Hamish Macbeth 02; Death of a Cad hm-2

by M C Beaton

  “What happened?” Priscilla found Jessica and Diana standing beside her. “We’ve just arrived,” said Jessica, “and someone said someone has been arrested.”

  “Freddy,” said Priscilla. “They’ve arrested Freddy for the murder.”

  Both girls exchanged startled glances. Then Jessica let out a slow breath of relief. “Of course, it must have been him,” she said. “He must have found out about Vera and Peter. That old bag, Vera, will be swanning all over the place now, saying Freddy killed for her sake.”

  “I am very sorry for Vera,” said Priscilla. “It came as a terrible shock.”

  “She’ll get over it.” Diana shrugged. “She’ll be drooping around the castle by tonight, trying to queen it over the rest of us as if she’s some sort of femme fatale, instead of the worn-out old trollop she really is.”

  “The pair of you make me sick,” said Priscilla, shaken out of her normal calm. “If Mummy doesn’t tell you to pack and leave, then I shall.”

  “Don’t get so uppity,” said Diana, with a drunken giggle. “We weren’t going to stay anyway. That dump of a castle is enough to make anyone commit murder. Come on, Jessica. Let’s have a beer.”

  They ambled off, arm in arm.

  Priscilla began to feel the beginnings of a headache behind her eyes. The whole scene took on an air of unreality. Flags and striped awnings fluttered in the bright sunshine, the music from the carousel blared out, almost drowning Henry’s voice. Henry. That was the only bright spot in this horrible day, thought Priscilla, with a sudden rush of affection for her fiancé. Although he looked as shocked and strained as the rest of them, he was manfully standing out in the glare of the sun, taking time over each presentation, compering the Highland dancing, accepting the judges’ reports for the piping competition, and making the children laugh by pretending a set of bagpipes had come to life and was trying to strangle him.

  “I’ll tell Hamish I can’t make it tonight,” thought Priscilla, and looked about for the tall figure of the policeman. But there was no sign of Hamish Macbeth.

  Hamish was sitting in the beer tent with Diana and Jessica. They had already told him that they had both known all along it was Freddy, although, said Diana, “At one time I thought it might be Priscilla.”

  “Now why on earth would Miss Halburton-Smythe want to murder Captain Bartlett?” asked Hamish.

  “There’s always been something creepy about Priscilla,” said Diana. “These repressed virgins can be dangerous.”

  “How do you know she’s a virgin?” asked Hamish curiously.

  “You can always tell,” hiccupped Jessica. “That frozen touch-me-not look always gives them away.”

  “And is there something so terrible in being a virgin in your early twenties?”

  “It’s weird, that’s what it is,” said Diana. “I think Henry’s waking up to the fact she’s a cold fish. Anytime he calls at her bedroom door, she keeps him standing outside.”

  “You’re getting away from the murder,” said Hamish.

  “No, I’m not. I’ve seen Priscilla out on the moors with a gun and she handles it like a man.”

  “She’s all right,” said Hamish, “but by no means an expert.”

  “Known her a long time?” asked Diana slyly.

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re sweet on her,” teased Jessica.

  “Aye, I am that, me and the rest of the folk in Lochdubh. We haff always known Miss Halburton-Smythe to be decent and kind, qualities that are as admired in the Highlands as they are anywhere else. It makes a nice change when you think of the silly bitches you sometimes find yourself stuck with. Good day to you, ladies.”

  “What’s got into him?” asked Jessica, staring after his retreating back.

  “Who cares? We’d better put our heads together and find some way to bring Vera down a peg. It’s not as if she ever cared a rap for old Freddy.”

  Hamish walked out of the beer tent. He had a sudden feeling as he made his way through the crowd that Priscilla was looking for him to cancel their dinner date. He did not look round but hurried as fast as he could to his car. Perhaps if he avoided her, she might change her mind.

  Jeremy Pomfret was leaning up against his Volvo in the car-park. He was smoking a cigarette and beaming drunkenly about him. He hailed Hamish like an old friend.

