by M C Beaton
“Yes, I’m pretty successful, thanks to my agent, Betty Barnard. Terrific energy that woman has. She worked night and day until she found me a gallery.”
Their food arrived. Jock ordered wine. They chatted amiably as the restaurant cleared of customers.
“That was very pleasant,” said Priscilla when they finished.
“I don’t usually do portraits, but I would like to do one of you.”
“What! Sit on the waterfront, which is where I gather from the gossips that you do your painting?”
“I was hoping you might lend me somewhere in the hotel.”
“I’ll think about it. Let’s go.”
Jock and Priscilla entered the hall to a roll of drums. “Take your seats, ladies and gentlemen,” announced Matthew Campbell, the reporter who had been elected master of ceremonies. “Lochdubh’s very own line dancing team will entertain you.”
Jock tried hard not to laugh. The Currie sisters, Mrs. Wellington, Freda, Angela, and various other village women in what they fondly thought was western dress cavorted to a rollicking country and western tune played on the fiddle and accordion.
His eyes were streaming with suppressed laughter by the time they finished. Then Matthew announced, “And now take your partners for a ladies’ choice. It’s the eight-some reel.”
Effie rushed up to Jock. “Our dance, I think,” she said.
“I don’t know how to do it.”
“Come on. We'll just follow the others.”
Hamish walked over and sat down by Priscilla. “You might have told me you had arrived,” he said.
“I was going to call on you tomorrow. Oh, do look at Effie and Jock. They're falling over everyone.”
“You came in with Jock?”
“Yes, he took me for dinner.”
Hamish was suddenly and jealously glad Jock was making such a mess of things. He blundered into people in his set and finally sent Jessie Currie flying.
“You know,” said Priscilla, “for an artist, Effie does have a clumsy hand with make-up. She looks like a clown.”
Effie’s make-up was dead white, and she had tried to make her small mouth look larger. She had set her hair in tight curls.
“Looks like Ronald McDonald,” said Hamish, who was gradually falling into a nasty mood. There was Priscilla as calm, as seemingly indifferent, as ever.
“Have you got a day off tomorrow?” asked Priscilla.
“Yes. Why?”
“I’ll take us out on a picnic, and we can catch up on the gossip.”
Hamish’s face cleared. “Great. Mind you, I smell rain.”
“If it rains, we can go down to Strathbane. There’s a new French restaurant opened. It’s down at the docks.”
“What a place to have a restaurant.”
“It’s part of the regeneration of that area. Anyone who sets up business gets a tax break.”
Jock came back to join them, and to his dismay, Effie followed and sat down beside him.
Gamekeeper Henry was then called to the stage to recite a poem. After him, a little girl in a tutu tried to perform steps from Swan Lake, fell over, and burst into tears.
The next dance was a St. Bernard’s waltz. Priscilla and Hamish rose as one person and went on to the floor.
“Shall we?” asked Effie, and Jock did not have the courage to refuse. The steps were simple, and they managed very well, although Jock did not like the way Effie pressed up against him.
After the dance was over, she said she was going to the ladies’. Jock walked quickly to the door of the church hall and made his way outside. A fine heavy rain was soaking the waterfront.
Jock put up his collar and hurried back to his boarding house. He was still determined to paint Priscilla and see if he could find out what really lay behind that calm mask.
To Hamish’s delight, the rain cleared on the following morning. He phoned Angela and asked her to keep an eye on his animals, showered, and got ready to drive up to the hotel and meet Priscilla. They would be taking her car because he didn’t want his day spoiled by someone reporting that he was driving a civilian around in the police Land Rover. Not that anyone in Lochdubh would do such a thing, but his beat now covered Cnothan, a sour town, where several of the inhabitants would be delighted if they thought they could put in a complaint about him.
He was about to leave when the phone rang. He hesitated on the doorstep. What if it was something important? But what if it were some minor complaint that might still ruin his day off?
