by M C Beaton
Their excitement grew as they drove up to the gates of an imposing mansion. There was a barrier to the entrance and an armed guard.
Olivia noticed uneasily that the property was surrounded by a high electric fence, plastered with warning signs.
“You have a lot of security, Uncle,” she said. Mr. Templeton had told them to call him “Uncle.”
“It’s wicked world, Olivia, and I am a rich man.”
The inside of the house looked a bit like early American railroad baron. The furniture was heavy and Victorian. The walls were wood-panelled. Blinds were drawn down on all the windows, cutting out the sunlight.
Their rooms were a further disappointment. Each was small with a hard bed, a wardrobe, and a bedside table on which lay a large Bible. Each had a small bathroom en suite.
A grim-faced servant told them to rest, and to present themselves in the dining room for dinner at seven o’clock.
Charles sat on the bed in Olivia’s room. “This is creepy,” she said. “What’s with the Bibles? He didn’t strike me as particularly religious in London.”
“He can’t live that long,” said Charles, who considered all those in their sixties to be ancient. “We’d better find out if he’s made a will. The house is right on the sea. We can go swimming.”
Jimmy called on Hamish. “I’ve just found out more about this Mr. Templeton,” he said. “He’s some religious nut. He told his local church that he had invited two young relatives and was looking forward to educating them in the path of Jesus Christ.”
Hamish grinned. “I’d give anything to be a fly on the wall when they get there and find out what they’re in for.”
In the gloomy dining room, Mr. Templeton beamed at them as a surly maid served them with undercooked hamburgers and french fries. “Your first taste of real American food,” said Mr. Templeton.
“We have hamburger joints in Scotland,” said Charles.
“Now, Charles, it is rude to contradict your elders.”
“Yes, sir,” said Charles, picking up his knife and fork.
“Put down your knife and fork,” said Mr. Templeton. “I will say grace.”
And he did…on and on and on. By the time he had finished, Charles and Olivia had lost their appetites.
“Now, I have hired a tutor for you because the summer holidays are due to begin,” said Mr. Templeton.
“Can I go for a swim after dinner?” asked Olivia.
“No, you may not. Young girls should not expose their flesh for all to see.”
Prison would have been better than this, thought Olivia wildly.
She intended to plan some sort of campaign after dinner with her brother. But when the meal was finished, they trailed after Mr. Templeton to the drawing room, where he read them large extracts from the Bible.
They were finally dismissed, and the burly servant followed them up to their rooms and locked them in.
They found the next day a sort of torture. Their tutor was a reverend, a man with a dog collar from which his tall thin head popped out like a vulture. His name was Jeb Pratt, and the tutoring took the form of religious instruction.
Olivia managed to have a word with Charles when they were allowed out in the grounds in the afternoon for a walk with the servant-guard several paces behind.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” whispered Olivia. “He’s mad and he’ll drive us both mad if this goes on. We’ve got to escape.”
“We’ll never get past the guard or that electric fence,” said Charles.
“If we could get out of our rooms at night and find some way to sabotage the electric current, we could make it. At least we’ve still got our passports. I’ll think of something.”
That evening before dinner, rummaging through her luggage for some sort of tool, Olivia came across a half-used bottle of clear nail varnish. She put a small amount into the lock.
When the servant came to lock them in for the night, he found that the key to Olivia’s door would not turn. “I’ll get the locksmith around in the morning to fix that,” he said.
Olivia sat on her bed and waited until two in the morning. Then she let herself out and went to Charles’s room next door. To her relief, the key was in the lock. She shook her brother awake and said, “Let’s go. We’ll only take our backpacks.”
They crept down the thickly carpeted staircase. “There’s bound to be a fuse box somewhere,” said Olivia. “Look for a cellar or basement door.”
They found it at the back of the hall and crept down the stone stairs.
“There it is!” said Charles excitedly. “All I have to do is pull the switch.”
He jerked it down and the light in the cellar went off. They felt their way to the stairs and across the hall. Olivia gently unbolted three bolts in the massive door and turned the key, glad that all had been well oiled.
“Wait!” she said. “We need money. Let’s look at the desk in his study.”
“Do we have to?” asked Charles. “Someone could find us any moment.”
“We’ve got to,” said Olivia firmly. “Come on.”
In the top drawer of the desk, they found a bundle of hundred-dollar bills, which Olivia quickly stored in her backpack.
With beating hearts they made their way to a corner of the grounds. Nimbly they scaled the fence and disappeared into the night.
Hamish Macbeth heard the news of their disappearance two days later. “Why did it take all this time to let me know?” Hamish complained to Jimmy. “And why did they run away? Too much religion?”
“We only just heard ourselves,” said Jimmy. “Old Mr. Templeton thought he could catch them himself. He got a rocket from the FBI. You wouldn’t think two Britishers could disappear just like that.”
“They must have got hold of some money. Did Mr. Templeton say he was missing any?”
