by M C Beaton
Hamish and Chalmers hurried out to the police cars. Henry was just coming in with Priscilla. He had an arm about her waist. Priscilla avoided looking at Hamish.
The headmistress of the primary school refused to open her door, claiming they were only masquerading as policemen and she had read about thugs like them.
“It’s me, Mrs Mackenzie,” called Hamish. “Macbeth! Take a look through the letter-box.”
The letter-box was cautiously poked open. Chalmers flicked a lighter under Hamish’s face.
There was a squeak of alarm and the metal flap of the letter-box dropped. “Hamish Macbeth,” came Mrs Mackenzie’s shaky voice, “does not own a dinner jacket.”
“Mrs Wellington’s got a spare key,” said Hamish. “We’ll try the manse.”
Mrs Wellington was wearing a voluminous flannel nightgown when she answered the door. Hamish was glad Mr Wellington had found God, because it certainly looked as if he would need to wait until he got to heaven to get his reward. She went back in and emerged wrapped in a large tweed coat, produced the key, and insisted on accompanying them.
One look at the school kitchen was enough to tell both Chalmers and Hamish that they would be lucky if they found one fingerprint. Tables were scrubbed and counters were shining.
Hamish fished in the pocket of Uncle Harry’s dinner jacket and took out his notebook, glad he had transferred it into the pocket with his other bits and pieces before he went out for dinner.
He licked the end of his pencil and then began to write in meticulous shorthand as Chalmers asked Mrs Wellington to remember where everyone was standing and what they were doing.
But Mrs Wellington was one of those bossy women to whom the very rapping out of orders is an end in itself. She had barked at people to do various things and then had moved on to bully someone else without waiting to see whether her orders were carried out or not.
Nonetheless, Chalmers persisted with his questions as the night wore on and a rising wind soughed about the schoolhouse with a lost, wailing sound.
When Chalmers had at last finished, Hamish asked, “Do you mind if we see the cupboards where you keep your cleaning materials and things like that?”
“I am very tired,” said Mrs Wellington, “and I see no reason…oh, very well. They’re over here, underneath the sinks.”
Mindful of Uncle Harry’s trousers, Hamish took out a clean handkerchief, spread it on the floor, knelt down and poked his red head into the cupboards. Then he suddenly stiffened and appeared to point like a dog.
He eased the handkerchief out from under his knees and draped it over one hand. He reached into the cupboard and brought out a cylindrical cardboard container with the label Buggo. He read the list of ingredients carefully and then opened the lid.
“Empty,” he said. “This is roach powder. I haff never heard of the cockroaches being in Loch-dubh.”
“It was that American lady, Mrs Fitzgerald, who left it,” said Mrs Wellington. “You remember her, Mr Macbeth, the one who turned up at the Loch-dubh Hotel for her holidays two years ago with a suitcaseful of mosquito repellent, disinfectant flea powder, ant spray – the works. She gave that roach powder to Mrs Mackenzie for the school kitchen.”
“And did she use it?” asked Hamish, sitting back on his heels.
“I don’t know. Ask her.”
“You’d better come along with us. She thinks we’re muggers pretending to be policemen.”
“What are you getting at?” said Chalmers.
“Mrs Forbes-Grant loved cakes,” said Hamish. “Everyone knew that. She was eating all she could in the kitchen this morning. Someone may have made a special batch of cakes, just for her, and put something like this roach powder in them. This powder contains, or did contain when the box was full, sodium fluoride. There were cake crumbs found in her room.”
“We’d better get a box and take everything,” said Chalmers heavily, “disinfectants, cleaners, the lot.”
Mrs Wellington persuaded Mrs Mackenzie to open her door. Mrs Mackenzie blinked at the packet of roach powder.
“I mind that American lady giving it to me,” she said. “I didnae like to disappoint her by saying we didn’t have any roaches. I just put it under the sink with the other stuff.”
“And you never used it?” asked Chalmers.
“No. I did not have any reason to.”
