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distressed, in its place. 'Remember me, I was young and pretty once.' A tall young man standing next to her put his arm round her shoulders, stooping to do so. She turned her head, in its small black hat, to look at him. What a preponderance of males there was in this church on a closer inspection. There was no female in the family pew, with the exception of this middle-aged woman; then of course there was the galleried Clementina. At that moment a boy leant forward in the front pew and touched the woman on her arm. He had a fresh rather cheeky face, pink cheeks and black hair; he looked quite cheerful. Not much funereal pretence here. And then Jemima distinctly saw him give his mother, if that was who she was, a thumbs-up sign. Heeven smiled broadly. No, no funereal pretence here, whatsoever.
    The woman turned her face once more to the gallery. Something about her expression arrested Jemima's attention. There was real feeling here. Alone of the staring faces, she seemed to display not so much anger, embarrassment or real outrage as some other emotion. Compassion, perhaps.
    The tall young man whispered in her ear. His expression was quite stern. Jemima would remember that face. How tall they all were - and not every one of those beefy young men could be Beauregards.
    The tallest man in the church was, however, Father Flanagan. The priest had not deigned to reply to Clementina Beauregard. He stood for a moment, a huge and rather frightening figure. Then he too turned and strode back up the aisle. Captain Lachlan handed Jemima into a back pew with his usual grace. The sheeplike faces were now all turned towards the altar.
    To her continued amazement Jemima Shore, at eleven o'clock on an August morning, found herself attending a Roman Catholic Requiem Mass in a remote Highland church, for a man she had never met. By this time, in her romantic anticipation of her holiday, she had expected to be sitting tranquilly on her lonely island gazing at peaty waters, admiring the heather. Alone. As it was, she was beginning to think wryly that Megalithic House, that busy hive of television, was a better bet for solitude than the Highlands of Scotland.
    The Mass proceeded.
    Yes, she would certainly have something to write to Reverend Mother Agnes about.
    In fact the Mass now proceeded quietly, almost quickly. There was no sermon or address of any sort, either from Father Hanagan or Captain Lachlan, which perhaps under the circumstances was just as well. There was no drama about it at all, except what Mother Agnes would call the central drama of the Mass itself.
    Holy Communion. Members of the Beauregard family filed up to the altar. Jemima realized that in spite of those far-off years as Protestant day-girl at a Catholic convent, and in spite of recent traumatic experiences at the same convent, she had never actually attended a Catholic requiem before. She was faintly surprised to see that communion played some part in it. The front phalanx of mourners left the front pew for the communion rails looking more like bullocks, and less like sheep.
    But from the gallery Clementina Beauregard did not descend. Nor for that matter did Captain Lachlan leave his pew for the communion rails. It was only at the end of the requiem that Captain Lachlan made any move at all.
    Then he looked up in the direction of Clementina Beauregard. She nodded. Lachlan made a gesture, once again courteous- a positively chivalrous man. Four men in dark jackets, wearing the kilt, red roses in their buttonholes, stepped forward to the corners of the coffin.
    There was a faint gasp from someone-it sounded like 'Oh no' —as the four men shouldered the box. Somewhere someone wept. A woman. That vulnerable compassionate woman perhaps.
    Under the implacable gaze of Miss Clementina Beauregard, the coffin, in its black velvet coverlet, still crowned with its red roses, was marched slowly out of the church.
    Lachlan, motioning Jemima to follow him, fell in behind it.
    'Ye'll now