by M C Beaton
Hamish looked miserably at his feet. He was wearing an old tweed sports jacket, checked shirt, and plain tie and cords. But on his feet were his regulation boots. They had been broken in long ago and were very comfortable, and the thrifty Hamish had seen no reason to waste money on shoes when the state could supply him with footwear.
Harriet Shaw’s eyes travelled quickly from face to face. There was a stillness in the room. Heather was frankly goggling, Diarmuid was looking enigmatic as usual, the Carpenters were leaning against each other, plump shoulder against plump shoulder, but someone had let out a startled exclamation, quickly stifled. Which one had it been?
“All right,” said Hamish. “But I am on holiday.”
“It was that bathroom heater,” said John, Founding on Jane. “You silly cow. How like you to get so paranoid over a mere accident.”
“At least he found out who shut me in the pillbox,” said Jane quietly. “Now can we all just go ahead and try to have a decent Christmas?”
Whether it was Jane’s remark, whether it was the presence of a policeman among them, or whether it was because Christmas was approaching was hard to tell, but at least the next few days passed almost in tranquillity. Hamish was surprised that Heather went to great lengths to keep out of his way. He had expected to have lectures from her on the fascist police.
Harriet, too, appeared to be avoiding him. When Hamish taxed her with it, she smiled and said she was too busy catching up on some writing in her room. He took refuge in reading articles in the women’s magazines collected by Jane. They ranged from the supremely sensible to the downright ludicrous, depending on the publication. In one of the trashier efforts, he found an article entitled ‘Shock Tactics’. It was all about how to get the man of your choice. “Faint heart never won fair gentleman,” he read. “Stun him. Invite him round and put on that naughty nightie and those sheer, sheer stockings.” He put down the article, feeling slightly sad. There was something almost pathetic about Jane. It was as if she had so little self-esteem that she needed to find a personality in the pages of a magazine.
And then, on Christmas Eve, something happened that made him uneasy. He saw Jane slip a note into Diarmuid’s hand. He wondered uneasily if Jane was after Diarmuid, and his heart sank. Jane was determined to seduce someone to get at John Wetherby. Did she realise that by getting at John she would have Heather to deal with? For if any affair was obvious enough for John to notice, then it would be plain as day to the horrible Heather as well.
He went to bed trying to work things out in his mind. There was a ferry arriving and leaving again on Boxing Day. He was determined to be on it. Jane needed a minder to protect her from malice, not a policeman, and she had enough money to hire one. He resolved to tell her that in the morning.
But he awoke very early, and in the distance he heard the reassuring sounds of domestic clatter. Then he remembered that Harriet was making the Christmas dinner, which was to be served in the middle of the day. He shaved and dressed and made his way to the kitchen. Harriet was bending over one oven, taking out a tray of mince pies. A huge stuffed turkey stood ready to be placed in the other, larger oven.
“My, you’ve been busy,” said Hamish admiringly. She was wearing a scarlet wool dress and a frilly apron. Instead of her usual sensible walking shoes, she was wearing a pair of scarlet low-heeled pumps.
“My big day,” said Harriet, avoiding his gaze. “Can I get you some coffee?”
“Yes, and you’d better tell me the truth about why you’ve been avoiding me,” said Hamish. “Come on. If it’s because I’m getting on your nerves, I’ll float off like the Highland mist.”
“No, it’s not that,” said Harriet slowly. She leaned her floury hands on the kitchen table. “I became a bit worried. I am not in a position to get into any emotional entanglements, and I like to cut them off before they start to happen. That’s a bit muddled, but I’m sure you know what I mean. I began to sense something there. Attraction. On my side, at least.”
Normally shrewd, Hamish should have asked her why she was avoiding any emotional entanglement, but he felt such a surge of elation that she found him attractive that common sense went out the window.
“Och, I’m not the type to get heavy,” he said.
“There is also the question of age. I am forty-five and you, I judge, are somewhere in your early thirties.”
“Is this a proposal of marriage?”
“Hamish Macbeth! Don’t be silly.”