Carrying the box with the contents of the school-kitchen cupboards, Chalmers and Macbeth made their way back to their cars.
“That murderer must be laughing at us,” said Chalmers bitterly. “Not content with poisoning Vera Forbes-Grant, he, or she, put that grisly dummy up above the bed first.”
“Och, no, that was done for different reasons.”
“Who did it?”
“I should think that terrible pair, Jessica and Diana. It’s funny, when I first saw them I thought they were a typical couple of country girls. Now I think they’re silly and vicious. I’m sure they strung up that dummy.”
“Why? the woman had just seen her husband accused of murder.”
“Because Vera had an affair with Bartlett, and they’re still jealous of her. Because Vera probably milked the last little bit o’ drama out of our accusing her husband.”
“Or maybe you’ll find we were meant to discover it was them who played the dirty trick on her. That way, we might not suspect them of the murder.”
Priscilla Halburton-Smythe thought the night would never end. One by one they were called into the colonel’s study to make their statements, and each person seemed to be gone an hour. By the time it was Priscilla’s turn, she was too exhausted to think clearly. She felt she was living in a nightmare where she was doomed to sit in this study, making statements to the police over and over again. Hamish, still in evening dress, was sitting over by the window. He looked elegant and remote. She wished he were wearing his usual scruffy old clothes or worn uniform. He did not look like the Hamish she knew.
At last she was dismissed. Henry was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs.
“How did it go?” he asked sympathetically.
“As usual,” said Priscilla bitterly. “I’m an old hand at making statements.”
“Well, I’ve made mine, and dawn is breaking. Let’s go to bed.”
Priscilla looked at him warily. “Look, darling,” he said, “surely this is not the night to play the prude.”
“Henry, the last thing on my mind at this moment is sex. I don’t believe for a moment that Freddy shot Peter. I think the murderer is one of us – or the murderess. The only thing I’m taking to bed tonight is a hot-water bottle.”
“Very well,” he said coldly. “But it’s beginning to appear to me as if there’s every possibility of this rubbish going on after marriage. You may be lousy in bed for all I know. In a way, you’re asking me to buy the goods before I see them.”
Priscilla clutched hold of the banister. “Perhaps you’re right,” she said wearily. “But I am still going to my room alone and I am locking the door behind me.” She turned and went up the stairs.
“I suppose if that village bobby comes knocking, you’ll open your door, and your legs, soon enough,” he shouted after her.
Priscilla put her head down and ran up the remaining stairs. She collided with the solid bulk of Lady Helmsdale.
“What were you doing in my room?” cried Priscilla.
“I was looking for an aspirin,” said Lady Helms-dale.
Although Priscilla was tall, Lady Helmsdale seemed to loom over her in the darkness of the corridor.
Lady Helmsdale had pale eyes and they were fixed on Priscilla’s face in an unnerving stare.
Fear gripped Priscilla. She realized she had never really known Lady Helmsdale. In fact, what did she know of any of the guests, even Henry?
She gave a choked sob, pushed past Lady Helms-dale into her room, and slammed and locked the door.
But although she undressed, got into bed and clutched the hot-water bottle, she could not seem to ge
t warm.
A timid knock at the door made her heart leap into her mouth.
“Who is it?” she called.
“It is I – Pruney.”
“Pruney, I’m exhausted. Is it very important?”
“Yes.”
Priscilla sighed. She climbed out of bed and opened the door.
Pruney stood blinking at her behind her enormous glasses.
“I’ve got to talk to someone,” she whispered.
“Come in,” said Priscilla. “I’m too cold to sleep anyway.” She left the door unlocked, hoping Pruney only intended to stay a couple of minutes.
She sat down on the edge of the bed and Pruney sat next to her, twisting a handkerchief in her nervous fingers.
“What is it?” asked Priscilla gently.
“He loved me.”
“Who?”
“Captain Bartlett. He loved me,” said Pruney, striking her bosom, which was covered by the embroidered yoke of her old–fashioned nightgown.
