style="font-size:15px;"> I could imagine.
Martha stuck her head through a doorway that presumably led to the kitchen of the house, from where faint crashing noises and a little swearing had been faintly audible, and shouted, ‘Scones ready yet?’
‘Five minutes,’ a now familiar deep voice growled.
‘They’re for the lass from the cottage and she wants the internet password too.’
‘She’ll have to wait, I’ll be out when I’ve a minute,’ he snapped.
‘That’s fine,’ I said quickly to Martha as she closed the door again. ‘I’ll wait – but could I have a cup of coffee now?’
‘As soon as I’ve finished with this lot,’ she said, picking up the tray and heading off to the last unfed and famished hikers.
I found a free table in the corner and started to make a few notes, for that dark finger of ancient stone up on the hill had stirred my imagination and I was sure I could squeeze a tiny bit more detail into the edits before they went off.
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