Chapter Thirteen

The McGloury Croft

Tasha, dressed for the outdoors, but allowing herself the greater protection that a larger pancake hat provided from the sun than her usual fore-and-aft, was at the cliff, examining the ground with her Art Nouveau lens. McGloury, a bowl of porridge in hand (do the Scots ever eat anything else for breakfast?), was between her and the ruins, calling for Boab. The flock bleated noisily in the pen. Behind them, the dark water was speckled with white caps and topped by a grey sky.

Tasha, finding footprints and broken shrubs, located the spot where the girl had gone over the edge. Below, water crashed against jagged rocks. With the tides and currents, Mother knew better than to waste time looking for a body in that black water. McGloury, in mounting frustration and growing concern, continued to call for his collie.

Tasha ignored him and inspected the footprints, which revealed the victim wore modern shoes that were irrefutably a woman’s. Then a tiny dart, half-hidden under a shrub, caught her eye. She carefully picked it up, sniffed it, smelled something, which alerted her suspicions, and wrapped it in her scarf.

Just then a young man’s voice shouted McGloury’s name from the road. Tasha looked up to see Tom waving excitedly as he pedaled his bicycle off the road toward them.

Before he could speak, McGloury stalked angrily toward him. “Oh, at last! I know one tardy ghillie that’s about to find himself seeking employment at another croft!”

“Aye, it’s late I am, but there’s a big to-do in the village.” He started to explain as Tasha listened with interest.