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‘What would you like, Sir Graham? Sherry? Bronx?’
‘I’d rather like a Bronx,’ said Sir Graham, watching Temple rather curiously as he selected the ingredients. ‘What was the trip like, Temple? Got a bit of a shock when I heard you were coming over on the Clipper.’
‘Oh, lovely!’ enthused Steve. ‘We enjoyed every minute of it, didn’t we, darling?’
‘Every minute,’ agreed Temple, handing their visitor his drink and then pouring out a glass of sherry for Steve.
Sir Graham smacked his lips.
‘Isn’t Iris Archer going into a play of yours? I seem to remember reading something about it?’ he asked.
‘Well, she was going into a play of mine,’ replied Temple. ‘Now things seem a little uncertain.’
‘H’m. Pity.’ grunted Forbes, who understood little or nothing of the complications that arise in the theatre world.
‘What’s Scotland Yard doing at the moment?’ asked Temple.
‘Just at the moment,’ began Forbes with elaborate emphasis, ‘we are up against one of the greatest criminal organisations—’
Steve had almost risen from her chair, and Sir Graham broke into a heavy laugh.
‘He’s only pulling your leg, darling,’ Temple reassured her, but somehow Steve did not altogether appreciate the joke.
‘As a matter of fact, things are pretty dead. They have been for months,’ continued the Chief Commissioner evenly. ‘One or two isolated murders, but nothing really big since “The Front Page Men”, and I can’t honestly say I’m sorry.’ He drained his glass and got up.
‘I must be on my way – I only dropped in to welcome the wanderers home again.’
‘We’re going away again in a day or two,’ said Temple, ‘but when we get back you must come to dinner and—’
‘I shall be out of town myself for about a month,’ broke in Sir Graham. ‘First holiday I’ve taken for nearly six years.’
Temple said casually: ‘Where are you going?’
‘Carol’s taken a villa just outside Nice.’
‘Nice!’ echoed Steve in some surprise.
‘Yes,’ said Forbes. ‘I say, you two don’t happen to be going to the South of France, by any chance?’
‘Oddly enough, Sir Graham—’ began Temple.
‘We’re going to Scotland,’ finished Steve. ‘You did want to go to Scotland, didn’t you, darling?’
‘Why—er—yes. Yes, of course,’ said Temple in some embarrassment.
‘Then that’s fine,’ smiled Steve, rather delighted by her husband’s unexpected confusion.
‘Well, wherever you go, Temple, keep out of mischief,’ said Forbes.
Steve smiled. It was a very pleasant smile.
‘That’s just why we are going to Scotland!’ she said.
3
For five hours Temple had been driving steadily through variable Scottish weather. They had stopped at Dunfermline to gaze open-mouthed upon the many evidences of the benevolence of Mr Andrew Carnegie. They had even paused some time at the tomb of Robert the Bruce, and, rather to Steve’s amusement, Temple had drawn many parallels between the tenacity of that legendary figure and the patience required in the solution of modern crime mysteries.
As they continued their journey towards Inverdale, where they proposed to spend a few days, the sky suddenly darkened, and on a particularly lonely stretch of moorland the rain lashed furiously against the windscreen.
Steve was never very comfortable during thunderstorms, and when the sky was streaked with forked flashes she begged her husband to stop. But Temple drove on, holding the theory that a moving vehicle is a less likely target for lightning.
‘The rain seems to be getting worse,’ shouted Steve above the noise of the storm. Temple, struggling with the windscreen wiper, which was sticking occasionally, muttered an imprecation.
‘I don’t believe the lightning is quite so bad now,’ added Steve, after a pause.
‘Perhaps not,’ replied Temple, who had not been paying much attention to it. ‘This road is terrible. If we get a puncture now, everything in the garden will be lovely!’
‘I wonder how many miles we are from Inverdale,’ Steve speculated, eyeing a range of mountains which seemed deceptively near.
‘I’m beginning to wonder if there is such a place,’ grunted Temple.
‘There must be, darling. It’s on the map.’
‘That’s a very old map,’ Temple pointed out as he stepped on the footbrake. ‘Hallo, what’s this?’
‘This’ was a cluster of about twenty cottages, scattered at varying intervals along the road.
‘Looks like a village of some sort,’ said Steve, as the car approached.
‘“Some sort” is about right,’ grimaced Temple. ‘I hope this isn’t Inverdale.’
‘It can’t be, darling. There’s nothing except cottages.’
A solitary cow was straying homewards, and Temple had to slow the car down to practically walking pace. The storm had almost passed over by now, and Temple was anxious to find a signpost of some description. ‘It’s no good going on if we’re off the right road,’ he told Steve, who was busy unfolding the map. He stopped the car outside the first of the cottages.
Temple glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was only half-past six. Steve was busy tracing the route they had followed. ‘We must have done nearly two hundred miles,’ she estimated.
Her husband, who had been surveying the rather unprepossessing cottages, suddenly announced: ‘That second cottage is a shop by the look of things. They’d put us on the right track.’
