Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 14 Who Wasn't There

When the battle was lost, the survivors fled in panic, only to be chased down by the dragoons and butchered." Lyle stopped, and no one spoke.

"Well, you asked for it," he said. Dwight put another shovelful of coal in the grate. Then members of the group started drifting away, saying they'd step outside for a breath of air, or they'd go up to bed, or they needed a drink.

It rained on Day Eight when they visited the battlefield at Culloden, and they found it depressing. It still rained when they visited a distillery, and even the wee dram served at the conclusion of the guided tour failed to cheer them. The Bonnie Scots Tour was winding down fast. Polly blamed it on the loss of their leader. Qwilleran thought it was a let-down after the enchantment of the Western Isles and Highlands. On the bus, Bushy grabbed the microphone and tried to elevate the general mood with stories that fell flat.

"Did you hear about the Scotsman who went to visit a sick friend with a bottle of Scotch in his pocket? It was a dark night, and on the way he tripped and fell on a sharp rock, but he picked himself up and went on his way. Soon he felt a trickle of something running down the outside of his leg. It was too dark to see, but he dabbled his fingers in it and tasted it.

"Thank God! It's only blood!" he said." Later that evening, when Larry and the Chisholm sisters returned from the scene of the crime, he said to Qwilleran, "That woman is impossible, but we got everything taken care of. What did I miss?" "Not much. A historic battlefield is all in your head. There's not much to see." "And the distillery?" "Everything was spic-and-span and absolutely sterile. Too bad Amanda wasn't there for the wee dram... Tell me, Larry, how valuable was the stuff stolen from Grace Utley?" "According to her, one necklace alone was worth $150,000. Some of the stone-set brooches and bracelets were estate stuff, valued up to $50,000 apiece. It was a nice haul for someone. Do you suppose the theft was impromptu on Bruce's part... or what?" Day Nine was devoted to museums and shopping. Mrs. Utley bought clothing and luggage enough to see her back to Pickax. The other women shopped for sweaters and kilts. Even Arch Riker found a cashmere cardigan that he considered a bargain. And then they checked into their the last inn before Edinburgh, a stately, ivy-covered mansion on extensive landscaped grounds, furnished with antiques and chintz.

The bedrooms were large, with ornate plaster ceilings, lace curtains, and telephones!

"I'm expecting Junior to phone," Riker said. He was trying on his new sweater when there was a knock at the door.

Qwilleran opened it to fend a young man with a tea tray.

"You've got the wrong room. We didn't order tea," he said.

"Compliments of the house, sir." The waiter marched into the room and set the tray on a lace-covered tea table in front of a stiff little settee. The tray was laden with porcelain cups and saucers, a rosebud-patterned china teapot, a silver milk and sugar service, a plate of shortbread, and dainty embroidered napkins in silver rings.

"Just what I wanted.

More shortbread," Riker remarked as he sat on the settee and awkwardly poured tea into the eggshell-thin cups. Qwilleran pulled up a small chair opposite. At that moment the telephone rang.

"That's Junior!" said the editor, jumping to his feet.

"He's really on the ball!" As he started toward the phone, a button of his sweater caught on the lace cloth and dragged it off the table along with the tea, milk, sugar, shortbread, and china. With the table cover trailing from his sweater button, he answered the phone with the composure of a veteran news editor. Then he turned to Qwilleran.

"It's the desk clerk downstairs. Wants to know if everything's all right." "Tell him to send up a mop and a shovel," Qwilleran said. It was the final calamity of the Bonnie Scots Tour, but there was one more surprise in store for Qwilleran. The telephone rang in the middle of the night, and he jumped to a sitting position before his eyes were open. He turned on the bedside lamp. It was three o'clock.

"Something's happened to the cats--or the barn!" he said to Riker, who showed signs of stirring. As he expected, it was an overseas call, and Mildred Hanstable was on the line.

"Hope I didn't take you away from your dinner, Qwill." "Dinner! It's three o'clock in the morning!" "Oh, forgive me!" she cried in chagrin.