Landslide

She stopped smiling and, folding her arms, she regarded me for a long time. ‘Bob Boyd, I’ve never known another man who makes my hackles rise the way you do. If you think I judge a man by the way he behaves in a fight you’re dead wrong. The trouble with you is that you’ve got logopaedia – every time you open your mouth you put your foot in it. Now, for God’s sake, keep your mouth shut and get me a drink.’

I moved towards what looked like the drinks cabinet. ‘You shouldn’t steal your wisecracks from the Duke of Edinburgh,’ I said. ‘That’s verging on lèse majesté. What will you have?’

‘Scotch and water – fifty-fifty. You’ll find a good Scotch in there.’

Indeed it was a good Scotch! I lifted out the bottle of Islay Mist reverently and wondered how long ago it was since Hamish McDougall had seen Clare Trinavant. But I said nothing about that. Instead, I kept my big mouth shut as she had advised and poured the drinks.

As I handed her the glass she said, ‘How long have you been in the woods this trip?’

‘Nearly two weeks.’

‘How would you like a hot bath?’

‘Clare, for that you can have my soul,’ I said fervently. Lake water is damned cold and a man doesn’t bathe as often as he should when in the field.

She pointed. ‘Through that door – second door on the left. I’ve put towels out for you.’

I picked up my glass. ‘Mind if I take my drink?’

‘Not at all.’

The bathroom was a wonder to behold. Tiled in white and dark blue, you could have held a convention in there – if that was the kind of convention you had in mind. The bath was sunk into the floor and seemed as big as a swimming-pool, and the water poured steaming out of the faucet. And there was a plenitude of bath towels, each about an acre in extent.

As I lay soaking I thought about a number of things. I thought of the possible reason why Clare Trinavant should bring up the name of Howard Matterson when I brought up the subject of her marriage. I thought of the design of the labels of Scotch, especially on those from the island of Islay. I thought of the curve of Clare Trinavant’s neck as it rose from the collar of her shirt. I thought of a man I had never seen – Bull Matterson – and wondered what he was like in appearance. I thought of the tendril of hair behind Clare Trinavant’s ear.

None of these thoughts got me anywhere in particular, so I got out of the bath and finished the Scotch while I dried myself. As I dressed I became aware of music drifting through the cabin – some cabin! – which drowned out the distant throbbing of a diesel generator, and when I got back to Clare I found her sitting on the floor listening to the last movement of Sibelius’s First Symphony.

She waved me to the drinks cabinet and held up an empty glass, so I gave us both a refill and we sat quietly until the music came to an end. She shivered slightly and pointed to the moonlit view down the valley. ‘I always think the music is describing this.’

‘Finland has pretty much the same scenery as Canada,’ I said. ‘Woods and lakes.’

One eyebrow lifted. ‘Not only a backwoods cavalier, but an educated one.’

I grinned at her. ‘I’ve had a college education, too.’

She coloured a little and said quietly, ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It was bitchy, wasn’t it?’

‘That’s all right.’ I waved my hand. ‘What made you build here?’

‘As your mysterious informant has probably told you, I was brought up around here. Uncle John left me this land. I love it, so I built here.’ She paused. ‘And, since you’re so well informed, you probably know that he wasn’t really my uncle.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I have only one criticism. Your rifles and shotguns need cleaning more often.’

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