by M C Beaton
He was interrupted during his evening chores by two American tourists whose car battery had gone dead. Hamish jump-started it and then invited the tourists in for tea. They were a pleasant couple from Michigan. Hamish, like most Highlanders, felt more at home with Americans than he did with the English. He chatted away happily for an hour and then sent them on their way, telling them to call at the garage when it opened at nine the following morning, and promising to see them at the crofters’ fair.
He had noticed while he was entertaining them that the kitchen floor was sorely in need of a scrub. He changed out of his uniform into his old clothes, got a pail of soapy water and a scrubbing brush, and got to work, fending off Towser, who thought it was some sort of game.
He was aware of being watched, and looked up. The evening was growing dark and he had not yet switched on the electric light in the kitchen, but he recognized the slim figure lurking in the doorway.
‘Come in, Priscilla,’ he said. ‘I’ve just finished.’
‘You’d better put down newspapers, Hamish, until the floor dries,’ said Priscilla, ‘or Towser will ruin your good work.’
‘There’s a pile on the chair over there,’ said Hamish. ‘Pass them over.’
‘I’ll put them down for you,’ said Priscilla, switching on the light.
Hamish looked sharply at her, but she quickly bent her head, her thick hair falling forward to shield her face.
‘I was just about to have my supper,’ said Hamish. ‘I would ask you to join me, but I suppose you’ll soon be getting back to the castle for your dinner.’
‘I would like to stay,’ said Priscilla in an uncharacteristically small voice.
‘Aye, well, you’d better go ben to the office and call your parents and tell them where you are or they’ll be worried.’
‘I don’t want to tell them I’m here,’ said Priscilla.
‘No, well, chust tell them you are going round to the Church of Scotland to discuss the arrangements for the White Elephant stall. We’ll go along afterwards and that’ll make it all right.’
‘All right, Hamish,’ said Priscilla meekly. She left the kitchen and he looked curiously after her.
He thought gloomily of the two mutton pies he had bought at the bakery on his road home. Then he shouted, ‘I’m stepping out. Back in a minute.’
He ran into his back garden and cleared the fence with one lanky leap. He knocked on his neighbour’s door.
Mrs Cunningham, a faded English lady who ran a bed-and-breakfast, answered the back door.
‘I hae a guest for supper,’ said Hamish breathlessly, ‘and I’ve only got mutton pies and I cannae be offering her those.’
Mrs Cunningham folded her thin arms over her scrawny bosom.
‘Constable Macbeth,’ she said severely, ‘you promised to unstop that drain-pipe of mine.’
‘Tomorrow,’ said Hamish. ‘I’ll be round in the morn wi’ ma ladder.’
‘Promise?’
‘Aye, cross ma heart and hope to die.’
‘Well, Mrs Wellington, her up at the church, gave me a venison casserole because I promised to help her out, baking the cakes and scones for the fair. I can’t stand venison. You can have it.’
‘Thanks,’ said Hamish.
Soon he was back in his kitchen. The sound of running water came from the bathroom. Priscilla had decided to wash her face and put on fresh make-up.
Hamish put the casserole in the oven and pulled the cork on a bottle of red Bulgarian wine that one of the fishermen had bought in Ullapool from a member of the Eastern Bloc fishing fleet and had passed on to Hamish.
When Priscilla appeared, he suggested they should go into the living room and have a drink until dinner was ready. Hamish felt that venison casserole merited the title of dinner.
‘Have a dram,’ he said, producing the bottle he had bought to entertain Anderson.
‘Going in for the hard stuff?’ asked Priscilla. ‘I thought you always drank beer.’
‘So I do, but I can tell you this, Priscilla – sometimes there are things that happen that call for a good stiff belt o’ the cratur.’
‘Yes,’ said Priscilla gloomily. ‘I’ll have a stiff one.’
‘Now, what’s the matter?’ asked Hamish, when they were both seated.
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ said Priscilla. ‘Tell me about the case.’
‘We had a rough afternoon,’ said Hamish, settling back in his chair. ‘Sir Humphrey received us in his bedroom, muttered about two sentences, and fell asleep. Then that Diana was flouncing and bitching all over the place. You didnae tell me she had been engaged to Bartlett.’
