The Wicker Tree by Robin Hardy Page B

sat down quietly beside Steve, briefly touching his hand to make her presence known. She saw peripherally that he turned his head and studied her profile and noted how absorbed he was in Beth's singing.
    'A truly wonderful voice,' she whispered.
    'Yeah, my pa and me,' he whispered back, 'we always say she sounds like an angel.'
    'Of course. That's what she reminds me of. An angel.'
    'Hey,' Steve was so delighted that he forgot to whisper. 'You believe in angels?'
    'Doesn't everyone?' responded Delia in a surprised tone.
    The conductor was rapping with his stick and the orchestra had stopped playing. Beth was waiting patiently while he addressed the string section.
    Delia rose now and turned to Steve.
    'I hope we'll see you later,' she said.
    He half rose for an awkward handshake. As she walked away Steve marvelled that anyone could talk quite like she did. It was one of those Brit accents you heard in movies, usually old historical movies. He'd watched quite a few of those on TV because they often had great horses in them. Stunt riding was one of the things he'd always thought of doing. Delia had reached close to where the tall, exceptionally British dude, her husband, was hanging out with some guys who were all studying some sheet music. Her husband leant towards her to listen to what she had to say over the racket coming from the orchestra. Then they both looked over to where he, Steve, was watching them. They smiled and both gave a small wave before continuing their conversation. He waved back. These people were weird alright, but, in their own way, he thought, they were probably OK.

Orlando's Revelation
    FOR ORLANDO, TRESSOCK was something of a revelation. The streets lined with trees and white washed houses, with their brick framed windows and porticos, their brightly coloured front doors and decorative skylights, were quite festive in his eyes. Used to the sombre, manse-like Victorian houses in the shabby genteel part of Glasgow where he had been raised, he discovered in this new place a quality he had never seriously considered before, a certain charm.
    The little mews house that had long served as the Police Station lay at the end of Main Street where it curved to meet the great gates of Tressock Castle. This vantage point meant that he could, from his bed-sitting room's lace-curtained windows, survey the movements of the townspeople and their comings and goings from the Grove Inn, while, from the big window in his office, by the Police Station's front door, he could see the gates to Sir Lachlan's castle and monitor all who visited it.
    He was less pleased with the interior of his new home, which seemed to have been preserved just as Tom Makepiece had left it, like some grungy shrine. The bed-sitting room was spacious enough but so crammed with heavy Victorian furniture and stuffed birds that it made Orlando wonder whether the late Tom's aim was to create a mortuary out of an aviary, or maybe vice versa. A sizeable bathroom adjoined it on one side while, on the other, there was a door that led directly to the Police Station office. This was convenient in its way, but forced him into an unaccustomed tidiness in his living quarters.
    His cleaner, old Mrs Menzies, fitted perfectly with Orlando's idea of a crone or witch, and had become his first suspect as a possible member of a cult. She seemed to have a life contract to come in three days a week to redistribute the dust and make sure that everything was still as dear old Tom had left it. Orlando's suggestion that the stuffed birds might find a happier home elsewhere shocked her deeply. He learned from her that apart from Mr Beame, the butler up at the castle, Tom was considered the finest taxidermist in Tressock, a place renowned for this ancient craft. This seemed to make Orlando the fortunate custodian of a precious collection. He tactfully tried to sound impressed, but the truth was that the birds depressed him deeply. Everything from a golden eagle, through barn