by M C Beaton
Priscilla held out her hand. “Anyway, thanks a lot, Hamish.”
His hazel eyes glinted down at her in the twilight. “What about a kiss?”
“Oh, Hamish.” She smiled and raised her head to kiss him on the cheek but he twisted his head and his lips came down on hers, gentle and warm.
The kiss was very brief but Priscilla felt oddly shaken. Hamish stared at her angrily for a moment and then said abruptly, “Call me if there’s any trouble.”
Priscilla stood and watched him go. He drove off very quickly and did not acknowledge her wave.
“Damn,” muttered Hamish, staring bleakly through the windscreen. “Why the hell did I do that? I don’t want to have to live through all that nonsense again.”
♦
Maria noticed that they were being served breakfast the next morning in a dining room separate from the other guests. All Peta’s fault. And yet the hotel staff were treating Peta like a queen and the chef had come into the dining room twice to ask her humbly if there was anything special he could cook for her. Peta was smiling and beaming with all this attention. She ate surprisingly moderately for her and it soon dawned on Maria that men were now the focus of Peta’s desires. She flirted with Sir Bernard and John Taylor. Her flirtation took the line of rather old-fashioned bawdy jokes about what the bishop had said to the actress. Only Crystal laughed. Crystal, too, was being very attentive to her aunt. Her new hair-style made her look as if she had been caught in a high gale, but her somewhat characterless face was as fashionably beautiful as ever. She was wearing very brief shorts with high-heeled sandals.
Maria, regretting that the pre-arranged programme meant that the party could not get off early and escape Peta, rose to her feet. “You will see from your programmes,” she said, “that we are planning a visit to the theatre in Strathbane this afternoon, although we will leave late in the morning and have a packed lunch on the bus. It is a Scottish comedy show and I hope you will all enjoy it.”
“Will the theatre be air-conditioned?” asked Sir Bernard, who was already sweating in the close heat.
“I doubt it. I don’t even know a London theatre that’s air-conditioned.”
Mr Johnson came in with a fax and handed it to Peta. She read it. “It’s from my accountant,” she said, beaming all round. “Do you know, Maria, I am now worth three million.”
“Three million pounds,” exclaimed Sir Bernard.
“Exactly,” said Peta.
“But that’s extraordinary. Surely a share in a matrimonial agency can’t bring in that sort of revenue.”
“No, sweetie, a rich husband who left me the lot and a good stockbroker.”
Sir Bernard gave her a calculating look. Three million. He was rich, but never too rich not to want more. He could expand his business with a dowry like that. And with the way she ate, she wouldn’t live long.
John Taylor felt shaken. He’d always thought of men having a lot of money, but not women.
Peta was surely nearly past the age of child-bearing. She must be…what…forty-five? And yet, three million. If he married her, that three million would become his, or rather, he would see to that. Then what would his son and daughter think when he died and left the lot elsewhere? Of course, the full impact would be spoilt if he died before Peta, but she couldn’t live long. That bulk of hers must be a terrible strain on the heart.
Three million, thought Matthew Cowper. I could buy a stately home with that and entertain the chairman and his wife and see their eyes pop out. I could have a Rolls to drive to work. Dammit, I could have a chauffeur. Peta looked a freak. But being married to a freak in a stately home was different from being married to a freak in a small bungalow. She would be considered Falstaffian and eccentric.
Of the men, only Peter Trumpington remained unmoved.
This is awful, thought Jenny Trask. Those men are all looking at her in such a horribly calculating way. They’re all rich. Well, Matthew Cowper, I gather, has simply got a good salary, but greed is stamped on their faces. In fact, we’re all greedy in one way – for romance, for money, for love. I wish Peta hadn’t said that about her millions. Deborah, Jessica, and Mary are looking as if they could kill her.
Crystal was leaning back in her chair, her cloud of artistically tangled hair shielding her expression. Jenny wondered what she was thinking and whether she had accompanied her aunt to the Highlands with a view to becoming Peta’s legatee. As they rose to go, however, Crystal said languidly that she had a lot of things to do and would not be going with them.
