Harry waved his knife for emphasis. “Let me tell you about tomatoes, son. They are the manliest veg of all. If you eat enough of them when you’re young, they will grow hair on your chest.”

“Did Gran make you eat them?”

“She did, and they worked like a charm. See?” With mock seriousness, Harry unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt and showed his son the benefits of eating tomatoes.

“That’s cracking.” Sammy appeared impressed. “How many did you eat to grow hair on your chest?”

Harry stifled a chuckle. “I can’t remember exactly. A good number.” He chopped a few more tomatoes for good measure. “How about we call Gran on the way to the castle to check on your grandad?”

“Okay, but Grandad is going to get better.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I prayed about it, and God told me he was.”

Sammy might be a hellion when it came to finding trouble, but his faith was pure and unadulterated. At least Harry had done something right by his son. His throat tightened, and he cleared it a few times before he said gruffly, “Why don’t you dump that lot into the bowl, and stir it while I turn up the flame?”

Sammy did as he was told, only dropping a few bits onto the floor.

“Brilliant.” Harry took the bowl back and gave the concoction one more stir, then poured it into the pan. “This is the best way to cook chicken droppings.”

“Dad, those aren’t chicken droppings; those are eggs.”

“Have you ever watched a hen lay an egg? They definitely drop. Hand me that spatula.”

“I can do it,” Sammy said. “Gran taught me.”

“Okay. Let’s see then.” Harry handed him the spatula. “Will you be okay spending the night at the castle while I work late?”

Sammy shrugged. “McFarlane said we could watch rugby and have a pudding during halftime.”

McFarlane? Who would have guessed that old stiff enjoyed such a manly sport?

“I’m right jealous. That sounds like quite an evening you’ve got planned. Perhaps, if I get back early, I might join you. How would you like that?”

“That would be cracking!”

The moon had yet to rise, and the sky resembled spilled ink. Elise swerved the wheel of her father’s 4x4 and dodged a pothole on the dirt track just outside Glenkinnon Base. Harry sat beside her, a map spread on his thigh, a penlight shining on the paper.

“There should be a large, lichen-covered boulder coming up on your right,” Harry said, glancing at her in the dim interior. “It’s shaped like a sarsen stone. When you see it, pull into the trees and turn out the lights.”