“Had,” said Priscilla. “Vera’s dead. Remember?”
“And good riddance,” said Pruney with sudden venom. “She was probably bumped off by one of the servants. She’s the sort of woman who has affairs with servants and milkmen and people of that class. Vera was a murderee.”
She clutched Priscilla’s arm in a powerful grip. “Peter loved me,” she cried. “You do believe me, don’t you? Someone has got to believe me.”
“Is everything all right, Miss Halburton-Smythe?” came a cool voice from the doorway.
Pruney gasped and jumped to her feet.
Hamish Macbeth stood on the threshold.
“I’m just going,” she squeaked, and scurried out past him.
Hamish came in and closed the door.
“What was all that about?” he asked.
“Oh, Peter couldn’t leave anything in a skirt alone. He kissed her hand and made poor Pruney think he’d fallen for her. Why are you here?”
Hamish sat down on the bed, and then yawned and lay down and stretched out. “I’m going away,” he said. “I chust wanted to make sure you were all right. I had a feeling you’d still be awake.”
“Henry might have been in here.”
“So he might,” said Hamish equably. “But it wasn’t Henry’s voice I heard.”
“Where are you going?” said Priscilla, lying down beside him and clasping her hands behind her head.
“Chalmers has decided to try a long shot. He’s got the address of that aunt of Harriett’s in London and wants me to go and see her.”
“But the police down there could do that, surely?”
“Aye, but he thinks my famous charm might unearth something. We’re getting no farther with the case up here, and things are verra serious. Now, Bartlett got engaged to Diana in London, he ditched Jessica in London. There might be something there, or, failing that, this aunt might know of a further connection between Bartlett and the rest of the guests.”
“How long will you be away?”
“I’m going down on the night train. I cannae get a sleeper in the second class and the police don’t run to first-class fares. I’ll spend the day in London and then come straight back up.”
“I wish you weren’t going,” said Priscilla in a small voice. “I’m beginning to be frightened of everyone, except Mummy and Daddy, and they never were the sort of parents one could talk to, you know. Earlier this evening, Mummy said with tears in her eyes that the only good thing in this whole mess was my engagement to Henry.”
“Well, that is something,” said Hamish, staring at the ceiling.
“But it’s all going wrong, Hamish,” wailed Priscilla. “I think I’m frigid!”
Hamish slid a comforting arm about her shoulders. “Now, now,” he said, “I am thinking that a couple o’ murders are enough to freeze anyone.”
Priscilla responded with a choked sob. She buried her head on his chest and began to cry.
“There, now,” said Hamish, pulling her into his arms and stroking her hair. “Once these murders are solved, you’ll be able to see things a bit more clearly.”
Hamish had a sudden pang of sympathy for Henry. Priscilla was wearing a short scanty nightdress and was pressing against him for comfort. He realized she had absolutely no idea of the effect she was having on him.
He grimly tried to keep his thoughts on something else as he rocked her like a child and murmured soothing nonsense in her ear.
“I might have guessed,” said Henry Withering, walking into the room and glaring at the couple on the bed. “Give me back my ring, Priscilla.”
Priscilla started to say something, but Hamish tightened his grip and looked blandly at Henry. Priscilla took off her ring. Hamish took it from her and held it out to Henry, who walked up to the bed and snatched it.
“You’d better think up something to tell your father in the morning,” said Henry, “because he’s going to hear all about this.”
Priscilla struggled free from Hamish’s embrace. “Henry!” she called desperately. But the slamming of the door was the only answer.
“Now, don’t start crying again,” said Hamish. “You wanted out of that engagement. Didn’t you?”
Priscilla hung her head. “But Daddy’s going to be furious.”
Hamish swung his long legs off the bed. “If you don’t start thinking for yourself,” he said, “you’re going to end up in another mess. I’m sick to death of hearing what Daddy and Mummy would think. You’re a nice girl, Priscilla, but they’ve kept you ower young for your own good. Take my advice and go and wake your father and give him your version. And make sure you put it plainly enough. Henry had every reason to think the worst. What a frustrated man he must be! You’re enough to try the patience of a saint. I am your old friend Hamish. But a village copper has feelings – and eyes – and you’re parading about with practically nothing on.”
Priscilla snatched up her dressing gown and wrapped it around her. “I’m sorry, Hamish,” she mumbled.
“Aye, well, God knows you’re safe enough with me. Chust make sure you cover up when there’s anyone else around. I’ll be back from London as fast as I can. In the meantime, don’t trust anyone. If you’re that worried, you might try talking to your mother or father as adult to adult and not like a child.”
“Stop patronizing me, Hamish,” said Priscilla.
“You get back from the world the way you treat the world. You treat me like a big brother. What else do you expect?”.
“I expect a little sympathy and understanding. You’re as bad as Henry.”
“Poor Henry. There are times when I think you need a good slap on the bum to bring you to your senses.”
“Oh, get out,” said Priscilla wearily, “and take your so-called charm with you.”
∨ Death of a Cad ∧
13
But, Sir, let me tell you, the noblest prospect which a Scotchman ever sees, is the high road that leads him to England!
—samuel johnson.
The crowded train from Inverness to London gave Hamish ample time to reflect on the stoicism of the British. As they chugged their way through the Grampians, the air-conditioning was blasting into the carriage. People rose and put on their coats and sat down again.
Hamish complained to the guard.
“You’re the only person that’s complaining,” said the guard sourly. “If I were you, I’d gang doon the train and find a compartment with the heat on.”
“But there’s ground frost tonight,” said Hamish plaintively. “Why is the air-conditioning on?”
“Fur the American tourists.”
“Oh, the Americans, is it?” said Hamish. “And here’s me thinking you maybe had the Laplanders or the Eskimos on board.”
“It’s folk like you that make British Rail a failure,” said the guard obscurely, moving away.
Hamish sighed and took down his overnight bag and made his way along the train. He was glad he was not in uniform. The last time he had worn his uniform on the London train, the passengers had treated him like a walking tourist office.
What on earth did the American tourists make of all this? thought Hamish, as he eventually settled into a vacant seat farther down the train. No buffet car and eleven hours to make the journey to London.
“Hullo!”piped a small voice.
Hamish looked up.
A boy with a pinched white face was sitting opposite him, clutching a comic. Hamish looked about and then looked back at the child.