Only Murders in the Abbey

Book 0: A Loch Down Abbey Mystery

by Beth Cowan-Erskine

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Animal Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

'Mrs MacBain, thank god it's you.' Without another word, he grabbed her arm and pulled her into the room, locking the door behind them. Mrs MacBain turned around, clearly offended at being manhandled, but then gasped, 'Is that blood?'

Loch Down Abbey is full of guests for a Highland Ball. Including several uninvited members of the Inverkillen clan, the Abbey's former residents. Housekeeper Mrs MacBain thinks her biggest challenge will be finding suitable rooms for everyone and keeping the peace at cocktail hour.

Until the morning after the ball, when one of the guests is discovered inside the Abbey's library - as dead as a doornail.

Who would have had motive to want them dead? And how did they manage to commit their crime and escape while keeping the door locked from the inside?

With an Abbey full of suspects and secrets, it is down to Mrs MacBain to catch the killer before they strike again...

A brilliantly twisty and deliciously witty Golden Age murder mystery to transport you to 1930s Scotland. Perfect for fans of Agatha Christie, Janice Hallett and Richard Osman.

Release date: March 27, 2025

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 448

Sample

Prologue

Hudson was doing his rounds the morning after the ball. It was quiet in the Abbey, for which he was thankful. He might have had more whisky than advisable, and this morning he was feeling a bit queasy. He so rarely indulged but it had been the first ball in the Abbey in centuries; they had all been a bit giddy. However, it meant only three ­footmen and two housemaids reported for duty this morning. So ­Hudson, co-owner of Loch Down Abbey, and former ­butler, was carrying a tray, helping to clear up the ­abandoned glasses from the night before.

Next time, if there is to be a next time, he thought to ­himself sternly, no staff at the ball.

Hudson nodded as one of the footmen entered the hall from the Rose Drawing Room.

‘Someone’s broken a chair, sir. I’ll send a hall boy up to fetch it now.’ The lad was a delicate shade of grey.

Hudson nodded gently and hoped it wasn’t one of the Chippendale chairs. There were so few remaining. He entered the Long Gallery and glanced at the Oak Room. The footmen, he noted, had failed to clean up the cards tables before taking themselves to bed last night. As he ­surveyed the damage, he calculated how long, and how many people it would take to put the room back together again. It was more than he could manage this morning.

He crossed the Long Gallery, plucking glasses from here and there, making his way towards the Small Library. They hadn’t opened it for use, but people got up to all sorts at a ball and he felt it best to check the room. ­Diligence dispels disgrace, as he always said to the footmen when they attempted to shirk their duties. He turned the knob and crashed into the door. His head quietly whinged. Surely he wasn’t so hungover he could no longer operate a door? He tried it again and growled in frustration. The door was locked.

Why is it locked? he thought, irritated. It shouldn’t be locked.

They’d had no end of difficulties with lost keys and old locks when they’d taken over the Abbey. An official policy was taken that all public rooms were to be left unlocked at all times.

Well, perhaps Mrs MacBain locked it, he mused, to keep people out during the ball.

Mrs MacBain stumped for limiting the number of rooms people were allowed to use. One less room to clean in the morning, she had said. And now, with a skeleton staff, he understood the wisdom of that. But he remembered someone coming out of the room during the midnight buffet. Or perhaps going in? He couldn’t have said; his attention was focused on the food, which was dwindling much faster than they’d planned. Running out would have been a catastrophe, one he was determined to avoid. But, he distinctly remembered the door opening and closing.

Hudson stepped back into the Long Gallery and grumbled. If he couldn’t get into the Small Library from the main doors, he’d try the garden doors. He picked his way around the building, careful to stay on the pebble ­pathway. Today would be no easier if he soiled the cuffs of his ­livery. Standing in front of the garden doors, he tried the knob but found they too were locked. And the curtains were drawn.

Hudson huffed his frustration. He tried to peer in through the curtains but could see nothing.

Perhaps, just this once, he needn’t check? Thin edge of the wedge, he told himself darkly. How could he expect the highest of standards from his staff if he let this slide? No, he really did need to get into that room, but how?

He made his way back into the Abbey and stopped to check his shoes and livery were clean. Once satisfied, his gaze fell to the doors of the Oak Room. That might just do the trick, he thought fleetingly, before crossing over and taking a brass key from the nearest door.

