by M C Beaton
The organ in the loft struck up, and Hamish twisted his head to get a look at the bride. Mary – he must forget that she was once Ruby – came sailing up the aisle in all the splendour of a white wedding dress and veil. Daviot was to give her away. Mrs. Daviot was maid of honour, and Jimmy was best man.
Blair, as he turned to watch his bride approach, looked white and strained.
The service was long. The address to the couple by the minister seemed to go on forever. The hymns were of the dirge variety.
Then it was over. The couple went into the vestry to sign the register.
The organ struck up Mendelssohn’s ‘Wedding March’ and down the aisle came a triumphant Mary. She had lost weight, and her face shone with happiness.
I’ve done a good thing for once in my life, thought Hamish. And after her experience on the streets, she should be able to handle Blair.
As Blair walked past Hamish, he looked at him, his eyes glittering with suspicion.
♦
The reception at a hotel in Strathbane was a merry affair. The cake was cut, speeches were made, dinner was served, and then the dancing began, Blair and Mary taking the floor. Blair felt he had been sober for a hundred years. The Blair-God up in the sky who had sustained his sobriety was fading fast.
He had asked Mary time after time if Hamish Macbeth ever knew who was behind his kidnapping, but each time she had vehemently replied that he knew nothing.
He returned to his table after the dance. A large fresh bottle of mineral water was sitting beside his plate. He rose and went over to the bar. A bottle of malt whisky glittered in the lights. What was it the Highlanders called it? Usquebaugh – the water of life. That was it.
“May I help you?” asked the barman.
“I’ll help myself,” said Blair. He opened the bottle, filled up a glass, and took a great swallow, feeling the blessed liquor course through his body right down to his toes.
People said later they had never seen Blair in such fine form. He danced the Eightsome Reel, the Gay Gordons, and the Dashing White Sergeant as if his feet had wings.
When he finally retired to the honeymoon suite in the hotel with his bride, Blair stumbled across to the bed, fell across it, and lay there snoring. Mary carefully hung away her wedding dress, had a bath, and put on not the honeymoon nightgown, but a serviceable flannelette one.
She undressed her snoring husband down to his underwear. With a contented little smile, she took her knitting out of her suitcase, turned on the television, and proceeded to knit.
Marriage was good.
♦
The following evening, Aileen arrived exactly at seven o’clock. Unfortunately, Aileen was one of those women who look more attractive in uniform than out of it. When she shrugged off her coat in the restaurant, she showed she was wearing a pink boob tube decorated with sequins. Her navel was decorated with a fake ruby, very much in prominence as a roll of fat bulged over her tight Lycra trousers when she sat down. She had put pink streaks in her hair, and her eyelashes were so heavily mascaraed, it looked as if two large spiders had found a home in her face.
Oh, God, I wish something would happen to get me out of this, prayed Hamish, hiding his face behind a menu.
Willie’s face when he took the order was a tight mask of disapproval.
Aileen chipped in and said they’d have a bottle of Valpolicello to start. “Hear you’re quite a lad with the ladies,” she said when Willie had left.
“All lies,” said Hamish. “I’m quite shy really.”
“Come on, laddie. Shy men don’t get engaged to hookers.”
Her voice rang round the restaurant. The other diners listened avidly.
Hamish was just wondering if he could fake illness when to his amazement, Anna Krokovsky walked into the restaurant. He did not like her but in that moment he looked on her as his saviour.
She was out of uniform. “May I join you?” Ignoring Aileen’s scowl, she pulled up a chair and sat down.
“Aileen, do you know Inspector Krokovsky?” asked Hamish.
“I’ve seen you around,” muttered Aileen.
“I thought you had gone back to Russia,” said Hamish.
“I had, but I am here with a special invitation. You are invited to Moscow. We would like to study your methods.”
“How long for?”
“A few months. Mr. Daviot says officers from Strathbane can cover your beat.”
This was worse than the prospect of a night with Aileen, thought Hamish miserably. Blair would work furiously during those months to prove that the station in Lochdubh was not needed.
“It’s verra kind of you,” he said awkwardly. “But I’m afraid I must refuse.”
“Why?”
