“I hae a guest for supper,” said Hamish breathlessly, “and I’ve only got mutton pies and I cannae be offering her those.”
Mrs Cunningham folded her thin arms over her scrawny bosom.
“Constable Macbeth.” she said severely, “you promised to unstop that drain-pipe of mine.”
“Tomorrow,” said Hamish. “I’ll be round in the morn wi’ ma ladder.”
“Promise?”
“Aye, cross ma heart and hope to die.”
“Well, Mrs Wellington, her up at the church, gave me a venison casserole because I promised to help her out, baking the cakes and scones for the fair. I can’t stand venison. You can have it.”
“Thanks,” said Hamish.
Soon he was back in his kitchen. The sound of running water came from the bathroom. Priscilla had decided to wash her face and put on fresh make-up.
Hamish put the casserole in the oven and pulled the cork on a bottle of red Bulgarian wine that one of the fishermen had bought in Ullapool from a member of the Eastern Bloc fishing fleet and had passed on to Hamish.
When Priscilla appeared, he suggested they should go into the living room and have a drink until dinner was ready. Hamish felt that venison casserole merited the title of dinner.
“Have a dram,” he said, producing the bottle he had bought to entertain Anderson.
“Going in for the hard stuff?” asked Priscilla. “I thought you always drank beer.”
“So I do, but I can tell you this, Priscilla – sometimes there are things that happen that call for a good stiff belt o’ the cratur.”
“Yes,” said Priscilla gloomily. “I’ll have a stiff one.”
“Now, what’s the matter?” asked Hamish, when they were both seated.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” said Priscilla. “Tell me about the case.”
“We had a rough afternoon,” said Hamish, settling back in his chair. “Sir Humphrey received us in his bedroom, muttered about two sentences, and fell asleep. Then that Diana was flouncing and bitching all over the place. You didnae tell me she had been engaged to Bartlett?”
“I thought you knew.”
“I know now. But she says she ditched Bartlett, not the other way round. She was seen approaching Bartlett’s bedroom on the night of the murder. She said she was on her way down to the kitchens. Screamed she hadn’t slept with him, and when we said we knew the brave captain had had Vera, Jessica, and Diana all on the same night, she broke down and yelled that Vera had done it…the murder, I mean. Jessica was worse. She said Diana was an expert shot…”
“You mean Peter slept with all three of them? That man is disgusting.”
“Maybe. Maybe the ladies are chust as disgusting. Then came the Helmsdales. We couldn’t separate them. Bartlett had nearly burnt down their home and Helmsdale had tried to shoot him and Lady Helmsdale had broken his jaw. When taxed with it, they told us we were lying. We couldnae get a bit o’ sense out the pair of them. It was like trying to get a statement from Tweedledum and Tweedledee.”
“Don’t you think it might have been someone outside the castle?”
“It could well be, but something in my bones tells me it’s one of them up at Tommel. Where did you go today?”
“Henry and I went to call on the Mackays.”
“How’s her leg?”
“It’s better. But she needs an operation on her varicose veins.”
“If she needs an operation, why is Brodie giving her medicine?”
“Because he knows and she knows what the matter is. But she’s frightened of hospitals and she belongs to the old school and expects the doctor to give her some medicine when he calls. I shouldn’t think there’s much in her green bottle of medicine but coloured water.”
“Aye, he’s terrible against the pills and bottles, is Dr Brodie. I was surprised he gave Sir Humphrey tranquillizers.”
“Probably nothing more than Milk of Magnesia. He says if people think they’re getting tranquillizers, they calm down amazingly.”
“Captain Bartlett once broke a valuable piece of china at Sir Humphrey’s.”
“That was terrible,” said Priscilla. “He’s a fanatical collector.”
They drank more whisky and then moved through to the kitchen for dinner. The venison casserole was excellent, and Hamish accepted Priscilla’s compliments on his cooking without a blush. They giggled over the nastiness of the Bulgarian wine, and then, after supper, went along to the Church of Scotland manse.
Priscilla had drunk so much, she was a little unsteady on her feet, and Hamish took her arm.
The sky had cleared, the weather making another of its mercurial changes. The cold wind had dropped, although angry little waves smacked against the shingle of the beach.
“I had two American tourists in for tea,” said Hamish.
“That’ll be the Goldfingers from Michigan,” said Priscilla. “They’re staying at the Lochdubh Hotel.”
“And how did you learn that?”
“I saw Jessie in the village when I was coming to see you. She told me all about them. She was on her way to see if she could catch a glimpse of them.”
“But why? There’s nothing odd about them.”
“It’s the name, silly. She thinks they’re out of a James Bond movie.”
Priscilla reached the manse just in time. She had only been in the door two minutes before the phone rang and it was her father, his voice sharp with anxiety, demanding to know when she would be home.
“I won’t be much longer, Daddy,” said Priscilla.
“Well, leave your car at the police station and get that useless copper, Macbeth, to run you back. I don’t like the idea of you being out on your own with a murderer on the loose.”
“So you’ve decided at last it was murder,” said Priscilla.
“Never mind what I’ve decided,” grumbled her father. “I’ll expect you here in half an hour.”
Priscilla was glad of an excuse to cut short her visit, for she did not like Mrs Wellington, the minister’s wife, a bossy, tweedy woman who bullied her husband.
When they took their leave, Prisrilla told Hamish he was expected to drive her home.
“I would have done that anyway,” said Hamish seriously. “And I want you to lock your bedroom door.”
Priscilla shivered.
“It’s funny,” mused Hamish, as they drove up the winding hill that led to the castle, “Captain Bartlett had a word wi’ me when I left the party. He was outside on the drive. He had a premonition something was about to happen to him. There was something took place at that party to give him the feeling he was in danger.”
“I wish it were all over,” sighed Priscilla.
“Henry will look after you,” said Hamish, flashing her a quick sideways look.
“Yes,” said Priscilla with a brittle laugh. “Aren’t I lucky?”
Hamish drove up through the side road to the castle, although he was sure the gentlemen of the press would have packed it in for the night.
He pulled up outside the looming dark bulk of the castle, got out, and held open the door for Priscilla.
“Are you coming in?” she asked.
Hamish shook his head.
“I enjoyed this evening,” said Hamish politely. “It is a pity you are engaged, for I had it in mind to try that new hotel up the Crask road tomorrow night.”
“The Laughing Trout? I haven’t heard very good reports of it, Hamish, but it’s only been open a few weeks. Do you mean you thought of taking me there for dinner?”
“Yes. I aye hae a wee bit o’ a celebration after the crofters’ fair.”
Priscilla turned and looked at the castle. Henry would be wondering what had happened to her. Tomorrow would be a long day. The press would turn up at the fair, and Henry would expect her to pose for photographs.
“It seems a bit odd, but we’re old friends, Hamish, and, yes, I would like to go for dinner with you.”