It not only checked out, it became known as the "Kildonan Castle Murder," and the detective appeared on the telly describing the gruesomeness of the death and how the yard was looking for a madman.

Ashley had died of exposure, not of the broken limbs, each shattered at the joint, he said. No, there were no clues. But the murder scene was horrid. Frightfully horrid. Yes, he could be quoted on that. Frightfully horrid. Never seen anything like it before.

It was when he had finished his second daily press briefing that the man from British Intelligence had all those questions.

"Did this Ashley fellow take long to die?"

"Yessir. He died of exposure."

"Were any papers found on him?"

"No sir. The bloke was stark raving nude. Exposure will kill faster than thirst or hunger."

"Yes, we're well aware of that. Was there any indication that he was tortured for information?"

"Well, sir, leaving a person with four crushed limbs naked on a bare, cold floor in a drafty highland castle is not exactly a comfort-inducing experience, wouldn't you say, sir?"

"You don't know, is that right?"

"Correct, sir. Was this chap important in some way?"

"Really, now, that's not something you'd expect me to answer, is it?"

"No, sir."

"Did you find out who had title to the castle?"

"British government, sir. Castle was abandoned for taxes years ago. Owner couldn't keep it up, so to speak."

"Which means what?"

"Unoccupied, sir."

"I see. Are you telling me ghosts did it?"

"No sir."

"Very good. We'll get back to you. And forget you spoke to me, would you please?"

"Forgotten already, sir."

The report by British intelligence to the American Embassy in London was brief. Ashley had come to England as a tourist, had proceeded directly to Scotland, spent one evening at a small inn and was then discovered more than a week later in a condition of semidismemberment.