“Well, then, I suggest we continue to be attracted to each other. Friends it is,” said Hamish with a grin. “Need any help?”
She looked at him half-ruefully. “Yes, I could do with a bit of help. You do make me feel like a pompous fool. Friends we are. The oven’s ready for the turkey, if you’d just put it in.”
“Actually, I’m thinking of leaving on the ferry tomorrow,” said Hamish after shutting the oven door. “It hasn’t been the nicest of visits. Jane needs a minder, not a copper.”
“I might leave with you,” said Harriet, “although it will be a waste of left-over turkey.”
“Why?”
“Jane doesn’t really like the idea of meat. She’ll probably throw the rest away. I won’t be around to make turkey hash or turkey sandwiches.”
“Then just wrap it up and I’ll take it with me.”
“Hamish Macbeth, whatever for?”
“It’ll go to waste otherwise. She can’t offer it to anyone on the island, her being so unpopular.”
“All right, Hamish. If you are prepared to carry a turkey carcass back to Lochdubh, you are welcome.”
“How did you come to write cookery books?” asked Hamish.
Harriet worked away at the kitchen table and told him about her writing career while pleasant smells filled the kitchen. The snow had disappeared, as it always seemed to do on Christmas Day, but there was the usual gale howling outside to intensify the air of cosiness inside.
After his pleasant morning, Hamish was prepared to find Christmas dinner a let-down – because of the nature of the guests rather than the cooking, which turned out to be superb. There was soup made from the turkey giblets, followed by the finest Scottish smoked salmon. Then came the turkey, brown and glistening, with chestnut stuffing and chipolata sausages. John carved the turkey and the atmosphere was fairly jolly. But it was Jane, not Heather, who turned things sour.
Sheila and Ian asked for second helpings and Hamish was just about to hand his plate over as well when Jane said seriously, “All this overeating is very bad for you, Sheila. Didn’t I tell you in the summer that it was not crazy diets which took off the fat but sensible exercise and eating smaller meals?”
Sheila’s face crumpled. “You’re horrid,” she said.
“What do you want my wife to look like?” demanded Ian furiously. “Some sort of girlish whore, like you?”
Jane said in a maddeningly reasonable voice, “Your affection and loyalty to your wife do you credit, Ian, but it is known as enabling, just like giving an alcoholic drink. I have often noticed…”
“Shut up, you stupid bitch,” said John. “Don’t you realise you are being downright cruel?”
Jane looked at him, open-mouthed.
“Here, now.” Diarmuid leaped to Jane’s defence. “It’s Jane’s job to see we are all healthy.”
“Not while we’re her guests,” said Harriet. “Realty, Jane, you are going to turn into one of those people who pride themselves on speaking their mind while they tramp over everyone’s finer feelings.”
Comforted by all the voices in her defence, Sheila took a plate of turkey from John, and then threw another metaphorical log on the already blazing fire. “Like Heather, you mean?” she said sweetly.
“Don’t try and pick on me or it’ll be the worse for you,” said Heather. “I am glad I am a woman of independent mind and haven’t got a brain stuffed with rubbish from romances.”
“But you haven’t got an independent mind, Heather dear,” John brandished the carving
knife at her. “It’s full of Communist claptrap. You’re the sort of woman who would have turned her husband and family over to the KGB, all to the glory of Joe Stalin. And furthermore, if you have such an independent mind, why do you try to dress like Jane? She can get away with wearing short frocks because she’s got good legs and a first-class figure while you just look like mutton dressed as lamb.”
Harriet looked desperately at Hamish, who rose to his feet. He raised his glass. “Merry Christmas, everyone,” said Hatnish Macbeth.
Startled, they all muttered “Merry Christmas.” Hamish remained on his feet. “Her Majesty, the Queen,” he proposed. All dutifully drank that one, except Heather. “And here’s to our cook, Harriet Shaw,” went oh Hamish gleefully, while everyone hurriedly replenished their glasses. “And to our hostess. “Harriet began to giggle. “Do sit down, Hamish. You’ll have us quite drunk.”
But the sudden rush of alcohol into the systems of the angry guests worked well. The quarrels appeared to have been temporarily forgotten by the time the Christmas pudding was served.
