Hamish Macbeth 16 (1999) - A Highland Christmas

by M C Beaton

  Cursing, Maisie picked up the phone.

  “Priscilla Halburton-Smythe here,” said a voice as cold as the snow outside. “I wish to speak to Hamish Macbeth.”

  “I’ll see if he’s here,” said Maisie haughtily.

  “Who is it?” asked Hamish.

  “It’s for you.” Maisie went back to join the others.

  The phone was in the little cottage hall. Hamish picked it up. “Lochdubh Police,” he said automatically.

  “It’s me, Priscilla.”

  Hamish sank down on the floor, holding the phone.

  “It’s yourself. How’s New York?”

  “Oh, you know, very bustling, very energetic as usual. I’m just about to go out to have dinner with friends.”

  “Bit late, isn’t it?”

  “I’m five hours behind you, remember?”

  “So you are. Merry Christmas. How did you know where to find me?”

  “Merry Christmas, Hamish. Mr. Johnston told me you were romancing the schoolteacher and so I assumed you’d be there.”

  “Why on earth would he say a thing like that? We’re just friends.”

  “Just a cosy evening for the two of you?”

  “No, there’s a lot of people here. I’m just one of the guests. I’ll tell you what happened.” Hamish told her about the cat and the lights and the visit to the old folks home.

  “Sounds like fun,” said Priscilla.

  “Will you be back for the New Year?”

  “No, I’ll be here for another six months.”

  “Now what’ll I do if I get the murder case and havenae my Watson?” teased Hamish.

  “I’ll give you my number. You can always phone me. Write it down, and the address.”

  “Wait a bit.” Hamish found a notepad on a table in the hall with a pen. “Fire away,” he said.

  She gave him the number and address and then said, “There are a lot of cheap fares to the States nowadays, Hamish. You could always hop on a plane.”

  “I could always do that,” said Hamish happily, forgetting in that moment all about the state of his bank balance.

  “Why aren’t you over at Rogart with the family?”

  Hamish told her about the soap powder competition and Priscilla laughed. “It is good to hear you, Hamish, and it would be good to see you again.”

  “Aye, well, you never know.”

  They wished each other a merry Christmas again and said goodbye.

  Maisie looked up as Hamish came into the room. His face looked as if it were lit up from within. “We were just discussing sleeping arrangements,” she said. “It’s too bad a night for Mrs. Gallagher to get back home so Mr. and Mrs. Anderson have kindly offered to put her and Mr. McPhee up for the night.”

  “What about Smoky?” asked Morag anxiously.

  “Smoky will be fine,” said Mrs. Gallagher. “I’ve left him plenty of food and water.”

  So the party broke up. Hamish stood with the others outside the schoolhouse. The snow had stopped and lay white and glistening under the sparkling fairy lights.

  Maisie watched them all go and then went indoors to phone the boyfriend she had so cruelly jilted.

  Hamish walked along to the police station. He felt very tired. He took out his key but as he bent to unlock the kitchen door, he heard a faint noise from inside. He went to the police Land Rover and took out a hefty spanner to use as a weapon. Then he softly unlocked the door, threw it open and clicked on the kitchen light. A small dog trotted up to him and started sniffing at his trousers. It had a label attached to its collar. He squatted down by the animal and read the label. “To Hamish from Archie. Merry Christmas.”

  Hamish groaned. The fisherman knew there was a spare key to the police station kept in the gutter above the kitchen door. He must have let himself in with the dog while Hamish had been in Inverness. Hamish didn’t want another dog. Once you’ve broken your heart over one dog, you don’t want another. And it was such an odd dog. It was a mongrel, small and rough haired with floppy ears and blue eyes. Hamish could not remember ever having seen a dog with blue eyes. It licked his hand and jumped up to lick his face.

  “Have you eaten?” asked Hamish. The dog wagged the stump of its tail energetically.

  “I’d better give ye something.” Hamish poured a bowl of water and then searched in the cupboards. Then he remembered he had a steak out in the freezer. By the time he had defrosted it, cooked it and chopped it up for the dog, he felt exhausted. He got ready for bed and then fell facedown and drifted off into a dream where he was walking along Fifth Avenue in New York with Priscilla on his arm.

  And then the phone rang from the police office. He came awake and sat up. The dog was sitting on the end of the bed looking at him with those odd eyes. He was tempted to let the phone ring and let the answering machine pick up the call, but he remembered the weather and was frightened it might be a report of someone stranded up on the moors.

  He went into the police office and picked up the phone. It was Detective Jimmy Anderson from Strathbane. “Is that you, Hamish?” he said. “Well, you’d better move your arse and get thae lights down.”

  “Why?” asked Hamish, too sleepy to deny anything about the lights.

