by M C Beaton
“Thank you,” said Priscilla in surprise.
Angela smiled teasingly at Hamish. She already looked years younger. “John always said you’d never do it, Hamish, but I was sure you would.”
“I’m surprised at Dr Brodie,” said Hamish. “I haff solved the murders afore.”
“Oh, not that. When is it to be?”
“When’s what?”
“Why, your wedding!”
“What wedding?” howled Hamish.
“It’s in the Gazette this morning,” said Angela, puzzled. “You and Priscilla.”
“Oh, my poor father,” said Priscilla weakly. “He’ll have a stroke.”
“You mean,” said Angela, her face falling, “that you haven’t…that you didn’t know anything about it?”
“Not a thing.”
The phone rang in the police station office. Hamish went to answer it. It was Superintendent Peter Daviot from Strathbane. “Well done, Hamish,” he cried.
“Thank you,” said Hamish modestly. “I was just doing my job.”
“Not your job, man, your engagement. Terrific news. My wife’s going out to look for an engagement present for you.”
“But—”
“Not another word, you sly dog!”
And the superintendent rang off.
“Don’t worry, Hamish,” came Priscilla’s voice from next to him. “We’ll get the paper to print an apology.”
He twisted his head and looked up at her. She looked amused, cool and beautiful…and distant.
With one abrupt movement, he pushed back his chair, and reaching up an arm, jerked her down on to his knees and began to kiss her, dizzy with emotion, fatigue, whisky and champagne.
The phone began to ring again but both ignored it. Willie walked in and picked it up. “Oh, it’s yerself, Mrs Macbeth,” he said to Hamish’s mother. “Yes, that’s right. Well, himself is tied up at the moment. I’ll get him to ring back.”
He shook his head over the entwined couple and went out.
“Who was that?” murmured Priscilla against Hamish’s lips.
“Don’t know and don’t care. Kiss me again.”
“Is this a proposal, Hamish?”
“Aye.”
“Well, take your hand out of my brassiere and listen to me for a moment.”
Hamish gave her a wounded look. “You’re not going to be sensible, are you?”
“Yes, I am. I don’t think I trust you, Hamish. I love you but I don’t trust you. I think you’ve got too much of an eye for the ladies.”
“But I’m proposing to you, Priscilla.”
“Okay, but just an engagement, a long engagement.”
“Anything you say.”
“Do you love me?”
“I’ve been trying not to for years.”
“Now kiss me again.”
§
Willie arrived back at the police station. It was as quiet as the grave. He walked into the living room and scowled at the mess of dirty glasses and empty champagne bottles. Then he saw a note addressed to himself pinned on Hamish’s bedroom door. He took it down and opened it. It said, “Tell everyone I have gone out. Must get some sleep. Hamish.”
But Willie wanted to tell Hamish that he was leaving, so he gently opened Hamish’s bedroom door. Hamish and Priscilla were lying together on Hamish’s narrow bed. They were both fast asleep. They were lying on top of the bedclothes, fully dressed with all their clothes, and with Towser at their feet, but Willie blushed furiously and quickly shut the door again.
Then he brightened as he turned and looked around the messy room. He would give the police station one last good clean-up.
§
Mr Wellington returned home that evening after a round of visits to the old and sick in the parish. He expected his wife to be asleep. He had complained to Dr Brodie about the number of sleeping pills she was taking, but Dr Brodie said that she must be getting them from another doctor, possibly in Strathbane. To his surprise, he smelled cooking, delicious cooking. It seemed he had been having squalid cold meals for ages.
“Ah, there you are,” said his wife briskly as he entered the large manse kitchen. “Sit down. Dinner’s nearly ready. Steak-and-kidney pie, mashed potatoes and Brussels sprouts, and make sure you eat all your greens, dear. You’ve been looking peaky of late.”
“Yes, my love,” said the minister happily.
“Oh, by the way, that money that was missing from the Mothers’ Union turned up again. It was left in the church hall on the kitchen counter…no note, no anything. We’re all quite sure it was a passing tramp or someone like that who had a fit of conscience and put it back.”
Mrs Wellington briskly and efficiently took a golden-crusted steak-and-kidney pie out of the oven.
Mr Wellington clasped his hands and bowed his head. “Thank you, God,” he said.
“Why, you’re praying,” cried Mrs Wellington.
“Why, so I am,” said the minister.
§
Dr Brodie could not quite put his finger on it but he knew that things had changed the minute he opened the door and walked into his house. He went into the kitchen. His wife was sitting behind a pile of textbooks as usual, but there seemed to be a lightness in the very air.
“I feel a bit daft,” he said, sitting down. “I was checking the drugs cabinet and I found those missing packets of morphine. They’d got stuck inside a packet of something else. I should call Hamish.”
