by M C Beaton
The rest of the group tried to ignore Lady Jane’s remark. “Tell us where exactly you caught those salmon, Major,” asked Jeremy.
“Yes, do tell,” echoed Daphne. “It isn’t fair to keep such a prize place to yourself.”
The major laughed and shook his head.
“Oh, I’ll tell you,” said Lady Jane. She was wearing a sort of flowered pyjama suit of the type that used to be in vogue in the thirties. Vermillion lipstick accentuated the petulant droop of her mouth. “I was talking to Ian Morrison, the ghillie, a little while ago and the dear man was in his cups and told me exactly how you caught them.”
An awful silence fell on the group. The major stood with a bottle of champagne in one hand and a glass in the other and a silly smile pasted on his face.
“I think we should go in to dinner,” said Heather loudly and clearly.
“I say, yes, let’s,” said the major eagerly.
They all rose to their feet. Lady Jane remained seated, a gilt sandal swinging from one plump foot as she looked up at them.
“Major Frame didn’t catch those fish at all,” she said with hideous clarity. “Ian Morrison took him up to the high pools on the Anstey. In one of those pools, three salmon had been trapped because of the river dwindling suddenly in the heat. They were dying from lack of oxygen. One was half out of the water and a seagull had torn a gash in its side, not the dear major’s fictitious hook!”
One by one they filed into the dining room, not looking at each other, not looking at the major. Alice couldn’t bear it any longer. She took a seat by the major. “I don’t believe a word of it,” she said, patting his hand. “That terrible woman made it all up.”
The major smiled at her in a rigid sort of way and drank steadily from his champagne glass.
Charlie Baxter had been invited to join them for dinner. He had not been in the bar and therefore did not know about the major’s humiliation. But he looked from face to face and then settled down to eat his food so that he could escape as quickly as possible.
Lady Jane launched into her usual evening flow of anecdotes while the rest stared at her with hate-filled eyes.
What the major had done was not so bad. Alice thought he had been very clever. She herself, she was sure, would have sworn blind she had caught them.
Heather Cartwright was miserable. She had already posted off the photographs, developed quickly by John in their own darkroom, to the local papers and fishing magazines. Heather didn’t know which one she wanted to kill—Lady Jane or the major. When it had seemed as if the major had landed that splendid catch, Heather and John had heaved a sigh of relief. Surely nothing Lady Jane said could touch them now. It was the most marvellous piece of publicity for the fishing school. But the silly, vain, major had now played right into Lady Jane’s hands. Well I can just about bear it, thought Heather, but if anything happens to this fishing school, it will kill John.
“I always think those silly beanpole women who model clothes are a hoot,” Lady Jane was saying. “I remember going to Hartnell’s collection and there were the usual pan-faced lot of mannequins modelling clothes for the Season and the salon was so hot and stuffy and we were all half asleep. They were marching on saying in those awful sort of Putney deb voices, ‘For Goodwood, For Ascot’, and things like that, and then this one marches on and says, ‘For Cowes’, and we all laughed fit to burst.” Lady Jane herself laughed in a fat, jolly way.
Marvin Roth was gloomily longing for the appearance of that village constable with the red hair. No one else seemed to have the courage to be rude to Lady Jane. If she did know something about him, Marvin Roth, then good luck to her. But that remark of hers to the constable about ‘having power’ was worrying. What sort of power?
Blackmail, thought Marvin Roth suddenly. That’s it. And there was nothing he could do about it. Had they been in New York, then things might have been different. There was always -someone who could be hired to clear away people like Lady Jane…although he had heard that even in old New York things were not what they were in the early seventies, say, when a thousand dollars to the local Mafia could get someone wasted. If only he could do it himself. Maybe he should just try to pay her off before she approached him. Amy must never know. Amy was the prize. In order to get divorced from that little whore of a first wife, he had paid an arm and a leg, but gaining Amy Blanchard had been worth it. He knew Amy hoped he would make it big on the political scene. Of course,-Amy either knew or had guessed about his unsavoury past, but any approach to Lady Jane must be kept secret. There was a vein of steel running through Amy, and he was sure she would despise him for trying to conciliate Lady Jane.
