by M C Beaton
Lochdubh was a sea loch. The little stone harbour smelled offish and tar and salt. He was just debating whether to mooch some herring for his dinner when his sharp ears caught the sound of heavy snoring, rather like Towser’s coming from behind a pile of barrels stacked next to the sea-wall. He ambled around the barrels and stood looking down at the unlovely sight of Angus MacGregor, local layabout and poacher, lying on the ground between the barrels and the sea-wall. He smelled strongly of whisky. He was lying on his back, a shotgun cradled on his chest, and smiling beatifically.
Hamish bent down and gently removed the gun. Then he heaved the still-sleeping Angus over on his face and with experienced hands searched in the deep ‘poacher’s pocket’ in the tail of Angus’s coat. He lifted out a brace of dead grouse.
Angus had been warned off the Halburton-Smythes estate many times. The last time a gamekeeper had given him a beating, but all that had done was to make Angus swear he would continue to take every bird and beast he felt like taking off the estate. When he was crazy with whisky, he often claimed to be Colonel Halburton-Smythe’s bastard son. As Angus was about the same age as the colonel, no-one even troubled to listen to the story – except Colonel Halburton-Smythe, who had been heard raging that one day he would shoot Angus and stop his lying mouth.
Hamish walked off with the brace dangling from his hand. He could not be bothered waking Angus up and charging him with theft. It was too fine a day. And taking a statement from Angus was always a wearisome business involving hours and hours of highly inventive Highland lies.
Then he remembered how Jeremy Pomfret had pressed him to ‘referee’ the contest for the first brace. Returning the grouse Angus had poached would give him an excuse to go to the castle and see what was happening. He might also see Priscilla.
Towser was panting for an outing when he returned to the police station, so he drove off with the large mongrel sitting up beside him on the passenger seat and the dead birds slung in the back.
The narrow road that led out of Lochdubh towards Tommel Castle wound through a chaos of tormented rocks, relics of the days when great glaciers had covered this part of the north-west of Scotland. In among the rocks, tarns filled high with water from the recent rains shone blue in the sun. These hundreds of tarns, or small pools, never failed to fascinate Hamish. On bright days, they scintillated sapphire-blue, and when the sky was heavy and grey mists twisted among the mountains, they glinted whitely or lay black and fathomless. The skies dictated the beauty of the scene, so that it was always changing, brilliant one day, weird and ghostly another.
Ahead reared up the fantastic pillared mountains of Sutherland, with quartzite sparkling on the upper slopes and the deep purple of heather on the foothills.
As he approached the castle, he caught a glimpse of red-and-white behind a stand of larch. He stopped the car and got out. A helicopter stood on a flat piece of ground behind the trees, the pilot leaning against its side, smoking a cigarette. Hamish looked at his watch. It was eight-thirty.
“Fancy anyone wanting to eat birds that hasnae been hung.” marvelled Hamish. “Some of thae Arabs have more money than sense.”
A few minutes later, Hamish drove up to the front door of the castle. Jenkins, the butler, had observed his approach and was standing waiting inside the open door.
“The kitchen entrance is around the back,” he said.
“I ken that fine,” said Hamish. “Aye, it’s a grand day. I just want a wee word with Miss Halburton-Smythe.”
“That will not be possible,” said Jenkins stiffly. “Miss Halburton-Smythe and the guests are at breakfast.”
Hamish looked over Jenkins’s shoulder and the butler turned round.
Red-eyed and haggard, Jeremy Pomfret was marching up to them.
“That bastard Bartlett!” he shouted.
“I assume Captain Bartlett has gone out shooting.” said Jenkins.
“I thought so.” said Jeremy bitterly. “He’s not at breakfast and he’s not in his room. And his gun’s gone.” He noticed Hamish for the first time. “You see, I told you he was up to something. Sneaked out early. Well, he’s been found out and the bet’s off. Came to my room last night with a bottle of champers. “Have a drink, old boy,” says he. Made me drink the whole bottle. Said we’d meet up at breakfast and go out together, and all the time the bastard was planning to get up early and beat me to it. God, I feel awful.”
