He decided to stay awake and scrambled into an old army sweater and his shiny regulation trousers. Uncle Harry’s dinner jacket and trousers were hung carefully over a chair, the expensive cloth and tailoring looking out of place in Hamish’s tiny shabby bedroom, like an aristocrat who has lost his way home from his club.
Towser rolled over on one side and spread himself comfortably out over the bed. Hamish looked down on the dog and sighed. There had been a time not so long ago when he had banished the dog from his bedroom – for what would, well, some girl think should she decide to share his bed?
But hope had gone. Now Hamish wondered gloomily if he was destined to share his bed with the mongrel for years to come.
He went out to the shed in the back garden to get the feed ready for the chickens and geese.
Henry had put his hand on Priscilla’s knee. If only he could get that nasty little picture out of his mind.
He went about his morning chores and then went back inside and made himself a large breakfast, more for something to keep himself occupied than because he was hungry. Towser, smelling the frying bacon, slouched out of the bedroom, looking dazed and rumpled like a dissipated drunk, and placed a large yellowish paw on Hamish’s knee, which was his lazy way of begging.
Hamish picked at his breakfast and then gave up and put his plate on the floor for Towser.
He decided to go down to the harbour and look at the catch brought in by the fishing boats.
As he walked along, he kept remembering snatches of overheard conversation from the party. That Vera had been insulted by Captain Bartlett had been all too evident. So was the fact that, up until a few moments before she had thrown her drink in his face, she had been madly in love with him. Perhaps Priscilla was better off with that neat little playwright of hers, thought Hamish gloomily. She might have become engaged to someone like Peter Bartlett. How old was Henry? wondered Hamish. Certainly a lot older than Priscilla. Even older than he was himself. Probably pushing forty. It would have somehow been more understandable if Priscilla had fallen for a man as young as herself.
Lochdubh was a sea loch. The little stone harbour smelled offish and tar and salt. He was just debating whether to mooch some herring for his dinner when his sharp ears caught the sound of heavy snoring, rather like Towser’s coming from behind a pile of barrels stacked next to the sea-wall. He ambled around the barrels and stood looking down at the unlovely sight of Angus MacGregor, local layabout and poacher, lying on the ground between the barrels and the sea-wall. He smelled strongly of whisky. He was lying on his back, a shotgun cradled on his chest, and smiling beatifically.
Hamish bent down and gently removed the gun. Then he heaved the still-sleeping Angus over on his face and with experienced hands searched in the deep ‘poacher’s pocket’ in the tail of Angus’s coat. He lifted out a brace of dead grouse.
Angus had been warned off the Halburton-Smythes estate many times. The last time a gamekeeper had given him a beating, but all that had done was to make Angus swear he would continue to take every bird and beast he felt like taking off the estate. When he was crazy with whisky, he often claimed to be Colonel Halburton-Smythe’s bastard son. As Angus was about the same age as the colonel, no-one even troubled to listen to the story – except Colonel Halburton-Smythe, who had been heard raging that one day he would shoot Angus and stop his lying mouth.
Hamish walked off with the brace dangling from his hand. He could not be bothered waking Angus up and charging him with theft. It was too fine a day. And taking a statement from Angus was always a wearisome business involving hours and hours of highly inventive Highland lies.
Then he remembered how Jeremy Pomfret had pressed him to ‘referee’ the contest for the first brace. Returning the grouse Angus had poached would give him an excuse to go to the castle and see what was happening. He might also see Priscilla.
Towser was panting for an outing when he returned to the police station, so he drove off with the large mongrel sitting up beside him on the passenger seat and the dead birds slung in the back.
The narrow road that led out of Lochdubh towards Tommel Castle wound through a chaos of tormented rocks, relics of the days when great glaciers had covered this part of the north-west of Scotland. In among the rocks, tarns filled high with water from the recent rains shone blue in the sun. These hundreds of tarns, or small pools, never failed to fascinate Hamish. On bright days, they scintillated sapphire-blue, and when the sky was heavy and grey mists twisted among the mountains, they glinted whitely or lay black and fathomless. The skies dictated the beauty of the scene, so that it was always changing, brilliant one day, weird and ghostly another.
Ahead reared up the fantastic pillared mountains of Sutherland, with quartzite sparkling on the upper slopes and the deep purple of heather on the foothills.
As he approached the castle, he caught a glimpse of red-and-white behind a stand of larch. He stopped the car and got out. A helicopter stood on a flat piece of ground behind the trees, the pilot leaning against its side, smoking a cigarette. Hamish looked at his watch. It was eight-thirty.
“Fancy anyone wanting to eat birds that hasnae been hung.” marvelled Hamish. “Some of thae Arabs have more money than sense.”
A few minutes later, Hamish drove up to the front door of the castle. Jenkins, the butler, had observed his approach and was standing waiting inside the open door.
“The kitchen entrance is around the back,” he said.
“I ken that fine,” said Hamish. “Aye, it’s a grand day. I just want a wee word with Miss Halburton-Smythe.”
“That will not be possible,” said Jenkins stiffly. “Miss Halburton-Smythe and the guests are at breakfast.”
Hamish looked over Jenkins’s shoulder and the butler turned round.
Red-eyed and haggard, Jeremy Pomfret was marching up to them.
“That bastard Bartlett!” he shouted.
“I assume Captain Bartlett has gone out shooting.” said Jenkins.
“I thought so.” said Jeremy bitterly. “He’s not at breakfast and he’s not in his room. And his gun’s gone.” He noticed Hamish for the first time. “You see, I told you he was up to something. Sneaked out early. Well, he’s been found out and the bet’s off. Came to my room last night with a bottle of champers. “Have a drink, old boy,” says he. Made me drink the whole bottle. Said we’d meet up at breakfast and go out together, and all the time the bastard was planning to get up early and beat me to it. God, I feel awful.”
“Aye, it’s a terrible thing when they force the stuff down your throat,” said Hamish amiably.
“He didn’t force it,” muttered Jeremy. “But when a chap offers another chap champagne, a chap can’t refuse.”
“True, true,” said Hamish, leaning lazily against the castle door. “It’s awf’y hard to say no to the champagne.”
“I have already told you, Mr Macbeth,” said Jenkins, “that Miss Halburton-Smythe is not to be disturbed.”
Hamish recognized one of the maids who was crossing the hall with a tray. “Jessie,” he said, “be a good girl and tell Miss Halburton-Smythe I want a wee word with her.”
“Sure thing,” said Jessie, who was an American movie addict.
“Jessie,” said Jenkins sharply. “I have informed this constable that Miss Halburton-Smythe is at breakfast.”
But Jessie either didn’t hear, or pretended not to hear. Jenkins clucked with irritation and went after her.