by M C Beaton
Peter turned and smiled at all the women. The door opened and Nancy Macleod came in, her eyes flashing this way and that. “No, I had better get onwith my work,” he said. “I was just passing and thought I’d drop in to say hello. That’s a new outfit, isn’t it, Edie? Pink suits you.”
Edie smiled at him mistily, feeling the money spent in Strathbane at the sports shop had been worth every penny. When he looked at her like that, she felt like Jane Fonda. Peter made his way to the door, a hug here, a kiss there, ending up with Nancy. “I’ve kissed you already,” he teased and slid past her to the door. Nancy stared after him with a lost look in her eyes.
Peter went back to his cottage highly pleased. He was glad Hamish had seen him. But Hamish needed to be punished. He flicked through the Highlands and Islands Telephone Directory until he found the Tommel Castle Hotel. He began to dial the number.
“I don’t remember you,” said Priscilla.
♦
“I was in the other night,” said Peter, “just before closing time. You warned me not to drink too much.”
“Oh, yes, I remember you now.”
“Look, I feel like a decent meal and I’ve heard that Italian restaurant in Lochdubh is pretty good. Like to join me for dinner?”
“It’s very kind of you, but – ”
“I saw Hamish in Drim this afternoon. Looks like he’s going to be here all day.”
“What is he doing there?” Priscilla’s voice was sharp.
“Just sloping about talking to the locals. I want a bit of company at dinner, Priscilla. It’s not like a date. I know you’re engaged to Hamish.”
“Oh, very well. What time?”
“Eight suit you?”
“Fine.”
“See you then.”
“Bye.”
Priscilla replaced the receiver. Why had she done that?
Well, to be honest, she was furious with Hamish. It was quite clear to her that he had gone to Drim simply to get out of house-hunting. And the house outside Strathbane had been perfect, situated on a rise, good garden, airy rooms, nothing like that poky police station. She experienced a stab of conscience, which was telling her that she should leave Hamish Macbeth’s character alone and not try to change him. But her father had raged about the proposed marriage and had told Priscilla that Hamish Macbeth was a layabout who would never come to anything, and Priscilla was hell-bent on proving her father wrong.
♦
Hamish felt in a mellow mood when he returned to Lochdubh. He could not help contrasting his own village favourably with Drim. The little white houses faced the loch. There was an openness and friendliness about the place. The air was dear and light, with that pearly light of northern Scotland where the nights are hardly ever dark in the summer. A seagull skimmed the loch, its head turning this way and that, looking for fish; a seal rolled and turned as lazily as any Mediterranean bather; people stood at their garden gates, talking in soft Highland voices; and the hum and chatter of the diners in the Italian restaurant came to Hamish’s ears, reminding him that he was hungry.
To make amends to Priscilla, he went into the police station and phoned her. He was told she was out and settled back to wait. If Priscilla was “out,” it meant she was headed in his direction. But as the hands of the clock crept around and his stomach rumbled, he realized that Priscilla must have gone somewhere else. He decided to treat himself to a meal at the Italian restaurant. He ambled along. As he drew nearer, he saw a couple sitting at the front window of the restaurant, noticed the gleam of candle-light on blonde hair, and saw with a stab of shock that Priscilla was having dinner with Peter Hynd. Hamish stood like a heron in a pool, one foot raised, arrested in mid-air. Then he slowly turned and began to walk back the way he had come.
∨ Death of a Charming Man ∧
3
A man that studieth revenge keeps his own wounds green.
—Francis Bacon
Had Hamish been a Lowland Scot, he would have confronted Priscilla and Peter, or, at least, have phoned her later to tell her what he thought of her. But he was Highland, and his vanity was deeply wounded. So, maliciously hell-bent on mischief, he drove up to the Tommel Castle Hotel.
The first welcome sight that met his eyes was a new receptionist, a small, pretty girl with a cheeky face and a mop of auburn curls.
He had seen her before. She had, he judged, started work at the hotel about a fortnight ago. He smiled at her and said, “Where’s Priscilla?”
