She was an energetic old lady. Gossip had it she was a retired schoolteacher. Unlike a lot of incomers, life in the northern Highlands of Scotland obviously suited her. Hamish judged her to be almost seventy but she had very good skin and pink cheeks. Her snowy white hair was arranged in a simple style. She wore an ankle-length tartan skirt, a tartan waistcoat and a white frilly blouse.

The cafe was empty. "The weather's keeping everyone away but the police," she said when Hamish walked in. "What can I get you?"

"Tea and two of your scones and butter, please," said Hamish, taking off his oilskin and hanging it on a hook by the door. "Dreich weather."

"It is, indeed. I gather you're here because of that poor young man."

"Yes."

"So sad. I'd never have thought he would do a thing like that and him so happy with his young lady."

Hamish sat down at a table and looked at her curiously. "I didn't know he had a young lady."

"That little girl who lives at Parry's chalets. Felicity, that's it."

"I was led to understand, I don't know why, that they weren't that close."

"I thought they were in love, the way they were giggling and laughing together. Now, I'll get your tea."

Felicity had definitely said that she didn't know Tommy very well, that they were just neighbours. Why had she lied?

A group of wet tourists came in, chattering and laughing. Miss Black served Hamish and then went to attend to them. He ate his scones and drank his tea.

Half his brain was yelling at him to leave well alone. It was an accidental death. But the other half was fretting about Felicity.

He finished, rose, nodded to Miss Black and went out again. A high wind had risen, and as he left the village and walked the short distance to Parry's, he saw that above the rain clouds were rolling back, like a curtain drawn back by a giant hand. By the time he turned in at the gate of Parry's croft, sunlight was glittering on rain-washed grass and shining in puddles.