Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 14 Who Wasn't There

"Irma attended the art school he designed." "I think his most daring innovation was a narrow chair with an extremely high back. He liked to use a grid pattern in wallpaper and furniture-also a small oval shape said to represent the eye of a peacock feather." Amanda said, "Peacock feathers are bad luck. I wouldn't have one in the house!" Too bad about that, Qwilleran thought. He had bought several silver brooches based on the Mackintosh peacock feather, to take home as gifts. The evening ended early; Day One would start at five-thirty.

When the telephones jangled in certain hotel rooms at that hour, disgruntled travelers from Moose County got out of bed and stumbled about their rooms, making tea with their tea-makers. They dressed, packed, put their luggage out in the hall, and reported for breakfast at seven o'clock. No one was really hungry, and they were dismayed by the array of oatmeal, eggs, meat, fish, fruit, pancakes, scones, currant buns, oatcakes, bannocks, jams, marmalade, and more.

"No waffles?" Amanda was heard to complain. Irma assured them that a full Scottish breakfast would be included with all their over nights "So take advantage of it," she advised.

"For lunch we'll just have a bowl of soup in a pub." Amanda's grim expression brightened. At eight o'clock the minibus was waiting in front of the hotel, with the luggage partly loaded in the baggage bins underneath. A redhaired man in a chauffeur's cap was speaking angrily to Irma in a tongue that appeared to be Gaelic, the gist of his argument being that there was too much luggage to fit in the bins. A reassessment of the load indicated that Grace Utley, ignoring the limit on personal luggage, was traveling with three alligator bags plus an alligator carry-on. To make matters worse, she was half an hour late, a fact resented by passengers who had been up since five-thirty.

"There's one on every tour," said Carol Lanspeak philosophically.

Space was found in the passenger compartment for the surplus cases at the expense of rider comfort, and the culprit finally arrived, saying a blithe good-morning to everyone. She was wearing, with her sweater and slacks, some ropes of twisted gold from which dangled a fringe of gold and enamel baubles. The driver, a sullen man of about forty, was introduced as Bruce, and the bus pulled away from the hotel with Irma sitting on a cramped jumpseat at the front. Using a microphone, she described points of interest as they drove out of the city and into the countryside, while the passengers looked dutifully to right and to left until their necks ached.

"In the distance is Ben Nevis, Britain's highest mountain," she would say, and Big Mac's voice would come from the back of the bus: "Elevation 4,406 feet." By the time they stopped for their bowl of soup, they were stunned into silence by the abundance of scenery and commentary.

After lunch, their leader clapped hands for attention.

"We shall soon be in Bonnie Prince Charlie country," she told them.

"For six months the handsome young prince was trapped like a fox pursued by hounds. After the defeat at Culloden he fled for his life, sometimes betrayed by treacherous friends and sometimes harbored by unexpected supporters attracted by his charisma." "Charisma? Bunk!" Lyle Compton muttered to Qwilleran.

"It was all politics!" "With a price on his head," Irma went on, "he was trying desperately to escape to France. He slept in the bracken by day and traveled by night, stumbling across moors and through glens. Weary, tattered, and obviously defeated, he kept up his good spirits. After all, he was a prince, and the lovely Flora Macdonald fell in love with him and risked her life to smuggle him out of enemy territory." Lyle spoke up, his voice crisp with exasperation.

"Irma, you've been reading romantic novels and watching old movies!

Charles was a liar, an alcoholic, and a fool! He made all kinds of tactical mistakes and had a talent for trusting the wrong aides and taking the advice of idiots. Flora Macdonald had no use for him, but she was pressured into the plot to rescue him--was He stopped abruptly and threw a sharp glance at his wife as if she had kicked him under the table.

Irma's face flushed and her eyes flashed, and Polly rushed in to fill the awkward silence.

"What was the date of Culloden?" she asked, although she knew.

"April 16, 1746," Irma said, and big Mac rattled off some statistics.

Later, Amanda said to Qwilleran, "Lyle had better watch his step. She's already shot one man." On that day, and the next, and the next, Irma herded the group through fishing villages, among ruins, aboard ferries, around rocky islands, across moors covered with purple heather, past granite quarries and peat bogs.

"Where are the people? Where are the farmhouses?" Carol complained.