by M C Beaton
"Stands tae reason," blustered Blair. "You're only the village copper. Look! I promise to let ye in on the ground floor next time. Hae another drink."
"I haven't started this one yet. So what's behind it all?" Hamish looked at the big detective thoughtfully. Then he gave a slow smile. "Donati's gone. But there's another bright spark climbing up the ranks. Who is it?"
"This wee bastard, Finnock. Slimy wee bugger wi' a face like an arse," said Blair viciously. "It's yes, Mr. Daviot, and certainly, sir, and here are some flowers frae my garden fur your wife, sir, and lick your bum, sir. Yuch!"
"And I thought you were the best crawler in the business," said Hamish. Blair looked about to explode so he said placatingly, "OK. I'll ask for you next time. But believe me, there cannae be a next time or we'll be changing the name o' the place from Lochdubh to Murder Village!"
After Blair had finally driven off, Hamish returned to the police station. He was not used to drinking so much whisky in the middle of the day and he felt quite lightheaded.
He saw Alison and Peter Jenkins waiting outside the police station and turned to flee but it was too late. Alison had seen him.
As he approached the couple, he found he was staring at Alison in surprise. Her hair was shining and groomed in a new feathery cut. Gone were the thick glasses. She was expertly made up and she was wearing a blue cotton blouse and a pair of hot pants which revealed that she had very good legs indeed.
"Hey, Hamish!" said Alison cheerfully. "We've come to say goodbye."
"Come inside and I'll make some tea," said Hamish. "Where are you going?"
"I'm putting that bungalow up for sale. Peter and I are getting married." She held out a slim hand to show a diamond engagement ring.
"Congratulations!" said Hamish. Peter smiled modestly as if he had done something very clever.
"Where are you going to live?" asked Hamish, putting on the kettle.
"In London," said Alison. "Maggie owned a flat in Mayfair, in Charles Street. We're moving there. Peter wants to build up his advertising agency but I said to him, why bother? I mean, I've enough for both of us."
"It'll certainly be pleasant to be a gentleman of leisure," drawled Peter.
As Alison talked, Hamish watched her animated face. She and Peter would travel. There were so many countries she wanted to see.
Another butterfly, thought Hamish. It takes a weak man to make a strong woman. Alison was the one who was making all the decisions. Now that she was no longer interested in him, Hamish found her likeable.
"You haven't said anything about a new car," he said. "There certainly wasn't much of your mini left by the time they got it out to find the brakes had been tampered with."
"I don't want to drive any more," said Alison with a shudder. "Peter can do all the driving from now on."
When they left, Hamish hoped Alison would manage to keep her fortune. A million pounds was no longer what it used to be and could be dissipated in an amazingly short space of time.
He was just settling down to enjoy some peace and quiet when he sensed an unease outside. He couldn't quite place it, but it was as if something bad had happened to alarm the village. He went round to his front garden and leaned on the fence.
Agnes, one of the maids from Tommel Castle, was coming along the main street. She stopped to talk to the Currie sisters and Hamish heard the sisters' sharp exclamations of surprise and dismay.
Not another murder, he thought.
Agnes came nearer and he went to meet her. "What's happened?" he asked.
"It's himself. The colonel," gasped Agnes. "Called us all together last night and said he'd have to fire us all. He's lost all his money! What do you think happened?"
But Hamish was off and running for the Land-Rover.
The castle door was open and Hamish walked in. Priscilla was crossing the hall. She stopped short at the sight of him and then she began to cry in a helpless way.
He put his arms around her and held her close, stroking her hair. When she had calmed down, he led her into the drawing room and sat down on the sofa with her, a comforting arm around her shoulders.
"What exactly happened?" he asked. "Agnes says he fired all the staff last night."
"Yes. He ... he ... called Mummy and me into the study and told us what was worrying him. As he talked, he got into one of his rages and I was afraid he might have a stroke. I feel so guilty." She dried her eyes firmly and gave a pathetic hiccup.
Mrs. Halburton-Smythe came into the room and stopped short at the sight of Hamish. Then she came forward and sat down, looking helplessly at him. "What are we to do, Hamish?" she said. There were two spots of colour on her pale cheeks and, unlike her daughter, she looked angry. "How could he do this to us?"
"Do what?" asked Hamish sharply.
Priscilla twisted her wet handkerchief in her hands. "That's why I feel so guilty," she said. "If it hadn't been for me this would never have happened. Do you remember John Harrington?"
"Your boyfriend who got done for insider trading? Yes."
"It turns out he had persuaded Daddy to let him have a vast sum to invest. Well, he didn't invest it. He skipped bail and the country with it."