“She’s gone out,” said the receptionist. “Can I help? Och, I’m being silly. You’re Hamish.”
“You’re Scottish,” exclaimed Hamish. “I thought only the English took jobs as receptionists in Highland hotels. Are you from these parts?”
“No, from Perth.” She held out a small hand. “Sophy Bisset.”
“Well, Sophy Bisset, are you on duty for long tonight?” She glanced at the clock. “Harry, the night porter, should be here any moment to relieve me.”
“Fancy a bite of dinner?”
Her bright grey eyes twinkled at him. “I thought you lot had your dinner in the middle of the day and your tea by five.”
“I’ve been working hard.”
“As a matter of fact, I’ve only had a sandwich since lunchtime. Oh, here’s Harry.”
“Come along and I’ll stand ye dinner at that Italian place.”
She looked amused, as if at some private joke, but she picked up her handbag and said cheerfully, “All right. Let’s go.”
Seated in the Land Rover, she said, “This is very kind of you, Hamish. Safe in the arms of the law.”
“Chust so,” said Hamish, throwing her a slanting look. Had there been a mocking edge to her voice?
Wishing he were not wearing his uniform, Hamish ushered her into the restaurant. “Oh, there’s Priscilla. Surprise, surprise,” said Sophy, and Hamish at once knew that Sophy had been perfectly aware that they would meet Priscilla and her date. Willie Lamont, Hamish’s ex-policeman, came bustling up in his waiter’s uniform of striped sweater and indecently tight trousers. “Tch, Willie,” admonished Hamish. “If you go around in breeks like that, someone will be pinching your bum.”
“Lucia made me wear them,” said Willie sulkily. Lucia was his Italian wife. “Are you going to join Priscilla?”
“We’ll chust sit at this wee table in the corner.”
Willie handed them menus and sailed off.
Hamish looked at Sophy over the top of his menu. “You knew Priscilla was here,” he accused.
Sophy nodded, her eyes dancing. “The only reason a man like you would ask me out, Hamish Macbeth, would be to get revenge on Priscilla. I mean, just look at her. She could have stepped out of the pages of Vogue.”
There was simple admiration in her voice. Hamish reluctantly lowered the menu and looked at his beloved. She was wearing a white frilly blouse with a plunging neckline and a short, tight black skirt. The bell of her golden hair shone in, the candle-light She threw back her head and laughed at something Peter was saying.
“Look at me instead,” ordered Sophy. “She’s not enjoying herself one bit.”
“Could’ve have fooled me,” grumbled-Hamish. Willie came back and took their orders.
Priscilla was not enjoying herself. Before Hamish had come in, she had been about to leave. At first it had been nice to be out with such an attractive and charming man, bat Priscilla was conscious of Willie the waiter’s disapproving stares and of the cold looks she was getting from several of the villagers at the other tables, who obviously felt that she should not be out with another man. Then there was something about Peter that repelled her. She sensed in him a calculating hardness, and when he talked about meeting Hamish that afternoon, Priscilla became perfectly sure Peter had asked her out just to spite Hamish, although Peter did not tell her what Hamish had said. At last she gathered up her handbag and said, “Thank you for a lovely evening. I’ll have a word with Hamish before I go.”
Before Peter could say anyt
hing, she sailed over to Hamish’s table. “Good evening,” said Priscilla sweetly. “Finished your work, Sophy?”
“Yes, Harry’s on duty.”
“Did you give the Dunsters in room twenty-five their bill?”
“Yes, they paid and will leave in the morning.”
“And did the Trents arrive?”
“Just after you left. They’re in room fourteen.”
“And did you – ”
“For heffen’s sake,” said Hamish Macbeth loudly and crossly. “Leave the girl be, Priscilla. She’s not on duty now.”
“Then the pair of you should get on very well,” snapped Priscilla. “When were you last on duty, Hamish? And don’t give me that crap about investigating in Drim. You just wanted to get out of house-hunting.”
Peter fidgeted behind Priscilla. Things were not working out as he had planned. He was on the outside while, it appeared, two attractive women were competing for the attentions of Hamish.