On the bus there was a scramble by Matthew, John and Sir Bernard to sit next to Peta. Matthew, being the youngest and most agile, got there first.
But at the theatre, it was John who succeeded in manoeuvring himself into a seat next to Peta by dint of buying her a large box of chocolates. The party were not all seated together, the seats being in twos throughout the auditorium. The noisy Scottish show ran its course, finishing up with a chorus line of small Scottish girls kicking their height in short tartan kilts to the wheezy music of the Strathbane Workers’ Pipe Band.
Sir Bernard managed to secure the seat next to Peta on the journey home. Deborah sat next to Jenny in silence. She had lost her exuberant spirits. Only Peter Trumpington and Jessica Fitt seemed happy as they sat together at the back, an odd couple, the handsome man and the grey woman.
Maria found her hands were shaking. Peta had probably arranged for that fax to arrive. The week was turning out a total disaster.
If only Peta would die.
That evening at dinner, Peta again ate very little and cracked jokes, and John and Matthew and Sir Bernard seemed to be vying with each other as to who could laugh the loudest.
After dinner, at nine o’clock, Peta suddenly announced she was going up to bed, and Crystal, like a beautiful shadow, followed her out. Deborah was not talking to Sir Bernard. She said she was going out for a walk. Mary French said something nasty about yuppies and said she had found the castle library and was going to retire there, books being better than men any time. John Taylor said he was going to bed. He was old and the day had been exhausting. Matthew went out for a walk, remarking that the light nights meant one could take a walk any hour of the day. Sir Bernard said he would accompany him and Matthew said nastily he preferred his own company, so Sir Bernard set out to go for a walk on his own.
Jenny asked Priscilla if she could borrow one of the castle cars. “Of course,” said Priscilla. “Come into the office, I have to take the number of your driving licence before you go.”
Once she had written down the number, Priscilla said, “You’ll find the keys in the ignition. Car theft is one crime that hasn’t reached Lochdubh yet. Where are you going?”
“Just a drive down to the village.”
“Going to visit anyone?” asked Priscilla sweetly.
“I don’t know anyone,” snapped Jenny and walked off.
Half an hour later, Priscilla decided to run down to the village herself and call on Hamish Macbeth.
She drove to the police station. The hotel car was parked outside.
She swung the wheel and drove back to the castle.
Inside the police station, Jenny was saying earnestly, “It must strike you as odd that I should join something like Checkmate.”
“I just thought it was the fashion these days.” Hamish heard a car driving up, stopping and then turning about and driving away. He was sure that it had been Priscilla and he looked at Jenny Trask with a certain amount of irritation in his eyes.
“I am a policeman, Miss Trask,” he said, “and not used to being disturbed so late in the evening except on police work. I do have a certain amount of chores to do before I go to bed. Did you come to see me about anything important?”
“I felt I had to see someone sane,” said Jenny, improvising wildly. Things were not turning out as she had expected. She had thought that Hamish might be intrigued by her visit. “I wish I had never come up here. It’s all so foreign and wild and weird. It
gives me odd ideas.” She knew she was babbling on but somehow could not stop. “The other night, I looked out and there seemed to be this great darkness approaching the castle. It turned out to be a cloud, but it gave me a creepy feeling. I went to the cinema once with a friend and no sooner had we sat down than I said to her, “Let’s move. There’s someone mad behind us.” Well, it was pitch-black, for the film had started, so my friend said it was nonsense. But a few moments later, this old woman behind us started muttering obscenities.”
Hamish looked at her, a sudden alertness in his eyes. “So you think one of the party at the castle is mad?”
“There’s something about it all that makes me uneasy,” said Jenny a trifle defiantly because this Highland policeman was making her feel like a fool.
“Why do you want to get married?” asked Hamish.
