Free Aiding and Abetting by Muriel Spark

only saw him from the back. It could have been Lucan, yes. From the height it could have been. But so could anyone that height and, I suppose, age, look like Lucan.”
    “Wouldn’t it have been natural for him to have come straight to Ambrose from Benny Rolfe’s? He left early from Adanbrae Keep. Wouldn’t he have come straight on to Ambrose, his old gambling friend?”
    “Very likely,” said Joe. “And now I come to think of it, that man could have been Lucan.”
    “We shouldn’t jump to conclusions,” she said. “Be cautious, Joe. Dozens of men, from the back, could be Lucan.” “It was a station wagon,” he said, in a stunned way.
    “Was it a Ford?” she said.
    “Well, of course I don’t know. It might have been a Ford but I couldn’t swear.”
    “Nor could I.”
    “He could have stopped over at St. Columba’s. Almost certainly he would do that.”
    “But Father Ambrose didn’t know his whereabouts,” said Lacey.
    “Ambrose is a liar. Always very shifty. All obsessed gamblers are liars.”
    “The prior of a monastery?”
    “I think it possible,” said Joe, “for a man to be a holy person and a glib liar at the same time. He might be trying to protect a man.”
    They were now well into Eastern Ross. Traffic began to appear as if out of the scenery, and they pulled up at a small lakeside hotel called The Potted Heid. The Lucan who had been seen off at St. Columba’s by the lay brother was the one called Lucky. Having been directed east, he decided to go south. If Joe Murray and Maria Twickenham’s daughter were tracking him, he wanted to keep an eye on them.
    To the south, to the south. Lucky Lucan was heading for the airport.
    But he was not at all sure how far he could trust Ambrose.
    Had he put the couple on his trail? Had they recognized him while he hurried across the courtyard to the hired station wagon, so wretchedly noticeable? The couple had been in the parlor engrossed, Ambrose had said, in newspaper cuttings. They were writing a book about him. Why did Ambrose keep newspaper cuttings about the Lucan case? Benny Rolfe, mused Lucan, was inconsiderate, was scared. He should have arranged the money payments by transfer instead of forcing him to come and collect in this eccentric way. But Benny was scared of being caught as an accomplice. No guts. Lucan decided to find a roadhouse somewhere near Inverness. They would probably have to pass that way. He would wait the next morning, get another car, and if possible, follow them. As it fell out, Joe and Lacey delayed their departure from The Potted Heid to make love. It was after ten in the morning that they dumped their bags downstairs, and looked into the breakfast room. The high-priced and unjovial hotel produced some inscrutable coffee. Breakfast was definitely over. On the table where they were served the coffee which slopped over the saucer was a half-filled ashtray. Lacey, in great high spirits, pointed this out to the sullen houseman who totally ignored her. They went to pay the bill and were told that Joe’s credit card didn’t work. Then Lacey’s didn’t work. Joe said, “Let’s see,” and adjusted the card machine on a workable flat surface. His card then worked. They felt good to be on their way. They felt very good, anyway, at the grand beginning of a love affair, free and full of enterprise, without any mess of impediments.
    The hills, glens, lakes, wrapped themselves around the lovers’ mood. The weather was good, with alternating cloud- and sun-breaks, making spectacular effects.
    They stopped beyond Inverness for lunch at a good pub, Muir’s Cairn, this time a lucky find. Could Lucan have gone ahead of them? About ten cars were parked outside the pub, two of them white, a medium sized Renault and a family Ford. Inside, it was warm, there was a good crowd of people, at the tables and at the bar. They were given a table by the window with a fine view. “Now,” said Lacey, “let’s look at the clients.” Joe was