by M C Beaton
‘Twenty years.’
‘And he knew nothing of your affair with Captain Bartlett?’
‘Oh, no. Freddy’s quite stupid. But he can make money. That merchant bank of his is one of the most powerful in the country. He’s more or less retired. He wanted to come and live up here and start afresh. The simple life,’ said Vera with a harsh laugh. ‘But he runs the bank by phone.’
‘Where did your affair with Captain Bartlett take place?’ asked Hamish.
‘In London. Freddy was abroad. We keep a flat in Knightsbridge.’
‘And did Captain Bartlett at any time suggest you leave your husband?’
‘No. We were two of a kind. I used to give him money out of my allowance. It sounds awful now. Peter used to say I loved money more than men.’
‘And is that true?’ asked Hamish, genuinely curious.
‘It’s all men are good for in the long run,’ said Vera. ‘Oh, you occasionally meet some fellow and think it’s springtime all over again. But nothing lasts . . . except money.’
Chalmers cleared his throat. ‘Can you use a shotgun, Mrs Forbes-Grant?’
Vera laughed. Hamish thought she looked like someone leaving the confessional. She had told the worst and now she could relax.
‘No, I can’t,’ she said. ‘But it doesn’t take any expertise to blow a hole in someone at point-blank range. I could have done that.’
Chalmers patiently took her over the rest of her statement.
‘You’d better see Freddy now,’ said Vera, rising and smoothing down her skirt. ‘You won’t tell him . . .?’
Chalmers shook his head. ‘Not unless it becomes necessary.’
‘You mean, not unless one of us did the murder? Don’t worry, Freddy couldn’t kill a fly.’
She drifted out, leaving a heavy aroma of Arpège in the room behind her.
Freddy Forbes-Grant entered the room about a minute later.
It took ages to calm him down in order to get him to say anything coherent at all. But when he finally decided to talk reasonably, his statement had very little to add to what he had already said. Captain Bartlett had insulted his wife on the evening before the murder and had upset her terribly. She was not the only one Bartlett had upset. No, said Freddy, he did not believe in blood sports and never used a gun. They had more or less invited themselves to the Halburton-Smythes when they heard about Henry Withering. Both he and his wife had seen the play in London and thought it a rattling good show. He had written personally to the Secretary of State for Scotland to complain about Blair’s harassment, and would complain again if Chalmers wasn’t more careful and courteous. He, Freddy Forbes-Grant, considered all policemen some lower form of life anyway.
‘He knows about his wife’s affair,’ said Hamish, after Freddy had crashed out.
‘How do you make that out?’ asked Chalmers.
‘Thon is one very frightened man,’ said Hamish. ‘Something’s terrifying him. I could smell him from here – fear-sweat. Angry, blustering, ranting people are usually frightened.’
‘Like Colonel Halburton-Smythe?’
‘Och, no. That one was born a scunner.’
Macpherson, who had left to find another victim, returned to say that no one else was available until the afternoon. They had either gone out or had sent messages via the servants to say they were not to be disturbed. Dr Brodie was with Sir Humphrey Throgmorton, who was in need of a sedative.
Chalmers turned to Hamish. ‘In that case, you may as well tell me what you’ve discovered about the others.’
Hamish prised a small notebook out of his tunic pocket.
‘Captain Bartlett,’ he said, ‘was having an affair with Jessica Villiers four years ago. He met her friend, Diana, and dropped Jessica. He actually became engaged to Diana Bryce for two whole weeks before jilting her. The Helmsdales have reason to hate the captain. He turned up at a ball they were giving in their home near Dornoch with some other army officers. They got drunk and took the place apart. He painted a moustache on a portrait of a Helmsdale ancestor. The portrait was by Joshua Reynolds. The captain refused to pay for any of the damages. He went to sleep drunk with a cigarette burning in his hand and set his bedroom on fire. With the luck of the drunk, he jumped from his window on to the lawn and fell asleep again without warning anyone. The fire spread and burnt down most of the guest wing. It did not become a police matter, because Helmsdale inexplicably refused to prosecute. It came out later in county gossip that Helmsdale had fired a shotgun at the captain and missed. Captain Bartlett said if Helmsdale sued him, then he would sue Helmsdale for attempted manslaughter. It was at that point that Lady Helmsdale, beside herself with rage, punched Captain Bartlett and broke his jaw.’