Jenny coloured up. “Most people do, you know. I’m only a legal secretary. It’s not as if I would be throwing up a great career to be a wife and mother.”
“Why not have a great career?” Hamish leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head.
“What?”
“Your family must have money, or Checkmate wouldn’t have accepted you. So you could study for the bar. Take a law degree. My, my.” He half-closed his eyes. “I can see it all: Jenny Trask, QC, defender of the poor and oppressed.”
“I never even thought of it.” Jenny gave an awkward laugh. “Me…standing up in court! I’d be too shy.”
“I don’t think you would be shy at all if you were defending someone, fighting for someone’s innocence,” said Hamish.
She wrapped her legs round the kitchen stool she was sitting on and clasped the cup of coffee he had given her tightly to her bosom. She could see herself in wig and gown. She could see herself on television outside the Law Courts with a successfully acquitted celebrity beaming beside her.
“And now,” prompted Hamish gently, “it’s getting late, and so…”
Jenny’s mind came into land on reality and she blinked at him.
“Oh, yes, I must go. Thank you for the coffee.”
Hamish shook his head in amusement when she had gone. He had given her a dream to chew over and he hoped that would keep her happy for the rest of the week.
He went outside to make sure he had locked up his hens for the night and then he walked down to the garden gate and looked out over the loch.
A sudden burst of wind came racing down the loch, setting the boats bobbing wildly, tearing among the rambling roses over the police-station door, whipping off the rubbish bin lid, flying down Lochdubh and then disappearing as quickly as it had come.
The ripples on the loch subsided, the air grew close and still and a few stars burned feebly in the half-light of the sky.
He picked up the rubbish bin lid and replaced it with automatic fingers. It was as if that wind had been racing towards Tommel Castle. He gave a superstitious shiver.
“Daft,” he chided himself as he went indoors, as daft as Jenny’s imaginary mad people at the castle.
∨ Death of a Glutton ∧
4
Into the jaws of death,
Into the mouth of hell
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson
The landscape had lost its clear sharp colours when the party assembled outside the bus in the morning. They were due to go on a visit to a fish-farm, returning to the hotel for lunch and then a leisurely afternoon playing tennis or croquet in the grounds.
Crystal arrived at the bus despite the early hour. She was wearing a brief sun-suit which left little of her stupendous figure to the imagination. “Auntie’s not coming,” she volunteered. “She’s gone. She’s left a note to say she’s walked down to get the early-morning bus.”
The women looked relieved. “Thank God,” muttered Maria.
Priscilla watched them all drive off, wondering uneasily whether Peta had had second thoughts about Sean’s behaviour. She was joined by the hotel manager, Mr Johnson. “Good riddance,” he said.
“Mrs Gore’s up and gone,” said Priscilla.
“Oh, dear. I’d better tell Sean not to bother preparing lunch for her. I don’t like that fat woman, but she’s worked wonders on Sean. He does everything without complaint. I was even beginning to think she was an asset. Why don’t you take some time off now that she’s left? Your father’s not here to pester us.”
“What about lunch?”
“The waitresses are all on duty. I’m here.”
Priscilla hesitated. Then she said, “I might take a packed lunch and go off somewhere.”
Helped by Sean, who was almost servile, Priscilla packed a picnic hamper with enough for two, hoisted it into the Range Rover and drove down to the police station. Hamish was sitting in his front garden in a deckchair, reading the newspapers.
“I’m glad to see you’ve got the crime wave of Lochdubh subdued,” said Priscilla. “If Detective Chief Inspector Blair could see you now!”
“Well, thon pest’s safely in Spain. What brings you? Everything all right up at the castle?”
“Very much all right. Peta’s gone. She left a note to say she was walking down to get the early-morning bus.”
Hamish slowly put down his newspaper. “That’s odd,” he said.
“What’s odd? I mean, what can be so specially odd in the behaviour of a woman whose whole lifestyle is odd?”
“Well, she probably had heavy luggage…”
“Why? She didn’t dress very well. A few baggy cotton dresses, things like that.”