Hudson inserted it into the Small Library and turned the lock. One small victory for the morning, then. He opened one of the doors and stepped into the room.

There was a lamp by the sofa still on, giving just enough light to make his way to a side table, where he set his tray down and flung open the heavy damask curtains to the garden. The pale morning light entered the room slowly, as if it, too, had a hangover. Hudson reached for the silver tray, but his left hand missed its mark and ended up in a half-eaten plate of food. Grimacing, he reached for one of his six handkerchiefs – experience had long ago taught him it was best to be overprepared – and he turned to survey the room as he cleaned his hand. He twitched. There was a blanket on the floor in front of the sofa. He looked closer and then jumped. Not a blanket, a person. Someone was sleeping on the floor in front of the sofa.

Well, that explained why the door was locked, he ­supposed. But why sleep on the floor? Perhaps they’d been so drunk they’d fallen off? He shook his head, allowing himself this small display of disdain before questioning what he should do.

He moved closer, as silently as he could, debating whether to wake the sleeper or to slip out unnoticed. What is the etiquette for this? he wondered. Guests were politely requested to leave at three thirty, with the footmen instructed to sweep out any remaining stragglers at five. So who then, was this?

He needed to know exactly who it was before rousting them out of slumber. He wasn’t up to being reprimanded by a lord this morning, but if it was a footman . . . He rounded the arm of the sofa and leaned over cautiously, only to issue a loud yelp.

His feet carried him to the main doors far swifter than his head liked. He flung one side open, stuck his head out, looking left and right for a footman. Where are they? Never around when you need one!

Carefully closing the door behind him, he hesitatingly stepped towards the Rose Room, hopeful a hall boy was collecting the broken chair. But for every step forward, he took a halting step back, as if to both advance and remain in place to protect the door. Just as his hand reached the brass knob, the door flew open and a hall boy leapt backwards, startled. He dropped the chair.

They stared at one another for a half-second, before Hudson finally barked an order at the boy.

‘Go fetch Mrs MacBain. Bring her to the Small Library.’ He pointed at the double doors across the way. The boy stared at him, unmoving. ‘Now!’ he barked.

‘Yessir!’ The boy picked up the chair again.

‘No.’ Hudson wrenched it from his hands. ‘Leave the chair.’

He watched as the hall boy scurried out of the room and disappeared behind the green baize door. Looking to the chair in his hands, he sighed. Of course, it was a Chippendale chair. He set it down gently next to the vitrine of antique music boxes. The chair could be dealt with later.

Stepping back into the Long Gallery, he faced the double doors to the Small Library. He hesitated, unsure what to do next. Should he wait outside? Or inside? Surely it was best to wait outside. But then he remembered he’d opened the curtains and anyone in the garden – unlikely this early, yes, but still possible – would be able to see in. That would never do. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and entered the room swiftly.

He went straight to the windows and jerked the curtains closed. The room was plunged into darkness, but for a lamp by the sofa. He could just make out the shape of . . . it was too horrible. His head throbbed.

He crossed the room and locked the doors. How long would it take for Mrs MacBain to arrive? he wondered. He turned the chandelier on and surveyed the room, doing his level best not to look at the sofa again.

He was deep in thought; could they rearrange the furniture, or perhaps rotate the rug? The doors rattled and Hudson started violently, crashing into a nearby armchair. Staring at the knob, he held his breath. Another attempt to open the doors, and then he heard a soft knock.

‘Mr Hudson? It’s me.’

Hudson unlocked the doors and opened one just a few inches. ‘Mrs MacBain, thank god it’s you.’ He stood aside to admit her.

Mrs MacBain stood still, looking at her business partner, confusion on her face. ‘I was told you wanted to see me quite urgently.’ She was dressed, as he’d expected, but clearly the hall boy had got her in the middle of her ­toilette. Her hair was down around her shoulders, something ­Hudson, in all his years at the Abbey, had never seen.

Without another word, he grabbed her arm and pulled her into the room, locking the door behind them. Mrs MacBain turned around, clearly offended at being manhandled, but then gasped. She was looking at the sofa in front of the fire.

‘What is that? What’s happened?’ She rushed closer. ‘Is that blood?’

