Free Ossian's Ride by Fred Hoyle

longer a queen it is true but a waitress. Surely this must be some descendant of those bygone days. Perhaps the intervening generations had wrought some slight change, for her face was warm and friendly, incapable of the disdain that her ancestor had shown on that last unlucky day.
    I was still thirsty from the long walk when she passed.
    “Deirdre, could I have a glass of water, please?”
    She stopped and stared at me in some surprise. “Me name’s not Deirdre, it’s Cathleen.”
    Of course it was, for her face had reminded me of something far less pleasant than the story of Deirdre. This must be the sister of the dead boy in the wood.
     

5. The Chase Across The Common
     
    The position was both delicate and exasperating. Cathleen must be told about the shocking demise of her brother, and that very soon. But when I suggested that we have a word together she took me for a fast stranger with doubtful intentions, which I suppose must have seemed not at all an unusual event. She trotted off in a huff, whether simulated or not I don’t know. It took the best part of a couple of hours before I was able to waylay her alone.
    I caught her as she came out of the kitchen.
    “Look, mister, if you don’t go away from me, it’s for help I’ll be shouting.”
    Plainly I was not of the stuff that the heroes of American aphrodisiacal literature are made, the sort of man the girls chase from cover to cover.
    “I want to speak to you about your brother. You have a brother, haven’t you?”
    This checked her instantly. “What is it?” she whispered.
    “We must go where we can talk without being overheard. Come up to my room in about five minutes. It’s Number 17.” There was no point in having our conversation overheard, and no point in our being seen too obviously together. Metaphorically speaking, I could smell rats all over this hotel.
    Announcing herself with a light tap on the door, Cathleen slipped inside. I told her as briefly and quietly as I could all I had seen during the afternoon. She made me repeat my description of the lad’s appearance several times, until there could be no doubt that he really was her brother. Then she collapsed in a chair and sobbed quietly and uncontrollably.
    I stood around, unable to do anything but offer my handkerchief. Then quickly, so quickly that I was taken by surprise, she jumped up. “Come back, you little fool ...” I began, but she was gone.
    I began to curse silently to myself. In my school days, in the era of scholarships, I used to be afflicted by a recurrent nightmare. I would dream that I was given an examination paper, all the questions of which I could do with considerable facility. Then, just as I started to write out the first of them, there would come an interruption, the invigilator would cry out, “Excuse me a moment, I have an announcement to make ...” The announcement would take a quarter of an hour and would be followed immediately by a second interruption and then by a third, and so forth until the whole three hours was over, when once again the booming voice of the invigilator would ring out, “Gentlemen, time is up.”
    Just as I was handing in my blank paper I would waken, sweating with apprehension.
    From the moment I had started on this mission I had suffered one interruption after another. First, Parsonage, who couldn’t allow me to get into Ireland in my own way. Then the ill-fated Colquhoun, who hadn’t the elementary common sense to see that since his organization had spawned three traitors, there wasn’t the slightest reason why it shouldn’t spawn four, or five, or six .... And now Cathleen, who must whip away on a desperate course without giving me the slightest chance to help her. I had a shrewd idea of what she might be doing, but I couldn’t go padding about a strange hotel in the hope that I’d just chance on the right move to make. Better to stay put. At least she’d be able to find me if she wanted me.
    I anticipated her return by