“What are you going to do now?” asked Hamish, turning his attention back to Jeremy.
“Nothing, not with this hangover. I’ve a mouth on me like a Turkish wrestler’s jock strap. I’m going back to bed.”
He trailed wearily back up the stairs.
Priscilla came out of the dining room into the hall. She was wearing biscuit-coloured linen trousers, thin sandals, and a frilly Laura Ashley blouse. Her blonde hair was pinned up on top of her head. She looked as fresh as the morning.
“What did you want to see me about?” she asked Hamish.
Hamish, who had been staring at her, pulled himself together. “I wondered if you would like me to bring over Uncle Harry’s clothes or whether you would like to collect them from the police station.”
Priscilla looked amused. “Instead of coming all the way up here to ask me what to do,” she said, “you could have brought the clothes along with you and solved the problem.”
“Och, so I could’ve,” said Hamish stupidly. “There’s another thing. Angus, the poacher, was down by the harbour and – ”
He broke off and cocked his head to one side. Someone was running hard up the gravel of the drive.
He went out to the front steps, with Priscilla after him.
John Sinclair, the estate’s head gamekeeper, came running towards them. “He’s shot hisself,” he cried. “Oh, what a mess!”
“Who is it?” demanded Priscilla, pushing in front of Hamish.
“It’s Captain Bartlett, and he’s got a great hole blown clean through him.”
Priscilla turned and clutched at Hamish’s sweater in a dazed way. Sinclair ran on into the castle, shouting the news.
“It’s awful,” whispered Priscilla, beginning to shake. “Oh, Hamish, we’d better go and look. He might still be alive.”
He put his arms around her and held her close. “No, I don’t think so,” he said in a flat voice.
The guests, headed by Colonel Halburton-Smythe, came tumbling out of the castle. Henry Withering stopped short at the sight of Priscilla enfolded in Hamish’s arms.
“Lead the way, Sinclair,” barked the colonel. “And you, Jenkins, call the ambulance. The ladies had better stay behind. Macbeth, what are you doing here? Oh, never mind, you’d better come with me.”
Hamish released Priscilla and set out with the colonel and the gamekeeper. Henry, Freddy Forbes-Grant, and Lord Helmsdale followed. Sir Humphrey Throgmorton returned to the castle with the ladies.
The day was becoming hot. The air was heavy with the thrum of insects and the honey-laden smell of the heather.
As they left the castle gardens, Colonel Halburton-Smythe spotted the helicopter. “What the hell is that thing doing on my property?” he demanded. Hamish explained about the Arabs in London and the promised payoff of £2,000.
“Bartlett had no right to order helicopters to descend on my land without asking me,” said the colonel. “Oh, well, the man’s dead and he won’t be needing that two thousand now.”
“Aye, that’s right,” said Hamish, looking thoughtfully at the helicopter.
“Don’t stand there as if you’d never seen a helicopter before,” said Colonel Halburton-Smythe impatiently.
Hamish fell into step with the others and they set out over the moors at a steady pace.
It should have been raining, thought Hamish, steady, weeping rain like they had had during the previous weeks. A tragedy in bright sunshine seemed much more frightful than one on a day when the skies were grey.
“Here we are,” said the gamekeeper, pointing ahead.
The ground sloped down. At the bottom of the slope was a wire fence. Hanging over the fence was a body, still and grotesque and unreal in the clear air.
“What a mess!” whispered Lord Helmsdale in awe as they reached the scene.
Captain Bartlett hung almost upside-down, suspended by his right leg from the top strand of the fence. The gun was on the other side of the fence, its butt in a gorse bush, the side-by-side barrels resting on the top strand of the fence, glaring wickedly like two black fathomless eyes at the group. There was no doubt the captain had been straddling the fence when he was shot.
“Don’t touch anything,” said Hamish. “The forensic boys from Strathbane will need to see everything.”
They stood around Hamish in white-faced silence.
The sun was hot. A buzzard sailed high in the clear air.
Then Lord Helmsdale cleared his throat noisily. “You can see what happened, Macbeth,” he said, his voice once more loud and robust. “The silly ass was using his gun as a support to balance himself as he climbed over. Everyone does it. Do it myself. Then the gun got caught in that damned bush, and when he tried to pull it clear, the triggers snagged and went off. Must have been both barrels. Look! He’s blown a hole clear through his chest.”
There were violent retching noises as Freddy threw up in the heather.
“But how could that happen?” asked Henry in a shaky voice. “There are two triggers, and besides, wouldn’t he have the safety catch on?”
“He should have,” said Hamish. He stepped around the body and peered at the gun. “But the safety catch is off. Verra careless, that. Now, those thorns are tough and springy and if the front trigger got caught, and if the captain pulled hard enough, it could pull both triggers.”
Hamish walked a few yards away and stepped easily over the fence so as not to disturb the body. He circled the gorse bush. “It is an accident that sometimes happens,” he said. “Even experienced sportsmen close a gun and then forget it is loaded.”
Hamish took out a clean handkerchief, took hold of the gun by the barrels, and slowly and carefully extricated it from the bush.
The gun was a Purdey, a hammerless side-lock, self-opening ejector gun. Hamish whistled softly. “A pair o’ these would set ye back around thirty-five thousand pounds,” he said.
He broke open the gun and took out two cartridges. Both were spent. He glanced at the body. “Both barrels.” He held up the spent cartridges. “Number six,” he said, half to himself. He laid the gun down carefully on the heather and knelt down by the fence. Carefully, he reached through the wires and felt inside the captain’s jacket pockets. The others watched, fascinated, as the policeman withdrew a handful of unused cartridges. He examined them and nodded. “Number six as well,” he said. He then stood for a long time in silence, staring at the dead man. The captain’s tweed cap had fallen from his head and lay in the heather. He had been wearing a shooting jacket, corduroy knee breeches, wool socks, and thick-soled shoes when he had been shot.
Henry said sharply, “The man’s shot himself by accident I don’t see any need for the rest of us to hang about How you can stand there, Macbeth, staring at that awful wreck of a man as if you were looking at a piece of meat on a butcher’s block, beats me. And what were you doing,” he added his voice suddenly shrill, “hugging Priscilla?”
“Policeman never did know his place,” said Colonel Halburton-Smythe.
“She was shocked and in need of comfort,” said Hamish, his eyes still fixed on the body. “Perhaps, Mr Withering, it would be as well if you went back and looked after her. There’s nothing anyone can do until the forensic team arrives from Strathbane. Would you call Strathbane police and get them to send up a forensic team as well as an ambulance?” he asked the colonel. “I’d better stay with the body until they get here.”
“Better get Freddy away quick,” said Lord Helms-dale. “Looks as if he’s going to faint.”
“I’ll be along shortly to get statements from everyone,” said Hamish.
“Why?” demanded the colonel. “It’s obviously an accident.”
“Oh, just in case,” said Hamish vaguely.
“Well, I have no doubt the matter will be taken out of your incompetent hands,” said the colonel viciously, “as soon as the detectives from Strath-bane arrive with the forensic team.”