Stormy Petrel by Mary Stewart Page A

a girl, so I wondered why he was headed there. I mean, there was nowhere else he could have been going. So I decided to follow along and see what was going on.’
    â€˜But you had a duffel bag . . . Was that just scenepainting to go with your story about the tent?’
    â€˜More or less. I have got a tent here, as it happens, because I want to work on Eilean na Roin – that’s Seal Island, where the broch is – and the tides are awkward, so I need a base there. I took the tent across next morning.’
    â€˜I know. I saw it. But surely you weren’t really here as a student? If you’d met Ewen Mackay then—’
    â€˜He’d have recognised me now, of course. Yes, that was a lie, too. Not the igneous intrusion – that’s there all right; a colleague of mine told me about it – and I did intend to work there while I was here in Moila. Something to do while the estate business is being settled.’
    â€˜And did you bring the hammer, too, when you came chasing over to my cottage?’
    â€˜Er – I hardly remember. I don’t suppose I did. And then, of course, when he opened the door to me, I recognised him. And since he obviously hadn’t recognised me, I didn’t want to connect myself with the house, until I’d found out what his game was.’
    â€˜And mine?’
    â€˜Well, yes. And yours.’
    I smiled. ‘Fair enough. But whatever your motives for coming over, I’m glad you did. If he was really up to no good the situation might have turned awkward – though as it happens he was perfectly civil, and I wasn’t nervous.’
    â€˜I could see that. And that made me wonder if you were in it, too, and he’d had a rendezvous at the cottage. I found out next morning that his boat was in Halfway House, but when I first saw him I had no idea he was a Moila man, and it didn’t occur to me that he would know the mooring there. I just assumed he was making for Otters’ Bay.’ A pause, while he seemed to be studying the pattern of the carpet. Then he looked up at me. ‘What reason did he give you for coming all the way over to Otters’ Bay when he could perfectly well have slept in his boat?’
    â€˜Oh, that the cottage had been his home, and he said – or pretended – that he didn’t know his people had moved away. I’m sure it was true that he didn’t know the place was let to me.’
    He was silent for a while, frowning at the prospect, from the window, of the neglected garden. ‘Well, I still can’t imagine what his game is, and I can’t say that I like it.’
    â€˜When the pair of you went off to find your tent, what happened?’
    â€˜Nothing much. We made a token search for it on the way back to the bay, but then he went straight to his boat, and it’s gone, and I’ve no idea where to. No sign of him anywhere near you since then?’
    â€˜None. So what happens now?’
    â€˜Nothing, let’s hope. I honestly don’t see what’s to be done except wait and keep our eyes open. Nothing’s happened to justify reporting to the police. The man did nothing, after all, except shoot a line to you, and if it’s a crime to wander round an empty house on a wild night, trying the windows, well . . .’
    â€˜I take your point. Nobody’s going to listen. Just one other detail; the key of my cottage. I don’t believe he’s been carrying a huge old-fashioned thing like that around ever since he left. I see there’s a place on your key-rack by the back door for the cottage key, and it’s missing. Unless you took it—?’ He shook his head. ‘Then if Ewen Mackay took it, that wasn’t his first visit to this house. He’d been here before, and—’
    â€˜â€”And left the french windows open so that he could get in again! You’re right! I did find the window open, and locked