by M C Beaton
Vera’s eyes were soft. “After last night, Peter darling,” she said, “he can notice what he likes. We’re made for each other.”
Peter never knew quite how it happened. A few drinks and he loved the world. A few more and his life seemed full of dead bores. He turned a jaundiced eye on Vera.
“I must say,” he said, “you were certainly the best of last night’s bunch. Lots to be said for middle-aged women with insatiable appetites.”
The smile slowly left Vera’s face as the full implication of what he had said sank in.
“Who else was with you last night?” she demanded. “Oh, darling, you must be joking. There can’t have been anyone else.”
The captain’s black eyes swivelled round to Jessica and Diana and then back to Vera. One eyelid drooped in a mocking wink.
Vera threw the contents of her glass in his face, burst into tears and ran from the room. Her husband saw her stumbling departure and ran after her.
Everyone began to talk very loudly as if nothing had happened.
Hamish had been studying the scene thoughtfully. He saw Priscilla waving to him and excused himself from the Helmsdales and Jeremy and went to join her.
“Henry’s dying to speak to you again,” said Priscilla brightly. She had once more had to reassure Henry that she had no interest whatsoever in the village constable. Henry had finally noticed Hamish’s presence in the room and had accused Priscilla of countermanding her parents’ orders by re-inviting the constable herself. Priscilla had explained the reason for Hamish’s presence, but Henry was still suspicious, although he covered his suspicions very well, and asked her to call Hamish over. He wanted to see the pair of them together again, just to put his mind at rest.
Right behind Hamish came the adoring Prunella Smythe. She was a middle-aged lady wearing a great many bits and pieces. Her hemline drooped. Bits of scarf and thin tatty necklaces hung around her neck. She had a scrappy stole around her thin shoulders with a moth-eaten fringe that had wound itself into the ends of her long dangling earrings.
Called by one and all ‘Pruney’, Miss Smythe’s pale eyes behind her thick glasses looked out on the world with myopic wonder.
Before Henry could speak to Hamish, Pruney launched into full gush. “I cannot tell you enough, Mr Withering, how much I adored your play.”
Peter Bartlett, who had been standing behind them mopping his face with a napkin, turned around. “I never read anything but the Racing Times, Henry, but I did hear you’d got your smash hit at last. What’s it about? The evil capitalists?”
“Oh, no,” said Pruney in a rush. “Nothing like that at all. It’s the most glorious drawing-room comedy, quite like the old days. None of those nasty swear words or”—her voice dropped to a stage whisper “—sex.”
“Sounds a bore,” said the captain.
Pruney giggled. “It’s actually quite naughty in bits. I love when the duchess says, “Marital fidelity is so yawn-making.” ”
Henry turned as red as fire. “Shut up!” he said rudely. “I hate it when people quote my play. Shut up, do you hear!”
Pruney’s short-sighted eyes filled with startled tears.
“Nasty Henry,” said Peter in high good humour.
“Come along, Miss Smythe. You shall tell me all about it. I could listen to you all night.”
He led the now gratified Pruney away.
“He can’t even leave Pruney alone,” said Priscilla. “That man’s a menace.”
“He minds me o’ Jimmy MacNeil down in the village,” said Hamish. “That man would lay the cat.”
Priscilla rounded on Henry. “What on earth came over you?” she asked. “There was no need to rip up poor old Pruney like that.”
“How would you feel if you had spent years writing good solid plays and then only been accepted and famous after you’d deliberately produced a piece of twaddle,” said Henry in a hard flat voice. “I can’t even bear a line of Duchess Darling.”
“Oh, darling, I didn’t know you had written it like that deliberately,” said Priscilla with warm sympathy. “And I thought there was something up with me because I didn’t like it. Never mind. After this success you can write what you like. Don’t glower. Look! Food. I’m starving. Lead me to it.”
She slipped her arm through Henry’s and led him away. Hamish watched them go. Priscilla gave Henry’s arm a squeeze and then she bent and kissed his cheek.