Marvin polished his bald head with his hand and looked sideways at Lady Jane. No ma’am, he thought, the day I let a broad like you screw up my act, well, you can kiss my ass in Macy’s window.
At last the horrible dinner was over. Alice smoothed down the velvet of her gown with a nervous hand and smiled hopefully at Jeremy. He looked at her vaguely and turned abruptly to Daphne Gore. “Come on,” he said to Daphne. “We’ve got to talk.”
Alice’s eyes filmed over with tears. She was dreadfully tired. She felt alien, foreign, alone. When she passed the bar, it was full of people drinking and laughing, the other guests who did not belong to the fishing school. She hesitated, longing for the courage to go in and join them, longing for just one compliment on her gown to make some of her misery go away.
♦
Constable Hamish Macbeth leaned on his garden gate and gazed across the loch to the lights of the hotel. He had fed the chickens and geese; his dog lay at his feet, stretched across his boots like a carriage rug, snoring peacefully.
Hamish lit a cigarette and pushed his cap back on his head. He was not happy, which was a fairly unusual state of mind for him. This was usually the time of the day he liked best.
He had to admit to himself he had let Lady Jane get under his skin. He did not like the idea of that fat woman ferreting out details of his family life, even if there was nothing shameful to ferret out.
It was true that Hamish Macbeth had six brothers and sisters to support. He had been born one year after his parents had been married. After that there had been a long gap and then Mr and Mrs Macbeth had produced three boys and three girls in as quick a succession as was physically possible. As in many Celtic families, it was taken for granted that the eldest son would remain a bachelor until such time as the next in line were able to support themselves. Hamish had deliberately chosen the unambitious career of village constable because it enabled him to send most of his pay home. He was a skilful poacher and presents of venison and salmon found their way regularly to his parents’ croft in Ross and Cromarty. The little egg money he got from his poultry was sent home as well. Then there was the annual prize money for best hill runner at the Strathbane Highland games. Hamish had taken the prize five years in a row.
His father was a crofter but could not make nearly enough to support all six younger children. Hamish had accepted his lot as he accepted most things, with easy-going good nature.
But of late, he had found himself wishing he had a little bit more money in his pocket and yet he would not admit to himself the reason for this.
What he could admit to himself was that he was very worried about the fishing class. Crime in Hamish’s parish usually ran to things like bigamy or the occasional drunk on a Saturday night. Most village wrangles were settled out of court, so to speak, by the diplomatic Hamish. He was not plagued with the savage violence of poaching gangs, although he felt sure that would come. A new housing estate was being built outside the village; one of those mad schemes where the worst of the welfare cases were wrenched out of the cosy clamour of the city slums and transported to the awesome bleakness of the Highlands. To Hamish, these housing estates were the breeding grounds of poaching gangs who dynamited the salmon to the surface and fought each other with razors and sharpened bicycle chains.
Something in his bones seemed to tell him that tro
uble was going to come from this fishing class. He decided it was time to find out a little more about Lady Jane.
He sifted through the filing cabinet of his mind, which was filled with the names and addresses and telephone numbers of various friends and relatives. Like most Highlanders, Hamish had relatives scattered all over the world.
Then he remembered his second cousin, Rory Grant, who worked for the Daily Recorder in Fleet Street. Hamish ambled indoors and put through a collect call. “This is Constable Macbeth of Lochdubh with a verra important story for Rory Grant,” said Hamish when the newspaper switchboard showed signs of being reluctant to pay for the call. When he was at last put through to Rory, Hamish gave a description of Lady Jane Winters and asked for details about her.
“I’ll need to go through to the library and look at her cuttings,” said Rory. “It might take a bit of time. I’ll call you back.”
“Och, no,” said Hamish comfortably, “I am not paying for the call, so I will just hold on and have a beer while you are looking.”
