He stood up and looked about for Priscilla. She was sitting next to Henry and did not notice him. But Henry did, and put a possessive hand on Priscilla’s knee.
He then thought he should grit his teeth and thank Mrs Halburton-Smythe for her hospitality, but as he approached her she gave him a horrified look and tried to hide behind a plant.
Hamish sighed and made his way to the door. Jeremy Pomfret seized his arm. “I say,” he said,
“have you heard about this bet I’ve got on with Bartlett?”
“Aye, everyone’s talking about it,” said Hamish. “I hear there are a few side bets on, too.”
“Well, it’s now been agreed that we go out at nine in the morning, each with a gun and cartridges, and go off in opposite directions. The first one back at the castle with a brace is the winner.”
“I wish you luck, Mr Pomfret,” said Hamish and turned to leave, but Jeremy clutched at his sleeve.
“I say, old chap,” he said urgently, “couldn’t you, well, sort of be around here at nine tomorrow morning, a sort of referee, you know?”
“What for, Mr Pomfret?”
Jeremy led Hamish into a corner.
“I don’t trust the blighter,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “You see, the bet’s for five thousand pounds, and frankly, I don’t believe he’s got it. And he’s been making some side bets, too. Unless I’m very much mistaken, that means he’s certain he’s going to win.”
“Maybe he’s just full of confidence,” said Hamish cautiously. “The captain’s a verra good shot, I’m told. I’m sure you’ll both get your brace tomorrow. The grouse may be a lot scarcer these days, but there are still plenty out there.”
“Yes, but without beaters or even a dog, it could take ages to walk up to a covey. Either of us could win. What worries me is why Bartlett is so certain it will be him, unless he’s got some trick up his sleeve. Sure you won’t come here at nine to see everything is aboveboard?”
“I’d like to, Mr Pomfret,” said Hamish. “But it’s like this. Unless the colonel invites me, I chust cannot put my nose into this. And the colonel is not going to invite me. In fact, he sent word to stop me coming here tonight, but the message got lost on the way. Besides, any suggestion of a referee would mean the colonel would be made to look as if he thought one of his guests was about to cheat, and he wouldn’t stand for that.”
“Yes, I see what you mean,” said Jeremy, pouting like a disappointed baby. “Sorry to have troubled you.”
Hamish continued on his way out.
He picked up the parcel containing the waiter’s clothes from a chair in the hall and made his way out onto the drive.
Peter Bartlett, smoking a cigar, was pacing up and down.
“Sobering up for the big day,” he said when he saw Hamish.
“Good luck,” said Hamish politely, fishing for his car keys.
“You’ve heard about the bet?” asked Bartlett.
Hamish nodded. “I hear it’s for quite a bit of money,” he said.
“Yes, quite a stroke of luck that, finding old Pomfret here.” Bartlett’s white teeth gleamed in a broad smile. “And I thought I was going to have to be content with that Arab’s miserly two thousand pounds.”
Hamish, who had been about to open his car door, stopped and turned around. “And what Arab would that be, Captain?” he asked slowly.
“Just some old oil sheikh in London. He’s heard stories about the honour of dining on Scottish grouse on the day of the Glorious Twelfth itself, so I offered to get a brace for him – at a price, you understand.”
“And how will you get them to London in time for the sheikh’s dinner, Captain?”
“He’s paying for that. He’ll have a helicopter here before nine in the morning. That’ll take the birds to Inverness airport. The helicopter pilot will put them on the shuttle plane to London, and one of the sheikh’s flunkeys will pick them up at London airport.”
Hamish studied the captain thoughtfully. “And the sheikh will send you a cheque, I suppose?”
“Not likely. When I hand over the grouse, the helicopter pilot will hand me a packet – two thousand pounds in cash. I drive a hard bargain.”
“So,” said Hamish, “if you bag a brace by noon or so, you’re sure to get the two thousand?”
“Exactly,” said Peter Bartlett with a wolfish grin. “Just can’t lose.”
“So if you don’t get the first brace, you’ll only have to pay Mr Pomfret three thousand pounds. And, of course, those side bets you’ve been making.”
Peter Bartlett thrust his head forward, peering into Hamish’s face in the gathering gloom. Then he threw back his head and laughed.
“Don’t worry, my dear constable-chappie. I won’t lose.”
“In that case,” said Hamish, opening his car door, “I’ll say good night.”
“Look here,” said the Captain, putting a hand on Hamish’s shoulder, “do you believe in that thing, you know, where you can tell what’s about to happen? The second sight – that’s it.”
Hamish patiently turned around. He was accustomed to weeping drunks, fighting drunks, and psychic drunks.
“And just what do you think is going to happen?” he asked politely.
“I’ve got this feeling someone’s out to get me,” said the captain. “I feel a lot of menace about…oh, it’s hard to explain.”
“I think it iss very easy to explain, Captain Bartlett,” said Hamish. “If a man puts as many backs up as you have, then it iss almost a form of suicide. I haff met people before who could not bring themselves to put an end to their lives, and so they went around goading other people into doing it for them. Good night, Captain Bartlett.”
He drove off and left Peter Bartlett staring after him.
∨ Death of a Cad ∧
4
I once read the last words of a suicide, in which he stated he hoped the jury would not return a verdict of ‘accidental death’ or ‘death by misadventure’ because he thoroughly understood what he was doing when he shot himself, and did not wish it handed down to posterity that he belonged to the class of idiots who inadvertently would handle a weapon in such a way as to cause risk to themselves or others.
—charles lancaster.
Police constable Hamish Macbeth did not sleep well. Towser lay at the end of his bed, across his feet, snoring dreadfully. The sleepless sea-gulls wheeled and screamed over the loch outside, an owl hooted mournfully, and then there came the sharp bark of a fox.
“And to think the tourists come here for the peace and quiet,” mumbled Hamish. After another futile hour of trying to fall asleep, he struggled out of bed. Although it was only five in the morning, the sky was already light He looked out of his bedroom window, which faced over the loch.
It had been a bad summer to date, but this morning had all the signs of heralding a perfect day. A thin mist was rising from the glassy loch. The humped hills on the other side with their stands of larch and birch floated in the mist like a Chinese painting. He opened the window. The morning air was sweet with the smell of roses.
Hamish had succeeded in growing a splendid rambling rose over the door of the police station, and flowers rioted around the blue police sign and trailed over the steps.
The one cell in the police station had stood empty for a long time. The village drunk had joined Alcoholics Anonymous in Inverness and no more enlivened the little police station with nightly renderings of ‘The Road to the Isles’ and ‘The Star o’ Rabbie Burns’.
It was not a job for an ambitious man, but Hamish took his responsibilities seriously. He could make enough to send money home to his father and mother. His job meant he did not have to pay rent or pay for the use of the police car. It was the duty of every Celt to stay unmarried until the next in line was old enough to go out to work. But there had been a long gap between the birth of Hamish, now in his thirties, and the next Macbeth child, Murdo. And Murdo was proving to be a genius at school and would probably win a scholarship to university and so Hamish’s responsibilities must go on a bit longer.