by M C Beaton
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 Helmsdale. ‘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 Strathbane arrive with the forensic team.’
‘Just so,’ said Hamish absentmindedly.
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.
Chapter Five
. . . 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.
‘It appears that Captain Bartlett went out very early so as to cheat on his bet and have first chance at thae birdies.’ Jeremy Pomfret winced. ‘But before
he could use his gun to shoot them, he used it to help himself get over the wire fence. The gorse bush caught the double trigger, and boom, boom, goodbye world.’
‘For heaven’s sake, man, show a bit of respect for the dead,’ snapped Colonel Halburton-Smythe.
Blair rounded on him. ‘You should be grateful tae me for finding out so quickly it was an accident instead of suspecting you all of murder.’
‘Any fool could see it was an accident,’ boomed Lady Helmsdale.
‘Anyway,’ went on Blair in a loud, hectoring voice, ‘his gun was loaded with number six shot. It went off and blew a hole through his chest. The pathologist has already confirmed that the shot found in the remains of his chest was number six. The colonel of his regiment has been informed of his death. As far as the colonel knows, Bartlett had no close relatives still alive. He’ll be sending someone over this week to pick up the captain’s effects just in case a relative turns up.’
‘He had an aunt in London, I think,’ said Diana, and then turned pink.
‘Anyway,’ said Blair, ‘the procedure is this. In cases of fatal accident, the procurator fiscal studies the pathologist’s report and the police reports. Then an inquiry is held – in camera, so you won’t have to worry about the press. It may be in a week’s time or a month’s time, so remember, even if you’ve gone back home, you must be ready to go to Strathbane when you’re summoned.’
The door of the drawing room opened and Jenkins came in, followed by two maids carrying tea, cakes and scones.
Blair licked his lips and looked longingly at the teapot.
‘Thank you, Mr Blair,’ said Mrs Halburton-Smythe. ‘If you have nothing further to add, I see no reason for you to stay.’
Blair flushed angrily. The least they could have done was to have offered him a cup of tea. He wanted to vent his anger on someone and looked about for Hamish Macbeth. But the Highland constable appeared to have vanished.
Blair crammed on his soft felt hat and signalled to Anderson and MacNab and strutted from the room.
Hamish had not left. He had had no lunch and wanted to see if he could manage to get some tea and scones. He had slid quietly down behind a large sofa by the window and was sitting on a small footstool.
Jessie, the maid, had a soft spot for Hamish. She quietly handed him down a plate of scones and a cup of tea when Jenkins wasn’t looking.
Hamish drank his tea and listened to the conversation.
‘Poor Peter,’ came Vera’s choked voice. ‘What an awful death.’
‘As if you cared,’ said Jessica, suddenly and loudly. ‘It’s a good thing it wasn’t murder, considering we all saw you throwing a glass of gin over him.’
‘You leave my wife alone, young lady,’ said Freddy. ‘Captain Bartlett was a rotter and a cad, and I’m not going to pretend he was otherwise just because he’s dead.’
‘I thought he . . . he was rather nice,’ ventured Pruney Smythe timidly.
‘Oh, he could charm anything in skirts and he didn’t give a damn about age or appearance,’ said Jessica with a nasty laugh. She had meant to hurt Vera, but the shaft struck home in Pruney’s spinster bosom and she burst into tears.
‘Now look what you’ve done, you horrible thing, you,’ said Priscilla. ‘Come with me, Pruney. You’ll feel better after you’ve had a lie-down.’
Mrs Halburton-Smythe raised her voice. It held a note of steel. Afternoon tea in the drawing room was the one social event over which she was allowed complete control without interference from her domineering and fussy husband. ‘These remarks are all in bad form,’ she said. ‘The man is dead and the least we can do is show some respect. We have all had a harrowing day, a lot of it unnecessarily harrowing. That man Blair is an uncouth pig. Hamish Macbeth may be a useless scrounger, but at least he’s not abrasive. Now, the crofters’ fair is to be held in Lochdubh in five days’ time and the Mod wants us to help raise funds. And, Henry dear, it quite slipped my mind. The Crofters Commission has asked me if you will be good enough to present the prizes.’
‘I’d love to,’ said Henry, looking gratified. ‘What on earth is the Mod?’
‘It’s a Gaelic festival of song,’ said Priscilla, coming back into the room. ‘We usually run the White Elephant stand. The crofters’ sale is good fun and you can pick up some great bargains in hand-knitted woollies and thingies made out of deer horn. Oh, and the sheepskin rugs they sell are very cheap.’
Jenkins came in, looking hot and annoyed. ‘It is the gentlemen of the press,’ he said. ‘They are all outside the front door talking to that man Blair.’
