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Hamish. A bad business.’
    ‘I’d like to speak to Sir Andrew.’
    ‘I’ll take you to him.’
    ‘Has he got a shooting party here?’
    ‘Not yet. The guests are due to arrive next week for the grouse. There’s just Sir Andrew and his son, Harry.’
    ‘No other help but yourself?’
    ‘A couple of lassies frae Braikie, Jeannie Macdonald and her sister Rosie.’
    Hamish followed him up stone stairs to a square hall, where the mournful heads of shot animals looked down at him with glassy eyes.
    Tom led the way across the hall and threw open the door to a comfortable drawing room, full of shabby furniture and lined with books.
    Sir Andrew put down the newspaper he had been reading. He was a tall, thin man in his late fifties with a proud nose, thin mouth, and sparse brown hair. His son, Harry, was slumped in a chair
opposite his father. Harry, in contrast, was short and plump, owlish looking with thick glasses.
    ‘This is infuriating,’ said Sir Andrew.
    ‘Could you just describe to me exactly what happened?’
    Sir Andrew went through his story again. When he had finished, Hamish said, ‘You don’t have much of a description of the men.’
    ‘They were wearing those baseball caps with the peak like a duck’s bill pulled down over their faces. They all wore sort of working clothes, grey shirts and jeans.’
    Hamish’s eyebrows rose. ‘All wearing the same type of clothes?’
    ‘Well, yes.’
    ‘What sort of accent?’
    ‘Highland, I suppose, although one sounded a bit Irish.’
    ‘How Irish?’
    ‘At one point he said, “Faith and begorrah, ’tis a black thing to happen on a fine day”’
    ‘You’re sure?’
    ‘Would I make that up?’
    Hamish glanced out of the corner of his eye at Harry. There was a certain rigid stillness about him.
    ‘If you don’t mind, sir,’ said Hamish, ‘I’d like to search the house.’
    ‘You need a search warrant!’ shouted Harry.
    ‘Go ahead,’ said Sir Andrew. ‘Pipe down, Harry.’
    Detective Chief Inspector Blair arrived followed by the scenes of crimes operatives. Then Jimmy Anderson along with a van full of police officers arrived at the bombed
tree.
    ‘Where’s Macbeth?’ demanded Blair.
    ‘Gone to speak to Sir Andrew,’ said Josie.
    ‘He should ha’ waited for me.’
    ‘I’ve remembered something, sir. It’s important.’
    ‘Spit it out!’
    ‘I went to a fortune-teller at the fair yesterday . . .’
    ‘God gie me patience.’
    ‘No, wait. She said something about a bang and flames.’
    ‘Oh, she did, did she? I might ha’ known. Sodding gypsies. I might ha’ known they’d be behind this.’ Blair called everyone around him. ‘Get back to that fair.
The caravans should still be there. Search every single one. Get it!’
    Hamish met Tom in the hall. ‘Which is Harry’s room?’ he whispered.
    ‘Follow me.’
    Up more old stone steps worn smooth with age. ‘This is it,’ said Tom, opening a door.
    The room was dominated by an old four-poster bed. On either side of the bed were side tables covered in paperbacks. There was an enormous wardrobe. Hamish opened it. It was of the old kind with
room for hats, drawers for ties and shirts on one side, and space for hanging clothes on the other.
    ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Tom.
    ‘You’d better stay,’ said Hamish. ‘I might need you as a witness.’
    As he searched the wardrobe, he turned over in his mind what he’d heard about Harry. He had a reputation of being a bit of a wastrel. His mother was dead and Sir Andrew was rumoured to be
strict, always finding some job or other for his son and raging when Harry usually only survived a few weeks in each.
    The wardrobe yielded nothing sinister. He turned and surveyed the room.
    Then he dragged a hard-backed chair over to the wardrobe and stood on top of it, his long fingers searching behind the wooden pediment on top of the wardrobe.
    He slowly dragged forward a black leather box.
     
Chapter Three
    O Diamond! Diamond! Thou