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what—'
    'Why, to tell the world of the royal funeral of his late Majesty. You'll be representing the world's press and television. And then we'll let you go to make your report. It'll be the making of your career, mebbe,’ added Captain Lachlan kindly, 'to have such an opportunity.'
    Curiouser and curiouser. Madder and madder. The press and television indeed! Did he imagine that she carried television cameras with her, somehow concealed in her expensive luggage, to say nothing of travelling crews.
    'And what's the Colonel going to say to all this? And Mr Lucas the MP, all the way from London?' enquired Duncan gleefully. It was a question which had been vaguely worrying Jemima.
    'The usurper, Colonel Beauregard as you call him, won't get here. By orders of the Red Rose,' responded Captain Lachlan confidently. 'My men are posted further down the road.'
    'He was the Colonel to you quick enough. When you worked on the Estate,' Duncan put in in his sing-song voice, apparently unable to resist intervening.
    'There's blood on the Red Rose now, Mr Duncan,' answered Captain Lachlan with intensity. 'You know that. Everyone on the Estate-as you call it, but I've another name for it-everyone knows that. Who killed Mr Charles Beauregard? Tell me that now. Never tell me he drowned. Him knowing the river all ways since he was a boy. Who would go fishing in Marjorie's Pool ? Just when he was setting up the memorial and all ?'
    Duncan said nothing. His silence worried Jemjma more than the presumably wild accusations of Lachlan Stuart. She had expected him to rebut them furiously. But he said nothing.
    'And where was Mr Ben Beauregard on that occasion ? Fishing down the river,.. His own cousin, and who hated him since they were boys—* Captain Lachlan stopped. There had been genuine emotion in his voice. He seemed ashamed of having expressed it.
    'Drowned,' he repeated much more calmly. 'Aye, there's blood on the Red Rose.'
    Duncan's only response was to drive faster as though to get away from Captain Lachlan's passion.
    'Mr Duncan, I warned you,' said Captain Lachlan after a brief silence. 'The Red Rose wouldna like it if anything was to happen to Miss Jemima Shore.'
    The road was descending into the plain. It seemed appropriate that the brilliant sun, coruscating on the waters of the loch, and which had accompanied Jemima since her arrival in Scotland , had now disappeared. Clouds were massing at the head of the valley. The heads of the high peaks had vanished. Even the heather had lost its vivid purple. How very sombre was its colour without the sun, she thought. And mountains; so often allegedly blue, were actually grey, anthracite grey, or even something darker. The loch, reflecting the sky, had not so much lost its colour as gained an angry positive darkness.
    By the time they reached the simple white-washed church, there was no feeling of light or sun in the valley at all.
    Standing round the church were a group of men. Some wore dark clothes, but the majority wore kilts with dark jackets. She noticed that no one wore a t-shirt splashed with blood on the rose. These were presumably the mourners for Charles Beauregard. There were no women outside the church that Jemima could see. Above the church there was a small white arch with a bell inside it. And above that was a flag. In the gathering breeze, the flag stirred and fluttered. On a white background, a vast rose could be clearly seen. There seemed to be some royal arms of sorts there as well. Below that the red emblem - UR 2 . Of course. Up the Red Rose. Jemima had always been rather good at guessing riddles.
    Now she saw that the mourners outside the church all had red roses in their buttonholes.
    Where were the rest of the congregation-the Beauregard family ? Jemima suddenly felt rather ill-equipped to attend this strange funeral and regretted the half-frivolous impulse which had brought her to the church.
    With his debonair courtesy, Captain Lachlan ushered Jemima up the gravel