The answering machine picked it up, and he heard Priscilla’s voice. He rushed and picked up the receiver. “It’s me, Hamish.”
“Hamish, I’ll need to cancel our picnic.”
“Why?”
“Mrs. Tullet, who runs the gift shop on Sundays, has a bad stomach complaint. I’ll need to take over.”
“Can’t someone else do it? I mean, if you weren’t there, someone would have to.”
“Mother would probably do it, but she has asked me to fill in.”
“What about this evening? We could drive down to that French restaurant you were talking about.”
“Not this evening, Hamish. Some other time. Got to go.”
Hamish slowly replaced the receiver. The day now stretched out before him, bleak and empty. At the best of times, there was a sad, closed air about a highland Sabbath as if the ghosts of Calvin and John Knox still haunted the place, determined to make sure no one was enjoying themselves.
He phoned Angela and told her his outing had been cancelled, and then he set out to walk along the water-front with the dog and the cat at his heels.
He saw a stranger approaching, a tall woman wearing a tailored trouser suit. She had thick brown hair with gold highlights and a strong, handsome face.
“Good morning,” said Hamish politely. “Grand day.”
“Yes, I’ve been lucky with the weather.”
“Are you staying up at the hotel?”
“Yes, I’m Betty Barnard, Jock Fleming’s agent. I’ve found a gallery for Jock in Glasgow, so I’ve just been to see him. I’m sending him off for a couple of weeks.”
“I’m Hamish Macbeth. Are you going with him?”
“No need. I’ve done the groundwork. I’m really in need of a holiday, but if there’s anything urgent, I can cope with it by e-mail. Those are two very odd…”
“Animals,” said Hamish grumpily. “I know. I’m tired of talking about them.”
She had very large green eyes. Hamish reflected that it wasn’t often one saw eyes as green as hers. Might be contact lenses.
She leaned against the waterfront wall, and Hamish joined her. “Is this your day off?”
“Yes. I was going to go on a picnic with a friend, but she cancelled.”
“Pity. Tell you what. I’ll go back to the hotel and get them to fix up two packed lunches, and then we could go on a picnic and you can introduce me to the area.”
She exuded an easy-going friendliness. She was somewhere in her early forties, Hamish guessed, with an attractive husky voice. Her mouth was generous, and she had a determined chin.
“That’s very kind of you,” said Hamish. “But we'll need to take your car. I can’t drive civilians in the police car.”
“Fine. I’ll see you in half an hour.” As she walked away to where her car was parked, she turned around. “You can bring your dog and cat.”
Well, thought Hamish with a rush of gladness, it’s going to be a good day, after all.
Effie marched determinedly towards Sea View, where Jock had a room. In her fantasies, she had decided the artist was shy under his bluff, easy-going manner. He needed a bit of encouragement.
But as she approached, she saw to her dismay that Jock was lifting a suitcase into the boot of his car.
“Are you leaving?” she asked, running up to him.
“Just for a couple of weeks. There’s a gallery I’ve got to see.” He slammed down the boot and went to get into the driving seat.
“Jock,” s
aid Effie boldly, putting one small hand on his arm, “do you ever think of getting married?”
He looked down at her intense face and felt a sudden rush of sympathy for her. Poor wee woman, he thought. Life must be lonely for her up here.
“I’m not the marrying kind, Effie. But if I did get married, it would be to someone like you.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek, got into his car, slammed the door, and roared off.
Effie stood, watching him go, her hand to her cheek and her spirits soaring. Her brain deleted the “not the marrying kind” bit. Surely that had been a proposal. And he’d kissed her!
Priscilla looked out of the gift shop window just at the moment when Hamish was getting into Betty Barnard’s car. Hamish even had his dog and his cat with him. Betty drove off. She was laughing at something Hamish was saying.
Mr. Johnson, the hotel manager, came into the shop. “I’ve just seen Hamish driving off with that Barnard woman,” said Priscilla.
“Yes, Miss Barnard ordered a couple of packed lunches.”
