Malice in the Highlands by Graham Thomas Page A

Powell?”
    Powell smiled. “I expect you're wondering what any of this has to do with me?”
    “I haven't given it much thought, sir. I suppose I've just assumed that Mr. Barrett is consulting you on the case.”
    This lad will go far, Powell thought. He then explained how he saw his role, mainly to put the young constable at ease so he wouldn't feel he was being pulled in two directions at once. Powell was left with the distinct impression, however, that the young constable was quite happy with the present arrangement. Recalling the early days of his own career, Powell supposed, somewhat immodestly, that Shand was more or less enamored with the prospect of associating with the Yard, however tangentially.
    When he was alone, Powell considered his next move. It seemed almost certain now that Charles Murray had been murdered, although admittedly, the evidence remained largely circumstantial. He was scheduled to return to London the following Saturday, which gave him a week at the outside and lent an urgency to the proceedings. For a variety of reasons, not the least of which was his sense of protocol, he decided with little enthusiasm that he had better begin with Nigel.
    It was a cool morning with a pale sun in a watery sky. The distant outline of the hills was softly indistinct in the mist, lending a Turneresque quality to the landscape.There was a heavy dew, and it didn't take long for Powell's brogues to become soaked as he walked across the broad sweep of lawn that separated the Salar Lodge from the river. He steered a course toward an island of shrubs, amongst which a tall, stooped figure could be seen digging energetically.
    “Good morning, Nigel.”
    “Oh, hello, Mr. Powell.” Whitely paused, mopping his brow with his sleeve. He was bent over his spade like a mantis clutching some hapless stick insect. “Out for a morning stroll, are we?”
    “Actually, Nigel, I'd like to have a word with you, if it's convenient.”
    “Of course.” Nigel straightened, wincing noticeably. “Getting old,” he muttered to no one in particular. “Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Powell?”
    “It's about Charles Murray.”
    There was a barely perceptible hesitation. “Oh, aye?”
    “You know that Mr. Barrett has had to return to Inverness for a few days to further investigate this business.” Powell smiled ruefully. “Mr. Barrett has most ungraciously refused to acknowledge any fish I may be fortunate enough to catch while he's away, so I've decided to poke around a bit on my own to see if I can come up with anything that might help things along. The sooner this thing is cleared up, you see, the sooner we can both get back to our fishing.”
    “I take it that Mr. Murray's death is being treated as something more than an accident,” Nigel said slowly, without any particular inflection.
    Powell chose his words carefully. “The police have to take all possibilities into account, Nigel.”
    Whitely remained impassive. “Forgive me, Mr. Powell, but I don't see what any of this has to do with me.”
    “As a starting point, I'm trying to put together a mental picture of Charles Murray, and I was hoping you'd be able to help.”
    Nigel shrugged. “I'm afraid I didn't know him very well. They—he and his daughter, I mean—hadn't been here very long.”
    “I understand that Mr. Murray would occasionally stop by the hotel.”
    “Not often.”
    “Do you recall the last time he was here?”
    Whitely frowned as if searching his memory. “Why do you ask—is it important?”
    “I'm just trying to learn something of his habits,” Powell said easily. “Where he went, what he did, whom he associated with, that sort of thing.”
    “Like I told you, Mr. Powell, I didn't know him very well.”
    That seemed definite enough. “Can you tell me anything about his daughter, then—Heather, isn't it?”
    Whitely's features softened for an instant. “She—” He stopped short.
    “Yes?”
    “She used to come by now and then to visit