  “Tremendous news about Freddy, hey?”

  “I seem to be the only person who’s sorry for the man,” said Hamish. “Why are you so delighted, Mr Pomfret?”

  “It’s all been hanging over us. I mean, I always knew it must have been one of us. Blair thought I was the prime suspect because of the bet. It’s great to know we can all go home now and forget about it.”

  “I don’t think he did it,” said Hamish abruptly.

  “Here, you can’t go around saying things like that!” exclaimed Jeremy, turning pale. “The police said he did it, Freddy said he did it, so it’s all wrapped up nice and tight.”

  “In my opinion,” said Hamish, “the murderer’s still on the loose.”

  “You’d better be careful,” said Jeremy. “You’d better be very careful, Macbeth. Halburton-Smythe don’t like you. He’s already had Blair in trouble with the Chief Constable. Blair’s a detective. He can stand a bit of aggro. But you’re nothing but the village bobby.” Jeremy’s normally pleasant expression had changed to one of dislike and suspicion.

  Hamish touched his cap and turned away.

  “Keep out of it,” Jeremy shouted after him. “Just keep out of it! D’you hear?”

  Hamish got in his car and drove down to the police station. Priscilla’s car was still parked outside. Her parents must have run her down to the village in the morning.

  He went into his office, sat down at his desk, and called police headquarters at Strathbane. He was told Chalmers was busy and could not come to the phone.

  Hamish sighed and took out his notebook, where he had jotted down odd fragments of information about the house guests. He read them over and over again, and then put his large regulation boots up on the desk and thought hard.

  The sharp ringing of the phone a half hour later startled him. He snatched it, expecting the call to be from Chalmers, but it was only Mrs Wellington, the minister’s wife, demanding his help in carrying tables and chairs back to the church hall.

  Hamish was just leaving when the phone rang again. But before he picked it up, he had a feeling that the caller was Priscilla, still trying to cancel the dinner date.

  He put on his cap and left the police station, leaving the phone ringing.

  “Where have you been?” asked Henry Withering as Priscilla walked up to him.

  “I’ve just been to the phone box down the road to call someone in the village,” said Priscilla. “It’s someone I promised to visit this evening and I wanted to tell…her I couldn’t make it.”

  “I should think not,” said Henry with a grin. “You’ve got me to look after.”

  “You don’t seem to need much looking after.” said Priscilla. “You’ve been marvellous today, Henry. The fair would have been a disaster without you.”

  “I think I’ve done enough,” said Henry. “Let’s get back to the castle and have a nice cool drink. Where’s your car?”

  “It’s down in the village, but anyone in the car-park will give us a lift.”

  “OK, I’ll just say my goodbyes to the Crofters Commission people and join you in a minute.”

  Priscilla waited until he had gone and then took a notebook out of her handbag and scribbled a message to Hamish on a sheet of paper. She could pop it through the letter-box of the police station when she got there. She finished the note and looked for Henry. He was talking earnestly to her father about something. Colonel Halburton-Smythe laughed and clapped him on the shoulder.

  Daddy’s so pleased with him, thought Priscilla. I have done the right thing.

  Henry and Priscilla were dropped outside the police station by Mrs Wellington. They had passed Hamish on the road.
Mrs Wellington had signalled to him to stop, but the policeman had either not seen her, or had pretended not to.

  “What on earth is your car doing at the police station?” demanded Henry.

  “Didn’t I tell you?” said Priscilla. “Daddy phoned when I was calling on Mrs Wellington last night and told me to get Hamish to run me home.”

  “I thought he didn’t like him.”

  “He doesn’t. But Daddy was concerned about my safety. I just have to leave a note for Hamish about some church arrangements.” She pushed open the garden gate of the police station and Towser treated her to a slavering welcome.

  “Don’t be long, darling,” called Henry. “I need that drink before the press conference.”

  Priscilla turned back and leaned on the garden gate. “What press conference?”

  “This is big news. They’ll all be back at the castle tonight. I’ve got your father to agree to let me hold a press conference and deal with the media for him.”