“Suit yourself,” said Rory. Hamish tucked the phone under one ear and fished a bottle of beer out of his bottom drawer. He did not like cold beer and, in any case, Hamish had grown up on American movies where the hero had fished a bottle out of his desk drawer, and had never got over the thrill of being able to do the same thing, even though it was warm beer and not bourbon.
He had left the police office door open, and a curious hen came hopping in, flew up on top of the typewriter, and stared at him with curious, beady eyes.
Priscilla Halburton-Smythe suddenly appeared in the doorway, a brace of grouse dangling from one hand, and smiled at the sight of Hamish with his huge boots on the desk, bottle of beer in one hand, phone in the other and hen in front.
“I see you’re interviewing one of the village criminals,” said Priscilla.
“Not I,” said Hamish. “I am waiting for my cousin in London to come back to the telephone with some vital information.”
“I meant the hen, silly. Joke. I’ve brought you some grouse.”
“Have they been hung?”
“No, I shot them today. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing. It is verra kind of you, Miss Halburton-Smythe.”
Since Hamish’s family did not like grouse, the policeman was calculating how soon he could manage to get into Ullapool, where he would no doubt get a good price for the brace from one of the butchers. If they were fresh, that would give him a few days. Hamish did not possess a freezer except the small compartment in his refrigerator, which was full of TV dinners.
Hamish stood up, startling the hen, who flew off with a squawk, and pulled out a chair for Priscilla. He studied her as she sat down. She was wearing a beige silk blouse tucked into cord breeches. Her waist was small and her breasts high and firm. The pale oval of her face, framed by the pale gold of her hair, was saved from being insipid by a pair of bright blue eyes fringed with sooty lashes. He cleared his throat. “I cannot leave the telephone. But you will find a bottle of beer in the refrigerator in the kitchen.”
“I thought you didn’t like cold beer,” called Priscilla over her shoulder as she made her way across the tiny hall to the kitchen. “I keep one for the guests,” called Hamish, thinking wistfully that he had kept a cold bottle of beer especially for her since that golden day she had first dropped in to see him about a minor poaching matter four whole months ago.
“No more trouble, I hope,” added Hamish as Priscilla returned with a foaming glass. “I hope it is not the crime that brings you here.”
“No, I thought you might like some birds for the pot.” Priscilla leaned back and crossed her legs, tightening the material along her thighs by the movement. Hamish half closed his eyes.
“Actually, I’m escaping,” said Priscilla. “Daddy’s brought the most awful twit up from London. He wants me to marry him.”
“And will you?”
“No, you silly constable. Didn’t I just say he was a twit? I say, there’s a picture show on at the village hall tonight. Second showing, ten o’clock. Wouldn’t it be a shriek if we went to it?”
Hamish smiled. “My dear lassie, it is Bill Haley and his Comets in Rock Around the Clock, which was showing a wee bit before you were born, I’m thinking.”
“Lovely. Let’s go after whoever you’re speaking to speaks.”
“I cannot think Colonel Halburton-Smythe would like his daughter to go to the pictures with the local bobby.”
“He won’t know.”
“You have not been long in the Highlands. Give it a day, give it a week, everyone around here knows everything.”
“But Daddy doesn’t speak to anyone in the village.”
“Your housemaid, Maisie, is picture daft. She’ll be there. She’ll tell the other servants and that po-faced butler, Jenkins, will see it as his duty to inform the master.”
“Do you care?”
“Not much,” grinned Hamish. “Oh, Rory, it is yourself.”
He listened intently. Priscilla watched Hamish’s face, noticing for the first time how cat-like his hazel eyes looked with their Celtic narrowness at the outer edges.
“Thank you, Rory,” said Hamish finally. “That is verra interesting. I am surprised that fact about her is not better known.”
The voice quacked again.
“Thank you,” said Hamish gloomily. “I may be in the way of having to report a wee murder to you in the next few days. No, it is chust my joke, Rory.” Hamish’s accent became more sibilant and Highland when he was seriously upset.
He put down the phone and stared into space.
“What was all that about?” asked Priscilla curiously.
