Malice in the Highlands Read Online Free Page B

if a burden had been lifted. “Thank you, Mr. Powell,” she said quietly.
    “Don't mention it. It's the least I can do. Oh, if Mr. Warburton should arrive before I get back, look after him, would you?”
    “Yes, of course, Mr. Powell.”
    As he left the hotel, Powell observed that it had stopped raining and a small patch of blue sky had appeared overhead. Whistling tunelessly, he set off on the half-mile walk to number three beat.
    Alphonse “Pinky” Warburton arrived at the Salar Lodge with characteristic élan, skidding his rented Land Rover to an abrupt stop on the gravel sweep fronting the hotel. Short, round, and avuncular, he was turned out like a true countryman in a tweed Norfolk jacket and matching breeks, a tattersall check shirt adorned with a chartreuse tie depicting orange partridges in flight, and a commando-style sweater in which no self-respecting commando would be caught dead.
    He was greeted at the front entrance by Nigel Whitely, who welcomed him to the Salar Lodge. Whitely explained that Mr. Powell had just stepped out but was expected back shortly for lunch. And would Mr. Warburton care for a complimentary aperitif while he waited?
    “Sun's over the yardarm, what? Very kind of you, Whitely.”
    Nigel took charge of Warburton's luggage and, as theyentered the hotel, inquired if he had enjoyed a pleasant drive from Aviemore.
    “Absolutely first-rate! I departed early and proceeded at a leisurely pace to better enjoy your magnificent Highland scenery.”
    “Is this your first visit to Kinlochy?”
    Warburton smiled. “Not exactly. For many years my father rented a beat on the Dee near Aboyne. As he had business interests in Inverness at the time, we would frequently travel by way of Kinlochy and Ballater to our fishing. I regret we never took the opportunity to stop here, but I seem to recall that the Spey fishing was closely preserved in those days.”
    Whitely nodded. “Aye, that was so until my wife and I opened the Salar Lodge some eighteen years ago now. Of course the Grampian Angling Association has always permitted visitors on their water, but it tends to get a bit crowded and, as you might expect, the fishing isn't as good as on the private beats. Castle Glyn Estate owns the fishing rights on our stretch of the Spey, but the former laird—”
    “Former laird?”
    “Sadly, Sir Iain is no longer with us, but we owe to him any small measure of success we've enjoyed. Without his assistance, none of this would have been possible. Sir Iain believed, as we did,” Whitely went on to explain, “that Kinlochy's future was tied to tourism, so he kindly offered to let a portion of his fishing to the hotel for the use of our guests.”
    “Very decent of him, I must say. Noblesse oblige, what? You know, Whitely, that sort of attitude is sadlylacking nowadays, rather it's dog eat dog and every man for himself.”
    “I expect you're right,” Nigel replied offhandedly.
    “In any case,” Warburton said, “you will no doubt be pleased to know that Erskine has always raved about this place. Now at long last I'm able to experience it for myself.”
    Nigel smiled. “Mr. Powell is perhaps too generous, but I do hope you enjoy your stay with us.”
    “Oh, I shall, I shall. I've absolutely no doubt about it,” Warburton replied heartily.
    Nigel escorted Warburton into the bar, made the appropriate introductions, and then made his way toward the kitchen with the vague intention of helping Ruby with lunch. Suddenly he stopped and frowned, realizing that he had forgotten something. He turned and retraced his steps to the front hall where he had abandoned Mr. War-burton's luggage. As he stooped to pick up the bags, the telephone jangled. It was the local police constable.
    “No, I'm sorry. Mr. Barrett is not here at the moment, but I expect him back any time now. What?” He turned deathly pale. “Are you sure? Aye—aye, of course. I'll tell him.”
    Nigel slowly replaced the receiver, his thin face