July 1937

Fergus shut the door softly behind him. The baby had been up all night and Imogen, his wife, had only just got the girl to sleep. He loved being a father, but jeepers was he tired. Breathing deeply, he looked up and admired the deep blue sky.

Amazing weather today, he thought.

Setting off, he closed the gate and walked up the gravelled drive. In three minutes, he passed by the old family chapel and spotted Reverend Douglas. Waving across the churchyard, Fergus noted how plump the vicar had got in the past year, clear evidence the new wife was a good cook.

Continuing up the drive, under the ancient trees of the old Estate, he finally reached the forecourt and stopped under the arched yew trees to take in the scene.

Loch Down Abbey Hotel, once his family home, was a hive of activity.

They’d hosted a big shoot over the weekend, and the guests were leaving today. Porters were scrambling, weaving between people and dogs; bellboys were loading the trunks, guns, and hunting baskets onto cars; the doormen were settling the ladies into their seats and accepting handsome tips from the gentlemen. Fergus could see Lord Enderleigh trying to coax his new retriever out of the pond. Fergus shook his head slowly; that hound had caused no end of trouble on the shoot: barking, leaping through the bracken, charging a herd of deer. As the manager of the hotel, Fergus would have to discuss it with Lord Enderleigh before he left. The dog could not be allowed back until he was properly trained. It was a conversation he didn’t relish having, but it had to happen. Shooting was a large part of their livelihood.

Fergus sighed and moved to the entrance, passing under the stone archway and stepping into the Armoury. It was buzzing with activity here, too. Ladies waiting for their cars to be pulled around; maids rushing to pour them tea or tidy a table; two clerks at the desk were settling bills with guests.

A short porter approached Fergus. ‘Good morning, sir. Telegram for you.’ Fergus looked at the porter with mild surprise. Telegrams were becoming rare in this day; most people simply telephoned. Taking the envelope from the silver tray, he nodded his thanks and opened it. The porter stepped back and waited. Fergus grimaced and looked to the boy.

‘Where is she?’ he asked.

‘In Rowan Tree, sir, waiting for you as usual.’

‘Thank you.’ Fergus turned and strode across the Armoury. As he passed through, he nodded absent-­mindedly at the guests who were having a late morning tea. He was stopped by Mrs McCready, a rather elderly woman, who was profuse in her thanks for keeping her usual rooms for her. It meant the world to her, she said, given it would surely be her last trip. She was, you see, dying of some vague never-quite-specified disease, but she still managed to come three or four times a year, much to the annoyance of her children, who watched in horror as their inheritance drained away. Fergus smiled and exchanged a few pleasantries before moving on. He passed to the far side of the Armoury, pausing to ask a footman to freshen her tea, and then continued to a small, panelled door under the stairs. A tasteful brass plaque read: Rowan Tree.

Mrs MacBain looked up as he entered the room. Alice MacBain, former Housekeeper of Loch Down Abbey, had been the driving force behind purchasing the Estate and turning it into a thriving hotel and shooting estate. She, and several of the other long-standing employees, had purchased the Abbey when the family had been forced to sell it to avoid bankruptcy. Fergus, as the only family member who tried to help keep the family Estate afloat, was kept on as manager of the hotel. They also housed his grandmother, Lady Georgina, in a cottage on the Estate, but the remainder of the family was scattered to the four corners of the earth.

Fergus crossed the circular room Mrs MacBain used as an Above Stairs Office. It had been a medieval ammunition keep and was now a small but cosy sitting room. She was seated at their usual chairs by the window, readying the tea.

‘Good morning, Fergus. Is everything all right out there?’

Since taking over the hotel, she and Fergus made it a point to meet each Monday morning, before he met with the rest of the senior staff. Over tea, they discussed the coming week’s business. When Fergus first started running the hotel, he’d found it quite overwhelming. The sheer volume of details involved, managing so many ­people – not to mention the guests, the shoots, the fishing, the Distillery – it all engulfed him. Fergus had been drowning when Mrs MacBain suggested weekly meetings, just the two of them, to discuss how she’d managed it all as Head Housekeeper. He would be forever grateful to her for helping him succeed.

Mrs MacBain offered him a cup of tea and noticed the telegram in his hand. Fergus sat down heavily, wordlessly, and handed the telegram to her. Mrs MacBain slowly set the teacup down, worry creasing her face. She reached for her reading glasses.