‘Golly!’ said Chalmers. ‘Don’t tell me old Sir Humphrey has a reason to kill the captain as well?’
‘He might have. He’s a fanatical collector of rare china. He had some people to afternoon tea awhiles back and they brought along their houseguest, Captain Peter Bartlett. The poor old boy had the tea served in a very rare set. He went on bragging about the value and beauty of it. Captain Bartlett dropped his teacup and saucer on the hearth, smashing them and ruining the set.’
Chalmers sat for a long time deep in thought. Then he said, ‘It’s very curious that so many people with reason to hate Bartlett should be gathered together under one roof.’
‘The British Isles is full of other people wi’ mair reason to bump Bartlett off than any of the folks here,’ said Hamish. ‘I wass checking up all around. I am telling you this so’s you will not be surprised when you get my phone bill. If we begin to think the murder was committed by someone outside the castle, then we are going to have a terrible job. There was a wee lassie in London killed herself with an overdose of sleeping pills when the captain jilted her, and then there’s a lot of husbands as well who’ve threatened to kill him at one time or another.’
‘Where did he get the stamina?’ asked Chalmers in awe. ‘Look at the evidence we’ve got from old Vera – three women in the one night.’
‘He was supposed to have been one of those people who only need about four hours sleep a night,’ said Hamish. ‘And Captain Bartlett was always known as a Don Juan. Aye, it’s an unfair world when you think of it. If that man had been a woman, he’d have been called a harlot!’
‘Let’s get back to Jeremy Pomfret,’ said Chalmers, shuffling his papers. ‘Did you unearth anything about him?’
‘Nothing sinister,’ said Hamish. ‘He’s rich, got an estate in Perthshire, met Bartlett from time to time on various shoots. Never a friend of the captain’s. He was sure Bartlett was going to try to cheat over this bet they had. He was very hung over when I saw him on the morning of the murder, but he could have been putting that on for my benefit. He had asked me to be at the castle to referee the shooting, but I refused and told him the colonel would probably take it as a personal insult. Still, his very asking me to be there could have been a smoke-screen, for the murder, as we know, took place much earlier.’
‘He appears to have told Blair he loathed Bartlett,’ said Chalmers. ‘The reasons he gave were that Bartlett had pinched his toothbrush and used it to scrub his toes, and evidently the captain had a disgusting habit of shaving in the bath. Makes you wonder what the ladies saw in a man like that.’
‘Och, women are funny,’ said Hamish. ‘Take the case of Heather Macdonald, her that was married to a fisherman. She kept that cottage of theirs so clean, it wasnae human. You had to take off your boots and leave them outside when you went visiting. She wouldn’t allow him to smoke and she starched the poor man’s shirts so stiff, it was a wonder he could sit down in the boat. But she ups and offs last year wi’ a tinker from the side-shows at the Highland games, and he was a dirty gypsy who didn’t have a bath from the one year’s end to the other. I don’t think,’ added Hamish sadly, thinking of Priscilla, ‘that the ladies are romantic at all.’
Chapter Nine
The wild vicissitudes of taste.
– Sam
uel Johnson
Priscilla had decided to visit Mrs Mackay, she of the green bottle and the bad leg. Henry had readily agreed to go with her. Putting thirty miles between himself and Tommel Castle seemed an excellent idea.
Despite the police investigation, Henry was in a high good humour. He had received a visit from several members of the local Crofters Commission who had formally asked him if he could still be counted on to hand out the prizes at the fair on the following day. They had been courteous and highly flattering. Henry had been made to feel like a local squire.
As Priscilla drove competently along the Highland roads, he looked out across the glittering windy landscape and thought it might be quite a good idea to buy a castle. There seemed to be castles all over Scotland for sale. It would be wonderful publicity. Somehow, he must manage to get himself a coat of arms. If he sold the film rights of Duchess Darling, they could film the whole thing in his castle. He had more than enough money to decorate it in style. Then, after his marriage, he would invite journalists from the Sunday newspaper colour supplements. Yes, a castle was a definite possibility.
