Free Stormy Petrel by Mary Stewart Page B

short for “Mistress”, which is rather nice, and very correct in Scotland . . . I’d certainly settle for that. Or, well, “Rose” would be the easiest, wouldn’t it? Sorry, don’t tell me, I know. I’m being priggish. But I like words, and that’s a non-word if ever there was one.’
    â€˜Well, it’s a good hobby horse.’
    â€˜Hobby horse nothing. It’s my job. I teach English at Cambridge. Haworth College. And yes, this is just a holiday. My brother was to have come with me; he’s a doctor working in Petersfield, and he’s a dedicated bird-watcher and photographer. He was to have joined me this week, but his train met with an accident, so he’s been detained for a few days with an injured ankle. He’s coming over as soon as he can. Monday, I hope. That’s all about me. Your turn, Mr Hamilton-Parsons.’
    â€˜Oh, well. The Parsons bit was a not very inspired lie. You saw it, didn’t you, when you got up to go upstairs? The postcard on the mantelpiece?’
    â€˜Yes. But the point is, why?’
    â€˜I couldn’t give my own name, till I found out what that fellow was up to. I should have thought up something better on the way over, but no one could think in that wind. It was all I could do to keep my feet.’
    â€˜So you knew he was “up to” something? You mean you knew from the start that he had no connection with me?’
    â€˜No, no. I did take you for a couple staying there together, and normally I would have retreated smartly and come back here again, but for what had already happened. Look, why don’t you sit down and make yourself comfortable? I’d better start at the beginning, and it’s a long story.’
    I did as he suggested. He stayed on his feet by the window.
    â€˜I’m Neil Hamilton, as I told you, and Mrs Hamilton was my great-aunt. I’m a geologist – that bit was true – and until recently I’ve been working in Sydney. Then I heard about Aunt Emily’s death. The end came rather suddenly, so I couldn’t have got back in time to see her, but I flew over as soon as I was free, to see what had to be done. There’s no one else. I was very fond of her when I was a child, and used to spend most of my holidays up here with her – my father was in the Consular Service, so my parents spent a lot of their time abroad. But latterly I’ve been here very little; in fact it must be at least fifteen years since I stayed here for any length of time . . . Yes, I had my fourteenth birthday here. Uncle Fergus gave me a gun, I remember. He still had hopes of me, but I’m afraid I never enjoyed killing things. Still don’t.’ He smiled. ‘He’d have been ashamed of me. Not the ideal Scottish laird at all.’
    As he spoke, he had been wandering round the room, picking up photographs, looking at books, standing in front of the pictures; a sort of half-abstracted and apparently unemotional tour down Memory Lane. I brought him back to the matter in hand.
    â€˜And what brought you to my cottage in the middle of the night, with that story about your tent blowing away? In fact, why a tent at all? All those lies for Ewen Mackay before you’d even met him?’
    He turned back to me. ‘Yes, we come to that. They were lies, but as it happens I had met him before. Many years ago, when we were boys. If you remember, he half-recognised me. I had already recognised him, but fifteen years or so, boy to man, is a big change, and I doubt if he got it. In fact I’m sure he didn’t. We talked late that night, and he would surely have said something.’
    â€˜I see. Or rather, I don’t, yet. Are you telling me that because you recognised him you had to put on that charade? That you had some reason to distrust him?’
    He nodded. ‘As a boy he was – well, shall we just say undependable? But it wasn’t