"We've got nothing at all," said Mrs. Halburton-Smythe. "Nothing."
"Oh, dear." Hamish looked about him. "But you have the castle, and the estates alone must be worth a fortune."
"Yes, but everything costs a fortune to run," said Priscilla. "We can sell it. We have to sell it. But we're letting down the locals. Most of the staff apart from Jenkins, the butler, come in daily from the village but they rely on us for work. Daddy decided to fire the lot of them, not to mention the gamekeepers and gardeners and water bailiffs. We tried to tell him that somehow the place would need to be kept going until we could find a buyer, but he wouldn't listen."
Hamish thought quickly. "You might not have to sell it," he said.
Priscilla's mother looked at him in anguish. "Don't be stupid," she wailed. "Haven't we just told you we can't afford to run it?"
"There's a way you could," said Hamish, "and keep the staff. Where is the colonel?"
"In his study," said Priscilla. "But don't bother him, Hamish. The last person he will want to see is you."
"Be back in a minute," said Hamish with a grin. "I think he'll listen to me."
Mrs. Halburton-Smythe made a halfhearted attempt to stop him and then sank helplessly back in her chair.
Hamish went across the hall to the study and went in without knocking. Colonel Halburton-Smythe looked up and a purplish colour rose in his cheeks.
"Get out of here!" he roared. "Can't you see I've got enough to worry me without listening to the ditherings and bletherings of the village idiot?"
For one blissful minute, Hamish imagined how lovely it would be to tell the old horror to go to hell and fry. But then he thought of Priscilla. He pulled out a chair and sat down and smiled amiably at the colonel.
"I hae thought o' a grand way in which you could keep this house and the estates and the staff."
The colonel looked at him in silence, his eyes popping. Then he shrugged. "You're mad," he said.
"No, just listen. You've got grand fishing and shooting here," said Hamish. "Run it as a hotel. Wi' the shooting and the fishing, you could charge top rates. You've got a lot of bedrooms and most of them have their own bathroom."
The colonel stared at Hamish in silence, his small mouth hanging slightly open.
There was a soft knock at the door which then opened and Priscilla and her mother came into the study, both fearful in case Hamish's visit was driving the colonel into an apoplexy.
"Are you all right, dear?" asked the colonel's wife timidly. The colonel waved a peremptory hand for silence and sat staring off into the distance.
"What did you say?" whispered Priscilla fiercely in Hamish's ear. "He looks worse. He looks as if he has had a terrible shock."
The colonel suddenly brought both of his small plump hands down on the desk with a thump that made
them all jump.
"I've found a way to save Tommel Castle," he said.
"How? How can we?" gasped Mrs. Halburton-Smythe.
"We'll open it up as a hotel," said the colonel triumphantly. "Think of it. With the best shooting and the best fishing here, we'll make a fortune. We can invite our friends—"
"No," said Hamish quickly. "No friends. Mark my words, they'll look offended when you hand them the bill."
"Don't interrupt," snapped the colonel. "I have to make plans. Priscilla, get that secretary of mine here and get that architect chappie over from Strathbane."
"Do you think it will work?" asked Priscilla cautiously. "I mean, have we enough to keep going until we open for business?"
"Of course it will work," said her father robustly. "We've just enough to manage on until then. Trust me to come up with something. My chaps in the regiment always relied on me. Always a good man for thinking up ways out of a scrape. That was me."
Priscilla glanced at Hamish, who gave her a limpid look.
"Well, dear," said Mrs. Halburton-Smythe, "I am sure we are all grateful to Hamish for—"
"Stop wittering, woman, and tell the staff they can stay. Priscilla, get that architect on the phone. And you, Macbeth, have you nothing better to do?"
"I'm off," said Hamish cheerfully. "Grand to see you're your old horrible self."
Priscilla followed him out. "Honestly," she said furiously. "Daddy is the uttermost limit. That was your idea, Hamish."
"So long as you're all happy," said Hamish amiably. "I chust hope I haff not messed up your own career. I mean, surely they won't expect you to work in the hotel."
"They won't. But I'm going to," said Priscilla. "Can you imagine Daddy as mine host, Hamish? He'll forget they're paying guests and start insulting them!"
"I wass going to point out to him that he could have sold off his estates and kept the castle," said Hamish.
"It wouldn't have done any good. He wants to keep everything and you've found him a way to do it."
"Aye, that's what I thought. So long as he remembers that a hotel keeper can't go on like the lord of the manor."