Priscilla looked beautiful and happy. Just getting away from the gloomy atmosphere of death was enough to make both of them feel like schoolchildren at the beginning of the holidays.
Henry told her to stop when they were on a deserted stretch of road and then took her in his arms. She was passionate and responsive, and he felt a heady feeling of triumph as his hand slid up under her skirt for the first time. But his searching hand stopped short of its goal. He had a sudden prickling feeling at the back of his neck, a feeling he was being watched.
He released Priscilla and turned around. An elderly man was peering in the car at Henry’s side.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ shouted Henry.
‘I wass passing,’ said the old man in a quavery voice, ‘and I thought to myself, thought I, Those people are having the bad trouble with the steering. I saw you both fumbling away.’
‘Mr McPhee,’ said Priscilla, who had recognized the old man, ‘we were not having trouble with anything at all. Thank you for your concern.’
Mr McPhee smiled. ‘It is not any trouble at all, at all. Are you sure it is not your clutch that is wrong?’
‘No, not my clutch,’ said Priscilla, and giggled, and that giggle of hers made Henry even more furious.
‘Drive on,’ he said.
‘I haven’t introduced you,’ said Priscilla. ‘Mr McPhee, this is my fiancé, Henry Withering. Henry, Mr McPhee.’
‘Oh, of course, you are that playwright that everyone iss talking about,’ said Mr McPhee. ‘It iss a grand thing to have a way with the words. I mind my daughter Elsie’s youngest boy, David, was a fair hand with the words when he wass at the school.’
‘Priscilla, will you drive on or do I have to get out and walk?’ snapped Henry.
‘Goodbye, Mr McPhee,’ said Priscilla politely. ‘I am sorry we have to rush. Give my regards to the family.’
‘How on earth could you bear to be civil to that dirty old Peeping Tom!’ raged Henry, as soon as they had started moving.
‘He is not a Peeping Tom,’ said Priscilla. ‘His eyesight is bad. He is very old, but very kind and charming. Furthermore, that grandson of his, David, is now the drama correspondent of the Glasgow Bulletin. You ought to be nice to people while you’re on the way up, darling. You might meet them on the way down.’
‘I’m no longer “on the way up”,’ said Henry crossly. ‘I’ve already arrived!’
Priscilla drove on in a grim silence until they turned off the road and bumped up a heathery track to the Mackays’ little white croft house, which was perched on the side of a hill.
‘Now, do be nice,’ cautioned Priscilla.
‘Of course,’ said Henry sulkily, wondering whether to remind Priscilla that a leading London columnist had described him as ‘the most charming man in London’.
Henry brightened perceptibly as soon as they were inside the croft house. He was always on the look-out for things to add to his store of witty after-dinner conversation. He took one look around the Mackays’ living room and treasured up each bit of bad taste. The carpet was virulent green and ornamented with sugar-pink cabbage roses. The wallpaper was in an orange-and-black abstract pattern. There were horrible china ornaments everywhere: cats, dogs, little girls holding up their skirts. The tea-cosy was a doll in a crinoline gown. There was an enormous china wall-plaque above the fireplace depicting a cottage in shrieking reds and yellows and decorated with a dusting of tinsel, bearing the legend ‘My Grannie’s Hielan’ Home’.
He set himself to please. He described famous people he had met and exotic countries he had been to. He punctuated his conversation with many ‘Of-course-this-will-come-as-a-surprise-to- you-buts’, until gradually he began to wonder if he had said something wrong.
Priscilla was very still and silent. The Mackays, at first courteous and animated, began to look at him stolidly.
Henry could not bear unpopularity. He began to ask them questions about themselves, which they answered in polite monosyllables.
When Priscilla stood up and said they must leave, it was a relief.
They drove off in silence, and then Priscilla said in a small voice, ‘Did you have to be so patronizing, Henry?’
‘I behaved very well,’ said Henry stiffly. ‘Good God, Priscilla, they’re not the easiest of people to talk to. They’re as thick as pig shit.’