‘I thought you knew.’
‘I know now. But she says she ditched Bartlett, not the other way round. She was seen approaching Bartlett’s bedroom on the night of the murder. She said she was on her way down to the kitchens. Screamed she hadn’t slept with him, and when we said we knew the brave captain had had Vera, Jessica, and Diana all on the same night, she broke down and yelled that Vera had done it . . . the murder, I mean. Jessica was worse. She said Diana was an expert shot . . .’
‘You mean Peter slept with all three of them? That man is disgusting.’
‘Maybe. Maybe the ladies are chust as disgusting. Then came the Helmsdales. We couldn’t separate them. Bartlett had nearly burnt down their home and Helmsdale had tried to shoot him and Lady Helmsdale had broken his jaw. When taxed with it, they told us we were lying. We couldnae get a bit o’ sense out the pair of them. It was like trying to get a statement from Tweedledum and Tweedledee.’
‘Don’t you think it might have been someone outside the castle?’
‘It could well be, but something in my bones tells me it’s one of them up at Tommel. Where did you go today?’
‘Henry and I went to call on the Mackays.’
‘How’s her leg?’
‘It’s better. But she needs an operation on her varicose veins.’
‘If she needs an operation, why is Brodie giving her medicine?’
‘Because he knows and she knows what the matter is. But she’s frightened of hospitals and she belongs to the old school and expects the doctor to give her some medicine when he calls. I shouldn’t think there’s much in her green bottle of medicine but coloured water.’
‘Aye, he’s terrible against the pills and bottles, is Dr Brodie. I was surprised he gave Sir Humphrey tranquillizers.’
‘Probably nothing more than Milk of Magnesia. He says if people think they’re getting tranquillizers’ they calm down amazingly.’
‘Captain Bartlett once broke a valuable piece of china at Sir Humphrey’s.’
‘That was terrible,’ said Priscilla. ‘He’s a fanatical collector.’
They drank more whisky and then moved through to the kitchen for dinner. The venison casserole was excellent, and Hamish accepted Priscilla’s compliments on his cooking without a blush. They giggled over the nastiness of the Bulgarian wine, and then, after supper, went along to the Church of Scotland manse.
Priscilla had drunk so much, she was a little unsteady on her feet, and Hamish took her arm. The sky had cleared, the weather making another of its mercurial changes. The cold wind had dropped, although angry little waves smacked against the shingle of the beach.
‘I had two American tourists in for tea,’ said Hamish.
‘That’ll be the Goldfingers from Michigan,’ said Priscilla. ‘They’re staying at the Lochdubh Hotel.’
‘And how did you learn that?’
‘I saw Jessie in the village when I was coming to see you. She told me all about them. She was on her way to see if she could catch a glimpse of them.’
‘But why? There’s nothing odd about them.’
‘It’s the name, silly. She thinks they’re out of a James Bond movie.’
Priscilla reached the manse just in time. She had only been in the door two minutes before the phone rang and it was her father, his voice sharp with anxiety, demanding to know when she w
ould be home.
‘I won’t be much longer, Daddy,’ said Priscilla.
‘Well, leave your car at the police station and get that useless copper, Macbeth, to run you back. I don’t like the idea of you being out on your own with a murderer on the loose.’
‘So you’ve decided at last it was murder,’ said Priscilla.
‘Never mind what I’ve decided,’ grumbled her father. ‘I’ll expect you here in half an hour.’
Priscilla was glad of an excuse to cut short her visit, for she did not like Mrs Wellington, the minister’s wife, a bossy, tweedy woman who bullied her husband.
When they took their leave, Priscilla told Hamish he was expected to drive her home.
‘I would have done that anyway,’ said Hamish seriously. ‘And I want you to lock your bedroom door.’
Priscilla shivered.
‘It’s funny,’ mused Hamish, as they drove up the winding hill that led to the castle, ‘Captain Bartlett had a word wi’ me when I left the party. He was outside on the drive. He had a premonition something was about to happen to him. There was something took place at that party to give him the feeling he was in danger.’
‘I wish it were all over,’ sighed Priscilla.
‘Henry will look after you,’ said Hamish, flashing her a quick sideways look.
