“Don’t be foolish, Myrtle. You can’t be the reincarnation of two people at once. That goes right against the whole principle of the thing. However, it doesn’t matter about Katie Van Stiltzkin. It just occurred to me that perhaps I was the reincarnation of Mary Macdonald. Certainly when I was sitting up there yesterday afternoon and gazing away across Glenbogle I did feel a kind of hidden presence warning me to be careful.”

“That must have been the keeper’s dog,” said Myrtle.

“I’m afraid my sister-in-law’s terribly prosaic, Mr Fletcher. But do please read us some more of your poems.”

“I’d like to hear the one about Alan Macdonald again,” said Myrtle. “I don’t know why, but Alan has always been a favourite name of mine.”

“It has?” Carrie asked suspiciously.

“Yes, ever since I can remember,” Myrtle assured her with complete conviction.

Chapter 10

THE MUCKLE HART OF BEN GLASS

IT WAS THE custom of Glenbogle for Angus MacQuat or another of the pipers to rouse Ben Nevis every morning at eight by playing beneath his window the ancient Iomradh Mhic ’ic Eachainn or Fame of Mac ’ic Eachainn, in which the virtue, nobility, valour and generosity of the chieftain of Ben Nevis were celebrated with what the less imaginative Southerner might have thought a certain amount of exaggeration. The tune, however, had a fine lilt and possessed a persuasive drive to energetic action which the shrilling of an alarm-clock lacks. Even the guest who had not been warned about the significance of this aubade often sprang out of bed to look out of the window and see what was being killed.

On that Monday morning in mid-August the skirling of Iomradh Mhic ’ic Eachainn was heard at the top of its power played by two pipers at six o’clock, and when the skirling of the pipers began a housemaid entered and drew the blinds to reveal a sky the grey expanse of which displayed a determination to rain as soon as it could, the kind of sky which makes fishermen stare with distasteful surprise at the fellow-guest in an hotel who remarks that the weather does not look too promising.

“He’s getting us out good and early, Carrie,” said her husband. “Will you go along to the bathroom first or will I?”

“Why, I don’t believe I’ll come, Chester,” she replied, yawning from the depths of the bedclothes. “It sounds a kind of a tiring business the way Ben Nevis described it last night at dinner. Besides, I wouldn’t want to kill a lovely stag even if I were near enough for a shot at it.”

“I forgot to tell you last night, but we’ve settled not to go stalking over at Knocknacolly. Ben Nevis wants me to have a shot at some particular stag he’s had news of between Ben Booey and Ben Glass.”

“Oh, then I certainly won’t come, Chester.”