“How on earth do you know that?” I asked, staring at him.
“I rang an informative lady at the Cotswold Farm Park,” he answered. “Miss Henson is an expert on endangered domestic animals. I described Mr. MacAllen’s sheep to her, and she told me all about them. The rest of Erinskil’s sheep are fine animals that produce high-quality wool, but they’re not rare. Mr. MacAllen is an ovine connoisseur.”
“I still don’t understand what you and Cassie are getting at,” I said, peering down at the sheep with my binoculars. “Mr. MacAllen’s croft is in good shape, and he owns some unusual sheep. So what?”
“The croft isn’t in good shape, Lori,” said Cassie. “It’s flawless. We’ve seen it up close. There’s not a fleck of peeling paint or a tile out of place. The MacAllens have central heating. They have a sauna and a hot tub. Those aren’t the sorts of things you find on your average farm.”
“But they’re not completely unexpected,” I objected. “If you live on an island, you have to make your own fun.”
“If MacAllen’s croft were the exception, I’d agree with you,” said Cassie.
“Ladies and gentleman,” said Peter, through cupped hands, “I hope you’ve enjoyed Exhibit A. Please follow me to Exhibits B through . . . F, would you say, Cassie?”
“Possibly G,” said Cassie. “We have been rather busy.”
“We have,” said Peter, grinning.
Peter left the half-buried boulder and headed south again, descending from the terrace until he reached a faint trail that wound up and down the sides of the adjoining hills. I was certain that the trail had been made by and for sheep rather than human beings, but Peter was as sure-footed as a mountain goat. As I clambered after him, I sent a silent word of thanks to Rob and Will for keeping me in fairly good condition. The hours I’d spent chasing cricket balls for them had not been entirely wasted.
Peter motioned for us to join him on a slight promontory that jutted out over the valley, and he pointed down to a cluster of long, tin-roofed structures behind another complex of farm buildings.
“The shearing sheds,” he said, “are managed by the Mackinnon brothers, Neil and Norman. The Mackinnons travel with their wives and children to Australia and New Zealand every year to participate in sheepshearing competitions. They’ve won quite a few.”
“Family holidays Down Under are not cheap,” Cassie pointed out, “nor is the equipment they use to shear Erinskil’s sheep. It’s mod cons all the way for the Mackinnon brothers. On we go.”
“Wait a minute.” I spoke up in order to catch my breath before we tackled the sheep track again, but also because a memory had stirred. “I saw a woman hanging laundry on a line when the boys and I flew over the island with Sir Percy. If everything’s so up-to-date on Erinskil, why wasn’t she using an automatic clothes dryer?”
“That would be Siobhan Ferguson,” said Peter. “Mick Ferguson’s daughter-in-law. She doesn’t like gadgets. She owns a tumble dryer, Lori, but she uses it only when the weather forces her to.” He hopped back onto the sheep track. “Let us proceed.”
The next leg of the tour took us all the way to the Sleeping Dragon, the spiky ridge Sir Percy had pointed out to me from the helicopter. I managed to keep up with Peter for a while, but his long strides ate up ground much faster than my short ones, and I was soon lagging behind. Cassie chose to hang back with me, and Damian, of course, was never more than a few feet away from me. I rapidly developed a deep antipathy toward both of them. It was, I felt, cruel, inconsiderate, and possibly unnatural of them to hold a casual conversation when all I could do was pant and puff.
“How did you find out so much about the islanders?” Damian asked the young woman. “You’ve been here less than a week, and they’re reputed to be extremely tight-lipped.”
“It’s Peter.” Cassie gazed at Peter’s distant back and smiled. “Peter could chat up a stone statue. Everyone—simply everyone—talks to him. It’s because he’s so enthusiastic, so authentically sincere. He’s truly interested in every subject under the sun—sheepshearing, family history, everything.”
“Why isn’t he at university?” Damian asked.
Cassie laughed and I gave a gasping chuckle as we attacked the Sleeping Dragon’s nearly vertical northern flank. We knew something Damian didn’t.
“Peter took his degree when he was seventeen,” Cassie kindly explained. “He took three, in fact, in natural history, anthropology, and business management.”
“What business does he intend to manage?” asked Damian.
“The family business,” Cassie replied. “Peter will inherit the Hailesham estate when his grandfather dies. He intends to keep it intact for his children and his grandchildren.”
“Britain’s future is in good hands, it seems,” said Damian, nodding.