WE DROVE OUT of that ominous ravine to be met at once by a prospect of the village. Kyleness was sited in a horseshoe of hills of which the two tips were two headlands. From the surrounding heights the land fell modestly to the shore and the quay, and the road descended by easy stages through the village before turning sharply towards the latter. White-walled croft cottages scattered the lower ground; houses of brick fronted the road; one boasted a shopfront, and beside it I noted the red flash of a phone box. The quay was furnished with a storage tank and several wooden structures, one of which I took to be a net store. Three poles carried a telephone line to it down the steep slope from the upper road. It was a scene of space and charm, and warmed now by chequered sunlight. In the bay lay a multitude of rocky islets and sheep were grazing on two of the largest. It lacked trees, I thought, but little else to render it a setting of the heart’s desire; and I felt sad to have been brought to such a spot by the commission there of a brutal crime.
Verna wasn’t sharing my sentiments. She pointed nervously: ‘That’s it.’
I would have guessed anyway; the Mackenzie house was easily the largest in Kyleness. It was a tall, grey, double-fronted building, standing alone on a forbidding slope, to the right of the road, directly above the quay, and presenting narrow windows to the sea and Lewis. Gates stood open to a short, steep drive which was flanked by azaleas in bloom, and grey walls surrounded the gardens to fence them off from the bracken and heather. The style of the house was mid-Victorian and indeed it had a formidable appearance.
‘George, I’m relying on you,’ Verna muttered. Her usual brio was quite cowed.
‘He can but eat you,’ I returned callously.
Her expression conveyed that that was no joke.