“Aye, it’s a terrible thing when they force the stuff down your throat,” said Hamish amiably.
“He didn’t force it,” muttered Jeremy. “But when a chap offers another chap champagne, a chap can’t refuse.”
“True, true,” said Hamish, leaning lazily against the castle door. “It’s awf’y hard to say no to the champagne.”
“I have already told you, Mr Macbeth,” said Jenkins, “that Miss Halburton-Smythe is not to be disturbed.”
Hamish recognized one of the maids who was crossing the hall with a tray. “Jessie,” he said, “be a good girl and tell Miss Halburton-Smythe I want a wee word with her.”
“Sure thing,” said Jessie, who was an American movie addict.
“Jessie,” said Jenkins sharply. “I have informed this constable that Miss Halburton-Smythe is at breakfast.”
But Jessie either didn’t hear, or pretended not to hear. Jenkins clucked with irritation and went after her.
“What are you going to do now?” asked Hamish, turning his attention back to Jeremy.
“Nothing, not with this hangover. I’ve a mouth on me like a Turkish wrestler’s jock strap. I’m going back to bed.”
He trailed wearily back up the stairs.
Priscilla came out of the dining room into the hall. She was wearing biscuit-coloured linen trousers, thin sandals, and a frilly Laura Ashley blouse. Her blonde hair was pinned up on top of her head. She looked as fresh as the morning.
“What did you want to see me about?” she asked Hamish.
Hamish, who had been staring at her, pulled himself together. “I wondered if you would like me to bring over Uncle Harry’s clothes or whether you would like to collect them from the police station.”
Priscilla looked amused. “Instead of coming all the way up here to ask me what to do,” she said, “you could have brought the clothes along with you and solved the problem.”
“Och, so I could’ve,” said Hamish stupidly. “There’s another thing. Angus, the poacher, was down by the harbour and – ”
He broke off and cocked his head to one side. Someone was running hard up the gravel of the drive.
He went out to the front steps, with Priscilla after him.
John Sinclair, the estate’s head gamekeeper, came running towards them. “He’s shot hisself,” he cried. “Oh, what a mess!”
“Who is it?” demanded Priscilla, pushing in front of Hamish.
“It’s Captain Bartlett, and he’s got a great hole blown clean through him.”
Priscilla turned and clutched at Hamish’s sweater in a dazed way. Sinclair ran on into the castle, shouting the news.
“It’s awful,” whispered Priscilla, beginning to shake. “Oh, Hamish, we’d better go and look. He might still be alive.”
He put his arms around her and held her close. “No, I don’t think so,” he said in a flat voice.
The guests, headed by Colonel Halburton-Smythe, came tumbling out of the castle. Henry Withering stopped short at the sight of Priscilla enfolded in Hamish’s arms.
“Lead the way, Sinclair,” barked the colonel. “And you, Jenkins, call the ambulance. The ladies had better stay behind. Macbeth, what are you doing here? Oh, never mind, you’d better come with me.”
Hamish released Priscilla and set out with the colonel and the gamekeeper. Henry, Freddy Forbes-Grant, and Lord Helmsdale followed. Sir Humphrey Throgmorton returned to the castle with the ladies.
The day was becoming hot. The air was heavy with the thrum of insects and the honey-laden smell of the heather.
As they left the
castle gardens, Colonel Halburton-Smythe spotted the helicopter. “What the hell is that thing doing on my property?” he demanded. Hamish explained about the Arabs in London and the promised payoff of £2,000.
“Bartlett had no right to order helicopters to descend on my land without asking me,” said the colonel. “Oh, well, the man’s dead and he won’t be needing that two thousand now.”
“Aye, that’s right,” said Hamish, looking thoughtfully at the helicopter.
“Don’t stand there as if you’d never seen a helicopter before,” said Colonel Halburton-Smythe impatiently.
Hamish fell into step with the others and they set out over the moors at a steady pace.
It should have been raining, thought Hamish, steady, weeping rain like they had had during the previous weeks. A tragedy in bright sunshine seemed much more frightful than one on a day when the skies were grey.