“No, but he’s been subjected to a rigorous investigation. His house has been searched and his grounds dug up for bodies. The press have just woken up to the story here. The American papers have been interviewing people on Nantucket, and it does seem he was some mad religious freak.”
“I somehow don’t think they’re dead,” said Hamish. “I feel right uneasy about it all. I only hope they don’t ever come back to Scotland.”
“Why?”
“It’s unfashionable to call folks evil these days but that’s what I think they are.”
“We’ll see,” said Jimmy. “But ten to one we’ll never hear about them again.”
In this he was wrong. A week later, the Palfours were in the headlines again. They had surfaced in New York and had got a top criminal lawyer to take their case pro bono. They were suing Mr. Templeton for mental cruelty.
The American newspapers and television were full of the case. Hamish and Dick watched them on the news, Olivia dressed in a much younger fashion, holding her brother’s hand, and both looking the picture of injured innocence.
At the end of the case, Mr. Templeton was sued for two million dollars, the money to be put into a trust for the Palfours’ upkeep and education. Olivia, now seventeen, was considered old enough to look after her brother.
Mrs. Mallard phoned Hamish. “The poor wee lambs,” she cried. “Do you think they’ll ever come back and see me?”
God forbid, thought Hamish, but he hadn’t the heart to destroy her illusions about the Palfours. “I’m sure they’ll be back one day,” he said.
He went up to the glen on a fine sunny day. The tourists were back but not in the numbers that had been there before. He leaned on the bridge and looked down into the pool, catching his breath as the kingfisher flashed across.
It was hard to believe that the tranquil setting had been witness to such violence. Poor Mary. Thief she might have been, but he hated to think of her poor body lying under the water. What an odd attraction she had been with those wide blue eyes, curvaceous figure, and that delicate scent she wore.
Back at the police station, he said to Dick, “I hope we can hang on here. They’re still closing police
stations all over the north.”
“Och,” said Dick comfortably, “let’s not think about things that make us miserable. I’m going to sit in the garden. Coming?”
“I’ll just take my beasties for a walk.”
With Sonsie and Lugs at his heels, he strolled along the waterfront. Everything was back to normal. No press and very few visitors. Just the way he liked it. And yet, he could not feel the case was closed. He would always wonder if the Palfours had been responsible for the death of the Russian.
Angela Brodie came up to join him as he leaned on the waterfront.
“Nice that everything is back to normal,” she said.
Hamish scowled at the blue waters of the loch. “I wish I could feel that. It’s those Palfours. They’re a loose end, and I don’t like loose ends.”
Olivia and Charles were at that moment talking about him. “When the holidays come around,” said Charles, “why don’t we take a trip to Scotland?”
“Bad idea,” said Olivia. “I bet that policeman, Macbeth, suspected us. I know he did.”
“What can he find out now?” asked Charles.
“Well, maybe, I’ll think about it.”
“Are you sure you aren’t demonising them?” Angela was asking. “I mean, with parents like theirs and that abuse at the school they went to in England, they must have been a bit warped, but I’m sure that’s all.”
“I wish I could believe that.”
Angela laughed. “Why don’t you ask the fairies for help?”
“The horrible business all started with superstition,” said Hamish. “If old Mrs. Colchester hadn’t believed in fairies, she wouldn’t have been tricked. She would never have taken her valuables down to the pool for Mary to collect. She would never have made that will.”
“I’d better get home and get lunch on,” said Angela.
Hamish watched her go and then turned back and looked at the loch. He said out loud, “Fairies, be damned. There are no such things as fairies!”
A sudden wind whistled down the loch, and black clouds streamed in from the west. Dust and debris scurried around his feet, making odd whispering noises. The air was cold.
Calling to his animals, he hurried back to the police station, went in, and slammed the door.
He was just putting the kettle on when Dick came in from the garden. “You should come outside,” he said. “It’s a grand day.”
“Nonsense, it’s just turned cold.”
“Come out and see.”
Hamish went out to the garden and looked over the hedge. The sky was blue and the sun shone down.
“If I were a religious man, I’d cross myself,” he said.
“What’s that?” asked Dick.
“Never mind,” said Hamish Macbeth.
Previous Hamish Macbeth Mysteries by M. C. Beaton
Death of a Chimney Sweep
Death of a Valentine
Death of a Witch
Death of a Gentle Lady
Death of a Maid
Death of a Dreamer
Death of a Bore
Death of a Poison Pen
Death of a Celebrity
Death of a Dustman
Death of an Addict
A Highland Christmas
Death of a Scriptwriter
Death of a Dentist
Death of a Macho Man
Death of a Nag
Death of a Charming Man
Death of a Gossip
Death of a Cad
Death of an Outsider
Death of a Perfect Wife
Death of a Hussy
Death of a Snob
Death of a Prankster
Death of a Glutton
Death of a Travelling Man
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Epilogue
Previous Hamish Macbeth Mysteries by M. C. Beaton
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Marion Chesney
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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First e-book edition: February 2012
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eISBN 978-1-455-50645-3
