“Where did he get the stamina?” asked Chalmers in awe. “Look at the evidence we’ve got from old Vera – three women in the one night.”
“He was supposed to have been one of those people who only need about four hours sleep a night,” said Hamish. “And Captain Bartlett was always known as a Don Juan. Aye, it’s an unfair world when you think of it. If that man had been a woman, he’d have been called a harlot!”
“Let’s get back to Jeremy Pomfret,” said Chalmers, shuffling his papers. “Did you unearth anything about him?”
“Nothing sinister,” said Hamish. “He’s rich, got an estate in Perthshire, met Bartlett from time to time on various shoots. Never a friend of the captain’s. He was sure Bartlett was going to try to cheat over this bet they had. He was very hung over when I saw him on the morning of the murder, but he could have been putting that on for my benefit He had asked me to be at the castle to referee the shooting, but I refused and told him the colonel would probably take it as a personal insult. Still, his very asking me to be there could have been a smokescreen, for the murder, as we know, took place much earlier.”
“He appears to have told Blair he loathed Bartlett,” said Chalmers. “The reasons he gave were that Bartlett had pinched his toothbrush and used it to scrub his toes, and evidently the captain had a disgusting habit of shaving in the bath. Makes you wonder what the ladies saw in a man like that.”
“Och, women are funny,” said Hamish. “Take the case of Heather Macdonald, her that was married to a fisherman. She kept that cottage of theirs so clean, it wasnae human. You had to take off your boots and leave them outside when you went visiting. She wouldn’t allow him to smoke and she starched the poor man’s shirts so stiff, it was a wonder he could sit down in the boat. But she ups and offs last year wi’ a tinker from the side-shows at the Highland games, and he was a dirty gypsy who didn’t have a bath from the one year’s end to the other. I don’t think,” added Hamish sadly, thinking of Priscilla, “that the ladies are romantic at all.”
∨ Death of a Cad ∧
9
The wild vicissitudes of taste.
—Samuel Johnson.
Priscilla had decided to visit Mrs Mackay, she of the green bottle and the bad leg. Henry had readily agreed to go with her. Putting thirty miles between himself and Tommel Castle seemed an excellent idea.
Despite the police investigation, Henry was in a high good humour. He had received a visit from several members of the local Crofters Commission who had formally asked him if he could still be counted on to hand out the prizes at the fair on the following day. They had been courteous and highly flattering. Henry had been made to feel like a local squire.
As Priscilla drove competently along the Highland roads, he looked out across the glittering windy landscape and thought it might be quite a good idea to buy a castle. There seemed to be castles all over Scotland for sale. It would be wonderful publicity. Somehow, he must manage to get himself a coat of arms. If he sold the film rights of Duchess Darling, they could film the whole thing in his castle. He had more than enough money to decorate it in style. Then, after his marriage, he would invite journalists from the Sunday newspaper colour supplements. Yes, a castle was a definite possibility.
Priscilla looked beautiful and happy. Just getting away from the gloomy atmosphere of death was enough to make both of them feel like schoolchildren at the beginning of the holidays.
Henry told her to stop when they were on a deserted stretch of road and then took her in his arms. She was passionate and responsive, and he felt a heady feeling of triumph as his hand slid up under her skirt for the first time. But his searching hand stopped short of its goal. He had a sudden prickling feeling at the back of his neck, a feeling he was being watched.
He released Priscilla and turned around. An elderly man was peering in the car at Henry’s side.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” shouted Henry.
“I wass passing,” said the old man in a quavery voice, “and I thought to myself, thought I, Those people are having the bad trouble with the steering. I saw you both fumbling away.”
“Mr McPhee,” said Priscilla, who had recognized the old man, “we were not having trouble with anything at all. Thank you for your concern.”
Mr McPhee smiled. “It is not any trouble at all, at all. Are you sure it is not your clutch that is wrong?”
“No, not my clutch,” said Priscilla, and giggled, and that giggle of hers made Henry even more furious.
“Drive on,” he said.
“I haven’t introduced you,” said Priscilla. “Mr McPhee, this is my fiancé, Henry Withering. Henry, Mr McPhee.”
“Oh, of course, you are that playwright that everyone iss talking about,” said Mr McPhee. “It iss a grand thing to have a way with the words. I mind my daughter Elsie’s youngest boy, David, was a fair hand with the words when he wass at the school.”
“Priscilla, will you drive on or do I have to get out and walk?” snapped Henry.
“Goodbye, Mr McPhee,” said Priscilla politely. “I am sorry we have to rush. Give my regards to the family.”
“How on earth could you bear to be civil to that dirty old peeping Tom!” raged Henry, as soon as they had started moving.
“He is not a peeping Tom,” said Priscilla. “His eyesight is bad. He is very old, but very kind and charming. Furthermore, that grandson of his, David, is now the drama correspondent of the Glasgow Bulletin. You ought to be nice to people while you’re on the way up, darling. You might meet them on the way down.”
“I’m no longer ‘on the way up,”’ said Henry crossly. “I’ve already arrived!”
Priscilla drove on in a grim silence until they turned off the road and bumped up a heathery track to the Mackays’ little white croft house, which was perched on the side of a hill.
“Now, do be nice,” cautioned Priscilla.
“Of course,” said Henry sulkily, wondering whether to remind Priscilla that a leading London columnist had described him as ‘the most charming man in London.’
Henry brightened perceptibly as soon as they were inside the croft house. He was always on the look-out for things to add to his store of witty after-dinner conversation. He took one look around the Mackays’ living room and treasured up each bit of bad taste. The carpet was virulent green and ornamented with sugar-pink cabbage roses. The wallpaper was in an orange-and-black abstract pattern. There were horrible china ornaments everywhere: cats, dogs, little girls holding up their skirts. The tea-cosy was a doll in a crinoline gown. There was an enormous china wall-plaque above the fireplace depicting a cottage in shrieking reds and yellows and decorated with a dusting of tinsel, bearing the legend ‘My Grannie’s Hielan’ Home.’
He set himself to please. He described famous people he had met and exotic countries he had been to. He punctuated his conversation with many “Of-course-this-will-come-as-a-surprise-to-you-buts,” until gradually he began to wonder if he had said something wrong.
Priscilla was very still and silent. The Mackays, at first courteous and animated, began to look at him stolidly.