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He raised his glass to Uncle Gordon and took a long swallow.

I wondered what Uncle Gordon would think of a paranormal investigator tramping around Furness. I suspected he wouldn’t approve. Not because he didn’t believe in the paranormal, but because he looked like the kind of man who could cohabit with it quite happily.

Bess interrupted my thoughts. “Last drinks, everyone.”

Douglas helped her fill the orders. Then he asked if I wanted another drink. I shook my head. Beside me, McEwen drained his glass. He mumbled something about having to get home and launched himself off his stool. He misjudged the distance to the ground, stumbled and fell heavily.

Instantly I was on my feet, reaching down to take hold of him, but he was a big man, a big inebriated man, and I needed Douglas’s help to get him to his feet.

McEwen shook off our helping hands. “Gotta get home.”

“I’ll drive you,” said Douglas, apparently forgetting his car was out of action.

“I’m not drunk,” said McEwen. “Just need a bit of fresh air.” Lurching like a sailor in a storm, he headed toward the door. When he reached it he pushed instead of pulled. He might have been stuck there until he sobered up if Douglas hadn’t pulled it open for him. McEwen proceeded valiantly down the three steps but he tripped on the last one and ended up in a heap at the bottom.

Once again Douglas and I helped him up. This time he didn’t shake us off.

“Where does he live?” I asked Douglas.

“On the corner of the first cross street. A few minutes’ walk, no more.” But that was long enough for McEwen to give us a slurred account of his ill-treatment by someone called Phillips.

“Who’s Phillips?” I asked.

“Butler,” mumbled McEwen. “Maitland House. Looks at me like I’m pond scum.”

Right now McEwen did look a little like pond scum, but I was sure he had a good heart.

He started raving about Phillips again. “He keeps me away from Lady Justina. It’s his fault she doesn’t love me.” He continued rambling about his dislike for Phillips until we reached his cottage.

Two of the men he’d been drinking with in the pub were sitting on his front step. Their butts must have been freezing but they were too drunk to notice.

“Took you long enough,” said one of the men. His voice was gruff, a smoker’s voice.

McEwen said, “The Three M’s together again.” He embraced his mates.

Douglas explained to me. “They call themselves The Three Musketeers or The Three M’s-McEwen, Melville and MacDuff.”

McEwen slurred, “All for one and one for all.”

“Right,” I said, turning to Douglas, “Let’s get McEwen inside. Then we can take the other two Musketeers home.”

“We’re not going home,” said the gruff voice.

“That’s Melville,” whispered Douglas.

“One for the road,” said Melville. “McEwen’s buying.”

McEwen seemed happy to oblige. He fumbled a key from his pocket and miraculously opened his front door on the first attempt.

“Come in laddies,” he said. “And lassie.”

“Thanks,” I said, “but I’ve had a long day. I need to get some rest.”

Douglas declined too and we left The Three M’s to drink themselves senseless.

As we followed the road to Mac’s I looked right and saw the loch spreading like a dark malignant stain. I wasn’t frightened, but I felt an itch in my right big toe. Don’t ask me why, but my aberrant brain cells have decided that when they detect an undercurrent of paranormal activity, they will make my toe itch—kind of like an alarm that rings once and then stops. Needless to say, I don’t share this with my clients. It wouldn’t help my credibility.

When my toe stopped itching I fell into step with Douglas. We walked slowly, our breath misting in the still air. Neither of us spoke. I think we were both reluctant to break the thread of silent camaraderie that had sprung up between us. We were like soldiers enjoying a brief respite before being sent into battle.

When we re-entered Mac’s, it was empty. Except for Bess, who was wiping the tables.

Douglas said, “I’ll show Allegra to her room. Then I’ll help you clean up.”

“Don’t be long,” she said. “I’m exhausted.”

He turned to me. “I took your