‘Yes,’ said Priscilla with a brittle laugh. ‘Aren’t I lucky?’
Hamish drove up through the side road to the castle, although he was sure the gentlemen of the press would have packed it in for the night.
He pulled up outside the looming dark bulk of the castle, got out, and held open the door for Priscilla.
‘Are you coming in?’ she asked.
Hamish shook his head.
‘I enjoyed this evening,’ said Hamish politely. ‘It is a pity you are engaged, for I had it in mind to try that new hotel up the Crask road tomorrow night.’
‘The Laughing Trout? I haven’t heard very good reports of it, Hamish, but it’s only been open a few weeks. Do you mean you thought of taking me there for dinner?’
‘Yes. I aye hae a wee bit o’ a celebration after the crofters’ fair.’
Priscilla turned and looked at the castle. Henry would be wondering what had happened to her. Tomorrow would be a long day. The press would turn up at the fair, and Henry would expect her to pose for photographs.
‘It seems a bit odd, but we’re old friends, Hamish, and, yes, I would like to go for dinner with you.’
‘I am most honoured,’ said Hamish courteously. As she turned away, he added sharply, ‘Be careful, Priscilla.’
She gave a choked little sob and flung herself into his arms.
He patted her clumsily on the back, murmuring, ‘There, there. It iss all right. Hamish will look after you.’
She finally drew back and dried her eyes. ‘Sorry, Hamish,’ she mumbled. ‘See you tomorrow.’
Hamish watched until she had gone inside the castle. He drove sedately to the gates and out on to the road. Then he turned on the police siren full blast and raced down to Lochdubh.
‘That policeman’s drunk,’ said Mrs Cunningham, peeping through her lace curtains. Two of her boarders joined her at her window. ‘Did you ever?’ said Mrs Cunningham. ‘Blasting that police siren when there’s no need at all and now he’s doing cartwheels up the side of the house to his back door.’
Chapter Ten
A crofter’s son once defined a croft as a small area of land entirely surrounded by regulations.
– Katharine Stewart
Summer returned for the day of the crofters’ fair. Hamish rose early and unstopped Mrs Cunningham’s drainpipe. He was interrupted by the superintendent, demanding to know why PC Macbeth had been sounding his police siren. Hamish said he had been testing it out, as he did periodically, because you never knew when it would come in handy, to which Chalmers replied, ‘Well, go easy on the booze, son.’
As all the members of the house party were to attend the crofters’ fair, Chalmers said he had got Colonel Halburton-Smythe to agree to a further search of all the rooms in the castle. He ordered Hamish to attend the fair and to see if he could elicit any further information from the guests.
Hamish tactfully did not point out that he had promised to attend anyway and that the police car was being used to transport cakes and scones to the fair.
The school kitchens were being used for last-minute baking. When Hamish arrived there shortly after nine o’clock, it was to find all the members of the house party helping out. Even old Sir Humphrey Throgmorton appeared to be completely recovered and was beating batter in a bowl with a gingham apron tied round his waist.
Lady Helmsdale advanced on Hamish with a bowlful of raisin-spotted batter. ‘Be a good man,’ she boomed, ‘and give that a stir while I get on with something else.’
‘I’m surprised to see you all here so early,’ said Hamish. ‘I thought you wouldn’t turn up until this afternoon.’
‘Got to keep these people on the move,’ said Lady Helmsdale. ‘Can’t have them moping around the castle being badgered by those scribe-chappies and nosy coppers and dosing themselves with tranquillizers. Tranquillizers, pah! Lot of muck, if you ask me. In my mother’s day, a good dose of castor oil put an end to stupid fancies. People are getting murdered every day. Can’t take this one too seriously. Fact is, the world’s a better place without that cad.’
‘You cannae expect me to approve of people taking the law into their own hands,’ said Hamish.
‘Why not?’
‘That’s anarchy.’
‘Nonsense. Bartlett was a cockroach. Someone stepped on him. Jolly good for someone, is all I can say.’
She moved off to make sure everyone was working.
Hamish noticed Priscilla and Henry were working together at a table over in the corner. They seemed to be enjoying themselves. Hamish thought they might have had some sort of reconciliation after a quarrel. They were being playful and giggling a lot, rather like a couple trying to show the world how really happy they were, reflected Hamish, feeling sour with jealousy.