Shanghai invaded by Japanese.

Foreigners evacuated.

Expect arrival Marseille, 8 Aug, Imperial Airlines.

Mrs MacBain looked up, alarmed. ‘Bella’s coming home?’ The incredulity in her voice was unmistakable.

Fergus nodded slowly, looking stunned himself. ‘Bella’s coming home.’

Mrs MacBain slumped back in her chair, breathing out slowly as she said it. ‘Lord help us.’ The pair sat for some moments in silence, their brains digesting the implications of the news.

Lady Annabella Martin, known to the family as Bella, was Fergus’s sister, who lived in Shanghai. After her marriage fell apart – broken up by her brother Angus, of all people – she fled to Europe to escape the humiliation. It had been reported in the local paper, in gleeful and unflinching detail. While in Monaco, she found herself engulfed in a whirlwind romance with the very handsome Lord Edmund ­Martin, Consul-General of Shanghai. They married after two weeks, and Bella settled into her new life abroad, returning to Loch Down only twice in three years. Neither visit had been easy on the hotel staff.

‘Where are we going to put her?’ Mrs MacBain glanced at the telegram again, noting the date. ‘She’ll be here for the ball. We’re booked up because of it. If it’s just Bella and Sir Edmund, we can make do, but if she brings all those maids she’s always bragging about . . . I just don’t know where we’d find the room. How many were there at last count: fourteen? I don’t know why any one person needs that many maids.’ She tutted softly and set the telegram on the tea tray.

Fergus shook his head slowly. ‘Because she can, Mrs MacBain. Simply because she can.’ He was quiet for a minute, staring at the carpet. ‘At least we have a few weeks to sort it. Can you brief the senior staff this morning? I’m going to see if I can get more information.’

She nodded and watched as Fergus stood and left the small room. Sipping her tea pensively, Mrs MacBain ­pondered the collective noun for maids. A gaggle of maids? A pack? A bevy, perhaps? If Lady Bella was coming with fourteen maids, surely a more military term would be ­necessary. Phalanx? Yes, a phalanx of lady’s maids was about to descend on Loch Down Abbey.

August

Fourteen Days to the Ball

Mrs Burnside hummed softly as she began her day. As the Head Chef of the hotel, she was reviewing the number of trays that needed to be sent up to the rooms before her staff laid the main breakfast in the dining rooms. Glancing out the window into the service yard, she could see the village delivery van was just arriving.

Am I going mad, she thought to herself, haven’t they already been today?

The van came every morning at six o’clock sharp bringing the post, the papers, and the milk. She glanced at the clock in the kitchen: six fifteen.

She walked to the kitchen door, noted the maids rushing about putting away the delivery and shouted, ‘Have you forgotten something, Mr Russell?’ Good nature showed though her smile. ‘A second trip will throw your whole day behind schedule.’

Mr Russell, normally a chipper man, was silent with an inscrutable expression on his face. He jerked his head towards the back of the van. ‘Special delivery.’

Mrs Burnside hesitated a moment, and then walked slowly around the van to the open doors. There in the back slumped a man and several small children, all fast asleep. Mrs Burnside looked between Mr Russell and the van ­several times, her mouth slightly open in confusion.

Mr Russell stood beside her and together they silently contemplated his passengers.

‘Erm . . . ’ was all Mrs Burnside could get out.

‘They came on the milk train. Said I’d bring ’em up to the house. Figured it was too early for anyone to come fetch ’em.’

‘On the milk train?’ Mrs Burnside looked to the driver, confused. ‘But, who are they? And why would you bring them here?’

‘That,’ he said darkly, ‘is Lord Inverkillen.’

Upon hearing his name, Angus jolted awake. ‘Oh! Have we arrived?’ He looked around the yard, confusion rapidly clouding his face. ‘Where are we?’

Angus Inverkillen, brother to Fergus and Bella, was the current Earl of Inverkillen. Loch Down Abbey had been the family seat for nearly six hundred years. When the Abbey was sold, he moved to Tangiers, Morocco, where he was helping raise Bella’s children with her ex-husband. It was an arrangement that suited them perfectly but raised many an eyebrow when mentioned in Loch Down.

‘Welcome home, Lord Inverkillen,’ said Mrs Burnside, unsure if she should curtsey. She nodded her head instead. ‘You’re in the service yard, at the back of the house. I’m Mrs Burnside, the cook.’