‘Then clear them off the estate,’ snapped the colonel. ‘If that idiot Macbeth would only do his job. Phone him at the police station, Jenkins, and tell him to come here immediately. Once Blair starts pontificating to the press, he’ll be here all night.’
Hamish felt himself going hot with embarrassment and wished he had not stayed to scrounge tea. He knew Jessie would not betray him, but if anyone in the room walked over to the window, they would find him.
He slid on to the floor and rolled his thin, lanky body under the sofa.
The voices rose and fell, becoming more animated as the shadow of sudden death rolled away. Jenkins came back to say that there was no reply from the police station, only a rude recording of a voice singing in Gaelic. Hamish groaned to himself. He never checked his answering machine, for the simple reason that since he had had a second-hand one installed two months ago, he had forgotten to play it back. The previous owner had obviously used the tape for recording his favorite Gaelic tunes.
Hamish shared the Highlander’s weakness for second-hand gadgets and machinery of all kinds and, like his peers, was apt promptly to lose interest in the new toy immediately after he had got it.
The guests began to leave to spend the time before dinner in their rooms.
Hamish was about to crawl out from under the sofa and make his escape when a weight on his side told him that two people had sat down on it.
‘It’s been a violent introduction to the Highlands, I’m afraid,’ came Priscilla’s voice.
‘Poor Peter,’ replied Henry Withering. ‘I’d hate to pop off and then sit up there hearing everyone down here being so glad I’d gone. Don’t worry, Priscilla darling. I think I’m getting to like this place, despite all the dramatics. Would you like to live up here once we’re married?’
‘I never thought of it,’ said Priscilla. ‘I always assumed you’d want to be in London. But if you think you can bear being somewhere so remote . . . well, I would love to live here. Not in the castle, I mean. Somewhere of our own.’
‘We’ll build our own castle,’ said Henry. ‘Come here. I’ve been longing to kiss you all day.’
Hamish sweated with embarrassment.
Henry put his arm about Priscilla’s shoulders. She felt suddenly shy and looked down. Her gaze sharpened. A long bony hand crept out from under the sofa and tapped her foot. She stifled a scream.
‘What’s the matter?’ demanded Henry.
But Priscilla had recognized that edge of navy sweater above the hand. ‘I’m still shaky,’ she said with a laugh. ‘Come and walk with me in the garden. I’ve got to get some fresh air. It’s stifling in here.’
Hamish waited until the sound of their voices had died away. Then he rolled out from under the sofa, opened the drawing room window, and climbed out. He made his way cautiously round the castle to the front without meeting anyone. The press had gone. His car was hidden behind the vast bulk of the Helmsdales’ antique Rolls-Royce. Towser gave him a sad, reproachful look.
‘Aye, it’s like an oven in here,’ said Hamish. ‘I’ll just take you home and give you a drink of water.’
The sunlight was now soft and golden as Hamish drove along the waterfront. Fishing boats were lined up at the pier, bobbing gently in a slow oily swell that was rolling in from the Atlantic. I hope it disnae rain, thought Hamish. I still have things to look for.
When he had fed and watered Towser and
turned the dog loose in the garden, he poked around his small kitchen looking for something to eat. There was nothing in his refrigerator but an old piece of haggis and some black pudding. He opened the food cupboard and found a can of beans. Then he went out to the hen-house and collected five eggs.
He was settling down to a dinner of fried egg and beans and strong tea when he heard Towser yipping an ecstatic welcome.
‘Come in,’ he shouted, ‘the door’s open.’
Thinking it would be one of the villagers, he got to his feet to look for another cup.
‘And what were you doing, hiding under the sofa, Hamish?’ said a cool, amused voice.
Hamish put the heavy pottery cup he had just lifted out back in the cupboard and brought down a delicate china cup and saucer instead.
‘It’s yourself, Priscilla,’ he said. ‘Sit down and have a cup of tea.’
‘Is that your dinner?’ asked Priscilla.
Hamish looked thoughtfully at his half-eaten eggs and beans.
‘Well, to my way of thinking, it is more like the high tea,’ he said eventually. ‘I would not be distinguishing it with the title of dinner. Do you want some?’
‘No, I have to get home soon. Dinner is at eight and I’ve got to change. But I’ll have a cup of tea. Now, Hamish . . .’
‘I was searching for clues,’ said Hamish, looking at her hopefully.
Priscilla slowly shook her head. ‘The truth, Hamish.’
Hamish gave a sigh. ‘I was that thirsty and I wanted some tea. Jessie saw me sitting down behind the sofa and gave me some when no one was looking. Then I felt guilty and I thought your father would have a fit if he saw me, so I slid under the sofa. I couldnae bear the idea of you courting and me listening,’ said Hamish, blushing and averting his eyes, ‘so I had to attract your attention.’