Hamish trailed off to where Sir Humphrey Throgmorton was sitting alone. He introduced himself and asked Sir Humphrey if he could fetch him any food.
“Later, my boy. Later,” said Sir Humphrey. “Sit down and talk for a bit. I’m too old to circulate and the sight of that bounder Bartlett makes me ill.”
“Quite a character,” said Hamish.
“He’s rotten,” said old Sir Humphrey, his little grey beard waggling up and down. “I could tell you a thing or two about that cad. The wonder is that he’s never been in prison.”
Hamish looked down at him hopefully, waiting for more, but Sir Humphrey said, “I am hungry after all. Could you please get me a plate of something?”
Over at the buffet, Hamish arranged a selection of cold meat and salad on a plate and took it back to Sir Humphrey.
Realizing he was hungry himself, he went back to the buffet. By the time he had picked out what he wanted, Sir Humphrey was happily talking to Lady Helmsdale. Then Hamish saw Diana waving to him. She was seated at a table in the corner with Jessica. The girls introduced themselves and Hamish merely said he was Hamish Macbeth, without adding that he was a policeman.
“Do you live near here?” asked Diana, her wide, almost purple eyes roaming over Uncle Harry’s expensive suit.
“Down in the village,” said Hamish.
“Is your wife anywhere about?” asked Jessica.
“I am not married,” said Hamish.
Both girls brightened perceptibly.
“It’s so nice to meet an unmarried man,” drawled Diana. “These house parties can be a drag.”
“I’m not the only unmarried man here,” pointed out Hamish. “I know Mr Pomfret is not married, and Mr Bartlett, I believe, is—”
“Forget about Peter,” said Jessica. “No girl in her right mind would have anything to do with him. And Jeremy’s a wet. Do eat your food…Hamish, is it?”
“Dangerous places, the Highlands, don’t you think?” said Diana with a sly look at Jessica. “All sorts of accidents can happen.”
“Like what?” asked Hamish.
“Oh, exposure, hypothermia, avalanches…things like that.”
“We had a murder here last year,” said Hamish.
“Yes, we all heard about that,” said Jessica. “The murdered woman was a horrible character anyway. Don’t you think it’s mean when some poor person rids the earth of some obnoxious toad and then has to pay the penalty?”
“You can hardly expect me to agree with you,” said Hamish.
“Oh, why?”
“Not in my official bible,” said Hamish with a grin. “Don’t you know I’m the local bobby?”
“Oh, really?” said Diana, as if Hamish had just confessed to being the local cockroach.
“You’re that Macbeth,” said Jessica in tones of loathing. “I read about you in the papers.”
Hamish realized the air about him was becoming glacial and murmured something about taking his leave.
He stood up and looked about for Priscilla. She was sitting next to Henry and did not notice him. But Henry did, and put a possessive hand on Priscilla’s knee.
He then thought he should grit his teeth and thank Mrs Halburton-Smythe for her hospitality, but as he approached her she gave him a horrified look and tried to hide behind a plant.
Hamish sighed and made his way to the door. Jeremy Pomfret seized his arm. “I say,” he said,
“have you heard about this bet I’ve got on with Bartlett?”
“Aye, everyone’s talking about it,” said Hamish. “I hear there are a few side bet
s on, too.”
“Well, it’s now been agreed that we go out at nine in the morning, each with a gun and cartridges, and go off in opposite directions. The first one back at the castle with a brace is the winner.”
“I wish you luck, Mr Pomfret,” said Hamish and turned to leave, but Jeremy clutched at his sleeve.
“I say, old chap,” he said urgently, “couldn’t you, well, sort of be around here at nine tomorrow morning, a sort of referee, you know?”
“What for, Mr Pomfret?”
Jeremy led Hamish into a corner.