After the meal was over, Jane led the party through to the lounge.
“Oh, dear,” murmured Harriet, for under the tree was a pile of presents. Jane had bought presents for everyone. Harriet had guessed she would, but had forgotten to warn Hamish. Diarmuid got that item of headgear usually advertised in mail-order catalogues as a ‘genuine Greek fisherman’s hat. He was delighted and ran to a mirror to admire the effect. Harriet got a newfangled pastry-cutter; Sheila, a new romance called Texas Heat; Ian, a pair of slippers; John, a pocket calculator; Heather, a large volume entitled The Degradation of the Working Classes in Victorian Scotland; and there was even a present for Hamish. It was a grey-green sweater ornamented with strutting pheasants.
The guests then went to fetch their presents for Jane. “I forgot to warn you,” whispered Harriet to Hamish. “Have you got anything?”
Hamish suddenly remembered the bottle of perfume in his luggage. He had bought it to give to Priscilla and had then forgotten about it, having packed it by mistake along with his shaving-kit. “I only need a bit of Christmas wrapping,” he whispered.
Soon Jane was crowing with delight as she unwrapped her presents, although they were a singularly unimaginative set of offerings, from a cheque from her ex-husband to a record of protest songs from Heather.
“Gosh, I’ve eaten so much,” sighed Heather.
“A good walk is what we need.” Jane got to her feet. “Why don’t you all go ahead and I’ll catch up with you?”
Heather fumbled about the coats hanging at the doorway, complaining she could not find her oilskin. “Take mine,” said Jane. “Save you time looking. I’ve got another one.” So Heather put on Jane’s yellow oilskin and an of them went out into, the fierce gale.
It was after they had gone a mile along the beach that Hamish realised that Diarmuid and Heather were having a monumental row. The wind snatched their words away but then the little group saw Heather smack her husband’s face. Diarmuid turned on his heel and strode back in the direction of the hotel. As he passed Hamish, his face was tense and excited.
Heather strode off inland, at right angles to the beach, without a word. The others huddled together and watched her go. “I wonder what all that was about?” said Sheila. “I thought they never had rows – well, hardly ever.”
“Look,” said Ian, “there’s a truck coming along the beach.”
Hamish recognised Geordie’s antique Fiat. It drew to a stop beside them and Geordie jumped down. He held out his hand to Hamish. “I want tae thank you,” he said. “I’ve neffer had a bit o’ trouble wi’ him since Macleod fixed things.”
“There you are,” said Hamish with a grin. “It’s all in the mind. Where are you off to?”
“Skulag. I’ve had enough o’ the missus. I’m going to the bar.”
“Why don’t we go with him?” Hamish asked the others. They all agreed, suddenly not wanting to go back to the health farm and spend the rest of Christmas Day with a warring Heather and Diarmuid.
“What about Jane?” asked John.
“I don’t think she means to come,” pointed out Hamish. “And besides, we never told her which way we were going on our walk.”
“Two in the front and the rest up on the back,” said Geordie.
They all rattled cheerfully on their way and were soon settled in the bar of The Highland Comfort, ignoring the hostile stares of the locals and getting quite tipsy. Geordie had said he didn’t dare join them, lest the islanders damn him for consorting with “the enemy.”
It was five o’clock when Hamish reluctantly suggested they should return. It had been so easy and companionable. The Carpenters had told stories of farming life in Yorkshire, John had related some very witty anecdotes about terrible judges, and Harriet had made them laugh with an account about being interviewed on television by an interviewer with a prepared list of questions who thought Harriet was a literary-prize winner and who had ploughed on regardless.
Geordie had disappeared, and so they all had to walk back. Hamish took Harriet’s hand. He knew he was quite drunk, a rare state of affairs for him. He felt warm and happy despite the howling wind and darkness. But as soon as he saw the pink sign of The Happy Wanderer, he experienced such a sharp feeling of dread that he let Harriet’s hand drop and stood still.
“What’s the matter?” asked Harriet.