Angus stared at the pair. He seemed deeply unsure of them.

‘Ah yes,’ said Angus, hesitation in his voice. ‘Cook.’ That seemed to be as far as he was prepared to go in the discussion. He struggled to get out of the van and woke the ­children as he did so. Mr Russell stepped forward to help them out. As they blinked the sleep from their faces, another figure got out of the van. Mrs Burnside stood staring at it, mouth agape.

‘Who are you?’ she finally asked loudly.

The most blazing pair of amber eyes stared back at her.

‘She would be their Nanny,’ said Angus, stretching his neck.

Mrs Burnside looked her up and down and then back to Angus. ‘Why is she wearing a sheet?’

Angus yawned. ‘It’s how the native population dresses in Morocco.’

‘Oh,’ she replied, giving the Nanny another once-over. Looking into the van, she noticed their luggage. ‘Are all those your cases?’ It was a lot of luggage for a visit.

‘What? Oh, yes,’ he said. Stifling another yawn, he asked, ‘What time is it?’

‘Six fifteen. The house isn’t quite up yet. Erm . . .’ She wasn’t sure what to do with them. ‘Why don’t you come with me, and I’ll fix you some breakfast?’ She ushered the group towards the door to the kitchen.

‘Majida will settle the children in the nursery.’ He turned to the Nanny and said something Mrs Burnside didn’t recognise. The woman stared at him, and Angus pointed to the children, then to the top of the house and then snapped his fingers. The woman nodded deeply and herded the children to the door. Mrs Burnside twitched. The very notion of being snapped at offended her greatly.

Angus turned back to Mrs Burnside. ‘Have a tray sent to my rooms. I’m aching for a bath.’ He looked at the delivery van again with some distaste. After a moment, he strode off through the kitchen, looking left and right for a way out. The kitchens were a hive of activity. Maids and footmen rushing about with trays, kitchen maids getting fires and ovens going. Mrs Burnside chased after him, trying to keep up.

‘It’s just . . . I don’t know what rooms to put you in, Your Lordship. I don’t know how all that works.’

Angus stared at Cook as if she’d gone mad. ‘I’ll be in my usual rooms, of course. Now, how do I get out of here?’

‘But, Your Lordship, I don’t know if your usual rooms are free.’

Angus turned swiftly and stared at her, thunderstruck. It hadn’t occurred to him that someone else might be occupying his old rooms. This damnable hotel idea! All he needed was a bath. And a change of clothes. And a cup of tea. Why was that so difficult a request? Frustration showed on his face.

‘Look,’ said Mrs Burnside slowly, noticing that Angus was stewing. She gently guided him to the staffroom. ‘Why don’t you have a seat here and I’ll make some tea. The desk clerk usually gets here at a quarter to seven and he can sort rooms for you then.’ She held the door open, pleading silently for Angus to just do as he was asked.

‘You expect me to wait in the servants’ hall? For someone to give me rooms in my own home?’ Angus had swung from frustration to anger swiftly, and it wouldn’t do to have her staff see her in a shouting match with Lord Inverkillen. Mrs Burnside pedalled furiously.

‘I’m happy to bring you tea in the Armoury if you’d rather. I just thought, as you wanted a bath, you might ­prefer a more private place to wait, instead of being on show to anyone coming and going.’ She held her breath and hoped he was vain enough to take the bait.

Angus digested this, and nodded once, curtly. Mrs Burnside held the door open again and Angus passed through, looking around, disappointment etched on his face.

‘I’ll have a tray brought into you in a moment, milord.’ Mrs Burnside walked swiftly to the kitchen and breathed a deep sigh of relief, prayed that Mr Thompson, their usual morning clerk, would be on time that morning, and went in search of Mrs MacBain.



There was a pause at breakfast and both Fergus and Imogen looked up. The tap at the door was so faint, neither was certain they’d heard it. After a moment, it was more pronounced. Imogen looked to the mantel clock, Fergus to the watch on his wrist. It was before eight o’clock. People rarely came to the house, but they never arrived before eight o’clock. It was borderline indecent. Imogen shrugged and went back to feeding the baby. Fergus stood and walked to the front door.

Mrs MacBain stood on the little porch, looking apologetic. ‘I hope I didn’t wake the bairn. We had a bit of an early morning visitor, and I thought it best to come warn you.’

