“Don’t,” said Diana. “Don’t let him know we’ve found him out. Let’s get him for this. I could kill him.”
“I wouldn’t flirt so blatantly if I were you,” Peter Bartlett was saying to Vera. “Freddy might notice.”
Vera’s eyes were soft. “After last night, Peter darling,” she said, “he can notice what he likes. We’re made for each other.”
Peter never knew quite how it happened. A few drinks and he loved the world. A few more and his life seemed full of dead bores. He turned a jaundiced eye on Vera.
“I must say,” he said, “you were certainly the best of last night’s bunch. Lots to be said for middle-aged women with insatiable appetites.”
The smile slowly left Vera’s face as the full implication of what he had said sank in.
“Who else was with you last night?” she demanded. “Oh, darling, you must be joking. There can’t have been anyone else.”
The captain’s black eyes swivelled round to Jessica and Diana and then back to Vera. One eyelid drooped in a mocking wink.
Vera threw the contents of her glass in his face, burst into tears and ran from the room. Her husband saw her stumbling departure and ran after her.
Everyone began to talk very loudly as if nothing had happened.
Hamish had been studying the scene thoughtfully. He saw Priscilla waving to him and excused himself from the Helmsdales and Jeremy and went to join her.
“Henry’s dying to speak to you again,” said Priscilla brightly. She had once more had to reassure Henry that she had no interest whatsoever in the village constable. Henry had finally noticed Hamish’s presence in the room and had accused Priscilla of countermanding her parents’ orders by re-inviting the constable herself. Priscilla had explained the reason for Hamish’s presence, but Henry was still suspicious, although he covered his suspicions very well, and asked her to call Hamish over. He wanted to see the pair of them together again, just to put his mind at rest.
Right behind Hamish came the adoring Prunella Smythe. She was a middle-aged lady wearing a great many bits and pieces. Her hemline drooped. Bits of scarf and thin tatty necklaces hung around her neck. She had a scrappy stole around her thin shoulders with a moth-eaten fringe that had wound itself into the ends of her long dangling earrings.
Called by one and all ‘Pruney’, Miss Smythe’s pale eyes behind her thick glasses looked out on the world with myopic wonder.
Before Henry could speak to Hamish, Pruney launched into full gush. “I cannot tell you enough, Mr Withering, how much I adored your play.”
Peter Bartlett, who had been standing behind them mopping his face with a napkin, turned around. “I never read anything but the Racing Times, Henry, but I did hear you’d got your smash hit at last. What’s it about? The evil capitalists?”
“Oh, no,” said Pruney in a rush. “Nothing like that at all. It’s the most glorious drawing-room comedy, quite like the old days. None of those nasty swear words or” – her voice dropped to a stage whisper “ – sex.”
“Sounds a bore,” said the captain.
Pruney giggled. “It’s actually quite naughty in bits. I love when the duchess says, “Marital fidelity is so yawn-making.” ”
Henry turned as red as fire. “Shut up!” he said rudely. “I hate it when people quote my play. Shut up, do you hear!”
Pruney’s short-sighted eyes filled with startled tears.
“Nasty Henry,” said Peter in high good humour.
“Come along, Miss Smythe. You shall tell me all about it. I could listen to you all night.”
He led the now gratified Pruney away.
“He can’t even leave Pruney alone,” said Priscilla. “That man’s a menace.”
“He minds me o’ Jimmy MacNeil down in the village,” said Hamish. “That man would lay the cat.”
Priscilla rounded on Henry. “What on earth came over you?” she asked. “There was no need to rip up poor old Pruney like that.”
“How would you feel if you had spent years writing good solid plays and then only been accepted and famous after you’d deliberately produced a piece of twaddle,” said Henry in a hard flat voice. “I can’t even bear a line of Duchess Darling.”
“Oh, darling, I didn’t know you had written it like that deliberately,” said Priscilla with warm sympathy. “And I thought there was something up with me because I didn’t like it. Never mind. After this success you can write what you like. Don’t glower. Look! Food. I’m starving. Lead me to it.”
She slipped her arm through Henry’s and led him away. Hamish watched them go. Priscilla gave Henry’s arm a squeeze and then she bent and kissed his cheek.
Hamish trailed off to where Sir Humphrey Throgmorton was sitting alone. He introduced himself and asked Sir Humphrey if he could fetch him any food.
“Later, my boy. Later,” said Sir Humphrey. “Sit down and talk for a bit. I’m too old to circulate and the sight of that bounder Bartlett makes me ill.”
“Quite a character,” said Hamish.
“He’s rotten,” said old Sir Humphrey, his little grey beard waggling up and down. “I could tell you a thing or two about that cad. The wonder is that he’s never been in prison.”
Hamish looked down at him hopefully, waiting for more, but Sir Humphrey said, “I am hungry after all. Could you please get me a plate of something?”
Over at the buffet, Hamish arranged a selection of cold meat and salad on a plate and took it back to Sir Humphrey.
Realizing he was hungry himself, he went back to the buffet. By the time he had picked out what he wanted, Sir Humphrey was happily talking to Lady Helmsdale. Then Hamish saw Diana waving to him. She was seated at a table in the corner with Jessica. The girls introduced themselves and Hamish merely said he was Hamish Macbeth, without adding that he was a policeman.
“Do you live near here?” asked Diana, her wide, almost purple eyes roaming over Uncle Harry’s expensive suit.
“Down in the village,” said Hamish.
“Is your wife anywhere about?” asked Jessica.
“I am not married,” said Hamish.
Both girls brightened perceptibly.
“It’s so nice to meet an unmarried man,” drawled Diana. “These house parties can be a drag.”
“I’m not the only unmarried man here,” pointed out Hamish. “I know Mr Pomfret is not married, and Mr Bartlett, I believe, is – ”
“Forget about Peter,” said Jessica. “No girl in her right mind would have anything to do with him. And Jeremy’s a wet. Do eat your food…Hamish, is it?”
“Dangerous places, the Highlands, don’t you think?” said Diana with a sly look at Jessica. “All sorts of accidents can happen.”
“Like what?” asked Hamish.
“Oh, exposure, hypothermia, avalanches…things like that.”
“We had a murder here last year,” said Hamish.
“Yes, we all heard about that,” said Jessica. “The murdered woman was a horrible character anyway. Don’t you think it’s mean when some poor person rids the earth of some obnoxious toad and then has to pay the penalty?”
“You can hardly expect me to agree with you,” said Hamish.
“Oh, why?”
“Not in my official bible,” said Hamish with a grin. “Don’t you know I’m the local bobby?”
“Oh, really?” said Diana, as if Hamish had just confessed to being the local cockroach.
“You’re that Macbeth,” said Jessica in tones of loathing. “I read about you in the papers.”
Hamish realized the air about him was becoming glacial and murmured something about taking his leave.