“Gossip about a gossip,” said Hamish, getting to his feet. “Wait and I’ll just lock up, Miss Halburton-Smythe, and we’ll be on our way. I’ll tell you about it one of these days.”
Day Four
Above all, when playing a big fish, stay calm.
—Peter Wheat, The Observer’s Book of Fly Fishing
It was a very subdued party that met in the lounge in the morning. Heather Cartwright was visibly losing her usual phlegmatic calm. Her plump face was creased with worry, and her voice shook as she asked them to be seated.
Lady Jane was absent, but everyone seemed to jump a little when anyone entered the room. John Cartwright, in a weary voice, said he felt they had not all learnt the art of casting properly and so he would take them out to the lawn at the back to give a demonstration. His eyes turned to the major to make his usual remark, that those with experience could go ahead, but somehow he could not bring himself to say anything.
They stood about him, shivering in the chill, misty morning air as he demonstrated how to make the perfect cast. He warmed to his subject but his little audience fidgetted restlessly and moved from foot to foot.
Finally, their unease reached him, and he stopped his lecture with a little sigh. “Enough from me,” he said. “We will go to the upper reaches of the river Anstey. I’ll leave word at the, desk for Lady Jane. There is no point in disturbing her if she’s sleeping late.”
Like the day before, the warmth of the sun began to penetrate the mist. “Bad day for fishing,” said the major knowledgeably, and Alice could only envy the quick way in which he had recovered from his humiliation.
“I like the sunshine,” she said, and then could not resist adding, “and I hope Lady Jane doesn’t turn up to spoil it.”
“Got a feeling we won’t be seeing her,” said the major cheerfully.
And then it was as if they all had the same feeling. Everyone’s spirits began to lift. John Cartwright smiled at his wife and pressed her hand as he drove up the twists and winds to the river. “I’ve a feeling we’ve been worrying too much about that woman,” he murmured to Heather. “Don’t worry. I’ll see to it she doesn’t plague us anymore.”
Alice gave a little sigh of relief. Obviously the Cartwrights were going to tell Lady Jane to leave. She grinned at Charlie, but Charlie was
looking white and sick and turned his head away.
She shrugged. Again, the sunshine was bleaching away the worries of the night. She was prepared to accept that she did not stand a chance with Jeremy. Let him have Daphne. There was no use fighting it. She would enjoy the exercise and scenery as much as she could. Once more her thoughts returned to Mr Patterson-James. She was sure he would be impressed when she described her holiday.
But when she climbed out of the car and waited for Heather to hand her her rod, she could not help wishing Jeremy would join her as he had done on the other days.
But John Cartwright, with the continued absence of Lady Jane, was once more on form. He was determined his little class should get the proper schooling. He said he was going to give them a demonstration of how to catch a salmon. When they all had their gear on he led the way up a twisting path beside the river at a smart trot. Alice felt the sweat beginning to trickle down her face as she stumbled along after him. Below them, at the bottom of the steep bank, the river Anstey foamed and frothed. At times, delicate strands of silver birch and alder and hazel screened the river from their view, and then, around another turn it would appear again, tumbling headlong on its way to the sea. To the right, the tangled forest climbed up the mountainside.
Marvin Roth put an arm around his wife’s shoulders to help her. “Didn’t mean to take you on a survival course,” he said. Amy shook his arm away and strode ahead of him up the path with long, athletic strides. Marvin hesitated, took off his cap, and passed a hand over the dome of his bald head. Then he replaced his cap and plunged after her.
“What’s up with you this morning, Miss Alice?” came Jeremy’s voice behind Alice. “Don’t I get a smile?”
Remember, ifs no use, Alice chided herself fiercely. Aloud she said, “I haven’t any energy to do anything other than try to keep up. It’s so hot. I didn’t think the Scottish Highlands would be so hot.”
“It’s like this sometimes,” said Jeremy, falling into step beside her. He was wearing a blue cotton shirt open at the neck, as blue as the sky above. He smelled of clean linen, aftershave, and masculine sweat. The heavy gold band of his wrist watch lay against the brand-new tan of his arm. Alice’s good resolutions began to fade.