Angela smiled at him. “Leave it till tomorrow. I thought we would eat out tonight. I’ve booked a table at the Napoli.”
“Great idea. Why don’t you wear one of your new dresses?”
“I haven’t got them.”
“What!”
“I sold them down in Inverness. That’s where I’ve been today,” lied Angela. “I got most of the money back.”
“Well, good for you. I didn’t know you could get any money at all for secondhand clothes.”
“These were models.”
“I don’t know anything about women’s clothes, but if it means dinner at the Napoli, then that’s grand.”
§
Hamish woke early in the evening and stretched out and felt around for Priscilla. But she had gone. He groaned and sat up and went through to the police office. There was a long string of messages and demands to call back. He began to work his way through them, starting with his mother, and so down to Jimmy Anderson.
“Thought you’d like to know,” said Anderson, “that we got that pop band to crack and they admitted covering up for Cheryl.”
“That’s grand.”
“The bad news is that I visited Blair in hospital. He’s made a complete recovery, but he’s been told to stay off the booze and go to Alcoholics Anonymous.”
“God grant them the serenity when Blair turns up, cursing and blinding, at one o’ their meetings,” said Hamish with feeling.
“Can you imagine what he’ll be like sober?” demanded Anderson peevishly. “The only time that man’s human is when he’s drunk. Talking about getting drunk, are you celebrating your engagement?”
“I plan to. I’ve lost her for the moment.”
“Good luck tae ye. Her father’s probably taking a horsewhip to her right now. What d’ye think o’ Willie leaving the force?”
“I didn’t know. He didn’t tell me.”
“He’s going into the restaurant business. The trouble is we cannae find a copper at the moment to replace him, so you’re on your own again.”
Bliss, thought Hamish, after he had rung off. Sheer bliss.
He picked up the phone again and rang the castle and with bad luck got Priscilla’s father on the other end. In a mild voice, he asked to speak to Priscilla.
“Before I get my daughter,” said the colonel in a low, quiet voice, quite unlike his usual blustering tones, “if you think you are going to marry her, you’ve got another think coming. She will never marry you, Hamish Macbeth, and I will do my best to stop you. I am warning you.”
When Priscilla answered, she said hurriedly, “Meet me at the Napoli in about ten minutes. I’ve got to get out of here.”
“That bad?”
“Worse. He’s gone all quiet and sinister and Mummy keeps crying and saying I’m ruining my life.”
“They’ll get used to it,” said Hamish heartlessly.
§
The Napoli was crowded. Willie and Lucia were seated at the best table with Mr Ferrari, all toasting each other with Asti Spumanti. Before Hamish could join Priscilla, Mr Ferrari waved him over. “So what do you think about Willie managing this business for me?”
“Grand,” said Hamish, shaking Willie’s hand. “Just grand. All the best.”
Mr Ferrari gave him a baffled look. “You are pleased to be losing such a good officer?”
“I’m pleased because he’s happy,” said Hamish.
Mr Ferrari gave a sudden amused shrug. “You are a man of many surprises, Hamish.”
Hamish threaded his way through the tables towards Priscilla, accepting the congratulations of the locals.
She was wearing a slim low-cut silk dress with a delicate necklace of small emeralds set in gold. Her face was calm and beautiful.
He felt a momentary pang of unease. This was the beauty he was going to share his policestation life with! It seemed incredible.
“I know,” said Priscilla sympathetically, although he had not spoken, “it takes some getting used to.”
“It’s been quite a day,” said Hamish awkwardly. He felt desperately shy of her for the first time.
He fought to find a topic of conversation and then remembered that Sean’s mother was due to arrive on the following day and that Ian Chisholm at the garage had promised to make her an offer for the bus. When he had exhausted that topic of conversation and ordered the meal, he sat in a miserable silence.
Priscilla stood up with one graceful fluid movement, came round the table and kissed him full on the mouth.
“Better?” she asked as she sat down again.
Hamish’s face suddenly lit up with sheer happiness.
“Better? I’m in heaven!”
§
The next day dawned fine and warm. Hamish dealt with the painful business of Mrs Gourlay, who turned out to be a small, quiet, faded lady, not in the least like her flamboyant son.
When it was all over, he went to the henhouse and dragged an old deck-chair out, cleaned it and put it on the patch of grass in front of the police station and stretched out on it.
“Quite like old times. I say quite like old times,” came a familiar voice from the hedge.
Hamish straightened up and found the Currie sisters looking at him. But suddenly, as he looked at Jessie, he had an embarrassing picture of how she had looked naked on that video and somehow that picture seemed to have transferred itself in that moment from his mind to Jessie’s.
She blushed deep red, gave a strangled squawk, and sped off, dragging her sister after her.
Hamish lay back in his deck-chair and grinned.
§
THE END