‘Yes, perhaps it would be quicker,’ agreed Steve. ‘Get me some chocolate, darling – fruit and nut.’
‘You wouldn’t like a juicy steak, by any chance, with sauté potatoes?’ suggested Temple as he climbed out of the car.
‘What, no onions!’ Steve riposted, and the novelist laughed.
Temple approached the cottage, which differed from the others in that it had a roof of slates, and its greystone walls bore no trace of whitewash. He pushed open the heavy door, and a tiny bell clanged discordantly. The interior was gloomy and cluttered with a miscellany of articles ranging from flypapers to sides of bacon suspended from the ceiling.
A tight-lipped Scotswoman in her late forties came into the shop from the kitchen. She had a voice that droned rather than spoke and she eyed Temple with obvious suspicion.
‘What can I get ye?’ she demanded in reply to Temple’s civil greeting.
‘I should like some chocolate, please.’
‘We don’t keep chocolate.’
‘Oh, I see,’ murmured Temple, rather taken aback. ‘Very well, I’ll have some postcards.’
‘A packet?’
‘Yes – a packet,’ agreed Temple, regarding them rather dubiously.
‘Six delightful views of Inverdale,’ announced the woman. ‘Two by moonlight. That’ll be sixpence.’
Temple produced a coin.
‘I’ll put them in an envelope for ye,’ offered the woman rather surprisingly, opening a drawer at the back of the counter.
‘How far is Inverdale from here?’ asked Temple politely.
‘About two miles.’
‘Oh, good. I thought it was farther than that.’
‘No,’ intoned the woman. ‘Two miles.’ She threw Temple’s sixpence into the drawer and closed it sharply.
‘I suppose there’s some sort of an hotel at Inverdale?’
The woman appeared to be searching her memory. ‘Yes,’ she decided at last. ‘There’s an inn.’
‘A good one?’
‘Not bad—it’s not at all bad.’
‘Do I keep straight on from here, or is there a turning before—’
He broke off in some embarrassment before the piercing glance from the steely grey eyes.
‘Ye’re a stranger round these parts?’ she observed coldly.
‘Very much so, I’m afraid,’ he tried to answer in an easy tone.
‘Have ye come far?’
This is practically a cross-examination, reflected Temple. But he said: ‘London.’
‘London? That’s a long way,’ commented the woman, in a rather warmer tone. ‘I’ve a married sister in London. Peckham, I think it is. Would there be a place called Peckham?’
Temple nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘there is a place called Peckham.’
‘It must be a wonderful thing to travel,’ sighed the woman. ‘Often wish I had the time, an’ money o’ course. What was it Shakespeare said about travellers?’
‘As far as I can gather, he said quite a number of things,’ smiled Temple.
‘H’m—will ye be wanting anything else now?’ Her voice was cold, almost as if she regretted the previous conversation.
Temple was about to reply when the doorbell clanged violently and a very excited young man entered the shop. He had obviously been running hard, for he stood against the door with almost a sigh of relief.
‘Why, Mr Lindsay!’ exclaimed the woman in some surprise.
‘Hello, Mrs Moffat,’ gasped Lindsay.
‘Gracious me, ye’ve certainly been running!’
‘I’m sorry for bursting in like this,’ he apologised. ‘No, please don’t go, sir!’ There was a note of urgency in his voice as he placed his hand on Temple’s sleeve. In another minute he had recovered his breath.
‘Apart from being out of breath, you seem rather excited about something,’ said Temple. ‘Is anything the matter?’
David Lindsay smiled. It was a very infectious smile.
‘I saw your car about a quarter of a mile back. Then I saw you stop at Mrs Moffat’s, so I raced along after you. I was afraid you might get started again before…before I could get here in time.’
‘Can I help you at all?’ queried Temple, who rather liked the look of the young man.
‘I was wondering if you happened to be going to Inverdale?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact I am.’
‘Then would you be good enough to do me a favour?’
‘Well, I might. What is it exactly?’
‘There’s an inn at Inverdale,’ said Lindsay, ‘called the “Royal Gate”. I don’t know whether you know it or not?’
‘As a matter of fact my wife and I intend spending the night at Inverdale, so—’
‘Oh, that’s splendid!’ Lindsay’s blue eyes lit up. ‘Well, when you get there, would you be good enough to ask for a Mr John Richmond, and then…’ His voice became rather more tense. ‘And then will you please give him this letter?’ He handed an envelope to Temple, who studied it thoughtfully.
‘Mr John Richmond,’ he repeated, as if he were trying to place the name. ‘Why yes, I’ll do that with pleasure.’
Lindsay gave him a searching look.
‘Please realise that this is most important,’ he said earnestly. ‘Under no circumstances must you give the letter to anyone else – under no circumstances.’
‘But supposing this Mr Richmond doesn’t happen to be staying at the inn?’ asked Temple.
‘He’ll be there all right,’ declared Lindsay with quiet confidence.
‘Why didn’t you stop me when you first saw the car a quarter of a mile back?’ Temple wanted to know.
