Zoë looked helpless, but Grant began to laugh. ‘I think you must have been talking to a little black man in a kilt,’ he said.
‘He had a kilt, yes, but he wasn’t coloured,’ Mr Cullen said.
‘No, I meant black-haired. You’ve been talking to Archie Brown.’
‘Who is Archie Brown?’ asked Zoë.
‘He is the self-appointed saviour of Gaeldom, and our future Sovereign, Commissar, President or what have you, when Scotland has freed herself from the murderous burden of the English yoke.’
‘Oh, yes. That man,’ Zoë said mildly, identifying Archie in her mind. ‘He is a little off his head, isn’t he? Does he live around here?’
‘He is staying at the hotel at Moymore, I understand. He has been doing missionary work on Mr Cullen, it seems.’
‘Well,’ Mr Cullen grinned a little sheepishly, ‘I did just wonder if he wasn’t over-stating things a bit. I’ve met some Scots in my time and they didn’t seem to me to be the kind of people to put up with the treatment Mr Brown was describing. Indeed, if you’ll forgive me, Mr Grant, they always seemed to me the kind of people to get the best of whatever bargain was going.’
‘Did you ever hear the Union better described?’ Grant said to Zoë.
‘I never knew anything about the Union,’ Zoë said comfortably, ‘except that it took place in 1707.’