“I would like to talk to you in private. Maybe afterwards.”
“No, now.” She turned to Aileen. “Would you mind leaving us?”
“Whit!” screeched Aileen. “I’m on a date.”
“Do you want me to phone Superintendent Daviot?” Aileen glared at Hamish, who was studying the tablecloth. Then she threw down her napkin.
“Never, ever speak to me again, Hamish Macbeth.” Hamish got to his feet to help her on with her coat, but she pushed him away. Under the fascinated eyes of the diners, she rushed to the door and slammed it so hard behind her that the whole room seemed to vibrate. Anna sat unmoved.
Hamish began to speak, but Willie arrived with the starters. “I may as well eat what she has ordered,” said Anna. “Your taste in women is not what I would have expected.”
“Let’s get down to this,” said Hamish. “I cannot go. I am begging you not to press the matter. I have fought and fought until I am weary to keep the police station open here. You like my methods or you would not have got this invitation for me. If I go away for several months, they will find a reason to close the station. I will be put on the beat in Strathbane. There will be no one to deal with this vast area, no one to look after the old people in the outlying crofts. They talk about community policing in Strathbane but they really don’t have the first idea how to go about it.
“Did you come all this way just to invite me?” Anna suddenly smiled. “Not exactly. Scotland Yard needed Moscow’s advice on the mysterious death of a Russian in London. You look wretched. Eat your food and we will forget about the matter.”
“But what will Daviot say?”
“I will say I have been called back to London and will approach you about the visit some other time.”
Hamish let out a slow breath of relief.
She began to question him about the death of Cyril and listened carefully while he described how he had discovered that Cyril had stolen Harold Jury’s identity.
“Amazing,” she said when he had finished. “But did you not notice his small feet before?”
“I had no reason to be looking at men’s feet,” said Hamish. “It was seeing him dressed as a woman to play the part of Lady Macbeth that gave me the idea. Also, it was not just that he was good in the part of Lady Macbeth, he almost was Lady Macbeth, if you know what I mean. There was something cold and murderous about him. He was mad, of course. It wasn’t just because of his rotten upbringing. Lots of kids have rotten upbringings and go on to be decent citizens. I think he really was a dangerous psychopath. He’d need to have been to go around killing all those people. But he was clever. He played the part of that author so well.”
“But why, when he had finished what he came to do, murder his mother, did he hang around?”
“I think he fell in love – or as much as a character like that could fall in love – with Priscilla Halburton-Smythe.”
“Ah, the blonde beauty.”
“Then he loved acting, and the production of the play got him close to Priscilla and kept him in the limelight, even though it was only the limelight of a small village. Also he hated me for playing a trick on him.” Hamish told her about the ‘highland welcome.’
Anna laughed. “If he was that clever, why did he fall for a stupid
prank like that?”
“Because he was acting the part of Harold Jury. God rest his soul, but I think Harold Jury must have been pretty pretentious.”
At the end of the meal, Hamish asked, “Where are you staying? Can I drive you somewhere?”
“I am staying in Inverness. I have a car and driver waiting.”
Hamish waved her goodbye with relief and started to walk towards the police station. Then he froze. Aileen’s car was still parked outside, and the engine was running. She must be inside her car, running the heater, and waiting for me, thought Hamish. No doubt, she really wants to tell me what she thinks of me.
Huddled in his coat, he set off on the long walk up to the Tommel Castle Hotel to beg once more for a room for the night.
♦
The next morning when he walked back to the police station, snow was beginning to fall. Winter was moving back into Sutherland. It looked as if the spring would never come.
Aileen’s car was gone. He set about doing his chores. The snow became a blinding blizzard.
It raged all day and then by evening, it roared away to the east. Hamish dug a path outside the police station, leaned on his shovel, and looked along the waterfront. Everything was white and glittering under the moon. He felt the village and landscape had been in some way sanitised by the snow, swept clean of murder and strangers and blood.
With a comfortable feeling of being safe at home at last, he went in and locked the door.
FB2 document info
Document ID: c2b133a8-28a2-48f2-8a88-3c247dc2ceef
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 17.12.2012
Created using: calibre 0.9.9, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
M.C. Beaton
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