And it was just three days later, that Betty Singer – who through the due diligence of Snooker Tam and Wee Boabie had been identified as the Cook/Housekeeper in the house at 4 Dundonald Road – stepped out promptly at 10 o'clock, as was the daily routine, and made her way down towards Byres Road and the various establishments which provided the household with its provisions; her routine on the previous two days had been to call at Jas. Bell and Sons' Butchers, Robt. Ingram's Bakers, MacPherson & Co's Fishmonger's and Lipton's, Licensed Grocers, choose and place her orders, pay in cash and in advance – something which experience told Bernie was so highly unusual a practice in Hillhead that it probably indicated a slush fund and possible malfeasance on the part of Martin Elginbrod – which would be delivered to the house by each shop, between then and 12 noon; having finished her marketing, she went into the Grosvenor Café for a cup of tea and a fruit scone; Betty was seated on both days at the same table, in the window, to the right of the door, and would take from her handbag a book of Gaelic Poetry, which – once Bernie had checked the title with a friend at The Mitchell Library, proved to be rather esoteric and included Gaelic translations of Welsh englyn verse. of which the friend was himself a noted exponent – she would appear to read, but also made notations in pencil and regularly looked inside the back cover; the conclusion made by Bernie was that she was a spy, possibly for the Soviet Union, our erstwhile ally in the fight against Nazi Germany, "that may mean she is out of our league, Sadie, just see how you get on, but if she is a professional, she will likely see through you straight away, though nothing ventured, nothing lost, eh?" and so it was that on the third day, St David's she appeared pleasantly surprised when a red-haired woman enquired whether she would mind her joining her at the table, as the others were all full: "of course not, dear," said Betty, asking "are you a visitor? you don't sound local," and the lady laughed: "no, that I'm not; I'm from Glenfinnan," and Betty heard the West Highland inflexion in her voice, as she added, "my name is Mhairi Macleod, I'm visiting my sister in Partick and just out for a walk on such a fine morning;" and it was Betty's turn to laugh: "ah, 'tis an improvement on the terrible smogs of the past few days," and the visitor asked if she lived nearby; "yes," said Betty, "I'm Housekeeper for a gentleman who has a house up in Dundonald Road, his family home is in Edinburgh of course, but his profession brings him to Glasgow on three days of the week, so it makes sense for him to have a house over here," and the Highland lady then said: "and are you not also from further north, your own accent seems familiar, if you don't mind me being inquisitive?" and Betty batted away the apology; "ah well, I've lived in Glasgow for forty years, since I was married, but my family home is in Elgin, in Morayshire," and her companion asked, "and does your husband also work for your employer?" at which a shadow passed across Betty's face: "ah, my poor man was killed in the war, when the German bombs fell along Clydeside, he was a Solicitor's Clerk, and too old for active service, but volunteered in the Fire Brigade at night, it is his employer who asked me to become his Housekeeper four years ago, seeing that life would be difficult for me without my Simon, and my son away in the Navy, and then young Andrew's ship was sunk in the convoys, with all hands; those Germans," she ended, bitterly, "they took my heart and my soul, may they rest in peace," and her new confidant added, simply, "Amen!"