They entered the hotel dining room long after its
advertised closing time, but the proprietor had agreed to
serve them because of the exceptional circumstances.
‘I just hope this damned fog lifts by morning so we
can take off,’ Elsa McLeod said. ‘I’m due in Edinburgh at
noon and anyway I can’t get away from this godforsaken
spot soon enough.’
‘I’m surprised at you, Elsa,’ one of her two male
companions answered. ‘Scots aren’t supposed to
badmouth their own country, are they?’
Elsa sneered. ‘We aren’t all haggis-eaters and
crofters. Some of us like civilisation, central heating and
sprung mattresses, not sacks filled with heather.’
‘I can assure you I won’t ask you to sleep on a
heather-filled sack, madam,’ the hotel proprietor put in
with a wry smile. She jumped, not having noticed him
follow them into the dining room. He went on, ‘And
though we don’t have central heating, a log fire will satisfy
you equally, I’m sure.’
She gazed at him without enthusiasm. Repulsive
little man, she thought. Balding, flabby and club-footed so
he walked with a permanent hobble. Not exactly Mr
Charisma.
He had told them to call him Conrad, and he
appeared to staff this benighted place alone.
45