“Here we are,” said the gamekeeper, pointing ahead.
The ground sloped down. At the bottom of the slope was a wire fence. Hanging over the fence was a body, still and grotesque and unreal in the clear air.
“What a mess!” whispered Lord Helmsdale in awe as they reached the scene.
Captain Bartlett hung almost upside-down, suspended by his right leg from the top strand of the fence. The gun was on the other side of the fence, its butt in a gorse bush, the side-by-side barrels resting on the top strand of the fence, glaring wickedly like two black fathomless eyes at the group. There was no doubt the captain had been straddling the fence when he was shot.
“Don’t touch anything,” said Hamish. “The forensic boys from Strathbane will need to see everything.”
They stood around Hamish in white-faced silence.
The sun was hot. A buzzard sailed high in the clear air.
Then Lord Helmsdale cleared his throat noisily. “You can see what happened, Macbeth,” he said, his voice once more loud and robust. “The silly ass was using his gun as a support to balance himself as he climbed over. Everyone does it. Do it myself. Then the gun got caught in that damned bush, and when he tried to pull it clear, the triggers snagged and went off. Must have been both barrels. Look! He’s blown a hole clear through his chest.”
There were violent retching noises as Freddy threw up in the heather.
“But how could that happen?” asked Henry in a shaky voice. “There are two triggers, and besides, wouldn’t he have the safety catch on?”
“He should have,” said Hamish. He stepped around the body and peered at the gun. “But the safety catch is off. Verra careless, that. Now, those thorns are tough and springy and if the front trigger got caught, and if the captain pulled hard enough, it could pull both triggers.”
Hamish walked a few yards away and stepped easily over the fence so as not to disturb the body. He circled the gorse bush. “It is an accident that sometimes happens,” he said. “Even experienced sportsmen close a gun and then forget it is loaded.”
Hamish took out a clean handkerchief, took hold of the gun by the barrels, and slowly and carefully extricated it from the bush.
The gun was a Purdey, a hammerless side-lock, self-opening ejector gun. Hamish whistled softly. “A pair o’ these would set ye back around thirty-five thousand pounds,” he said.
He broke open the gun and took out two cartridges. Both were spent. He glanced at the body. “Both barrels.” He held up the spent cartridges. “Number six,” he said, half to himself. He laid the gun down carefully on the heather and knelt down by the fence. Carefully, he reached through the wires and felt inside the captain’s jacket pockets. The others watched, fascinated, as the policeman withdrew a handful of unused cartridges. He examined them and nodded. “Number six as well,” he said. He then stood for a long time in silence, staring at the dead man. The captain’s tweed cap had fallen from his head and lay in the heather. He had been wearing a shooting jacket, corduroy knee breeches, wool socks, and thick-soled shoes when he had been shot.
Henry said sharply, “The man’s shot himself by accident I don’t see any need for the rest of us to hang about How you can stand there, Macbeth, staring at that awful wreck of a man as if you were looking at a piece of meat on a butcher’s block, beats me. And what were you doing,” he added his voice suddenly shrill, “hugging Priscilla?”
“Policeman never did know his place,” said Colonel Halburton-Smythe.
“She was shocked and in need of comfort,” said Hamish, his eyes still fixed on the body. “Perhaps, Mr Withering, it would be as well if you went back and looked after her. There’s nothing anyone can do until the forensic team arrives from Strathbane. Would you call Strathbane police and get them to send up a forensic team as well as an ambulance?” he asked the colonel. “I’d better stay with the body until they get here.”
“Better get Freddy away quick,” said Lord Helms-dale. “Looks as if he’s going to faint.”
“I’ll be along shortly to get statements from everyone,” said Hamish.
“Why?” demanded the colonel. “It’s obviously an accident.”
“Oh, just in case,” said Hamish vaguely.
“Well, I have no doubt the matter will be taken out of your incompetent hands,” said the colonel viciously, “as soon as the detectives from Strath-bane arrive with the forensic team.”
“Just so,” said Hamish absent-mindedly.