“I don’t trust the blighter,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “You see, the bet’s for five thousand pounds, and frankly, I don’t believe he’s got it. And he’s been making some side bets, too. Unless I’m very much mistaken, that means he’s certain he’s going to win.”
“Maybe he’s just full of confidence,” said Hamish cautiously. “The captain’s a verra good shot, I’m told. I’m sure you’ll both get your brace tomorrow. The grouse may be a lot scarcer these days, but there are still plenty out there.”
“Yes, but without beaters or even a dog, it could take ages to walk up to a covey. Either of us could win. What worries me is why Bartlett is so certain it will be him, unless he’s got some trick up his sleeve. Sure you won’t come here at nine to see everything is aboveboard?”
“I’d like to, Mr Pomfret,” said Hamish. “But it’s like this. Unless the colonel invites me, I chust cannot put my nose into this. And the colonel is not going to invite me. In fact, he sent word to stop me coming here tonight, but the message got lost on the way. Besides, any suggestion of a referee would mean the colonel would be made to look as if he thought one of his guests was about to cheat, and he wouldn’t stand for that.”
“Yes, I see what you mean,” said Jeremy, pouting like a disappointed baby. “Sorry to have troubled you.”
Hamish continued on his way out.
He picked up the parcel containing the waiter’s clothes from a chair in the hall and made his way out onto the drive.
Peter Bartlett, smoking a cigar, was pacing up and down.
“Sobering up for the big day,” he said when he saw Hamish.
“Good luck,” said Hamish politely, fishing for his car keys.
“You’ve heard about the bet?” asked Bartlett.
Hamish nodded. “I hear it’s for quite a bit of money,” he said.
“Yes, quite a stroke of luck that, finding old Pomfret here.” Bartlett’s white teeth gleamed in a broad smile. “And I thought I was going to have to be content with that Arab’s miserly two thousand pounds.”
Hamish, who had been about to open his car door, stopped and turned around. “And what Arab would that be, Captain?” he asked slowly.
“Just some old oil sheikh in London. He’s heard stories about the honour of dining on Scottish grouse on the day of the Glorious Twelfth itself, so I offered to get a brace for him—at a price, you understand.”
“And how will you get them to London in time for the sheikh’s dinner, Captain?”
“He’s paying for that. He’ll have a helicopter here before nine in the morning. That’ll take the birds to Inverness airport. The helicopter pilot will put them on the shuttle plane to London, and one of the sheikh’s flunkeys will pick them up at London airport.”
Hamish studied the captain thoughtfully. “And the sheikh will send you a cheque, I suppose?”
“Not likely. When I hand over the grouse, the helicopter pilot will hand me a packet—two thousand pounds in cash. I drive a hard bargain.”
“So,” said Hamish, “if you bag a brace by noon or so, you’re sure to get the two thousand?”
“Exactly,” said Peter Bartlett with a wolfish grin. “Just can’t lose.”
“So if you don’t get the first brace, you’ll only have to pay Mr Pomfret three thousand pounds. And, of course, those side bets you’ve been making.”
Peter Bartlett thrust his head forward, peering into Hamish’s face in the gathering gloom. Then he threw back his head and laughed.
“Don’t worry, my dear constable-chappie. I won’t lose.”
“In that case,” said Hamish, opening his car door, “I’ll say good night.”
“Look here,” said the Captain, putting a hand on Hamish’s shoulder, “do you believe in that thing, you know, where you can tell what’s about to happen? The second sight—that’s it.”
Hamish patiently turned around. He was accustomed to weeping drunks, fighting drunks, and psychic drunks.
“And just what do you think is going to happen?” he asked politely.
“I’ve got this feeling someone’s out to get me,” said the captain. “I feel a lot of menace about…oh, it’s hard to explain.”
“I think it iss very easy to explain, Captain Bartlett,” said Hamish. “If a man puts as many backs up as you have, then it iss almost a form of suicide. I haff met people before who could not bring themselves to put an end to their lives, and so they went around goading other people into doing it for them. Good night, Captain Bartlett.”
