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beliefs.’
    ‘Nonetheless, I would like to talk to them.’
    So you’re not going to ask me out, thought Maisie huffily. ‘I can’t stop you,’ she said curtly. ‘Go ahead. Have a word with them if you want.’
    ‘I thought maybe since it’s just noon you would like to come with me and then we could have a bite of lunch.’
    ‘At the Italian place?’
    ‘No, I’ll take you to the Tommel Castle Hotel.’
    ‘Oh, Hamish. That’s so expensive.’
    ‘Think nothing of it. My treat.’
    Maisie’s face was now flushed with pleasure. ‘I’ll get my coat.’
    Most of the houses in Lochdubh were eighteenth century when the then Duke of Sutherland had hoped to expand the fishing industry. But there were a few large Victorian villas
built in the last century when the lesser orders copied their queen by having holiday homes in Scotland. But now that people who could afford it usually preferred their holiday homes to be in Spain
or some other sunny country, the villas were no longer holiday homes but residences of the middle class. Josiah Anderson owned a clothing factory in Strathbane. Hamish opened the double iron garden
gate and ushered Maisie inside.
    ‘What are the parents like?’ he asked in a low voice.
    ‘A wee bit severe. I’ve met them on parents day. Morag always has top marks so I’ve never had any reason to talk much to them.’
    Hamish rang the brass bell set into the wall beside the door. When he found himself looking down at Mrs Anderson when she opened the door, he was surprised. He realized he had seen her about the
village, had exchanged a few words with her in the general store, knew she was Mrs Anderson. But he had forgotten, and had conjured up a picture of a grim matron.
    Mrs Anderson was small and neat with permed hair and a rosy face. She looked startled at the sight of Hamish. ‘Nothing wrong?’ she cried.
    ‘Just a friendly call,’ said Hamish.
    ‘Come in. My husband’s in the sitting room.’
    They followed her into the sitting room which was large and dark, high-ceilinged, full of heavy furniture and impeccably clean.
    ‘Josiah,’ said Mrs Anderson, ‘here’s our policeman and Miss Pease, Morag’s schoolteacher.’
    He rose to greet them. He was wearing a charcoal grey three-piece suit with a white shirt and striped tie. His black shoes were highly polished. He had thinning grey hair, thick lips, small
    watchful eyes and tufts of hair sprouting from the nostrils of a large nose.
    ‘What’s up?’ he asked.
    ‘Just a friendly call,’ said Hamish again.
    ‘Sit down, sit down, Officer. Mary, get tea.’
    ‘It’s all right,’ said Hamish. ‘We won’t be long. We’re on our way for lunch.’
    They all sat down. Hamish looked at Maisie as a signal for her to begin.
    ‘Christmas is very important for little children,’ said Maisie.
    ‘That is because each year they are brainwashed into a state of greed,’ said Mr Anderson.
    ‘I don’t think that’s true,’ said Hamish. ‘There’s an innocent magic about it. I hope Morag isn’t going to be left out.’
    Mrs Anderson opened her mouth to say something, but Mr Anderson held up his hand. ‘Our Morag is a sensible girl. She knows such things as Santa Claus and presents are pagan
flummery.’
    ‘It’s a bit of a burden to put on a wee girl,’ protested Hamish. ‘All her friends at school will be excited about it.’
    ‘I see you will need to talk to Morag herself. Get her, Mary.’
    Mrs Anderson went out to the foot of the stairs and called, ‘Morag, come down here a minute.’
    They waited until Morag came into the room. She looked at Hamish and her face turned white and her eyes dilated.
    ‘Now, then, Morag,’ said her mother quickly, ‘there’s nothing to be afraid of. Constable Macbeth and Miss Pease have called because they are worried you might be feeling
left out of the Christmas celebrations.’
    ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Morag faintly.
    In the rest of the modern world, when people didn’t