Carrying the bowl, he moved over to join Diana and Jessica.
‘Can’t we ever get away from the police?’ said Diana nastily.
‘I’m not policing at the moment,’ said Hamish mildly. ‘I’m beating cake mixture.’
‘I don’t mind you joining us,’ said Jessica. ‘Unlike Diana, I don’t have a guilty conscience.’
‘I’m tired of your bitching, Jessica,’ said Diana. ‘Some friend you’ve turned out to be. You’re so jealous of me, you can’t resist making a crack at every opportunity.’
‘Why on earth should I be jealous of you?’ demanded Jessica.
Diana ticked off the items on her fingers. ‘I have looks, and you don’t. I attract men, and you don’t. Peter was wild about me and he thought you were a joke. He said it was rather like screwing the old grey mare who ain’t what she used to be.’
Jessica picked up a bowl of batter and slammed it full into Diana’s face.
‘Now, now,’ bleated the Reverend Tobias Wellington, bustling forward. ‘Christian charity, girls! Christian charity!’
‘Oh, piss off, you old fruit,’ said Diana, clawing batter from her face.
Mrs Wellington brushed her husband aside and strong-armed both the girls out of the kitchen into the schoolyard where her voice could subsequently be heard berating both with magnificent force and energy.
‘I do wish she wouldn’t go on and on,’ said Pruney Smythe, appearing at Hamish’s elbow. ‘It reminds me of my schooldays.’
‘Serves them both right,’ said Vera Forbes-Grant, with her mouth full of freshly baked cake. ‘This stuff’s delicious.’
‘Leave some of it for the fair,’ said Lady Helmsdale. ‘You’ve eaten half a chocolate sponge cake already.’
Diana and Jessica came back, looking chastened. Now that they were both under attack, their odd friendship had resurfaced.
‘Ghastly old trout,’ muttered Diana. �
�I bet she wears tweed knickers.’
‘I’ve a good mind to put a dose of rat poison in her bloody cake,’ said Jessica. ‘Let’s clear off and find a pub. Thank God, they don’t have licensing hours in Scotland.’
‘Exit Goneril and Regan,’ murmured Sir Humphrey.
‘Goodness, did someone say something about gonorrhea?’ asked Lady Helmsdale.
Sir Humphrey flushed. ‘No, no, dear lady. I was referring to the daughters in King Lear. Shakespeare, you know.’
‘Oh, him!’ sniffed Lady Helmsdale. ‘Can’t stand the man. Awful bore.’
With the absence of Diana and Jessica, the cooking party became very merry. Even Freddy Forbes-Grant, who had been mooning around his wife, suddenly brightened up and began to help with the preparations. Jeremy Pomfret, who had been in the grip of an almost perpetual hangover since the murder, drank a glass of Alka Seltzer and began to look almost human again.
Hamish waited around even after the first batch of cakes was ready, hoping Priscilla would look at him or smile at him, or show in some way she had not forgotten their dinner date. But Mrs Wellington sharply ordered him to get a move on, and so he set out with the police car loaded up with boxes of cakes, pies, and scones for the fair, which was to be held on a sloping field at the back of the village.
Colonel Halburton-Smythe and his wife had gone on ahead and were already there, loading up a mass of junk on to a table that constituted the White Elephant stand. It was a sort of recycling of junk. People bought it one year and then handed it back the next. Fat little ponies cropped the grass, their tiny owners strutting about, brandishing large riding crops.
Some gypsies were setting up side-shows. Hamish wandered over. ‘I’ll be keeping an eye on you lot,’ he said. ‘No bent rifle sights this year, no glued-down coconuts, and no brick-hard dartboards which no dart could possibly stick in.’
‘We’ve got to make a living,’ whined one.
‘But you’ve begun to cheat all the time,’ complained Hamish. ‘It fair breaks my heart to see the children wasting their pocket money and not even winning a goldfish for their pains.’ He picked up a rifle from the rifle range and held it up to his eye. ‘Deary me,’ he said mildly. ‘Bent again. Fix those sights, or get out.’