  “There’s a man called Sinclair over in Cnothan. Someone told him that Lochdubh was all lit up and he’s fuming that they’re his lights that the forensic boys said you took to the station. Blair heard about it and he’s planning to get over there first thing in the morning.”

  “He won’t manage it,” said Hamish. “The roads’ll be blocked.”

  “Hamish, he thinks he’s got you this time. He was talking about taking the helicopter. He was drinking all day and I tried to tell him the super would be furious at him for getting a helicopter out, all that expense for some Christmas lights, but he’s determined.”

  “I’ll see to it.” Hamish dressed hurriedly and then began to phone round the village.

  Hamish and his army of fishermen worked all night, taking down the lights, carefully packing them back into the boxes, taking down the Christmas tree and propping it back up against the wall of the police station. Other villagers came out to help. Word flew from house to house that Hamish Macbeth was in trouble and that his superior officer was about to descend from the skies like the wrath of God.

  Even Mr. Patel set to work, making sure the lights were all correctly packed so there would be no sign they had ever been taken out of their boxes.

  At last the work was finished and everyone crowded into the police station for a celebration party. Mr. Patel presented Hamish with tins of dog food, for Hamish had told him about the dog.

  “What are ye going to call him?” asked Archie.

  Hamish longed to say that he didn’t want another dog, but the dog looked at him and he looked back at the dog and said instead, “I don’t know. Where did you find him?”

  “I found the poor wee soul wandering up on the moors,” said Archie, “and I thought, that’s the very dog for Hamish.”

  “But Archie, someone may be looking for it.”

  “Don’t think so. It was running up and down the road as if it had been dumped out of a car. Why not call it Frank?”

  “Why Frank?”

  “You know. Ol’ Blue Eyes.”

  “Frank,” said Hamish to the dog.

  He turned to Archie. “He doesn’t like it.”

  Another of the fishermen laughed and said, “Look at the lugs on it,” referring to the dog’s floppy ears.

  “What about it?” said Hamish to the dog. “Like the name Lugs?”

  The dog wagged its tail and put a paw on Hamish’s trouser leg.

  They all raised their glasses. “To Lugs!”

  “Shh!” said Hamish, holding up a hand for silence. He opened the kitchen door and stepped outside. The sky was turning pale grey. He could hear the sound of an approaching helicopter.

  “He’s coming, boys!” shouted Hamish.

  They scattered out of the police station while Ha
mish changed into his uniform.

  Blair crouched forward in the helicopter. “Can ye see any lights?” he roared at the pilot.

  “Nothing but a few house lights!” the pilot shouted back.

  Blair was sobering up rapidly and a little worm of fear began to gnaw his stomach.

  “Set down on the front!” he yelled.

  The pilot landed next to the Chisholms’ bus. Blair climbed down and ducked under the still rotating blades. He glared up and down the waterfront. Not one single Christmas light winked back at him.

  He marched to the police station and walked right in. Hamish, neat in his uniform, was sitting at the desk in the police station typing something on the computer.

  “Where are those lights?” demanded Blair.

  “The Cnothan lights?” said Hamish innocently. “Look about ye, sir. Boxes and boxes of them.”

  Blair ripped open one of the boxes and glared down at the neatly packed lights. “I’ll need to put in a report about that box,” said Hamish. “You’re destroying the evidence.”

  “Look, here, Macbeth, I had a report you had thae lights strung up all over the village.”

  Hamish looked suitably amazed. “Now who would go saying a thing like that?”

  Blair stamped out. He went from house to house, demanding to know if anyone had seen any lights, but all shook their heads.

  Beside himself with worry and rage, he went back to the police station. Hamish held out the phone. “You’re just in time. Superintendent Daviot on the line.”

  “What the hell are you about taking out the helicopter?” roared Daviot. Blair opened his mouth to lie, to say he had heard of a crack house in Lochdubh, anything, but Daviot was going on. “It’s all round Strathbane that you heard Macbeth had put up Christmas lights from that robbery all over his village. Well, did he?”

  “There’s nothing here, sir. But you see—”

  “Listen to this. The pilot will be charging double because it’s Christmas and I think the cost should come out of your wages. Return here immediately!”

  Blair put down the phone. He walked to the door of the police office. “I’ll have you yet, Macbeth,” he threatened. Then he looked down with a comical look of pure outrage. Lugs was peeing into his shoe.

  He raised his foot to kick the dog but it scampered under Hamish’s desk and lay on his boots.

  Blair squelched out.

  “Come out of there,” said Hamish to the dog. “Do you know something, Lugs? I’m going to keep you after all. Merry Christmas, you lovely wee dog. It’s turned out the best Christmas yet!”

  THE END

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