being followed everywhere by a skinhead.'

I said weakly, 'What?'

'I know. It's stupid. No one else has seen this skinhead. Surtees says the skinhead disappears whenever he, Surtees, is with other people. Patsy's livid with him. I do wish they wouldn't crowd in here all the time. Ivan needs rest and quiet. Come back, Alexander… please.'

The overt uncharacteristic plea was almost too much. Too many people wanted too much. I could see that they needed someone to decide things - Ivan, my mother, Tobias, Margaret, even my uncle Robert - but I didn't feel strong enough myself to give them all strength.

I wanted to paint.

To my mother I said, 'I'll come back soon.'

'When?'

Dear heaven, I thought, and said helplessly, 'Wednesday night.'

We said goodbye and, finally, I phoned Jed.

He said, 'All hell has broken loose at the castle.'

'What sort of hell?'

'Andy - Himself's young grandson - has run off with the King Alfred Gold Cup.'