“Just so,” said Hamish absent-mindedly.
The rest began to trail away. Henry looked back. Hamish was still standing looking down at the body.
“I think that copper’s off his head,” he grumbled.
“He’s cunning and lazy,” said Colonel Halburton-Smythe. “And devoid of natural feeling. He’ll probably lie down and go to sleep when we’re out of sight.”
“Known Priscilla long, has he?” asked Henry.
“Priscilla knows everyone in the village,” said the colonel. “She is too easygoing and good-natured. Macbeth takes advantage of her kindness. Priscilla doesn’t know quite when to draw the line. She even went off to a film show in the village hall with Macbeth last year. I had to warn him off. Thank goodness she’s marrying you, Henry.”
“Would you like me to wait with Macbeth?” asked Sinclair, the gamekeeper.
“No,” said the colonel. “I want you to be on hand to answer questions when the police arrive from Strathbane.”
When they were out of sight, Hamish climbed back over the fence to the side where the captain was half-hanging, half-lying. He opened the captain’s game bag, which was slung around his neck, and peered inside. It was empty. He reached up to push his cap back on his head and then realized he had not put on the rest of his uniform, bar his trousers. He wished he had brought Towser with him instead of leaving the animal cooped up in the car.
He bent down and searched the springy heather near the dead man. Then, crawling along on all fours, he began to search away from the body. “It’s chust too convenient – that’s what gets me,” he muttered. “He was coming away from the moor and without his brace. Had he given up? But there’s grouse available. Angus got his brace easily enough.” He thought back to the party. No-one had seemed to like the captain. The three women who had been clustered around him when he, Hamish, had arrived had turned cold and angry and bitter. And who was that girl who had suddenly begun to talk about accidents?
He searched while the sun climbed higher in the sky and its rays beat down on his head.
Then he heard the sound of voices and looked up. Walking over the crest of the hill came a familiar heavy-set figure, sweating in a double-breasted suit.
Hamish recognized Detective Chief Inspector Blair with his sidekicks, detectives Jimmy Anderson and Harry MacNab.
After them came ambulance stretcher-bearers and the forensic team and three uniformed policemen.
Hamish knew the investigation was about to be taken out of his hands. Although he had once solved a case and let Blair take the credit, he knew that Blair had now convinced himself that he, Hamish, had had nothing to do with it.
Walking back to stand beside the dead body, Hamish bent down and looked in the game bag again. Something caught his eye. As Blair marched up to him, Hamish slid one small grouse feather into the pocket of his trousers.
∨ Death of a Cad ∧
5
Nothing in his life became him like the leaving of it…
—shakespeare.
Detective Chief Inspector Blair was not a Highlander. He had been brought up in Glasgow, that city which produces some of the brightest brains in the world, along with some of the biggest chips on the shoulder. Blair, as Hamish often remarked, had a chip on his shoulder so big, it was a wonder his arm didn’t fall off.
Blair detested the upper classes because they made him feel inferior, and the Highlanders because they lacked any inferiority complex whatsoever.
But as he stood in front of the fireplace in the drawing room of Tommel Castle late that afternoon, he was enjoying himself. The Halburton-Smythes and their guests were grouped around him. On either side of Blair stood detectives Anderson and MacNab – like a couple of wally dugs, thought Hamish, who was standing by the window, meaning like those pairs of china dogs that not so long ago ornamented many mantelpieces in Scotland and have now become collector’s items.
Strained faces, white in the gloom of the drawing room, which had been built facing north so that the sun should not fade the carpet, turned towards Blair.
“It was a straightforward accident,” he said. Someone let out a sharp sigh of relief. There was a palpable air of slackening tension in the room.
“So,” went on Blair, enjoying their relief and glad he had kept these toffee-nosed creeps waiting so long for his verdict, “there’ll be no need for me to take any more statements from you.” He had been unable to interview the helicopter pilot, for while he was examining the scene of the crime, Hamish had returned to the helicopter, taken the pilot’s statement, and had told him he could return to Inverness, a piece of high-handedness that had driven Blair wild with rage.
He cast a venomous look in Hamish’s direction before going on with his lecture.
“It appears that Captain Bartlett went out very early so as to cheat on his bet and have first chance at thae birdies.” Jeremy Pomfret winced. “But before he could use his gun to shoot them, he used it to help himself get over the wire fence. The gorse bush caught the double trigger, and boom, boom, goodbye world.”
“For heaven’s sake, man, show a bit of respect for the dead,” snapped Colonel Halburton-Smythe.
Blair rounded on him. “You should be grateful tae me for finding out so quickly it was an accident instead of suspecting you all of murder.”
“Any fool could see it was an accident,” boomed Lady Helmsdale.
“Anyway,” went on Blair in a loud, hectoring voice, “his gun was loaded with number six shot. It went off and blew a hole through his chest. The pathologist has already confirmed that the shot found in the remains of his chest was number six. The colonel of his regiment has been informed of his death. As far as the colonel knows, Bartlett had no close relatives still alive. He’ll be sending someone over this week to pick up the captain’s effects just in case a relative turns up.”
“He had an aunt in London, I think,” said Diana, and then turned pink.
“Anyway,” said Blair, “the procedure is this. In cases of fatal accident, the procurator fiscal studies the pathologist’s report and the police reports. Then an inquiry is held – in camera, so you won’t have to worry about the press. It may be in a week’s time or a month’s time, so remember, even if you’ve gone back home, you must be ready to go to Strathbarie when you’re summoned.”
The door of the drawing room opened and Jenkins came in, followed by two maids carrying tea, cakes, and scones.
Blair licked his lips and looked longingly at the teapot.
“Thank you, Mr Blair,” said Mrs Halburton-Smythe. “If you have nothing further to add, I see no reason for you to stay.”
Blair flushed angrily. The least they could have done was to have offered him a cup of tea. He wanted to vent his anger on someone and looked about for Hamish Macbeth. But the Highland constable appeared to have vanished.
Blair crammed on his soft felt hat and signalled to Anderson and McNab and strutted from the room.
Hamish had not left. He had had no lunch and wanted to see if he could manage to get some tea and scones. He had slid quietly down behind a large sofa by the window and was sitting on a small footstool.
Jessie, the maid, had a soft spot for Hamish. She quietly handed him down a plate of scones and a cup of tea when Jenkins wasn’t looking.
Hamish drank his tea and listened to the conversation.
“Poor Peter,” came Vera’s choked voice. “What an awful death.”
“As if you cared,” said Jessica, suddenly and loudly. “It’s a good thing it wasn’t murder, considering we all saw you throwing a glass of gin over him.”