  “But Daddy’s way of dealing with the media is to lock them outside the estate,” said Priscilla, “and a bloody good idea, too. I’ve talked and talked and talked today on your behalf, Henry. I’ve had cameras poked in my face and I’ve had to parry some pretty personal questions. There’s been an arrest. Vera’s going to be in need of some looking after.”

  “Oh, Vera.” Henry shrugged. “That one will be enjoying every minute of the drama.”

  “Vera’s all right,” said Priscilla. “For all her nonsense, she really does care for Freddy. Can’t you keep the press away?”

  “Until I see a contract for the film rights and make sure a secondary company has taken Duchess Darling on the road, I won’t feel secure,” said Henry. “OK, I know this murder’s dreadful. But it’s a windfall for me. No publicity is bad publicity, and you’d better get used to that. So just deliver that note and let’s get going.”

  Priscilla looked at the note in her hand. She walked up to the front of the police station. She stared at the letter-box. Then she raised the flap and let it bang and walked back to the car with the note still crumpled up in her hand.

  “Ready to go?” said Henry.

  “Yes, ready,” said Priscilla evenly.

  Hamish returned to the police station at six. He switched on his answering machine. A Gaelic voice wailed out the beauties of Lochnagar. He switched it off. He must really find out how it worked one day.

  He phoned Strathbane again and this time got through to Chalmers.

  “He’s given us a full confession,” said Chalmers. “Seems quite cocky about it all now. Says he knew Bartlett had had an affair with Vera and so bumped him off. The lab’s still working on the gloves. They were the ones used in the murder, all right.”

  “But can’t they tell from the swabs they originally took from Freddy’s hands and the inside of the gloves whether he actually wore them?”

  “Don’t know. One of the boffins has come up with a theory that Freddy actually used fine surgical gloves under the heavy leather ones.”

  “And what does Mr Forbes-Grant say to that?”

  “Says he can’t remember. Says we’ve got our murderer, so why are we wasting time with a lot of damn-fool questions.”

  “And Vera Forbes-Grant – she was about to tell you something at the fair. What was it?” asked Hamish.

  “She says she just wanted to tell us that her husband couldn’t have harmed anyone. But she seems to have changed her tune. She’s actually proud of him. Can you credit that?”

  “Aye, in a way,” said Hamish cautiously. “I’m no’ easy in my mind about this. I cannae think Freddy would have been cold-blooded enough. The murder may have been done on the spur of the moment, but it was done by someone who didn’t lose his head and thought of everything. I don’t like those gloves turning up conveniently like that.”

  “I’m under a lot of pressure,” said Chalmers. “I want the murderer to be Forbes-Grant. I want the Chief Constable off my back. I want the press off my back. What’s up with the news these days? Why don’t the Libyans bomb Harrods or something? Why doesn’t another Russian reactor blow up?”

  “Now, now,” said Hamish soothingly. “It is of no use wishing a section of the population to die a terrible death just to get the press off your back.”

  “Everyone will be on my back tomorrow,” sighed Chalmers. “I’m going back to that castle and I’m going to take them all through their statements again, and I’m going to have as many men as can be spared combing the moors for more clues.”

  “Have you told the colonel yet?”

  “That’s my next call,” said Chalmers gloomily. “I’ll expect you at Tommel Castle at nine in the morning. Where will you be if anything crops up?”

  “The Laughing Trout.”

  “Dear God.”

  “It’s a new restaurant, up on the Crask road.”

  165

  “Personally, I wouldn’t go near any place with a twee name like that. Enjoy yourself.”

  Chalmers rang off.

  Hamish rushed to wash and change. It looked as if Priscilla was going to keep the date after all.

  ∨ Death of a Cad ∧

  11

  I maintain that though you would often in the fifteenth century have heard the snobbish Roman say, in a would-be off-hand tone, “I am dining with the Borgias tonight,” no Roman ever was able to say,

  “I dined last night with the Borgias.”

  —max beerbohm.

  No, Hamish,” said Priscilla Halburton-Smythe severely. “You cannot keep Uncle Harry’s clothes.”

