by M C Beaton
“I’ll look forward to it.”
Hamish said goodbye and slowly replaced the receiver. She was coming home for good. Priscilla was coming back. But she hadn’t said why she was so upset when Betty lied to her about marrying him.
He finished dressing and went into the kitchen. Elspeth smiled at him and said, “Don’t you look…” and then the smile faded from her face.
“Priscilla,” she said flady. “That was Priscilla on the phone.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
Hamish’s face flamed. “It wass a private conversation.”
“You poor sucker. She keeps jerking your chain.”
“You’ve got no right to speak to me like that.”
Elspeth sighed. “One’s as bad as the other. She sat at this table one evening and told me how she was looking forward to her wedding to dear Peter.”
“I don’t want to talk about her!” howled Hamish.
“You may as well take me for dinner,” said Elspeth. “Otherwise I’d be all dressed up and nowhere to go.”
Hamish and Elspeth tried to make conversation during dinner, but their silences lengthened.
“This is hopeless,” said Elspeth finally. “Stay and finish your wine. I’m going back to pack.”
“Stay the night.”
“I’d rather stop somewhere on the road. Thanks for the story, thanks for getting me my job back, and I hope you and Priscilla Halburton-Smythe will be truly miserable.”
She stalked out.
Hamish stayed where he was, feeling guilty. But as he saw her car drive past, a surge of elation went through him. Priscilla was coming home to the Highlands.
The next day, Hamish drove over to the caravan park at Cnothan.
Jock and Dora were sitting on deck chairs outside dieir caravan.
“Betty’s dead,” said Hamish, standing over them.
“How? What happened?” asked Jock.
“She got your letter and hanged herself in her cell. You are a piece of scum. If you hadn’t led her on, she might never have murdered those two folk.”
“Och, get off your high horse. Don’t tell me you’ve never led some woman on.”
A picture of Elspeth rose before Hamishs eyes. He shook his head to get rid of it.
“Don’t cross my path again,” he said. “In fact, get off my beat, or I’ll make your lives a misery.”
Hamish stalked off. Then he had a sudden thought. He got into the Land Rover and telephoned Jimmy. “Betty didn’t say anything about sewing the cocaine into the curtains when I was there.”
“We interviewed her later when she stopped screaming. We had to fill in the blanks. Yes, she confessed to that and to defacing Priscillas portrait.”
“Pity,” said Hamish. “I’d ha’ loved to arrest one of dbat pair.”
As Hamish drove back towards Lochdubh, he suddenly thought of Detective Chief Inspector Blair. He felt sure no one had gone to visit him. He wrestled with his conscience and then decided a ten-minute call would be all right.
He bought a bottle of whisky and drove to the housing estate in Strathbane where Blair lived.
It was a semi-detached house with a weedy garden in front. He rang the doorbell and waited, hearing shuffling from inside.
Blair opened the door and blinked up at Hamish. He was leaning on a pair of crutches.
“What is it?” he demanded.
“I brought you a present and came to see how you were,” said Hamish.
Blair snatched the bottle from him, snarled, “I know you, you came to gloat. Bastard!” and slammed the door in Hamish’s face.
Hamish walked away, shaking his head and giving his conscience a talking-to. “Now, wasn’t that a waste of time?” he raged. A woman passing by gave him a nervous look.
He drove into the centre of Strathbane and parked the Land Rover. He would take a look around the shops and treat himself to lunch.
Hamish was not used to having money to spend on himself, and he felt quite profligate as he bought himself a new pair of shoes, his old ones having fallen apart a long time ago. The odd times he had worn a suit, he had worn his regulation boots with it.
He was just leaving the shoe shop when he saw Robin Mackenzie on the other side of the street. Hamish hailed her. “I thought you were in Inverness.”
“I came up to get the last of my stuff. I was just taking a last look round,” said Robin.
“What about lunch?”
“All right. There’s quite a good Chinese here.”
