“Aye, well,” said Hamish amiably, “that would be the terrible thing. I can see it now,” he went on dreamily, “telling all the bigwigs how Detective Chief Inspector Blair wanted to let a murder pass as an accident. I’m wearing my old clothes because that uniform of mine can’t stand much more – ”
“Whit?” roared Blair. “Listen, laddie, I happen to know you had the money for a new uniform last year.”
Hamish bit his lip. He had not spent the money on a new uniform, but had sent it home to his family.
“Anyway,” said Hamish airily with a wave of his hand, “to get to the matter of the helicopter pilot. His name’s Billy Simpson and I typed out his statement and you can have it today. In any case, his statement doesn’t matter now, for the pathologist’s report says the captain died before the helicopter arrived. But I can tell all this to that police committee you were threatening me with.”
“Maybe I was a bit hasty,” said Blair. “We’ll forget about the pilot. Just you run along and look after all those interesting cases like kiddies nicking sweets from the local shop and leave the big stuff to the experts.”
“I was at a party here the night before the shooting,” said Hamish. “I could describe what the guests were like and how they behaved to the captain.”
Blair clapped him on the shoulder. “Maybe I’ll drop down to the station and get it from ye later.”
“So I’m not to have the honour of putting you up?” said Hamish.
Blair puffed out his chest. “I’ll be staying here at the castle. The colonel’s invitation.”
Hamish looked amused.
“So just run along and keep out of it,” said Blair.
“Aye, wi’ an expert like yourself around,” sighed Hamish, “you won’t be needing me.”
He opened the car door. “Don’t forget to get the grouse examined,” he said.
Blair grunted and turned to walk away.
“And don’t forget the gun room,” said Hamish sweetly.
Blair swung about.
“What?”
“The gun room…in the castle,” said Hamish patiently. “Someone shot the captain, and unless they were silly enough to have the gun lying about their bedroom, you’ll probably find a gun has been borrowed from the gun room, cleaned, and put back.”
Police Constable Macbeth drove sedately out of the estate and along the road to Lochdubh. He pulled to the side of the road at the top of the hill overlooking the village, switched off the engine, and climbed out of the car.
A mist was rising from the loch below, lifting and falling. One minute the village lay in its neat two rows, and the next was blotted from view.
“I hate that man!” cried Hamish loudly. A startled sheep skittered off on its black legs.
He took a great gulp of fresh air. Hamish hardly ever lost his temper, but Blair’s dismissal of him from the case was infuriating. Hamish, in that brief moment, hated not only Blair but Priscilla Halburton-Smythe as well. She was nothing but a silly girl who had become engaged to a man simply because he was famous. She was not worth a single moment’s heartbreak. And let Blair solve the case if he could!
Hamish reminded himself fiercely that he had settled for a quiet life. He had had chances of promotion and had sidestepped them all, for he knew he would find life in a large town unpleasant. He would need to obey his superiors who might turn out to be like Blair. He loved his easy, lazy life and the beauty of the countryside. Apart from his hens and geese, he rented a piece of croft land behind the police station where he kept sheep. There was enough to be made on the side in Lochdubh, what with the egg money, the sale of lambs, and the money prizes he won at the various Highland games. Why should he throw it all away out of hurt pride – because a detective had insulted him and the daughter of the castle had made it obvious she enjoyed money and fame, even if that fame was only reflected glory?
His anger went as quickly as it had come, leaving him feeling tired and sad.
He climbed back in his car, stopping outside Lochdubh to give a lift to a sticky urchin who had wandered too far from home.
Once inside the police station, which had an office on one side, with one cell, and the living quarters on the other, he hung a notice on the door referring all enquiries to Strathbane police, and then went inside and firmly locked and bolted it.
The newspapers and television would be along soon, and Hamish knew that ordinary constables were not supposed to give statements to the press. It was easier to pretend he was not at home instead of having to open the door every five minutes to say, “No comment.”
He ate a late breakfast, and then, taking Towser, decided to walk about the village and make sure all was quiet. Murder at the castle should not distract him from more petty crimes. The crimes committed in the village were usually drunkenness, petty shoplifting, and wife-beating – or husband-beating. Drugs had not yet reached this remote part of north-west Scotland.
He went on his rounds, dropping into various cottages for cups of tea. Then he ambled along to the Lochdubh Hotel to pass the time of day with Mr Johnson, the hotel manager.
“What’s this I’m hearing?” said Mr Johnson, ushering Hamish into the gloom of the hotel office. “They’re saying it’s a murder up at Tommel.”
“You get the news quickly,” said Hamish.
“It was that Jessie. Does she ever do any work? She’s always down in the village, mooning over that boyfriend of hers. She says the Mafia wasted Captain Bartlett – there was another American movie showing at the village hall the other night. The Godfather, I think it was.”
“No, it wisnae the Mafia,” said Hamish with a grin. “I won’t be having anything to do with the case. It’s that scunner Blah- from Strathbane. He told me to push off.”
“Blair doesn’t know his arse from his elbow,” said Mr Johnson roundly. The bell rang on the reception desk outside. He hurried to answer it. Hamish listened, amused, to the sudden horrible refinement of the hotel manager’s accent. “Oh, yes, Major Finlayson, sir,” twittered Mr Johnson. “We have a very good cellar, and Monsieur Pierre, our maìtre d’, will be delighted to discuss our wine list with you. Is modom well? Good, good. Grand day for the fishing, ha, ha.”
“Silly old fart,” said the manager, walking into the office and shutting the door. “I hate wine snobs.”
“Who in the name o’ the wee man is Monsieur Pierre?” asked Hamish.
“Och, it’s Jimmy Cathcart from Glasgow. He thought it would look better if he pretended to be French. Mind you, when we get the French tourists, he says he’s American. Now, what about this murder, Hamish?”
Hamish looked hopefully towards the coffee machine in the corner.
Mr Johnson took the hint and poured him out a cup.
Hamish sat down, nursing his cup of coffee, and described his findings.
“But you can’t just leave it there!” exclaimed Mr Johnson when Hamish had finished.
“It is not my murder. It is Blair’s.”
“Good heavens! That man couldn’t find his own hands if they weren’t attached to his arms. Are you going to let a murderer roam around on the loose? He might murder again.”
“It’s not my case,” said Hamish stubbornly. He drank his coffee in one gulp and put the cup down on the desk. “To tell you the truth, I no longer care if the whole damn lot of them up at that castle drop dead tomorrow.”
∨ Death of a Cad ∧
7
one of those people who would be enormously improved by death.
—saki.
By early evening, the mist had thickened. Hamish was able to make out some figures clustered around the outside of the police station. He quietly made his way around to the back door so as to avoid the gentlemen of the press.