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angels and he was sure she would not listen to him.
    “Murder in the Highlands and here’s our policeman doing nothing as usual.”
    “As usual” came the echo.
    Hamish swung round and looked down at the twin sisters, Nessie and Jessie Currie, spinsters of the parish. Their accusing eyes were magnified by thick-lensed rimless glasses. They had finally put off their usual camel-hair coats and were dressed alike in summer dresses of some shiny material, dark blue with knots of scarlet flowers.
    “I am thinking,” said Hamish, “just like Poirot.”
    “Pooh,” said Nessie.
    “Pooh” came the usual echo from her sister.
    They moved on, arm in arm, and Hamish resumed his contemplation of the loch.
    Sometimes, he had found, if he didn’t know what to do, it was better to do nothing. His thoughts turned again to Hannah Fleming. Beauty, he knew, was supposed to be in the eye of the beholder, but tell that to any man on the planet who would rather have a looker on his arm than a warm, intelligent female who might look like the back of a bus.
    Still, he supposed, it always turned out that the lookers were for show and the warm, intelligent ones for marrying unless the man was very rich and ruthless and knew he could trade in the first model for a newer one when her looks faded. And here, he thought, as Angela Brodie, the doctor’s wife, walked towards him, is the marrying kind. She had wispy hair, a pleasant face, and she was wearing a droopy dress. But she exuded decency, warmth, and comfort. Of course, her cooking was lousy, but a man couldn’t have everything, and the doctor was indeed a lucky man.
    “Have you been chased out of the murder scene?” asked Angela, who knew Blair of old.
    “That’s the thing,” said Hamish.
    She leaned against the wall beside him. “Have you heard from Priscilla?”
    “Not a thing.”
    “And what about Elspeth Grant? Wasn’t she all set to get married?”
    “Aye, but Mr. Wellington, the minister, says he hasn’t heard any more news.”
    “Blair will mess things up somehow,” said Angela. “Just you wait and see. Have you heard those dreadful Palfours are back in Braikie?”
    “I’d better go and see them,” said Hamish. “But they fair give me the creeps.”

Chapter Three

    The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and sung
    —Lord Byron
    Olivia and Charles Palfour were much as Hamish remembered them, both having fair hair, long thin noses, and flat, grey eyes. Although they were in their late teens, they were dressed in shorts and white shirts, rather like a school uniform. Hamish guessed the choice of dress was to make motherly Mrs. Mallard still think of them as children.
    They both gave him a warm welcome. All for Mrs. Mallard’s benefit, thought Hamish cynically. They were seated in the garden, drinking iced lemonade.
    “I’ve just got some cakes to bake for the Mothers’ Union,” said Mrs. Mallard. “I’m sure you and the children have a lot to talk about.”
    As soon as she had bustled off indoors, Olivia said languidly, “What does the pig want?”
    “Nice to hear you sounding like your real self,” said Hamish. “What are you doing back here? I thought you were settled in the States. Come to visit the scene of your crime?”
    “What crime, wooden top?”
    “Andronovitch. That Russian. I’ll swear the pair of you stabbed him and put him in the river.”
    “I’m now studying law,” said Olivia. “That’s slander.”
    “And I’ll bet my boots it’s a slander you wouldn’t dare complain about,” said Hamish.
    “We’ve done nothing!” shouted Charles suddenly.
    “Be quiet!” ordered Olivia. “The fuzz is just leaving. In other words, Hamish, get lost.”
    “That murder case is not closed,” said Hamish. “I’ll be watching you.”
    “Really? Haven’t you got another murder to investigate?” Olivia grinned at him.
    “When did you get here?” asked Hamish.
    “Yesterday. So if you’re thinking of