“Priscilla, we’ll talk about this later,” said Hamish. “Now can I get on wi’ my dinner?”
Priscilla turned on her heel and marched out. She suddenly remembered the seer’s prediction, turned firmly to Peter and shook his hand heartily. “All the very best in Drim,” said Priscilla briskly and walked away quickly to her own car, which was parked on the waterfront.
Despite his uneasiness that he had gone too far, Hamish enjoyed Sophy’s company and her amusing tales of working in hotels in Glasgow and Perth. When he ran her back to the hotel and said good night to her, he debated with himself whether to call on Priscilla and then decided against it. He was the injured party.
♦
Morning brought regret. Panic began to set in. He forgot bossy and managing Priscilla and only remembered his dear Watson of previous cases. There was a knock at the kitchen door. He opened it and saw Priscilla standing there. She smiled. She held out her hand. She said, “Truce?” He gathered her in his arms and kissed her until his toes curled.
She finally released herself. “You’re not getting off that easily, Hamish Macbeth. Come along. We’re going to look at that house.”
And at that moment, Hamish would have agreed to anything. They drove off in Priscilla’s car, Towser in the back seat, fitful sunlight chasing across the moors, and the wind heavy with the sweet scent of heather. Hamish did not speak about Sophy, and Priscilla did not mention Peter.
His sunny mood lasted until they turned in at the short drive leading to the house. It was a Victorian villa, neat and compact It looked down on the bleak high-rises of Strathbane.
“I kept the key,” said Priscilla gaily. “Just wait until you see this.”
Hamish followed her in, with Towser at his heels. He stood in the hall and looked around. On one side lay a living-room, on the other a dining-room. “Come in here and look at the view,” carolled Priscilla from the living-room.
He went in and stood with his hands in his pockets. He gave a little shiver. “This is an evil house.”
Priscilla swung round from the window and stared. “Stop fooling about, Hamish.”
“I am not being funny, Priscilla. This is a sad house. Something bad happened here.”
“You mean someone died here?” Priscilla looked at him scornfully, her hands on her hips. “Of course they did. The place is at least a hundred years old. Come and see the kitchen.”
“I’ll wait for you outside,” said Hamish.
She darted to the doorway and blocked his exit.
“Listen to me, I am not falling for that bad-vibes Highland nonsense. This is a perfectly good house.”
“Who is the owner?”
“I don’t know. I don’t care either. Just look at the kitchen, Hamish. That’ll make you change your mind.”
He shrugged. “Okay.”
She walked through to the back, where a large square kitchen lay. It was airy and light, with a primrose-coloured Aga cooker and plenty of cupboards and shelves. Hamish looked about and then said, “I’ve had enough. I’ve got to get outside.”
Priscilla followed him out, her face tight with anger. “You are determined not to move to Strathbane. You are determined to stay in Lochdubh and rot.”
“Humour me,” he said. “You’ve got to take that key back to the estate agent, right? Just let me ask who lived here.”
She walked in silence to the car and he got in beside her. Towser, sensing the bad atmosphere, crouched down on the back seat.
“Why did you buy that cooker for the police station if you had no intention of living there?” asked Hamish at last.
The correct answer to that was that somewhere deep inside, Priscilla was perfectly sure she would never budge Hamish Macbeth, but she would not admit that even to herself.
“You need one,” she said curtly.
Strathbane swallowed them up with its mean streets and perpetual air of failure, a sort of inner city transferred to the north of Scotland. Oily water heaved in the harbour and the rusting hulk of a ship listed on its side. Sea-gulls screamed mournfully. Priscilla parked in a multi-storey and they walked down to Strathbane’s new shopping precinct called The Highlander’s Welcome. It was cobbled in round fake cobbles of an orange colour and set about with plastic palms whose leaves clattered mournfully in the damp breeze from the sea. Small round women in the Strathbane uniform of track suit and jogging trousers struggled with plastic bags of shopping.
Men stood in groups, smoking moodily and occasionally spitting viciously at nothing in particular.
Priscilla led the way into the estate agent’s. A young man rushed forward. “Everything satisfactory?” he asked, taking the key from Priscilla.