“Did he actually say so?” asked Priscilla.
“Not in so many words, but his actions… He was so kind to me at that party, and…and…later when I went upstairs, I saw him. He said he was going to talk to Vera. I said, “Won’t Freddy object to that?” He laughed and said, “Freddy won’t know. I just rap once on the door and walk quickly away. She knows that’s the signal to come to my room.” ”
“But didn’t that tell you that Peter was a philanderer?” said Priscilla awkwardly.
“No, no,” said Pruney eagerly. “He explained. He said, “You must think me an awful flirt, but those days are over. I just have to see her on a matter of business. I’m thinking of mending my ways and settling down.” And then he raised my hand to his lips and he kissed it,” said Pruney, holding her right hand against her cheek. “I looked into his eyes and saw a decent love and concern there, and knew I had been instrumental in making him decide to reform. I have had to listen to rubbish from Jessica and Diana, implying they both had affairs with him. It cannot be true. He wouldn’t look at them. And Vera! That gross, horrible woman. She has a husband…”
“Had,” said Priscilla. “Vera’s dead. Remember?”
“And good riddance,” said Pruney with sudden venom. “She was probably bumped off by one of the servants. She’s the sort of woman who has affairs with servants and milkmen and people of that class. Vera was a murderee.”
She clutched Priscilla’s arm in a powerful grip. “Peter loved me,” she cried. “You do believe me, don’t you? Someone has got to believe me.”
“Is everything all right, Miss Halburton-Smythe?” came a cool voice from the doorway.
Pruney gasped and jumped to her feet.
Hamish Macbeth stood on the threshold.
“I’m just going,” she squeaked, and scurried out past him.
Hamish came in and closed the door.
“What was all that about?” he asked.
“Oh, Peter couldn’t leave anything in a skirt alone. He kissed her hand and made poor Pruney think he’d fallen for her. Why are you here?”
Hamish sat down on the bed, and then yawned and lay down and stretched out. “I’m going away,” he said. “I chust wanted to make sure you were all right. I had a feeling you’d still be awake.”
“Henry might have been in here.”
“So he might,” said Hamish equably. “But it wasn’t Henry’s voice I heard.”
“Where are you going?” said Priscilla, lying down beside him and clasping her hands behind her head.
“Chalmers has decided to try a long shot. He’s got the address of that aunt of Harriett’s in London and wants me to go and see her.”
“But the police down there could do that, surely?”
“Aye, but he thinks my famous charm might unearth something. We’re getting no farther with the case up here, and things are verra serious. Now, Bartlett got engaged to Diana in London, he ditched Jessica in London. There might be something there, or, failing that, this aunt might know of a further connection between Bartlett and the rest of the guests.”
“How long will you be away?”
“I’m going down on the night train. I cannae get a sleeper in the second class and the police don’t run to first-class fares. I’ll spend the day in London and then come straight back up.”
“I wish you weren’t going,” said Priscilla in a small voice. “I’m beginning to be frightened of everyone, except Mummy and Daddy, and they never were the sort of parents one could talk to, you know. Earlier this evening, Mummy said with tears in her eyes that the only good thing in this whole mess was my engagement to Henry.”
“Well, that is something,” said Hamish, staring at the ceiling.
“But it’s all going wrong, Hamish,” wailed Priscilla. “I think I’m frigid!”
Hamish slid a comforting arm about her shoulders. “Now, now,” he said, “I am thinking that a couple o’ murders are enough to freeze anyone.”
Priscilla responded with a choked sob. She buried her head on his chest and began to cry.
“There, now,” said Hamish, pulling her into his arms and stroking her hair. “Once these murders are solved, you’ll be able to see things a bit more clearly.”
Hamish had a sudden pang of sympathy for Henry. Priscilla was wearing a short scanty nightdress and was pressing against him for comfort. He realized she had absolutely no idea of the effect she was having on him.
He grimly tried to keep his thoughts on something else as he rocked her like a child and murmured soothing nonsense in her ear.