Priscilla fiddled nervously with a strand of her hair.
“He was supposed to go with me for a picnic.”
“And why didn’t he?”
“I was needed here.”
“You should have told me. I could have got one of the women from the village to fill in. They’d have been glad of the money.”
“Well, it’s too late now. I wonder how they met.”
“She probably picked Hamish up. He’s an attractive man.”
“Is there anything in particular you wanted to talk to me about?” asked Priscilla sharply.
“No, just checking you were all right.”
After he had left, Priscilla went to serve a customer. She had been glad of an excuse not to go out with Hamish. She did not want any of her old feelings for him coming back. But trust Hamish to immediately get a date with the only attractive woman around!
Effie was sitting wrapped in dreams when there was a knock at the door. She found the Currie sisters standing there.
“What?” she asked rudely.
“We came to ask if you would like to give some pottery classes to the Mothers’ Union,” said Nessie.
“Union,” echoed Jessie, who always repeated the end of her sister’s sentences.
“I’m afraid I am too busy.”
“We've walked all the way here,” said Nessie. “Aren’t you going to invite us in?”
“Invite us in?” said Jessie. “Us in?”
Effie suddenly saw a way of establishing Jock as her property in the village minds. “I’m afraid I’ve got a gentleman with me. It’s Jock. I’m afraid you're interrupting.”
“Such carryings-on and this the Sabbath, too,” said Nessie.
“Sabbath, too!” exclaimed her sister.
They both turned and scurried off.
When they reached the waterfront, the first person they saw was Mrs. Dunne, the proprietor of Sea View. Mrs. Dunne listened patiently to their shocked exclamations and then said patiently, “Herself must have just wanted rid of you. Jock Fleming left earlier today. And, no, he couldnae have done a detour because Henry, the gamekeeper, saw him heading off down towards Lairg.”
Hamish Macbeth returned to the police station that evening feeling happy and relaxed. He had enjoyed a pleasant day. He had guided Betty round all the local beauty spots. She had really endeared herself to him when it transpired that she had brought along food for the dog and cat as well. Hamish did not know it was Clarry, the hotel chef and a friend of his, who had thoughtfully added the food in two packets, one labelled Lugs and the other Sonsie.
He looked forward to seeing Betty again. He checked his messages. No crime. It was going to be a great summer.
Effie, the next day, began to fret about Priscilla. Jock had taken her for dinner. Effie was anxious to impress upon women in general and Priscilla in particular that Jock was her property.
Her obsession was at boiling point. Nothing was going to stand in her way. She got into her car and drove down to Strathbane to a shop which sold second-hand rings. She bought herself a diamond engagement ring. Such was her obsession when she drove back that she could almost believe that Jock had given it to her.
But they would laugh about it after they were married.
Effie knew that there was to be a sale of work by the Mothers’ Union at the church the next day. That would be a good place to start.
And that was to be the day when Hamish Macbeth’s peaceful summer came to an abrupt end.
The first call Hamish got the following morning was to tell him to get over to Braikie, where a gunman was holding people hostage in the Highland and Sutherland Bank.
The bane of his life, Detective Chief Inspector Blair, snarled down the phone. “Just you secure the area. A team of us are on the way, and we've got a proper hostage negotiator.”
Villagers turned and stared as the police Land Rover sped off through the village with the blue light flashing and the siren blaring.
Hamish arrived in the main street of Braikie. A woman was standing crying, surrounded by a group of people. “She just got oot o’ there in time,” said one man.
Hamish went up to her. “Tell me what happened,” he asked.
She gulped and said, “I work there as a teller. I was late for the morning shift because my bairn wasn’t feeling well. I had to wait to get someone to look after her. I opened the door of the bank, saw a gunman and people lying on the floor, and backed out. It’s awful!”
Hamish took her name and address. “Is there a back door to the bank?”
“Aye, it’s got a little kitchen where we make the morning coffee.”