  Hamish stood sheepishly in front of her in all the splendour of Uncle Harry’s dinner jacket and trousers.

  “I’ll take them off,” he said. “You are only wearing a sweater and trousers, so I’ll look a bit odd.”

  “Keep it on for the evening,” said Priscilla. “I’ve got a dress and high heels in this plastic bag. I had to climb out the back way.”

  “I suppose the press were all there,” said Hamish sympathetically.

  “They were all inside, being entertained by Henry. He felt it would be better to get it all over with rather than being pestered by them when we tried to go out of the castle gates. But I’m afraid I couldn’t face them myself. You know how it is. Mummy would never even begin to understand why I wanted to go out for dinner, so I climbed out of the window of that little upstairs drawing room that nobody ever uses and slid down the roof. No-one saw me leave, not even the servants. I’d left my car down the side road.”

  “Won’t Henry be upset when he finds you missing?”

  “He won’t. I’ll climb back in the way I climbed out. I told him I was going to bed and I locked my door on the outside when I left. I’ll only be a minute changing.”

  She disappeared into the bathroom and Hamish sat down to wait. This must be what it’s like when you have an affair with a married woman, he thought. I wish Henry didn’t exist. I wish we could go out for an evening without all this secrecy.

  Priscilla emerged in record time wearing a filmy red chiffon dress and high-heeled black patent leather sandals.

  “You’d better hide your car in the garage and we’ll take the police car,” said Hamish.

  While she put her car away, he locked up the police station and then stood holding open the door of his car for Priscilla. She got in with a flurry of chiffon skirts and black-nyloned leg just as Mrs Wellington walked past.

  “Evening,” said Mrs Wellington, her eyes bulging with curiosity.

  Hamish slammed the car door before Priscilla could say anything, jumped into the driving seat and drove off with a roar.

  “That’s torn it,” said Priscilla. “She’ll tell Daddy.”

  “He would be bound to hear sooner or later,” said Hamish. “You cannae keep anything quiet around here.”

  “I know that,” said Priscilla. “I was just hoping it would be later rather than sooner.”

  The Laughing Trout, previously called The Caledonian Arms, had reopened under
the new name only recently. The first sinister sign of a possibly indifferent kitchen to meet Hamish’s eye was a row of painted cart-wheels against the fence of the parking area. People who went in for painted cart-wheels, reflected Hamish gloomily, often had peculiar ideas about food.

  A harassed woman answered the bell in the small reception and told them they were lucky there was a table free, and to go and wait in the bar.

  Hamish ushered Priscilla into the bar and they sat down in two mock leather armchairs in front of an electric log fire.

  The harassed woman handed them enormous menus and rushed off.

  “What would you like to drink?” asked Hamish.

  “Campari and soda.”

  “I’ll have the same.”

  “I’ve never seen you drink Campari and soda before,” said Priscilla.

  “And never will again,” said Hamish. “But I’ve a feeling that this is the sort of place where they’ll be better able to cope with two of the same kind of drinks.”

  “Do you think they come and serve you, or do you have to go to the bar?”

  “I think I’ll need to go and get them,” said Hamish.

  The bearded barman was demonstrating back casts to a balding gentleman who was wearing a double-breasted blazer with an improbable crest.

  He ignored Hamish and continued talking.

  “I’m telling you, that was a twenty-pounder at the end of my line, and I knew it,” he was saying.

  An unhealthy-looking girl came into the bar behind the counter, fiddled with the till, and went out again.

  Hamish sighed. He had come across this sort of situation before. In some mysterious way, various cockney families seemed able to find out when a new hotel was about to open up and they descended on it en masse, offering their services – uncle behind the bar, mother at reception, daughter and auntie in the kitchen. They ruined the trade with bad manners and worse food before flying off, like locusts, to descend on yet another Highland hotel.

  Hamish took a step back. Then, with a flying leap, he vaulted the bar and, ignoring the barman’s cries of outrage, proceeded to pour two campari and sodas.