“I might have guessed,” said Henry Withering, walking into the room and glaring at the couple on the bed. “Give me back my ring, Priscilla.”
Priscilla started to say something, but Hamish tightened his grip and looked blandly at Henry. Priscilla took off her ring. Hamish took it from her and held it out to Henry, who walked up to the bed and snatched it.
“You’d better think up something to tell your father in the morning,” said Henry, “because he’s going to hear all about this.”
Priscilla struggled free from Hamish’s embrace. “Henry!” she called desperately. But the slamming of the door was the only answer.
“Now, don’t start crying again,” said Hamish. “You wanted out of that engagement. Didn’t you?”
Priscilla hung her head. “But Daddy’s going to be furious.”
Hamish swung his long legs off the bed. “If you don’t start thinking for yourself,” he said, “you’re going to end up in another mess. I’m sick to death of hearing what Daddy and Mummy would think. You’re a nice girl, Priscilla, but they’ve kept you ower young for your own good. Take my advice and go and wake your father and give him your version. And make sure you put it plainly enough. Henry had every reason to think the worst. What a frustrated man he must be! You’re enough to try the patience of a saint. I am your old friend Hamish. But a village copper has feelings – and eyes – and you’re parading about with practically nothing on.”
Priscilla snatched up her dressing gown and wrapped it around her. “I’m sorry, Hamish,” she mumbled.
“Aye, well, God knows you’re safe enough with me. Chust make sure you cover up when there’s anyone else around. I’ll be back from London as fast as I can. In the meantime, don’t trust anyone. If you’re that worried, you might try talking to your mother or father as adult to adult and not like a child.”
“Stop patronizing me, Hamish,” said Priscilla.
“You get back from the world the way you treat the world. You treat me like a big brother. What else do you expect?”.
“I expect a little sympathy and understanding. You’re as bad as Henry.”
“Poor Henry. There are times when I think you need a good slap on the bum to bring you to your senses.”
“Oh, get out,” said Priscilla wearily, “and take your so-called charm with you.”
∨ Death of a Cad ∧
13
But, Sir, let me tell you, the noblest prospec
t which a Scotchman ever sees, is the high road that leads him to England!
—samuel johnson.
The crowded train from Inverness to London gave Hamish ample time to reflect on the stoicism of the British. As they chugged their way through the Grampians, the air-conditioning was blasting into the carriage. People rose and put on their coats and sat down again.
Hamish complained to the guard.
“You’re the only person that’s complaining,” said the guard sourly. “If I were you, I’d gang doon the train and find a compartment with the heat on.”
“But there’s ground frost tonight,” said Hamish plaintively. “Why is the air-conditioning on?”
“Fur the American tourists.”
“Oh, the Americans, is it?” said Hamish. “And here’s me thinking you maybe had the Laplanders or the Eskimos on board.”
“It’s folk like you that make British Rail a failure,” said the guard obscurely, moving away.
Hamish sighed and took down his overnight bag and made his way along the train. He was glad he was not in uniform. The last time he had worn his uniform on the London train, the passengers had treated him like a walking tourist office.
What on earth did the American tourists make of all this? thought Hamish, as he eventually settled into a vacant seat farther down the train. No buffet car and eleven hours to make the journey to London.
“Hullo!”piped a small voice.
Hamish looked up.
A boy with a pinched white face was sitting opposite him, clutching a comic. Hamish looked about and then looked back at the child.
“Are you travelling on your own?” he asked.
“Naw, I’m with them,” said the boy, jerking his thumb across the aisle where four men were drinking beer and playing poker.
“Which of them’s your dad?”
“None of them,” said the boy.
“Uncle, then?”
“Don’t know ‘em from Adam.”
Hamish surveyed the white little face and the knowing eyes of the child.
“What’s your name?”
“Wee Alec. Alec MacQueen.”
“Well, Alec, what are you doing travelling on this train with four men you don’t know?”