‘They are not! They are very intelligent and very sensitive and they knew immediately you thought the things in their house were a hoot. You kept looking round at everything with a sort of unholy glee.’
‘You’ll be saying next I should admire their taste,’ scoffed Henry. ‘All those ghastly ornaments. And that carpet screaming at the wallpaper.’
‘It’s cosy,’ said Priscilla. ‘Look, if you’ve been brought up among old, old things that have been used for generations, you have a longing for things that are bright and new. The government grants have made a difference. They have some money for the first time in their lives. It’s only people who’ve been used to comfort who find domestic antiques beautiful. Mr Mackay’s son has an arts degree from Glasgow University. These people are different. And they often know what you’re thinking. What’s this big thing about good taste anyway? We went for dinner with those friends of yours before we left London, you know, those two raving queens in Pont Street. Everything was exquisite and the cooking was cordon bleu, but they were screeching and vulgar and petty. And in my opinion, anyone who puts funny junk in the loo is the absolute end.’
In the bathroom of Henry’s London flat was a framed series of mildly pornographic Victorian photographs.
‘Don’t preach to me!’ said Henry. ‘What about the glorious load of fakes in that home of yours? Fake armour, fake panelling – your father’s probably a fake colonel.’
Priscilla tightened her lips. If Henry had been a woman, he would have been damned as a bitch, she thought.
‘It’s no use talking to you,’ said Henry. ‘Look, this murder has put us all on edge.’
‘I am not on edge!’ Priscilla’s angry voice seemed to fill the car. ‘You did not have to talk about countries you had been to and then carefully explain where they were on the world map. When you were talking about Lawrence Olivier, you might have called him by his proper name instead of talking about “dear Larry”. And I can only assume “darling Maggie” is Princess Margaret, since, in your case, it could hardly have been Margaret Thatcher. I wonder the comrades ever put up with you. They must have loved being patronized. Were you one of those slobs who titillated the left with cosy stories of sodomy and beatings at Eton?’
‘Shut up!’ shouted Henry, because what Priscilla had said was true.
‘No, I won’t,’ said Priscilla. ‘It’s almost as if you had unlearned how to be a gentleman, and now you’ve started being a gentleman again, you’ve forgotten how to go about it. You even hold your knife and fork as if you�
�re holding a couple of pencils. People like Mr Mackay and yes, even old Mr McPhee, are gentlemen.’
‘What do you know about anything, you bloodless little Sloane Ranger?’ howled Henry. ‘You with your “Not tonight, Henry” and your prissy little disinfected mind.’
‘We are definitely not suited,’ said Priscilla in a quiet voice.
‘You’re overwrought and talking rubbish,’ said Henry in a conciliatory tone. ‘Didn’t I get on well with those people from the Crofters Commission? Honestly, darling, I am a very popular fellow, or had you forgotten?’
‘That’s in London,’ said Priscilla darkly. ‘Everything’s different in London.’
Henry shrugged and fell silent. She was in a bad mood. He would talk her round when they got back to the castle.
The day had changed. Great black, ragged clouds were rushing in from the east, a reminder that autumn comes early in the Scottish Highlands. Small wizened trees creaked and swayed beside the road, and the tarns on the moors gleamed black under the looming shadows of the mountains. The Two Sisters, the mountains above Lochdubh, stood up against the sky, as sharply silhouetted as if they had been made out of black cardboard.
Priscilla drove straight past the castle gates, where a group of shivering journalists and cameramen were huddled. She stopped about a mile along the road at a disused lodge.
‘It’s only a little walk,’ she said, ‘and it will bring you out in front of the castle.’
‘And where are you going?’
‘Somewhere,’ said Priscilla, tight-lipped.
Henry muttered something under his breath and climbed out.
After Priscilla had roared off, he turned about to walk back to the main gates of the castle. Why should he let the chance of a lot of glorious free publicity slip past? And he had seen a London television unit when they had driven past. When he arrived, the press hailed him with delight.
Hamish was back at the police station in Lochdubh. Detective Chief Superintendent Chalmers was staying at the Lochdubh Hotel. Blair, Anderson, and MacNab had been transferred to a boarding-house at the other end of the waterfront.