Inside the restaurant, Hamish asked her, “How do you think you’ll get on in Inverness?”
“It’s not too bad. Better than Strathbane. I know I did the wrong thing, Hamish, but so did Daviot, and the way he got on his moral high horse makes me sick.”
“Aye, but the man’s at that dangerous middle age, and when a young woman like you throws herself at him, he’s easy prey.”
“Never mind. Tell me all about the case.”
Hamish talked as they ate. When he finished, Robin asked, “So what happened to Effie’s mobile phone?”
“I don’t know. You should still have been on the case. Went right out of my head.”
“All you need to do is get the number and ring it. The battery might still be working.”
“I may do. But what’s the point? Betty will never go to trial now.”
“Why?”
“She hanged herself with her tights in her cell.”
“Saves a trial.”
They finished their meal. Robin said, “If you’re ever down in Inverness, give me a call.” She took a card out of her handbag. “That’s my new number.”
“Thanks. I will.”
Hamish stopped off at the Tommel Castle Hotel on the road back.
“I’m right sorry, Hamish,” said Mr. Johnson. “How was I to guess that a woman like Betty Barnard was a murderess?”
“It’s over now. How’s business?”
“Not very good. Cancellations coming in every day.”
“Let me think.”
Hamish slumped down in an armchair on the other side of the managers desk and closed his eyes. He was silent so long that Mr. Johnson finally asked, “Have you fallen asleep, Hamish?”
Hamish opened his eyes. “This is a fake casde, right? Built in Victorian times, but it looks spooky. You need a ghost. People love ghosts.”
“Now, how do we get a ghost?”
“We need someone who was killed here in the nineteenth century or someone who committed suicide. You tell the staff the plan. They won’t want to be laid off because of lack of customers, so they’ll play along. I’ll see Matthew Campbell when you’re ready and start the ball rolling. Then what about murder weekends?”
“Hamish, what are you talking about?”
“Some hotels have murder weekends. You get a sort of Agatha Christie script. Everyone dresses up in twenties or thirties clothes and takes a part. They’ve all got to guess who the murderer is.”
“Could be an idea.”
“Get on the Internet and find out where they do it and what they charge.”
“I don’t know if Colonel Halburton-Smythe will agree to the idea.”
“He may not, but Priscilla will. She’s coming back to live here.” Hamish’s hazel eyes glowed.
And you’ll get hurt all over again, thought the manager. Aloud, he said, “That’s good. She’s a grand worker. What are you going to do now? Take a holiday?”
Hamish opened his mouth to say he was going to New York and closed it again. Priscilla was coming home, and he wanted to be in Lochdubh when she arrived. But that’s not for a month, said a voice in his head. Plenty of time to go to New York.
I can’t leave my animals, he thought, relieved to find a genuine excuse. No one in the village would look after Sonsie.
“Hamish, your lips are moving, but no sound is coming out.”
Hamish blushed. “Sorry, I was thinking. I’ll take some time off just to potter around and relax.”
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Back at the police station, there was an urgent message from the minister, Mr. Wellington, asking Hamish to call at the manse.
He went round to the kitchen door at the back, knowing the front door was hardly ever used.
Mr. Wellington let him in. “I have a problem of conscience,” began the minister.
“I’m surprised you can’t cope with it yourself.”
“Sit down.”
Hamish sat at the kitchen table. The manse kitchen was a large gloomy room dating from the days when there would be at least six servants living in at the manse.
“It’s like this,” said Mr. Wellington. “Jock Fleming called on me. He wants me to remarry him to his ex-wife. I do not wish to do it.”
“Why?”
“Because his presence in this village brought murder with it. I feel it should have been my Christian duty to marry him, and yet I could not. I asked him if he believed in God and Jesus Christ, and he laughed and said, “No more than you do. I’m like the rest of Scotland. Church is for births, marriages, and deaths.””
“You did the right thing. I want the man out of here as well. Tell you what. I’ll go and see them and speed them on their way.”
