by M C Beaton
Hamish sauntered up, red hair and shiny uniform gleaming in the sun.
‘How is Major Frame?’ asked Alice. ‘Have they taken him off to Strathbane?’
‘No, I thought he would be here by now,’ said Hamish.
‘Here?’ shrieked everyone.
‘Aye,’ said Hamish. ‘They had to let him go. That business where he was said to strangle the club secretary was a bit of a storm in a teacup. The good major was drunk and the secretary objected to the fact that the major hadn’t paid his membership fee and seemed to have no intention of doing so. One word led to another and the major attacked the secretary. Several members of the club pulled them apart. The police were called, but no charges pressed. You can’t send a man to prison for a murder just because he got drunk and bad-tempered a wee while ago.’
‘But if he isn’t the murderer,’ said Alice, ‘who is?’
They all looked at each other in dismay.
Then a faint scream reached their ears, borne on the light breeze.
‘Daphne!’ said John Cartwright, lurching to his feet. They all scrambled for the loch and waded in. Hamish took off his boots, socks and trousers and, cutting a ridiculous figure in his tunic, cap and underpants, waded into the water after them.
As they ploughed through the shallow loch towards the river, they saw Daphne. Her rod was bent, her line was taut, and she called over her shoulder, ‘Keep clear! I want to get this one myself.’ They all moved forward, however, watching as she battled with the leaping, plunging fish.
‘She’ll lose it,’ said Heather. ‘John, do something.’
‘Not me,’ said John. ‘She wouldn’t thank me for any help. Just look at her face!’
Daphne seemed to have aged. Her mouth was clamped tight with deep grooves of strain down either side.
Half an hour passed. Even Hamish, ridiculous in his half dress, stayed where he was. Daphne had played her salmon – for a salmon it was – into the shallow water.
With an exclamation of rage, she suddenly threw her rod down and leapt on the salmon, falling on it in a sort of rugby tackle. Then she rose from the frothing, swirling water, clutching the salmon to her bosom.
She ran to the shore, stumbled up the bank, fell and cut her knee, stood up with a great tear across one wader, ran again until she collapsed on the tussocky grass with the writhing fish under her.
They all scrambled to shore. ‘Let me get the hook out and kill it for you,’ called John.
‘Don’t you dare,’ said Daphne. ‘That’s going to be my pleasure.’
They were saved from watching Daphne kill her fish by a yell from the opposite shore. The major was standing there in full fishing rig.
He waded across to join them.
Hamish watched his approach. He would have expected the major to bluster, to scream about the disgrace of being taken along to the police station, but the major’s eyes were riveted on Daphne and her salmon.
‘By Jove, where did you get that?’
‘Over there,’ panted Daphne.
‘What fly were you using?’
‘A Gore Inexpressible. It’s one of my father’s inventions.’
‘Where does he fish?’
‘He’s got an estate in Argyll he uses in the summer. Wouldn’t even let me try, which is why I came here. I want one hundred photos to send to him.’
Heather opened her mouth to sympathize with the major over his treatment at the hands of the police, but he was already back in the water, a fanatical gleam in his eye, his whole concentration bent on the foaming water.
Then she noticed the still, intent sort of look on Jeremy’s face. Oh dear, thought Heather. That remark of Daphne’s about her father having an estate in Argyll really got home. Poor Alice.
‘Coo-ee!’
The slim figure of Priscilla Halburton-Smythe could be seen on the opposite shore. ‘Mr Macbeth,’ she called.
‘Better put your pants on first,’ said Marvin Roth to Hamish, but Hamish was already off and wading across the loch in Priscilla’s direction.
‘Sheesh!’ said Marvin. ‘She’ll scream the place down when she sees him.’
‘Your Highlander is very prudish about some things,’ said Heather. ‘But any state of undress doesn’t seem to embarrass them, and I’m sure the Halburton-Smythes have become used to it by now.’
‘You’re all wet,’ giggled Priscilla as Hamish waded out. ‘I came rushing over to tell you that Daddy’s in a fearful rage. He’s had collect calls from the States and from London. Lucy Hanson, the secretary, accepted the calls and messages thinking they were something to do with the estate. I asked Daddy to give them to me to pass on, but he won’t.’
