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brick. Arranged neatly around it were some grey stone graves. And a very high fence. The fence looked old.
    'That barrier,' she enquired. 'So high—?'
    'The church you'll be meaning. Oh, it's the deer come and eat the flowers', said Duncan briefly. 'They're unco' fond of flowers, deer. And young trees. You'll find that quick enough on Eilean Fas.'
    Jemima thought poetically she would enjoy the acquaint-anceof the deer on Eilean Fas. As wild creatures, they were welcome to the inappropriate flowers of civilization as far as she was concerned.
    But the church-and this was the day of Charles Beauregard's funeral, as she had already discovered to her cost. Was he to be buried here? Presumably Colonel Henry and Ossian Lucas had talked of the Glen Bronnack church. And would Miss Clementina Beauregard, then, not be attending, barricaded within her be-turreted fortress? She must have a pleasant vista for a siege.
    Jemima was still meditating on the prospect before her, framed by the purple mountains at the head of the valley, a few of them snow-capped despite the season, when the car screeched to a halt. For a moment she thought that Duncan had actually hit something. Then she realized that they had been quite literally waved down.
    A young man with a flag had, as it seemed, appeared suddenly out of the hillside itself, and Duncan had had to brake sharply in order to avoid hitting him.
    Jemima gazed at the flag, which was made easy for her by the fact that the young man in question was now holding it aloft. Like the graffiti at Inverness Station, it was emblazoned in scarlet, with the same obscure emblem beneath. 'Up theRftd Rose', it proclaimed.
    'Up the Red Rose,' repeated the flag-bearer.
    'And may the Red run White,' replied Young Duncan with great fervour.
     
     
     
     

CHAPTER 4
    Blood on the rose
     
     
     
    Slowly Jemima took a measured look at the flag-bearer.
    He was in fact an extremely young man. He had the black curly hair and blue eyes, the kind of bull-like looks traditionally associated with Ireland. He was wearing a kilt, and a white t-shirt on which a large red rose was emblazoned - or perhaps splashed would have been a better word-for there were splashes of red emanating from the rose. It took her a moment to realize that the rose was in fact intended to be dripping blood. Beneath the rose, also in the colour of blood, was the emblem which she had noticed on the station platform.
    And behind the man's ear - improbable touch - was a real red rose. The shirt was pristine. But the flower was overblown and slightly wilting. Jemima did not think it would survive many more expeditions of this sort.
    'Up the Red Rose,' repeated this unlikely dandy, shaking his flag. His expression was quite amiable.
    'If you say so.' To her own ears Jemima's voice sounded over-gracious.
    'And may the Red run White,' joined in Duncan for the second time.
    'Quite correct. Ah, Mr Duncan, it's you driving, is it? I thought mebbe it would be Sandy.' There was a pause. 'And you'll be Miss Jemima Shore?'
    There seemed no point in denying it.
    'Yes, I'm Jemima Shore. And who might you be?'
    'He's Lachlan Stuart from Torran,' said Duncan.
    'Captain Lachlan, ADC to the Chief of the Red Rose.'
    'Captain Stuart, why don't you lower the flag,' said Jemima persuasively. She was happy to give him his military rank. Captain Stuart. Captain Shore. She thought for an instant of her father. A very different kind of military man. More like Colonel Beauregard, as glimpsed in the Railway Hotel. The image vanished. She went on, 'And then we can talk.'
    Captain Stuart seemed a harmless enough crank, Scottish style.
    'Aye, it will be a pleasure to talk to you,' said Captain Stuart. 'A guid talk. I've a guid deal to tell you of the greatest interest. Never you fear. But no' just now. Just now I'm inviting you on behalf of the Red Rose to view the coffin of his Majesty.' This flummoxed Jemima completely. The coffin of his Majesty. Were there two coffins ? Was