Hamish drove to Cnothan, taking his pets with him. At the caravan park, he was told that Mrs. Fleming had left but that Mr. Fleming was staying on.
Hamish drove into the village of Cnothan. He braked to a halt when he saw Jock. The artist was talking to one of the local girls, Fiona Crumley. As Hamish watched, Jock bent forward and whispered something in Fionas ear, and she blushed and giggled.
He got out of the Land Rover. “A word with you, Jock.”
“See you later,” said Fiona.
Hamish watched her go and then said, “I want you out of here, Jock. I warned you.”
“I like it here. You can’t force me to go.”
“Shouldn’t you be back with Dora? I hear you wanted to marry her.”
“Och, that was just to keep her quiet. I got rid of her by telling her to go to Glasgow and find a minister.”
“Why the church? Why not a registry office?”
“Dora wants a white wedding.”
“I’m warning you for the last time. Get the hell off my beat.”
Jock laughed and walked away. Hamish set off down the main street in pursuit of Fiona. He caught up with her at the loch side—that grim black loch man-made by the Hydro Electric Board.
“A word of warning for you,” said Hamish. She looked at him round-eyed. “Keep clear of Jock Fleming. I think you should know he’s got syphilis. Oh, he’ll swear he hasn’t, but I’d hate to see a lassie like you catching a nasty sexual disease.”
“Thanks, Hamish. He seemed so nice.”
“And warn your friends.”
The news of Jock’s fictional syphilis spread like fire in the heather out from Cnothan and across to Lochdubh. Hamish was lucky that no one actually confronted Jock with the fact that he had the disease. They simply shunned him. He was told his caravan was needed for a pre-booking and no other van was available. Shops refused to serve him. Hamish was relieved when he finally got the news that Jock had left.
Hamish thought several times about phoning Elspeth but each time couldn’t muster up the courage. After all, what could he say? He had no right to string her along. But wasn’t he as bad as Effie, getting excited about Priscilla coming back? Wasn’t he a fantasist as well?
His spirits were dampened somewhat by an unexpected visit from Colonel Halburton-Smythe. The fussy little colonel walked into the kitchen one morning when Hamish was washing up dirty dishes. He sat down at the table unasked and looked around him.
“To think my daughter might have been living here,” he said.
Hamish stacked the last clean dish on the rack and leaned against the counter. He wondered if all retired military men who insisted on being addressed by their army rank were as infuriating and pompous as Priscilla’s father.
“Did you come to criticise my home?” he asked.
“I came about this idea you put up to Johnson. It’s mad.”
“What’s mad about it?”
“Ghosts and murder. Haven’t we had enough real murder in Lochdubh already without manufacturing fictional ones?”
“So don’t do it. Lose customers. What do I care?”
“Don’t be so hasty. Tell me about it.”
So Hamish patiently described his ideas. The colonel studied him after he had finished with shrewd little eyes. “Wouldn’t such an idea bring in the riffraff?”
“Not if you charge enough. Tell me, at country house parties, don’t they still dress up and play charades?”
“Yes.”
“Well, there you are. People love dressing up. If you ferret around in the trunks in the storage room, you’ll probably find enough thirties and twenties clothes to save you buying any.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“What about the ghost? Any murdered people in the casde’s past?”
“In the early part of the twentieth century, the then Lord Derwent killed his wife. A maid witnessed him throwing her down the stairs. It never went to court, and the maid was paid off.”
“There you are. The ghost of Lady Derwent haunts the casde, crying for justice.”
“So I need to pay someone to play the ghost and keep their mouths shut?”
“No, then they’d all know it wasn’t real. I know someone who could fix up ghostly effects for you.”
“I’ll think about it. Horrible business about that artist having syphilis, and to think he was painting my daughter! I’ll be off.”
“Aren’t you going to thank me for my great ideas?”
“Oh, they are a bit ridiculous. But thank you for trying.” He marched out.