‘Maybe if we went now we could take a look in the office when he’s not around,’ said Hamish, water dripping down his long, red-haired legs.
‘We might be lucky. Everyone’s out in the garden having tea. Haven’t you got anything to dry yourself with? You look like something out of a Carry On film.’
‘If we open the windows of the car, I’ll dry soon enough,’ said Hamish. ‘It is just my legs that are wet. The water did not reach my bum.’
‘We’ll take my car,’ said Priscilla, ‘then I’ll drop you off back here. Anyone catch anything?’
So as they drove along, Hamish told her about Daphne’s catch, and Priscilla threw back her head and laughed. She was wearing a simple pink cotton sheath, and her slim, tanned legs ended in white sandals with thin straps and very high heels. Her legs were like satin. Hamish wondered if she shaved them or whether they were naturally smooth. He wondered what it would be like to run a hand down – or up – all that silky smoothness.
‘Stop dreaming,’ said Priscilla. ‘We’re here.’
‘I should have put my trousers on at a quiet bit down the road,’ said Hamish. ‘But there doesn’t seem to be anyone about so I’ll just pop them on.’
‘Well, hurry up. Oh, lor!’
Hamish had got his socks on and had his trousers draped on the gravel drive preparatory to putting them on when Colonel and Mrs Halburton-Smythe and five guests including John Harrington rounded the corner of the house.
The colonel goggled at Hamish, who stood frozen, one leg in his trousers and one out. He’s going to say, ‘What the hell is the meaning of this?’ thought Hamish.
‘What the hell is the meaning of this?’ screamed the colonel. Mrs Halburton-Smythe, who was younger than the colonel and had rather pretty, if faded, blonde good looks, shouted, ‘Come here this minute, Priscilla.’
Priscilla thought wildly of the crazy explanations about Daphne’s salmon and said hurriedly, ‘I’ll tell you about it later. Get in the car, Mr Macbeth.’
The colonel started his wrathful advance.
Hamish leapt into the car, still half in and half out of his trousers. Priscilla jumped in the other side and they fled off before the colonel could reach them.
‘Now I’m for it,’ said Priscilla gloomily. ‘He will never listen, you know, which is why no one ever really tells him anything.’
Hamish wriggled into his trousers. ‘And what will you tell your young man? Your father told me – warned me off in fact – that you were about to become engaged.’
‘I suppose I’d better get engaged to someone,’ said Priscilla, concentrating on her driving and therefore missing the look of pain on her companion’s face. ‘After all, they did take me to London to do the Season and a fat lot of good that was. It cost them a lot of money. All the other girls seemed content to marry someone suitable. My friend, Sarah, was wild about this chap, but she married someone else. She said as she walked up to the altar, she thought, “I wish it could have been so-and-so,” but she’s got a baby now and seems pretty happy.’
‘I should think it would be hell to be married to someone you didn’t love,’ said Hamish, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
‘Really? One never thinks of bobbies as being romantic somehow,’ said Priscilla carelessly, and the drive back continued in silence.
/> ‘Tell your father I caught his poacher,’ said Hamish, ‘or rather he left Lochdubh before I could arrest him, but Colonel Halburton-Smythe will not be troubled by that poacher again.’
‘That might calm him down. I suppose you really have to get those messages. Look, you’d better sneak around about midnight and I’ll let you in. I’ll try to get them out of the desk for you.’
Hamish nodded and raised his hand in a sort of salute as she drove away. He turned his attention to the fishing party. Alice was sitting by the shore of the loch, plaiting a wreath of wild flowers, like some modern-day Ophelia, while Jeremy and Daphne could be seen out in the boat, talking eagerly. There was no sign of the Roths or the Cartwrights. Hamish took off his tunic and, using it as a pillow, stretched his long, lanky length out on the grass. He ran the whole fishing party through his brain, remembering incidents, remembering expressions, remembering what Lady Jane had said. After a time, they all became jumbled together in his head as he fell asleep.
