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Mr. Cameron in happy greeting, and he staggered and put down his bundle. Tommy came from behind Emily and picked it up.
“Is this the sleeping bag? Thanks, Dad.”
    â€œWe bought it for him when we thought he was going to be a Boy Scout,”
said Mr. Cameron to Emily, fondling William’s eager head.
“But he only lasted two weeks.”
    â€œAll the way to Ballachulish to learn to tie knots,”
said Tommy disdainfully.
“You taught me all those knots when I was five years old.”
    â€œWell, make sure you tie all the right knots for Mr. Mac,”
said his mother.
“And ring us up a time or two to show you’re still breathing. Here’s your things.”
She handed him a bulging backpack, and planted a swift farewell kiss on his cheek before he had a chance to object.
    â€œWe’ll telephone,”
said Mr. Maconochie reassuringly.
“The first stop is Loch Ness.”
    â€œAh,”
said Mr. Cameron noncommittally.
“Looking for the Monster, are you?”
    â€œ No! ”
said Tommy.
    Emily said,
“Jessup met this professor on the plane who’s heading an expedition. He promised to go visit.”
    â€œCool guy,”
said Jessup, joining them.
“He uses laser images from submersibles.”
    Mr. Cameron said unexpectedly,
“You mean Pindle?”
    â€œYes! Harold Pindle. D’you know him?”
    Tommy’s father smiled faintly, in the same dismissive way as his son.
“I interviewed the man who’s hired him — a Swedish millionaire called Axel Kalling.”
    â€œWhat’s he like?”
said Jessup eagerly.
    â€œA nice man,”
said Angus Cameron.
“Very sweet. And raving mad.”
    *  *  *
    T HIS TIME J ESSUP was sitting in the front seat of the Range Rover beside Mr. Maconochie. They were driving along the north shore of Loch Ness, a great grey stretch of water running for miles down the ancient valley that the glaciers of the Ice Age had carved out five thousand years ago. The hills rose purple-brown from the other side of the loch, half a mile away, and gorse bloomed bright yellow and gold along the bank on this side, between the loch and the road. A steamer was moving down the center of the loch, leaving long spreading folds of water behind it.
    â€œLook at the wake of that boat,”
Tommy said from the back seat.
“All you need is a couple of seals to surface in the middle of it, and half a dozen idiots will see a huge swimming monster.”
    Emily said eagerly,
“Are there seals in the loch?”
    â€œSometimes. But they live in the sea.”
    The car slowed down, and Mr. Maconochie could be heard muttering under his breath. Ahead of them, aline of vehicles was crawling impatiently behind a large motor-home. They curved slowly around a bend, and a grassy promontory came into view, jutting into the lake, a gentle green against the steely grey water. On it were the unmistakable timeworn half-walls of a ruin.
    â€œThere’s a castle!”
Jessup said.
    â€œCastle Urquhart,”
Tommy said, as three cars ahead of them pulled into the crowded parking lot above the castle.
“Pretty little ruin for tourists to photograph. Very popular on postcards.”
    Emily looked at the scornful curl of his lip and felt vaguely wounded, as if this were a personal attack.
“Well, it is pretty,”
she said rebelliously.
“And what’s wrong with postcards? Jessup and I are tourists, if it comes to that.”
    â€œWe are not!”
Jessup said with spirit.
“Our great-grandmother was a MacDevon.”
    â€œWe’re Canadians and we’re visiting,”
Emily said.
“And when Scottish people come to visit Canada, they all go and take photographs of Niagara Falls, and send postcards.”
    â€œMy auntie did that last year,”
Tommy said. He grinned at her, and looking at his white teeth and black hair and very blue eyes, Emily felt the hollow feeling in