Later that day, Hamish did not know whether to be amused or furious when Mr. Johnson said that the colonel had gathered the staff together to tell them about ‘his’ great ideas about a ghost and murder weekends.
That evening, Gloria Addenfest called on Hamish. “Came to say thanks,” she said. “I’m off to the States. I’m glad it’s all over. Funny. I liked that Barnard woman. I thought she was the only one around that was any fun. All goes to show what a great judge of character I am. I even asked her to visit me in New York.”
“She fooled us all,” said Hamish heavily.
“Here’s my card anyway. You can come and stay widi me any time.”
After she had left, a voice nagged in his head that he should go. Priscilla would be as distant as ever. But what would he do with his cat?
His next caller was Jimmy Anderson.
“Tell me, Jimmy,” said Hamish, opening a bottle of whisky and putting it in front of the detective, “did Betty say anything at the subsequent interview about what she did with Effie’s mobile phone?”
“Didn’t ask her. Doesn’t matter now. What’s this rumour going around that Jock has syphilis?”
“I put it about to get rid of him. His wife had left, and he was already chatting up some young girl in Cnothan. I hope that’s the last we ever see of him. He’ll always bring trouble.”
“I hear you went to visit Blair,” Jimmy said.
“How did you find out?”
“He phoned up drunk and weepy and said nobody had bothered to find out how he was except Hamish Macbeth.”
“The old scunner. I took him a bottle of whisky. He grabbed it from me and slammed the door in my face. It’s a wonder that man isn’t dead.”
“I think God keeps him on this earth to remind us that suffering purifies the soul.”
Hamish poured himself a small measure of whisky. “I saw Robin in Strathbane.”
“How’s Auld Iron Knickers getting on?”
“Fine. She likes Inverness.”
“Someone said, mind you, and if you can believe this, that they had seen Robin down in Inverness arm in arm with Daviot.”
Hamish manufactured a laugh. “Now, that really is daft. Daviot, of all people.”
“That’s what I said. So are you going to take your holiday now?”
“Starting as soon as possible. Like now.”
“So where are you going?”
“Och, I’m chust staying here,” said Hamish awkwardly.
“You know, every time I drive into peasantville, I look to see what the hell it is that keeps you here, but I’m blessed if I can.”
“Never mind. Make that your last whisky this evening. One of these days you’re going to run off the road.”
“All right, mother.” Jimmy swallowed his whisky. “Here’s hoping we never have to cope with another murder again.”
Hamish was in Patel’s shop the next morning when Angela came up to him. “Have you seen the Bugle?”
“No, why?”
“Jock’s been shot. Elspeth’s written the story.”
Hamish bought a copy of the newspaper and went outside and sat on the waterfront wall.
Jock had been shot dead in his flat. Neighbours heard the shot. They found his flat door open and Jock lying dead on the floor. Police said that Jock Fleming owed considerable sums of money to loan sharks to pay for his gambling debts, and diey felt that was the reason he was killed. Then there was an inside feature, also by Elspeth, about Jock’s connection to the murders in Lochdubh. The article ended by saying that it was reported that prices of his paintings had doubled.
Hamish wondered for a moment whether Dora had decided she’d had enough of Jock’s philandering but then came to the conclusion that probably one of his loan sharks had wiped him out.
He pottered about for the rest of the day, feeling the peace of Lochdubh beginning to seep into his bones. In early evening, just as the sun was setting, he decided to go for a walk along the beach.
The air was clear and slightly cool. Thin wisps of cloud trailed the sky above, heralding a change in the good weather.
And then as he looked along the beach, he saw a heron, standing on the flat rock where Betty had stood, looking down into the water.
As he approached, it slowly turned its head and looked at him.
He experienced a sudden superstitious shiver of fear. He ran towards it, waving his arms and shouting, “Go away. Shoo!”
The bird lazily opened its great wings and sailed off down the loch in the direction of the Atlantic.