The noise of the fishing party packing up for the day awoke him. The major had caught a salmon, not quite as big as Daphne’s, but big enough to make him look as if he had just found the Holy Grail.
Charlie came rushing up. ‘What did you say to my mother, Mr Macbeth?’
‘There’s no use me telling you now, laddie, in case things don’t work out. Just say your prayers. Hop in and I’ll take you home.’
So Alice travelled back with the Cart-wrights, worried and lost. If only Jeremy would sleep with her that evening, then she would be sure.
Hamish found Blair waiting for him on his return. The detective was setting out for the hotel for another round of interrogation. Blair was in a fury because he had been so sure at first of the major. He took that fury out on Hamish, calling him lazy, half-witted, and useless, while Hamish stood stolidly to attention, his mind obviously elsewhere.
Blair was also at his worst with the members of the fishing party that evening. They huddled together at dinner, all now wishing they could go home. Blair had said that they might leave on the Sunday morning but that they could expect further calls from the police when they got home.
No one even had the heart to raise a smile at Marvin Roth’s appearance. The American had arrived at dinner in full Highland dress, from plaid and kilt to skean-dhu in his stocking top.
Hamish decided to pass the evening hours by going for a long walk. There was no hope of using the phone in his office, since Blair had announced his intention of staying there himself most of the night to sift through the evidence again and make phone calls.
Alice waited in her room after dinner. And waited.
Jeremy was drinking with Daphne in the bar. At last, he escorted Daphne to her room and leaned against the door post and smiled at her. ‘Are you inviting me in?’ he asked.
‘No,’ laughed Daphne. ‘Not tonight, Napoleon. I’ve got a headache.’
Jeremy stood frowning after she had shut the door. Anxiety gnawed at him despite the amount of gin he had drunk. He went slowly along to a room further along the corridor and rapped on the door.
‘Open up, Alice,’ he said. ‘It’s me.’
Hamish found his steps leading back to the scene of the murder. He shone his torch here and there among the bushes, not much hoping to find anything, since the police had already been over the ground very thoroughly.
He suddenly switched off his torch and stood very still. Up above the pool, in the little glade where the fishing party had sat after the discovery of the murder, a twig snapped. He began to move very silently in the direction of the glade, walking in the long grass beside the path so that his feet would make no sound. There was something ancient and eerie about the Highland silence. The night was very still. He stopped at the edge of the glade. A small moon shone down through the trees. Bars of light cut across the scene.
Moving through the flickering bars of light, crouched low like some jungle animal, was Amy Roth. Her restless hands searched the grass.
‘Good evening, Mrs Roth,’ said Hamish.
Amy stood up slowly and turned to face him, her face a white disc in the shadow.
‘Who is it?’ she whispered.
‘Constable Macbeth.’
‘Oh.’ She gave a little laugh and brushed nervously at her clothes. ‘I lost my lighter. It’s gold. I thought I might have left it here.’
‘A funny time and a scary place to come looking for a lighter,’ said Hamish. ‘Why are you really here?’
‘It’s late,’ she said, moving towards him. ‘I’m going back to the hotel.’
‘How long is it since you have suspected your husband of the murder?’ asked Hamish.
Amy put her hands to her face. ‘Marvin can be so violent,’ she whispered. ‘But he couldn’t . . . surely . . .’ With a gasp, she thrust past him and fled down the path. Hamish watched her go and shook his head. He had only been guessing, but his remark seemed to have struck gold. He shone his torch around the glade and then decided to examine the ground about the pool before finishing his search. He searched and searched about the ground and the bushes when something caught his eye. He forced his way into the undergrowth and shone his torch. A strand of blue material was caught on a thorn. Strange that the forensic men had missed it.
He carefully took it off the thorn and examined it. It was of a powder blue colour and made of acrylic. He remembered Alice had been wearing a blue trouser suit on the first day of the fishing class.
He sat down thoughtfully by the pool and turned the scrap of material over between finger and thumb. But someone very recently had been wearing just such a colour. His hand suddenly clenched, and he was seized with a feeling of fear and dread.