‘Warn me? Bella finally show up, did she?’ He stepped out of the way so Mrs MacBain could enter the little cottage – it was softly raining – and then ushered her through to the dining room.

‘Ah, no. No. Quite the opposite, in fact. Good morning, Imogen. Sorry to burst in on you like this.’

‘Not at all, Mrs MacBain! I’m just finished with the wee lassie and it’s time to dress her. Please help yourself to tea. I’m afraid the toast’s gone cold though.’ She lifted the small child from her chair, beaming, and walked from the room, humming.

Motherhood suits her, thought Mrs MacBain. She turned her gaze to Fergus, who was pouring her some tea. He looks tired, she thought, but happily so.

‘Now,’ he said genially, ‘what’s the opposite of Bella invading? Oh, no . . . not Angus?’

‘Angus indeed. With the children in tow, and some sort of a servant.’ She went on to recount the story Mrs Burnside had related to her.

‘The milk train? What on earth was he doing on that? And why is he here at all?’

‘Well, that we’re not sure about. Mrs Burnside didn’t like to pry. But I thought it was best you knew before you arrived.’

‘Yes, thank you.’ He scanned her face. ‘Something’s bothering you.’

Mrs MacBain stood and looked out the window for a moment. Turning back, she looked regretful. ‘They had a mountain of cases and trunks with them. I don’t think he’s here for a quick visit.’

‘Right,’ said Fergus slowly. He sat for some moments in silence, staring at the cold toast in the centre of the table.

The mantel clock chimed the hour and brought Fergus out of his reverie.

‘Well, I’d better get up there and find out what’s happened.’

‘Knowing your family, you’re going to need a plan. Or at least some options. I’ll do the staff briefing; you take some time and come up when you’re ready.’ She stood and smoothed her skirts. It was a gesture Fergus knew well and he felt a surge of affection. ‘I can see myself out.’

And then she was gone, leaving Fergus contemplating the return of his brother.



When Fergus finally found his brother in the dining room, Angus was attempting to eat breakfast and from what Fergus could see, it wasn’t going well. He was frowning and picking at his food with his fork.

‘I heard we had an unexpected visitor!’ Fergus said warmly as he approached his brother. He stood for a second, waiting for Angus to react.

‘Yes, sorry about that, old chap. I couldn’t face a night in Fort William and so we pushed on though.’ He indicated the chair across the table.

Fergus sat and looked at his brother. He was tanned, and noticeably thinner than the day he left Loch Down, but he still had a cigarette case to hand and a slight look of boredom on his face. Some things never changed, apparently.

Angus motioned to the food between them. ‘Is this breakfast every morning? I shall have to speak to Cook.’

Fergus surveyed the table. The half-eaten remains of his full Scottish breakfast were between them: fried eggs, roast tomatoes, baked beans, haggis, black pudding, tattie scones, kippers.

‘You didn’t get mushrooms, my apologies.’ He moved to summon a waiter, but Angus shook his head.

‘I do not need mushrooms, Fergus.’ He pointed to the plate. ‘Mushrooms cannot rescue this.’

‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘What’s right with it? All that brown on the plate and none of it fresh. It’s a grim start to the day.’ He moved some beans around with a fork. ‘And don’t even get me started on the tomatoes. These things—’ He speared a roasted tomato with a fork. ‘I didn’t know something as hard as a golf ball could also be mushy.’ He dropped the fork, leaning back in his chair, sighing.

Fergus was annoyed. He’d hadn’t expected Angus to leap to his feet with joy, but a polite hello wouldn’t have gone amiss. ‘Then tell me, dear brother, what would you have served me if I’d turned up on your doorstep, unannounced?’

Angus glared at his brother for a long moment. ‘Firstly, we’d be on the roof terrace.’

Fergus rolled his eyes and stifled a sigh.

‘We’d start with mint tea and bread with apricot jam. Then fresh fruit, goat’s cheese, hmm . . . lightly fried eggs with olives, or maybe B’ssara, which is a bean soup, very delicate.’

‘Soup? For breakfast? You’re going to be hard pressed to find that in Scotland.’

‘Don’t I know it.’ Angus scowled.

There was a dark pause. Fergus cleared his throat. ‘So, how long are you s. . .