Malice in the Highlands by Graham Thomas Page B

Ruby.”
    “Used to?”
    “I mean, before the, ah, accident.”
    “Have you seen Miss Murray recently?”
    “I went to see her on Tuesday evening. To pay my respects.”
    “Oh, yes?”
    “She is a neighbor and I felt it was the least I could do.”
    “Yes, of course.” Powell had the rather disquieting impression that Nigel was not being altogether forthright. He decided to take a more direct line. “Nigel, I understand that you and Murray had a business relationship of sorts.”
    Whitely stiffened. “What do you mean?”
    “Don't you lease the fishing rights for the hotel from Castle Glyn?”
    Whitely seemed to relax slightly. “Yes, that's so. But it's a long-standing agreement that predates Mr. Murray's tenure.”
    “I see.” Powell quickly considered the situation and came to a decision. “Thank you, Nigel. I won't keep you from your gardening any longer. You've been most helpful. If you happen to think of anything else …”
    Whitely refused to meet his eye. “Yes, of course, Mr. Powell,” he murmured.
    As Powell walked along the river path it was clear to him that his attempt at a casual chat with Nigel had been an unmitigated disaster. Nigel's manner had been stiff and defensive, if not actually evasive. It was possible, of course, that he simply felt uncomfortable, as most people do, being questioned by a policeman, unofficially or otherwise. Powell could not deny that he had slipped more or less unconsciously into the role of interrogator, and a singularly inept one at that. He found himself in an extremely awkward position: Nigel was his host and, in a very real sense, a friend, but he was finding it impossible to suppress his professional curiosity, not to mention a rather vivid imagination. He suddenly recalled the stinging accuracy of Marion's assertion that he was an incorrigible busybody. He sworealoud. That settled it; he was going fishing and to hell with Barrett.
    Unfortunately, as is often the case when one is feeling hard done by, things went from bad to worse for Powell that day. He fished without success all morning, he was late returning to the hotel for lunch and had to settle for a sandwich, and later in the day, while attempting a prodigious cast to cover a distant fish, the top section of his beloved cane rod snapped off. He had a spare top back at the hotel, but he knew that the day was soon coming when he would have to retire his old friend and resort to one of the new, mass-produced, space-age articles—all efficiency and no soul. He returned to the hotel in a foul mood.
    En route to the bar, he was intercepted by Ruby with a message from Barrett, asking him to call immediately, which, as it happened, suited his purposes admirably. He'd bloody well get it over with. He went up to his room and placed the call. But before he could take the offensive, Barrett had launched a preemptive strike.
    “We've had a veritable spate of inquiries from the Scottish Office about the Murray case. The Canadian ambassador has been raising a carfluffle. He's even had the bloody cheek to question our progress to date, and I don't need to tell you who's been taking the brunt of it. The fiscal has reviewed the matter and has instructed us to step up the investigation.”
    Powell, who had never really bothered to delve into the arcane peculiarities of Scottish law, knew that the procurator fiscal was something like a cross between an English coroner and public prosecutor.
    “And I've had a word with the brass,” Barrett continued. “Owing to the possible, em, diplomatic ramifications,we've put in a formal request to the Yard for assistance. Naturally your name came up—since you happen to be in the neighborhood, so to speak—and, well, the chief jumped at the suggestion. We've put a word in with the Home Office and it's all fixed.”
    Powell could not believe his ears. For several seconds he was at a loss for words. He finally exploded, “How dare you involve me like this? You're not only