“A glutton like her would have stashed away some goodies in her luggage, probably had whole hams and sides of beef in there.”
“Well, if she had, she’d have eaten them by now. What are you getting at?”
“For a fat woman like that with plenty of money to get up early and carry her suitcase down to the road to wait for the bus is verra strange. Also, if she was fed up, it would have been more in her nature to tell everyone off before she went. Then she would surely have said something to her niece.”
“You’ve been too long without a crime,” said Priscilla with a laugh. “She’s gone and that’s that. Would you like to come on a picnic with me, just somewhere up on the moors where we can get a bit of fresh air?”
“Love to. I’ll just switch on the answering machine. And I’d best put my uniform in the car.”
“You’re expecting trouble!”
“Just in case. I would hate to run into trouble and then the police from headquarters would come rushing up to find me without my uniform on.”
“It’s this weather,” said Priscilla. “It would give anyone odd ideas. It’s so still and close; it feels threatening.”
♦
When she returned to the hotel with the others, Maria went straight up to Peta’s room. There on the dressing-table was the note, typewritten and unsigned. It said: “Gone off to get the early-morning bus. Fed up with this place.”
Maria frowned down at it. Had something happened to irritate Peta? She opened the wardrobe and then the drawers. All her clothes were gone. She went into the bathroom. The first thing she saw was Peta’s sponge-bag. It was a drawstring one and it was dangling by its strings from one of the taps. She unhitched it and opened it up. It contained deodorant, toothpaste, hairpins, and an expensive bar of soap. But Peta’s toothbrush was not there. She must have at least taken that. Puzzled and yet relieved at the same time, Maria carried it off with her. She could return it to Peta in London.
Jenny Trask sat on a deck-chair on the castle lawn. Things had settled down now that Peta was no longer with them. Mary French was teaching Matthew Cowper to play croquet, her high autocratic voice carrying to Jenny’s ears. From the direction of the tennis courts came the sound of jolly laughter. Deborah was playing tennis with Sir Bernard. Peter Trumpington and Jessica Fitt were walking slowly together along by the flowerbeds. Jenny felt a little stab of irritation. Peter certainly seemed a shallow young man without much in the way of intelligent conversation
, but he was handsome and rich and it was strange he appeared to feel so at home with the faded Jessica. Although she had little in the way of self-esteem, she did know that she was by far the best-looking female there, that is if one did not count Crystal, who was lying stretched out on the grass a little way away in a bikini of quite amazing brevity.
A shadow fell over Jenny and she looked up. John Taylor stood there, politely raising his hat. “Mind if I join you?”
“Delighted,” said Jenny politely.
He drew a deck-chair up next to hers and sat down. “Isn’t it odd, Peta taking off the way she did,” said Jenny.
Unconsciously echoing Priscilla, John said, “Everything about her was odd.”
“Maybe, but she was very vain…goodness, I’m talking about the woman as if she were dead. I mean, she seemed to take delight in riling and competing with Maria. I can’t imagine her walking off without blaming someone first.”
“Perhaps this is her way of complaining,” said John lazily. “Maria’s looking worried, and that’s probably the effect Peta meant to create.”
“But to leave without breakfast! Oh, well. At least this visit has got me thinking about a career.”
“In what way?” asked John. “I thought the purpose of your coming here was matrimony.”
“It was. I’m grateful to Peta in a way because she has made the whole business of this dating or marital agency distasteful. I’m thinking of taking my law exams.”
John looked at her in sudden dislike. “And no doubt you will end up a judge. And do you know why?”
“No.”
“Because tokenism is slowly going to destroy the legal system of this country. Someone like you will be made a judge, not because of talent or brilliance or capability but simply because you are a woman. First it was the ethnic minorities, now it’s bloody women.”
“I have not even started to study,” said Jenny in a thin voice, “and yet you are prejudging my ability. Hardly a proper legal outlook.”
