Lakedale by David Beglan
The old man came hurrying along the side of the lake towards us. He looked agitated and white as a sheet. Even his little white dog looked worried.
"B-body!" he stammered. "Back there on the shore. Have you got a phone? Call the Police."
My wife, Margaret, took charge.
"Come and sit down," she suggested, pointing to a nearby bench. Gratefully, he sat and regained his breath and composure. Meanwhile, I put the call through to the local Police, advising them.
"MacLeod found the body. He's always sniffing at things on the lakeside, usually the odd stick. This time, he just stood and barked and then backed away. I went to have a look. Gave me a turn, I can tell you."
"Macleod,eh?" I smiled. "Good name for a Westie."
"He came from the Isle of Skye, near Dunvegan, hence the name."
"Of course, the Macleod of Macleod Clan," I said. "Margaret, perhaps you'd take this gentleman back to our cottage and give him a cup of tea. Sorry, I didn't ask your name."