She took one and accepted a light from Dillon. "I've been smoking all my life, Mr. Morgan, no point in stopping now."

Marco appeared with a bottle of Crystal in a bucket and six glasses on a tray. He placed it on a side table and said in heavily accented English, "Shall I open the champagne, sir?"

"Not for me," Lady Katherine said. "It doesn't go down well these days. A vodka martini very dry would be just the ticket. That's what got me through the war, that and cigarettes."

"I'll get it," Asta said and went to the drinks cabinet as Marco uncorked the champagne bottle.

"You served in the war then, Lady Katherine?" Ferguson asked her.

"By God I did. All this nonsense about young gels being allowed to fly in the RAF these days." She snorted. "All old hat. I was a pilot from nineteen-forty with the old Air Transport Auxiliary. They used to call us the Attagirls."

Asta brought the martini and sat beside her, fascinated. "But what did you do?"

The old lady sampled the drink. "Excellent, my dear. We ferried warplanes between factories and RAF Stations to free pilots for combat. I flew everything, we all did. Spitfires and Hurricanes and once a Lancaster bomber. The ground crew at the RAF Station I delivered it to couldn't believe it when I took off my flying helmet and they saw my hair."

"But all in all, it must have been extremely dangerous," Hannah said.

"I crash-landed once in a Hurricane, wheels up. Not my fault, engine failure. Another time an old Gloucester Gladiator, they were biplanes, started to fall apart on me in midair so I had to bail out."

"Good God!" Morgan said. "That's amazing."

"Oh, it was hard going," she said. "Out of the women in my unit sixteen were killed, but then we had to win the war, didn't we, Brigadier?"

"We certainly did, Lady Katherine."

She held up her empty glass. "Another one, somebody, and then I'll love you and leave you."

Asta went to get it and Morgan said, "Lady Katherine doesn't feel up to dinner, I'm afraid."

"Only eat enough for a sparrow these days." She accepted the drink Asta brought and looked up at Morgan. "Well, have you found the Bible yet?"

He was momentarily thrown. "The Bible?"

"Oh, come on, Mr. Morgan, I know you've had the servants turning the place upside down. Why is it so important?"

He was in command again now. "A legend, Lady Katherine, of great importance to your family. I just thought it would be nice to find it and give it to you."

"Indeed." She turned to Hannah and there was something in her eyes. "Amazing the interest in the Bible all of a sudden and I can't help. Haven't seen it in years. I still think it was lost in the air crash that injured my brother so badly."

Morgan glanced at Ferguson, who was smiling, and made a determined effort to change the subject. "Tell me, just how old is the castle, Lady Katherine?"

Asta got up and moved to the French windows at the end of the hall and opened them and Dillon went to join her, moving out onto the terrace as she did, the murmur of voices behind them.

The beech trees above the loch were cut out of black cardboard against a sky that was streaked with vivid orange above the mountains. She took his arm and they strolled across the lawn, Dillon lighting a cigarette.

"Do you want one?"

"No, I'll share yours," which she did, handing it back to him after a moment. "It's peaceful here and old, the roots go deep. Everyone needs roots, don't you agree, Dillon?"

"Maybe it's people, not places," he said. "Take you, for instance. Perhaps your roots are Morgan."

"It's a thought, but you, Dillon, what about you? Where are your roots?"

"Maybe nowhere, love, nowhere at all. Oh, there's the odd aunt or uncle and a few cousins here and there in Ulster, but no one who'd dare come near. The price of fame."

"Infamy, more like."

"I know, I'm the original bad guy. That's why Ferguson recruited me."

"You know I like you, Dillon, I feel as if I've known you a long time, but what am I going to do with you?"

"Take your time, girl dear, I'm sure something will occur to you."

Morgan appeared on the terrace and called, "Asta, are you there?"

"Here we are, Carl." They walked back and went up the steps to the terrace. "What is it?"

"Lady Katherine's ready to leave."

"What a pity. I wish she would stay, she's wonderful."

"One of a kind," Morgan said. "But there it is. I'll run her down to the lodge."

"No you won't," Asta told him. "I'll see to it. You've got guests, Carl. We mustn't forget our manners."

"Shall I come with you?" Dillon asked.

"It's only three hundred yards down the drive for heaven's sake," she said. "I'll be back in no time."

They went inside and Lady Katherine said, "There you are. Thought we'd lost you."

She pushed herself up on her stick and Asta put an arm around her. "No chance, I'm taking you home now."

"What a lovely girl." Lady Katherine turned to them all. "Such a delight. Do come and see me any time. Good night all."

Morgan had a hand on her elbow and he and Asta took her out of the front door. A moment later the castle's station wagon engine started up and Morgan returned.

He snapped his fingers at Marco. "More champagne."

Marco replenished the glasses and Ferguson looked around the great hall, the weapons on the wall, the trophies, the armour. "Quite an amazing collection, all this. Fascinating."

"I agree," Hannah said. "If you're into death, that is."

"Aren't you being a little harsh?" Morgan said.

She sipped some of her champagne. "If it was a museum exhibition they'd probably call it 'In Praise of War.' I mean look at those great swords crossed under the shields. Their only purpose was to slice somebody's arm off."

"You're wrong," Dillon said amiably. "The backstroke was intended to remove heads. Those swords are Highland Claymores and the shield was called a Targ. That's where the word target comes from."

"Actually, the particular one you're looking at up there was carried at the Battle of Culloden by the Campbell of the day," Morgan said. "He died fighting for Bonnie Prince Charlie."

"Well I don't consider that much of an ambition."

"Haven't you any sense of history?" Ferguson demanded.

"I can't afford one, I'm Jewish, remember, Brigadier. My people have always had enough on to simply survive in the present."

There was a silence and Dillon said, "Well that's a showstopper if ever I've heard one."

As he spoke the door opened and Asta came in. "That's done. I've left her in the hands of the redoubtable Jeannie. Can we eat now? I'm starving."

"Only waiting for you, my love," Morgan said and he gave her his arm and led the way in. • • • The dining room was quite splendid, the walls lined with oak paneling, the table decorated with the finest crystal and silver, candles in great silver sticks flaring. Marco served the meal aided by two young housemaids in black dresses and white aprons.

"We've kept the meal relatively simple as I wasn't sure what everyone would like," Morgan said.

His idea of simplicity was extraordinary. Beluga caviar and smoked salmon followed by roast pheasant with the usual trimmings, all washed down with vintage Chateau Palmer.

"Absolutely wonderful," Ferguson said as he tucked into his pheasant. "You must have an extraordinary cook here."

"Oh, she's all right for the simple things, but it's Marco who roasted the pheasant."

"A man of many talents." Ferguson glanced up as Marco, face imperturbable, refilled the glasses.

"Yes, you could say that," Morgan agreed.

Marco disappeared shortly afterwards, Dillon noticed that as the two maids cleared the plates. Asta said, "And what delight do you have for the climax?"

"Hard act to follow with a simple pudding," Ferguson observed.