He shivered. “Someone walking over my grave. Come on. Jane will be wondering what has happened to us all.”
Jane and Diarmuid were seated in the lounge in front of the fire, side by side on the sofa. They rose to meet the company. Hamish looked at both of them sharply but Diarmuid looked much as usual, and Jane seemed delighted to see them, asking if they had enjoyed their walk.
“Where’s Heather?” asked Hamish sharply.
“Still out. She walked off in a huff, if you remember,” replied Diarmuid.
“She shouldnae be out in the dark on her own. She hadn’t a torch.” Hamish looked worried. “We’re going to have to organize a search-party.”
“It’s not late,” said Jane soothingly. “She’s probably stay-big away to give us a fright.”
“And she’s succeeding wi’ me,” said Hamish grimly. He picked up a torch. “I’m going to look for her.”
“I’m coming too,” volunteered Harriet, not because she was worried about Heather but because she did not want to be with the others without Hamish.
“I think you ought to go too,” said John, looking at Diarmuid with dislike. “That is, if you can tear yourself away from my wife.”
“Ex-wife,” said Diarmuid huffily. But he got to his feet and took his Harbour coat down from a hook at the door and then spent some time adjusting his new cap on his head. Not wanting to be left out of things, the Carpenters volunteered their services, and then Jane said she would go as well, for she knew the island better than any of them.
They split up outside. Harriet insisted on staying with Hamish and Sheila with her husband. Jane and Diarmuid and John looked at each other under the light of the pink sign and then, without a word, went their separate ways.
“I couldn’t be on my own on an island like this,” said Harriet, keeping close to Hamish. “It’s spooky. You forget there are still parts of the world where there are no street lights, no shops, nothing but the howling wind and blackness.”
For hours they struggled through endless miles of moorland and croftland, knocking at cottage doors from time to time, asking if anyone had seen Heather, but no one had.
It was nearly midnight when they returned, to learn from the others that Heather was still missing. Hamish went through to the phone and tried to rouse Sandy Ferguson, the policeman, but without success. He then phoned headquarters at Strathbane and ordered air-sea rescue patrols just in case Heather had been blown off some crag into-the sea.
He sat up late while the others went to bed, waiting and hoping for Heather’s return. In the morning, he set out at six and
walked down to the village and began banging on doors and summoning all the men he could get to help in the search. Strangely, he knew there would be no difficulty. The islanders’ spite did not extend to leaving some woman, possibly injured, lying out on the moors.
As dawn finally rose, he already had a line of men straggling out from the village, searching everywhere. The gale was tremendous, booming and shouting and roaring across the sky. Soon the brief daylight would begin to fade. Hamish looked up at the sky. There seemed little hope of any air rescue even getting off the landing strip in such weather.
Sandy Ferguson had sulkily joined the search. He looked more hung over than ever.
Hamish became aware that a red-haired child was studying him curiously as he searched around a large peat stack.
The boy crept closer. “Are ye looking for her?” he whispered.
“Aye,” said Hamish. “A Mrs. Todd.”
“I saw her sunbathing,” said the boy.
Hamish looked at the white, pinched face and his eyes sharpened. “Could you take me to where she was sunbathing?”
“Aye, I could that, but it’s ower on the west.”
“What’s your name, laddie?”
“Rory Sinclair.”
Hamish called to one of the men on the road, who came running up. He drew him aside. “This boy’s talking about seeing a woman sunbathing.”
“Och, Rory’s daft. A wee bitty simple.”
“Still, we’ve got to try everything. You’ve got your car. Let’s get the lad into it and get him to show us where he saw the woman.”
Rory climbed into the passenger seat, highly excited at the thought of a trip in a car.
“Where on the west?” asked Hamish from the back seat.
“Balnador.”
The car, an old battered Mini-Cooper, chugged its way along roads which were little more than tracks, heading to the north-west of the island. “Vroom! Vroom!” said Rory, obviously enjoying himself hugely.
The car finally rolled to a stop. The driver said, “This is as far as I can get to the shore.”
Hamish climbed out, helped Rory out of the front seat, and said, “Show me where you saw her.”