The rest began to trail away. Henry looked back. Hamish was still standing looking down at the body.
“I think that copper’s off his head,” he grumbled.
“He’s cunning and lazy,” said Colonel Halburton-Smythe. “And devoid of natural feeling. He’ll probably lie down and go to sleep when we’re out of sight.”
“Known Priscilla long, has he?” asked Henry.
“Priscilla knows everyone in the village,” said the colonel. “She is too easygoing and good-natured. Macbeth takes advantage of her kindness. Priscilla doesn’t know quite when to draw the line. She even went off to a film show in the village hall with Macbeth last year. I had to warn him off. Thank goodness she’s marrying you, Henry.”
“Would you like me to wait with Macbeth?” asked Sinclair, the gamekeeper.
“No,” said the colonel. “I want you to be on hand to answer questions when the police arrive from Strathbane.”
When they were out of sight, Hamish climbed back over the fence to the side where the captain was half-hanging, half-lying. He opened the captain’s game bag, which was slung around his neck, and peered inside. It was empty. He reached up to push his cap back on his head and then realized he had not put on the rest of his uniform, bar his trousers. He wished he had brought Towser with him instead of leaving the animal cooped up in the car.
He bent down and searched the springy heather near the dead man. Then, crawling along on all fours, he began to search away from the body. “It’s chust too convenient – that’s what gets me,” he muttered. “He was coming away from the moor and without his brace. Had he given up? But there’s grouse available. Angus got his brace easily enough.” He thought back to the party. No-one had seemed to like the captain. The three women who had been clustered around him when he, Hamish, had arrived had turned cold and angry and bitter. And who was that girl who had suddenly begun to talk about accidents?
He searched while the sun climbed higher in the sky and its rays beat down on his head.
Then he heard the sound of voices and looked up. Walking over the crest of the hill came a familiar heavy-set figure, sweating in a double-breasted suit.
Hamish recognized Detective Chief Inspector Blair with his sidekicks, detectives Jimmy Anderson and Harry MacNab.
After them came ambulance stretcher-bearers and the forensic team and three uniformed policemen.
Hamish knew the investigation was about to be taken out of his hands. Although he had once solved a case and let Blair take the credit, he knew that Blair had now convinced himself that he, Hamish, had had nothing to do with it.
Walking back to stand beside the dead
body, Hamish bent down and looked in the game bag again. Something caught his eye. As Blair marched up to him, Hamish slid one small grouse feather into the pocket of his trousers.
∨ Death of a Cad ∧
5
Nothing in his life became him like the leaving of it…
—shakespeare.
Detective Chief Inspector Blair was not a Highlander. He had been brought up in Glasgow, that city which produces some of the brightest brains in the world, along with some of the biggest chips on the shoulder. Blair, as Hamish often remarked, had a chip on his shoulder so big, it was a wonder his arm didn’t fall off.
Blair detested the upper classes because they made him feel inferior, and the Highlanders because they lacked any inferiority complex whatsoever.
But as he stood in front of the fireplace in the drawing room of Tommel Castle late that afternoon, he was enjoying himself. The Halburton-Smythes and their guests were grouped around him. On either side of Blair stood detectives Anderson and MacNab – like a couple of wally dugs, thought Hamish, who was standing by the window, meaning like those pairs of china dogs that not so long ago ornamented many mantelpieces in Scotland and have now become collector’s items.
Strained faces, white in the gloom of the drawing room, which had been built facing north so that the sun should not fade the carpet, turned towards Blair.
“It was a straightforward accident,” he said. Someone let out a sharp sigh of relief. There was a palpable air of slackening tension in the room.
“So,” went on Blair, enjoying their relief and glad he had kept these toffee-nosed creeps waiting so long for his verdict, “there’ll be no need for me to take any more statements from you.” He had been unable to interview the helicopter pilot, for while he was examining the scene of the crime, Hamish had returned to the helicopter, taken the pilot’s statement, and had told him he could return to Inverness, a piece of high-handedness that had driven Blair wild with rage.
He cast a venomous look in Hamish’s direction before going on with his lecture.