“Don’t any of you move,” said Hamish, “and make sure everyone keeps clear of the bank until reinforcements arrive.”
Hamish found himself getting very angry indeed. A bank robbery! In the Highlands! And on his beat!
He went to his Land Rover and took out a small tool kit. He went round and surveyed the back door. There was a glass pane on it, but the pane was protected by heavy metal bars. The door hinges were on the outside, however. He took out a screwdriver and a can of oil. He squirted oil on the hinges and got to work with the screwdriver, working furiously until he was able to lift the door off its hinges. There was an alarm above the door, but it didn’t go off. Probably hadn’t been serviced in years, he thought.
He took off his boots and went in quietly in his stockinged feet. He gently opened the door that led into the main floor of the small bank. A terrified girl was stuffing banknotes into a sack while a man on the other side of the counter held a sawn-off shotgun on her.
It was an old-fashioned bank. There was no bullet-proof glass screen between the teller and the customer, only a mahogany counter which sloped up to the teller and down on the teller’s side.
Hamish took out his telescopic truncheon, sprang across the floor, and vaulted over the counter, driving his feet straight into the gunman’s chest. The gunman fell backwards, and the shotgun went off, blasting a hole in the ceiling.
Hamish smashed the truncheon down on the arm holding the shotgun.
“You've broke my arm,” screamed the gunman.
Hamish flipped him over and handcuffed him. Then he wrenched off the balaclava hiding the man’s face. It was a face he didn’t recognise, and he was glad of that. He had been afraid it might be one of the locals and had not liked to think that one of them had decided to go in for bank robbery.
From outside the bank, Blair’s unlovely Glaswegian voice sounded through a loudhailer. “You are surrounded. You cannot escape. Come out with your hands up.”
The townspeople were now crowded behind police barriers.
The door of the bank opened, and Hamish Macbeth appeared, pushing the handcuffed gunman in front of him.
A great cheer went up from the crowd.
Blair’s face darkened in anger. A local cameraman was busy taking pictures. Police took the gunman off to a waiting police van.
The bank ma
nager, looking white and shaken, came out in time to hear Blair raging at Hamish, “You should have waited. I have a trained negotiator here.”
The bank manager, Mr. Queen, said crossly, “If it hadn’t been for Hamish, some of us might have been killed. There'll be a reward for you, Hamish.”
A policeman came up and said, “There’s a call from Mrs. Sutherland’s store in Cnothan. She’s caught a shoplifter.”
Blair’s face cleared. Here was a way to get the triumphant Macbeth off the scene before any more press arrived.
“That’s your beat,” he said. “Hop to it.”
“What about my statement?” asked Hamish.
“You can send it in later. Off you go.”
And so Hamish headed off to Cnothan, unaware of the fuss and gossip Effie was causing at the sale of work.
Chapter Three
Thou are gone from my gaze like a beautiful dream,
And I seek thee in vain by the meadow and stream.
—George Linley
The members of the Mothers’ Union were inclined to snub Effie, each one feeling she might have offered to help the cause by putting some of her own work up for sale.
Effie, complete with garish make-up, cruised the stalls, picking up things and putting them back. Then as she stopped in front of Mrs. Wellington’s stall, which was full of all the unsuccessful junk recycled from the last sale, she picked up a horrible green vase. A shaft of sunlight struck down through the grimy windows and sparkled on the diamond ring on her engagement finger.
“Is that an engagement ring?” boomed Mrs. Wellington.
The chatter in the hall suddenly died.
“Indeed it is,” said Effie with a smile.
“And who is the lucky fellow?”
“Jock Fleming,” said Effie triumphantly.
All the women crowded around her as Effie beamed in triumph. In that heady moment, she was sure Jock had actually bought her the ring.
“When did he pop the question?” asked Angela.
“Just before he left.”
“So when’s the wedding?” asked Freda, who was visiting the sale of work on her lunch break.
“As soon as we can,” said Effie. “Jock is so impetuous.”
