“You leave my wife alone, young lady,” said Freddy. “Captain Bartlett was a rotter and a cad, and I’m not going to pretend he was otherwise just because he’s dead.”
“I thought he…he was rather nice,” ventured Pruney Smythe timidly.
“Oh, he could charm anything in skirts and he didn’t give a damn about age or appearance,” said Jessica with a nasty laugh. She had meant to hurt Vera, but the shaft struck home in Pruney’s spinster bosom and she burst into tears.
“Now look what you’ve done, you horrible thing, you,” said Priscilla. “Come with me, Pruney. You’ll feel better after you’ve had a lie-down.”
Mrs Halburton-Smythe raised her voice. It held a note of steel. Afternoon tea in the drawing room was the one social event over which she was allowed complete control without interference from her domineering and fussy husband. “These remarks are all in bad form,” she said. “The man is dead and the least we can do is show some respect. We have all had a harrowing day, a lot of it unnecessarily harrowing. That man Blair is an uncouth pig. Hamish Macbeth may be a useless scrounger, but at least he’s not abrasive. Now, the crofters’ fair is to be held in Lochdubh in five days’ time and the Mod wants us to help raise funds. And, Henry dear, it quite slipped my mind. The Crofters Commission has asked me if you will be good enough to present the prizes.”
“I’d love to,” said Henry, looking gratified. “What on earth is the Mod?”
“It’s a Gaelic festival of song,” said Priscilla, coming back into the room. “We usually run the White Elephant stand. The crofters’ sale is good fun and you can pick up some great bargains in hand-knitted woollies and thingies made out of deer horn. Oh, and the sheepskin rugs they sell are very cheap.”
Jenkins came in, looking hot and annoyed. “It is the gentlemen of the press,” he said. “They are all outside the front door talking to that man Blair.”
“Then clear them off the estate,” snapped the colonel. “If that idiot Macbeth would only do his job. Phone him at the police station, Jenkins, and tell him to come here immediately. Once Blair starts pontificating to the press, he’ll be here all night.”
Hamish felt himself going hot with embarrassment and wished he had not stayed to scrounge tea. He knew Jessie Would not betray him, but if anyone in the room walked over to the window, they would find him.
He slid to the floor and rolled his thin, lanky body under the sofa.
The voices rose and fell, becoming more animated as the shadow of sudden death rolled away. Jenkins came back to say that there was no reply from the police station, only a rude recording of a voice singing in Gaelic. Hamish groaned to himself. He never checked his answering machine, for the simple reason that since he had had a second-hand one installed two months ago, he had forgotten to play it back. The previous owner had obviously used the tape for recording his favorite Gaelic tunes.
Hamish shared the Highlander’s weakness for secondhand gadgets and machinery of all kinds and, like his peers, was apt promptly to lose interest in the new toy immediately after he had got it.
The guests began to leave to spend the time before dinner in their rooms.
Hamish was about to crawl out from under the sofa and make his escape when a weight on his side told him that two people had sat down on it.
“It’s been a violent introduction to the Highlands, I’m afraid,” came Priscilla’s voice.
“Poor Peter,” replied Henry Withering. “I’d hate to pop off and then sit up there hearing everyone down here being so glad I’d gone. Don’t worry, Priscilla darling. I think I’m getting to like this place, despite all the dramatics. Would you like to live up here once we’re married?”
“I never thought of it,” said Priscilla. “I always assumed you’d want to be in London. But if you think you can bear being somewhere so remote…well, I would love to live here. Not in the castle, I mean. Somewhere of our own.”
“We’ll build our own castle,” said Henry. “Come here. I’ve been longing to kiss you all day.”
Hamish sweated with embarrassment.
Henry put his arm about Priscilla’s shoulders. She felt suddenly shy and looked down. Her gaze sharpened. A long bony hand crept out from under the sofa and tapped her foot. She stilled a scream.
“What’s the matter?” demanded Henry.
But Priscilla had recognized that edge of navy sweater above the hand. “I’m still shaky,” she said with a laugh. “Come and walk with me in the garden. I’ve got to get some fresh air. It’s stifling in here.”
Hamish waited until the sound of their voices had died away. Then he rolled out from under the sofa, opened the drawing room window, and climbed out. He made his way cautiously round the castle to the front without meeting anyone. The press had gone. His car was hidden behind the vast bulk of the Helmsdales’ antique Rolls-Royce. Towser gave him a sad, reproachful look.
“Aye, it’s like an oven in here,” said Hamish. “I’ll just take you home and give you a drink of water.”
The sunlight was now soft and golden as Hamish drove along the waterfront. Fishing boats were lined up at the pier, bobbing gently in a slow oily swell that was rolling in from the Atlantic. I hope it disnae rain, thought Hamish. I still have things to look for.
When he had fed and watered Towser and turned the dog loose in the garden, he poked around his small kitchen looking for something to eat. There was nothing in his refrigerator but an old piece of haggis and some black pudding. He opened the food cupboard and found a can of beans. Then he went out to the hen-house and collected five eggs.
He was settling down to a dinner of fried egg and beans and strong tea when he heard Towser yipping an ecstatic welcome.
“Come in,” he shouted, “the door’s open.”
Thinking it would be one of the villagers, he got to his feet to look for another cup.
“And what were you doing, hiding under the sofa, Hamish?” said a cool, amused voice.
Hamish put the heavy pottery cup he had just lifted out back in the cupboard and brought down a delicate china cup and saucer instead.
“It’s yourself, Priscilla,” he said. “Sit down and have a cup of tea.”
“Is that your dinner?” asked Priscilla.
Hamish looked thoughtfully at his half-eaten eggs and beans.
“Well, to my way of thinking, it is more like the high tea,” he said eventually. “I would not be distinguishing it with the title of dinner. Do you want some?”
“No, I have to get home soon. Dinner is at eight and I’ve got to change. But I’ll have a cup of tea. Now, Hamish…”
“I was searching for clues,” said Hamish, looking at her hopefully.
Priscilla slowly shook her head. “The truth, Hamish.”
Hamish gave a sigh. “I was that thirsty and I wanted some tea. Jessie saw me sitting down behind the sofa and gave me some when no-one was looking. Then I felt guilty and I thought your father would have a fit if he saw me, so I slid under the sofa. I couldnae bear the idea of you courting and me listening,” said Hamish, blushing and averting his eyes, “so I had to attract your attention.”
“You are the most terrible scrounger I have ever met,” giggled Priscilla. “Still, it can’t have been nice for you having to deal with Blair again. What a brute of a man! Thank goodness it was an accident. Can you imagine if someone had bumped off the terrible captain what it would be like? All our faces splashed over the tabloids.”
Hamish buried his nose in his cup. “Does it no’ surprise you,” he said at last, “that it wasn’t a murder?”
“Not really,” said Priscilla, after a pause. “The world’s full of hateful people, but no-one bumps them off. Too often the people murdered are innocent kids going home from school or old-age pensioners. Things are getting worse in the South, you know. Sutherland must be the last place on God’s earth where you don’t have to lock your door at night.”