"Meaning he has a criminal record?"

"Probably not, Parry. I'll check into it if you like."

"Aye, do that. I'd be grateful to ye, Hamish."

"Mr. McSporran," called a soft voice from the open doorway. "I wondered if I could buy some eggs from you."

Hamish swung round. This, then, must be Felicity Maundy. The sunlight streaming in through the kitchen door shone through her thin Indian-style dress of fine patterned cotton and turned the wisps of her no-colour hair into an aureole. She moved forward into the shadow revealing herself to be a thin, young girl with a pale anxious face and nervous pale blue eyes which slid this way and that.

She was wearing a heavy string of amber beads which made her neck look fragile. Under the long skirts of her dress, she was wearing a pair of what looked like army boots.

"I'll get some for ye," said Parry. "Sit down. This here is Hamish Macbeth."

Felicity nervously eyed Hamish's uniform. "I'll just stand." Her voice was as soft and insubstantial as her appearance.

"How do you pass the time up here, Miss Maundy?" asked Hamish.

"What do you mean?" There was now a shrill edge to her voice.

"I mean," said Hamish patiently, "it's a wee bit remote here. Don't you find it lonely?"

"Oh, not at all!" She spread her arms in a theatrical gesture. "The hills and the birds are my companions."

"Och," snorted Parry, returning with a box of eggs, "you should put on some makeup and heels and go down to Strathbane and have some fun."

"I do not wear makeup," said Felicity primly.

"Why not?" asked Parry. "You could do with a wee bit o' colour in your face."

"If one wears makeup," declaimed Felicity as if reciting a well-rehearsed line, "people cannot see the real you."