He drove off and left Peter Bartlett staring after him.
FOUR
I once read the last words of a suicide, in which he stated he hoped the jury would not return a verdict of ‘accidental death’ or ‘death by misadventure’ because he thoroughly understood what he was doing when he shot himself, and did not wish it handed down to posterity that he belonged to the class of idiots who inadvertently would handle a weapon in such a way as to cause risk to themselves or others.
—charles lancaster.
Police constable Hamish Macbeth did not sleep well. Towser lay at the end of his bed, across his feet, snoring dreadfully. The sleepless sea-gulls wheeled and screamed over the loch outside, an owl hooted mournfully, and then there came the sharp bark of a fox.
“And to think the tourists come here for the peace and quiet,” mumbled Hamish. After another futile hour of trying to fall asleep, he struggled out of bed. Although it was only five in the morning, the sky was already light He looked out of his bedroom window, which faced over the loch.
It had been a bad summer to date, but this morning had all the signs of heralding a perfect day. A thin mist was rising from the glassy loch. The humped hills on the other side with their stands of larch and birch floated in the mist like a Chinese painting. He opened the window. The morning air was sweet with the smell of roses.
Hamish had succeeded in growing a splendid rambling rose over the door of the police station, and flowers rioted around the blue police sign and trailed over the steps.
The one cell in the police station had stood empty for a long time. The village drunk had joined Alcoholics Anonymous in Inverness and no more enlivened the little police station with nightly renderings of ‘The Road to the Isles’ and ‘The Star o’ Rabbie Burns’.
It was not a job for an ambitious man, but Hamish took his responsibilities seriously. He could make enough to send money home to his father and mother. His job meant he did not have to pay rent or pay for the use of the police car. It was the duty of every Celt to stay unmarried until the next in line was old enough to go out to work. But there had been a long gap between the birth of Hamish, now in his thirties, and the next Macbeth child, Murdo. And Murdo was proving to be a genius at school and would probably win a scholarship to university and so Hamish’s responsibilities must go on a bit longer.
He decided to stay awake and scrambled into an old army sweater and his shiny regulation trousers. Uncle Harry’s dinner jacket and trousers were hung carefully over a chair, the expensive cloth and tailoring looking out of place in Hamish’s tiny shabby bedroom, like an aristocrat who has lost his way home from his club.
Towser rolled over on one side and spread himself comfortably out over the bed. Hamish looked down on the dog and sighed. There had been a time not so long ago when he had banished the dog from his bedroom—for what would, well, some girl think should she decide to share his bed?
But h
ope had gone. Now Hamish wondered gloomily if he was destined to share his bed with the mongrel for years to come.
He went out to the shed in the back garden to get the feed ready for the chickens and geese.
Henry had put his hand on Priscilla’s knee. If only he could get that nasty little picture out of his mind.
He went about his morning chores and then went back inside and made himself a large breakfast, more for something to keep himself occupied than because he was hungry. Towser, smelling the frying bacon, slouched out of the bedroom, looking dazed and rumpled like a dissipated drunk, and placed a large yellowish paw on Hamish’s knee, which was his lazy way of begging.
Hamish picked at his breakfast and then gave up and put his plate on the floor for Towser.
He decided to go down to the harbour and look at the catch brought in by the fishing boats.
As he walked along, he kept remembering snatches of overheard conversation from the party. That Vera had been insulted by Captain Bartlett had been all too evident. So was the fact that, up until a few moments before she had thrown her drink in his face, she had been madly in love with him. Perhaps Priscilla was better off with that neat little playwright of hers, thought Hamish gloomily. She might have become engaged to someone like Peter Bartlett. How old was Henry? wondered Hamish. Certainly a lot older than Priscilla. Even older than he was himself. Probably pushing forty. It would have somehow been more understandable if Priscilla had fallen for a man as young as herself.
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.