“We’re still making up our minds,” said Priscilla.
“Who owns it?” asked Hamish.
“That’s confidential,” said the young man quickly, fearing that Hamish meant to go behind his back and make some sort of private deal. “I have another property here, Miss Halburton-Smythe.” The young man pulled out a folder. While Priscilla bent her head over it, Hamish’s eyes ranged around the office and fell on a typist at a desk by the window. She looked up and Hamish winked at her. She grinned and patted her hair.
“Maybe another day,” said Priscilla, straightening up.
Once outside, Hamish said, “I’ll stay on in Strathbane for a bit.”
“What? How are you going to get home?”
“I’ll hitch a lift.”
“You’re determined to stay here and ferret about looking for non-existent criminals who once lived in that house.” Priscilla was becoming angry. “Suit yourself. You should wake up to the fact that you are hell-bent on refusing promotion.”
“Maybe it iss you yourself who should wake up to that fact.”
Priscilla strode off without a backward look and Hamish looked after her miserably. He then remembered Towser was still in the car. But Priscilla would take Towser home.
He hung about the estate agent’s, discreetly hidden by a plastic palm until he saw the typist emerging for her lunch. He hurried overand bumped into her as if by accident. “Sorry,” said Hamish, and then affected surprise. “Aren’t you that pretty girl I saw in the estate agent’s a while ago?”
Her pasty face turned up to his and she giggled. “That’s me.”
“I’m Hamish Macbeth.”
“Tracey McWhirter,” she said.
“Tell you what, Tracey, I wass chust on my way to that coffee shop for a sandwich or something. Care to join me?”
She giggled again but nodded and fell into step beside him, tottering on her high heels. After he had bought her a coffee and a Highlandman’s Lunch, a wad of dry French bread with limp lettuce and smoked mackerel, Hamish said, “I was up at that house this morning.” He hoped she had not heard him asking the young man for the name of the owner. “That was George Emming’s place, wasn’t it?”
“Oh, no,” said Tracey guilelessly. She paused to brush crumbs from her T–shirt, which was surprisingly sophisticated in that it bore no legend at all.
“That’s Mr. Hendry, the teacher’s, place.”
“Oh, him that teaches English at Strathbane High?”
“Chemistry.”
“Ah.”
“And what do you do yourself, Mr. Macbeth?”
“Hamish, I’m a civil servant.” Hamish was not in uniform.
“On the council?”
“Something like that.”
“Do you work for Miss Halburton-Smythe?”
Hamish winced slightly at the innocent assumption that he could not be on any social level with Priscilla. But he did not want Tracey to think he had taken her for coffee merely to get information from her, so he said vaguely, “We both live in Lochdubh.”
“I’m glad I don’t live in a place like that,” said Tracey. “I mean, what is there to do?”
“We have fun,” said Hamish defensively. “We have the ceilidhs.”
“Oh, them,” Tracey snorted dismissively. “Big fat woman thumping around in the eightsome reel and wee men outside passing half-bottles o’ whisky to each other. We have discos in Strathbane.”
“How can you bear all that thumping music and those strobe lights giving folks epileptic fits?” demanded Hamish.
“Oh, well, someone of your age wouldn’t understand,” said Tracey with all the tolerance of eighteen looking at thirty-something.
Feeling a hundred-year-old peasant, Hamish left Tracey and made his way on foot to Strathbane High School. It was a huge barracks of a place, built of red brick in the thirties, set among rain-washed playing fields where seagulls squatted on the grass. Children were returning to their classes after lunch. He stopped one boy and asked for the headmaster’s office, was corrected and told it was the head teacher and pointed in the right direction. The head teacher was a woman who introduced herself as Beth Dublin. She was a small, mousy creature who looked about the same age as Tracey but must have been a good bit older. To Hamish’s request to see the chemistry teacher, Mr. Hendry, she said that he had a free period and could be found in the staff common-room and she would take him there. On the way along a gloomy corridor smelling of stale cigarette smoke and disinfectant, Beth said, “His kids aren’t in trouble again, are they?”