"I doubt if he'll remember it for a moment," said Priscilla. "I'll probably have to run it myself and let him think he's doing it all on his own."
"You really don't mind?"
"Not really, Hamish. I was getting tired of London anyway."
"And I hope you don't feel guilty anymore," said Hamish. "Anyone daft enough to trust a rat like Harrington would be bound to lose their money to some fool sooner or later ... or their heart."
Priscilla's cheeks turned pink. "That's below the belt, Hamish."
"Perhaps."
"Is Alison staying on in Lochdubh?' asked Priscilla, deliberately changing the subject.
"No, she's getting married to Peter and they're going to live in London. Let's hope that's the last of crime in Lochdubh." He told her about his visit from Blair.
"I don't think you're cut out to be a policeman," said Priscilla. "You let these detectives walk all over you. And for what? So that you can stay on as village constable and do as little as possible."
"That's right," said Hamish amiably.
"You are infuriating. Why don't you come in on this hotel lark?" She walked out of the hall with him and across the drive to the police Land-Rover.
Hamish raised his hands in mock horror. "Tae my mind, working for your dad would be worse than working for Blair any day. What's the matter, Priscilla? Don't you like me the way I am?"
She looked down thoughtfully at her sandalled feet and did not reply.
"Well, cheerio," said Hamish. "See you around."
"Hamish, I ..."
"Yes?" He turned around.
"Nothing," mumbled Priscilla.
As Hamish drove down to the police station, he found he was feeling very happy indeed, almost elated. It could surely not be because a moneyless, hotel-owning, working Priscilla was within his reach.
No, he told himself, that nonsense was over, but happiness bubbled inside him. He felt sure the days of crime were over for Lochdubh, and Priscilla would be just up the road all year round.
In the evening, he realized he had forgotten to buy anything for his dinner. He had sent, as usual, a good part of his monthly wage back to his mother and father and brothers and sisters over in Cromarty and so he could not afford to dine at the hotel. He ransacked his cupboards and came up with a solitary tin of baked beans.
"Beans it'll have tae be," he said to Towser. "And no butcher's meat for you tonight, my boy. Dog food's all we've got." Towser hung his head and glared at the linoleum.
The phone rang. Hamish put down the cans and went to answer it. The caller was Priscilla.
"Hamish," she said. "There are a few points about this hotel business we would like to discuss with you. Could you possibly come to dinner this evening? Just the family and don't dress. You can even bring Towser."
Hamish accepted the invitation. He put down the phone and grinned at the receiver. "The auld man must hae been at the whisky," he said to Towser who had followed him. "Dinner at the castle for us. Come along."
He put on a clean shirt and tie and a pair of new trousers. He gave Towser a quick brush and then led the dog out to the police Land-Rover.
"Times are changing, Towser," said Hamish Macbeth as he drove through the heathery twilight.
THE END
About This Book
Wealthy Maggie Baird is neither nice nor kind nor generous.
About the best that can be said of her is that inside her middle-aged body, there still beats the heart of a beautiful tart.
So when her car catches fire, with Maggie in it, there are five likely perpetrators right on the premises, houseguests in her luxurious Highlands cottage: Maggie's timid niece and four former lovers, one of whom Maggie had intended to pick for a husband.
All five are equally impecunious, and all had ample opportunity to monkey with Maggie's car. So finding who did it requires all Police Constable Hamish Macbeth's extraordinary common sense and insight into human nature. And—lazy lout though he may be, a thorn in the side of his superiours, and an exasperation to his neighbours—when it comes to soving a murder, Hamish lets no grass grow under his feet. Not even when the killer appears to be the wrong person entirely.
About the Author
M. C. Beaton started her career in Glasgow as a fiction buyer for John Smith bookshop. She has worked for a number of leading newspapers and magazines, including the Scottish Daily Express, and the Daily Express in Fleet Street, where she was Chief Woman Reporter. She also worked for Rupert Murdoch's Star newspaper in America and was a freelance writer for the New York Daily News.
She began writing historical novels in 1978 and launched her highly successful Hamish Macbeth series in 1985, after which she rapidly became a cult figure in America. When she returned to Britain, she lived on a croft in Sutherland and then moved south to the Cotswolds, where she now lives in a Georgian collage with her husband Harry and son Charles.
Thanks
The author wishes to thank Hugh Johnston, owner and manager of Golspie Motors Ltd, of Golspie, Sutherland, his service manager, John Mackay, and his mechanic, Bill Brown, for their expert advice, and dedicates this book with gratitude to these three excellent and patient gentlemen of the Scottish Highlands.
Table of Contents
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About This Book
About the Author
Thanks
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