Yellow-coat ran into the parking area, still yelling. “Here! You there!” Which seemed a bit contradictory, but she was hardly in a position to criticize. She didn’t recognize the voice, and the figure was too slender to be either Fergie or Rab Finlay. Pritchard, probably. Below Jean, presumably from the front porch, Diana’s cool voice cut the heat of the male’s. “Mr. Pritchard, Lionel, if you please, there’s no need to shout.” “Diana, we can’t have the man hanging about. Your own father . . .” “No harm done. Someone in the village likely told him about—the unfortunate event—and he stopped by on his way home to have a look at the police vehicles.” His gait as smooth as a hobby horse’s, Pritchard strode to the door. Jean had to lean forward and press her ear to the icy glass in order to hear him say, “We’re hardly on his way, the path runs beyond the garden wall. He had no call . . .” The slam of the front door echoed upward, vibrating as subtly in Jean’s ear as distant thunder.
