Eye of the Raven by Ken McClure Read Free Book Online Page B

it?’
    ‘ Is the Rev Lawson at home this morning?’ asked Steven.
    ‘ He’s no’ here,’ snapped the woman.
    ‘ Will he be back soon?’
    ‘ Depends.’
    ‘ On what?’ asked Steven, struggling to maintain a civil smile.
    ‘ Them at The Firs.’
    Steven tried a blank stare instead of asking another question and the woman eventually said, ‘The meenester’s ill. He’s in The Firs. A nervous breakdoon, they say. Ah dinnae ken; a’body’s hivin them these days. A load o’ shite if ye ask me. Ah kin remember a time when folk got oan with their lives without all this brekdoon and stress nonsense.’
    Steven figured that a nod might be the best way to pave the way ahead. After a moment he asked, ‘How do I go about finding the Firs, Mrs . . .?’ asked Steven.
    ‘ McLellan; ah’m the meenester’s cleaner, no’ that he pays me ower much. Tak a left at the end o’ the street and it’s aboot twa miles oot on the Ayr road. Gie him ma best wishes and tell him he’s oot o’ toilet roll.’
    ‘ Will do,’ said Steven.
    Steven found The Firs without difficulty although he saw the sign a bit late, thanks to overhanging tree branches, and had to back up on the road before negotiating the narrow entrance that led to a an imposingly long drive lined with the trees that had, he presumed, lent their name to the house. He parked on the gravel outside the front door of a large red sandstone villa with an ugly concrete box extension tacked on to its left-hand side. A notice board by the side of the steps leading up to the door proclaimed the house’s credentials as a Church of Scotland Rest and Recuperation Home. Steven took encouragement from this. If the place wasn’t actually a hospital – psychiatric or otherwise - there must be a good chance that Lawson’s condition might not be as serious as he’d feared.
    ‘ Rev Lawson is here for complete rest,’ said the small, bespectacled figure in the charcoal suit and dog collar who introduced himself as the Rev Angus Minch, the man in charge of The Firs. He’d been summoned by the lone woman in the front office who had been having a telephone conversation about the colour of bridesmaids’ dresses when Steven had entered. He’d gathered that green was a non-starter.
    ‘ I promise I won’t keep him long,’ said Steven.
    ‘ That’s not the point,’ said Minch pompously. ‘Rev Lawson needs complete rest. Every visitor he gets just interrupts the healing process.’
    Steven had no wish to enter any kind of argument about ‘the healing process’, which he regarded as an expression seldom used by health professionals but a particular favourite of quacks and those who liked to imagine they knew more about medicine than they actually did.
    ‘ I’m afraid it’s important that I speak with him,’ he said in a tone that suggested he had the authority to back up his request.
    Minch gave a heavy sigh before saying grudgingly, ‘So be it. But if Rev Lawson should suffer a relapse over this, I’ll know exactly where to apportion blame.’
    Steven guessed that Minch was a man well used to apportioning blame: he had that air about him. Moral rectitude oozed from every pore. Steven nodded acceptance and was taken by Minch to a small back room on the first floor where they found Lawson sitting, reading in an armchair by the window. He was wearing a dark plaid dressing gown and seemed calm when Minch introduced him – perhaps too calm, he thought. He guessed that he was on some kind of medication. The book he was reading was Arthur Grimble’s, A Pattern of Islands .
    ‘ I’m sorry, Joseph; this chap’s from something called the Sci-Med Inspectorate, whoever they are,’ snapped Minch with a sidelong glance at Steven. ‘I’m afraid he needs to ask you some questions. I told him you weren’t well but he insists,’ said Minch.
    Lawson looked up at Steven over his glasses and asked, ‘About the Combe business?’
    ‘ I’m afraid so,’ said Steven.
    ‘ I have