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not what we were used to in Kirkwall when you were a lad,' she continued as Faro was complimentary about a fine wide oak staircase leading up to a portrait gallery festooned with stags' heads, rising in a forest of antlers.
    His mother proudly ushered him into an elegant and fashionable bedroom furnished in mahogany. Satisfied with his suitable exclamations of delight, she departed, carrying away wet garments and promising her two precious dears a nice pot of Earl Grey tea.
    Faro sat down on the bed, slowly removed his boots. Staring at his feet, he was still hearing Inga's voice, her laugh, unable to obliterate her still-violent assault on his senses, that strong capable hand he had held. And Jeremy Faro, who prided himself on his total recall, the superb memory and observation which had helped him solve many a baffling crime, now made the disquieting deduction that he was unable to remember a single word of his conversation with Inga St Ola less than half an hour ago.
    Awareness extended to Vince, silently staring out of the window, Faro realised how little the lad had contributed to the conversation with Inga. Quite unlike himself since any attractive woman was a challenge. But this time gallantry, chivalry even, had been strangely absent.
    Vince turned, aware of being the subject of that careful scrutiny. And, familiar over the years with his stepson's reactions, Faro knew that Inga's magic left that normally susceptible young man unmoved. In fact, without a word being spoken between them, he knew that his stepson heartily disliked her.
    Mary Faro's imminent ascent of the stairs with the tea tray was announced by a twitter of tea cups. Faro sprang to his feet and shouted over the banisters, 'I'll have it down there, Mother, if it's convenient.'
    'I'll come down later,' said Vince, leaning over his shoulder. 'Must change my boots. I'm afraid one of them is letting in water. Deuced uncomfortable,' he added, cutting short a reproachful homily from his stepgrandmother on the fatalities appertaining to wet feet.
    Patting the box containing the Marsh Test apparatus, Vince nodded to Faro and, putting a finger to his lips, disappeared into his bedroom.
    Mary Faro ushered Jeremy into the drawing-room. He exclaimed over magnificent proportions, handsome furniture, elegant mirrors and, dominating the room, two great bay windows which looked down over lawns to the south and west.
    Here was a room that begged the visitor to enjoy peace and tranquillity. Not only providing an opportunity to enjoy a whole day's warmth and sunshine when the capricious weather allowed, the windows also offered an uninterrupted view of the sea with its pattern of islands.
    Watching his mother set down the tea tray, he felt suddenly awed by his surroundings. He was, after all, merely the housekeeper's son. 'Are you sure? The kitchen would do excellently.'
    'Not at all, dear. You're to be a guest here. Dr Balfray says so.'
    'I must pay my condolences.'
    'You'll have plenty of time later, dear. The poor love is in his study. He's hardly ever left it, apart from attending the funeral. Terrible, terrible this is for him. I just don't know how he is going to get through this evening. All these tenants coming for the wake - and their bequests.'
    'Bequests?'
    'Yes, dear. It's the rule of the Balfrays, established by the right- and proper-minded grandfather. When the laird or his lady dies, every tenant who comes to the wake is entitled to receive one golden guinea.'
    'A very generous gesture, very commendable.'
    Mary Faro nodded. 'They're a grand family. The best there is. But tell me about you, lad. What brought you here?'
    Briefly touching on his last case which had left him standing on a quayside in the north of Scotland, Faro asked eagerly, 'Rose and Emily? How are they? Vince tells me they come over at the weekends.'
    'Indeed they do, dear. I'd have liked fine to keep them here with me but Aunty said she would take them when the new term started...'
    When he