‘Oh no,’ he whispered.
Day Seven
The test of an experienced angler is his ability to play a good sized fish on average or light equipment.
–Gilmer G. Robinson, Fly Casting
At three minutes after midnight, Hamish parked his car well away from the Halburton-Smythe castle and finished his journey on foot. He was wondering whether to risk trying the door and finding his own way about when it opened and Priscilla whispered, ‘Hurry up, before we wake the whole house.’
She led the way up flights of stairs to her bedroom. She was wearing a white cotton nightgown and negligee, very unrevealing, but Constable Macbeth felt he had never seen such a seductive-looking outfit in his life.
‘Now,’ said Priscilla, sitting down on the bed and patting the space beside her, ‘I managed to get into the estates office when they were all jawing about your inquiries at dinner. Mummy believed my story. She said it was just the sort of hare-brained thing you would do. There are the messages, but they’re in Miss Dimwit’s shorthand.’
Hamish took the notes. ‘I do shorthand myself, Miss Halburton-Smythe. But whether I could read this. Yes, I think . . .’
‘Are you asleep, Prissie? I want to talk to you.’
‘Daddy,’ squeaked Priscilla. ‘Into bed, quick, and under the blankets. As far over by the wall as you can get.’
Hamish was fortunately not in uniform. The night was warm so he was wearing a checked cotton shirt and an old pair of flannels.
He leapt into bed, under the blankets, and crouched down. Priscilla got in beside him and leaned against the pillows. ‘Come in!’ she called.
Hamish lay very still with his head under the blankets. His face was pressed against Priscilla’s thigh. He tried to move it away and she slapped the top of the bed-clothes as a warning to him to lie still.
Colonel Halburton-Smythe came into the room. He sat down on the edge of the bed, and Priscilla shifted to make room for him. She was jammed against Hamish, who felt like groaning.
‘Look, pet, the Harringtons might leave tomorrow for the simple reason that you won’t come to the point,’ he heard the colonel say. ‘Harrington’s a fine young chap. It’s not as if you’re in love with anyone. You can’t go on turning down one fellow after another.’
‘I could get a j
ob, Daddy.’
‘Nonsense. Marriage and children’s the only career for a woman. What will I tell the Harrington’s?’
‘Tell them anything,’ yawned Priscilla ‘I’m so beastly tired, Daddy. I promise I’ll be nice to John tomorrow if you’ll just go away.’
‘Very well,’ said the colonel. ‘But don’t keep him waiting around too long.’
At last, to Hamish’s intense relief, he heard the door close. Priscilla threw back the bedclothes and looked down at Hamish’s ruffled red hair.
‘You look quite sweet without that horrible uniform on,’ said Priscilla. ‘You must have been nearly suffocated. Your face is all red and you’re breathing like a grampus.’
‘I’m all right,’ said Hamish, sitting up with an effort. ‘Let me have a look at those notes.’
Priscilla took them out from under her pillow and handed them to him. He frowned as he studied them, and then his face sharpened. ‘I’ve got to use the phone,’ he said.
‘You look terrible,’ said Priscilla. ‘What is it? Why can’t you use the phone at that police station of yours?’
‘Blair’s there and probably all night. Can I use the one in the estates office?’
‘Yes, so long as no one discovers you.’ Priscilla felt rather sulky and wondered why. ‘I wouldn’t have thought you were so keen on your job.’
‘Aye,’ said Hamish, climbing over her to get out of bed. ‘I’ll just creep down the stairs. No one will hear me.’
‘Good night,’ said Priscilla crossly.
Hamish smiled down at her as she lay against the pillows. ‘Thank you for all you have done, Miss Halburton-Smythe.’ He bent suddenly and kissed her on the cheek, turned red as fire, and fled from the room.
‘Well, well,’ thought Priscilla. She put a hand up to her cheek and stared in a bemused way at the closed door.
Hamish sat beside the phone in the estates office and in his head turned over the names of his many relatives. There was Rory in London, Erchie in New York, Peter in Hong Kong, Jenny in Aylesbury, which was near enough to Oxford . . .
