Free Come to Harm by Catriona McPherson Page A

counterpart, sitting next to her and, like her, dressed for golf, stared defiantly back at them.
    â€œGrace?” said Mr. McKendrick, and he leaned forward to look along the table at Mrs. Poole, who was sitting quietly next to Pet McMaster from the florist, watching her knit. “I’m not with you, Sandra,” he said.
    â€œSince she’s in an interested position,” Sandra continued. There was a mild shifting in seats.
    â€œYou mean because Murray rents his workshop from Mr. Byers?” Mrs. McMaster asked loudly.
    â€œI think Grace has done more than enough already,” said Mr. McKendrick, “in offering the flat.”
    â€œOh I see,” breathed Sandra. “I hadn’t heard that the terms had changed. That’s most generous of you, Grace.”
    Mrs. Poole looked fixedly down at the knitting needles.
    â€œIt’s well seen I’m not sitting beside her, Grace,” whispered Mrs. McMaster, “or she’d have one of these pins in her fat behind.”
    â€œThe cost of Keiko’s accommodation is being borne out of Traders’ funds as is only proper, Sandra,” said Mr. McKendrick. “That’s very clearly set out in the accounts appended to the minutes that we passed at the start of this meeting.”
    â€œAnd as I understand it, Sandra Dessing,” said little Mrs. Watson, “Murray is giving up his tenancy, aren’t you pet?” She looked at Murray for support, but he was watching his mother.
    â€œWell, if Byers loses the income from renting out the workshop, that can only benefit us,” said Sandra. “That’s a piece of lucky timing.”
    A babble of voices broke out, and Mr. McKendrick banged lightly on the table. “Mrs. Dessing,” he said in an unsteady voice. “Can I remind you that Murray is back in the butchers instead of in his own place, because of his father dying.”
    â€œOh for heaven’s sake!” said Sandra, with her chin up. “Grace knows I didn’t mean anything to do with Duncan. Stop stirring it up.”
    â€œAs the pot said to the kettle,” said Mrs. McMaster.
    Mrs. Watson said something too soft for Murray and Craig to catch.
    â€œI think,” said Mrs. Poole, and the room immediately quietened. “I think we should get back to the business at hand. I accept Mrs. Dessing’s apology.”
    â€œI nev—” Mrs. Dessing began, but she stopped before she could say more. Instead she brushed imaginary specks from the front of her powder-pink golf jersey with three hard swipes.
    â€œDon’t minute that, Miss Anderson,” said Mr. McKendrick. ‘So, I’ll speak to Willie Byers. And I’ll get back to you at our next meeting, which is on the …”
    â€œTwenty-third of October,” said Miss Morrison.
    â€œAt the Bridge,” said Mr. Dessing, of the Bridge Hotel. It was the first time he had spoken; his wife fought her own battles.
    â€œBack here,” said Mr. Ballantyne, of the Covenanters’ Arms. “Mr. Chairman, we agreed that meetings would alternate. There’s a meeting scheduled for next week. So that’ll be across the way and then back here on the twenty-third again.”
    â€œNo Iain, that’s a committee meeting,” said Mrs. Dessing. “It was my understanding, Mr. Chairman, that the full meetings were turn-about and the committee were suiting themselves.”
    â€œWhat committee?” said Fancy. “I thought we were the committee.”
    â€œThe inner circle, Fance,” said Craig. “The hard core.”
    â€œThe grandmasters,” said Murray. “The high priests.”
    â€œI’d rather not discuss the committee while we’re in full session,” said Mr. McKendrick, glowering now.
    â€œSecret order,” said Craig. “Like Opus Dei .”
    â€œEnough,” said Mr. McKendrick, sending a black look down the table to Mr. Ballantyne for