Inside the shop, Hamish was confronting Jock Kennedy, who had been summoned from the back premises by his wife, Ailsa. “Look, Jock,” said Hamish, “I know you are running a sort of pub in the back there after hours, and it will chust not do.”
Jock scowled ferociously. “Who telt ye?”
“It doesn’t matter. You’ve got to stop it.”
“You cannae stop me from having a few friends round.”
“No, and I suggest you make it that. If Strathbane heard about it and crashed in here one night, how would things look for me? I am not booking you, Jock, nor am I asking to have a look-see. Chust make sure you’re doing nothing illegal in future.”
“You should not be bothering an honest man like me,” said Jock. “It’s that Sassenach you should be after.”
“What’s he done?”
“He’s a dirty fighter. He kicked me in the balls.”
Ailsa gave a shrill laugh. “It wass self-defence. Hear this, Macbeth. It wass at the ceilidh. Himself here gets them to call Peter out fur a dram and as soon as Peter appears, Jock challenges him to a fight. Going to beat him to a pulp, he wass.” Ailsa laughed again. “Well, you got your comeuppance, so leave Peter Hynd alone.”
“Hiss days here are numbered, wumman.”
“I’ll leave you both,” said Hamish hurriedly. “Don’t forget what I said, Jock.”
He went outside. He paused for a moment, studying the scene in front of him. Priscilla had turned to face the loch, trying to look unconcerned. The women of Drim had edged closer to her, as if inspecting some rare wild beast.
“Shoo!” said Hamish, running up to them and waving his hands.
Hamish returned to Priscilla, his face grim. “That great fool, Jock Kennedy, challenged Peter Hynd to a fight and Peter kicked him where it hurts the most.”
“That’s bad,” said Priscilla. “A Highlander won’t ever forget or forgive that until he gets revenge.”
“They’ll gang up on him one dark night,” said Hamish. “Let’s go and see the minister.”
“Why?”
“He’s supposed to be looking after the morals of his flock.”
They went up to the manse and this time Hamish found Mr. Callum Duncan at home as well as his wife, Annie.
They were served tea in the manse living-room, the minister and Hamish exchanging general chit-chat until Annie brought in tea and scones. Hamish noticed that Annie’s hair was once more its natural brown colour.
“So what brings you to Drim?” asked the minister at last.
“I’m worried about Peter Hynd.”
“Our newcomer?” said the minister. “A most amiable and intelligent young man. Nothing wrong with him, I hope?”
“He’s been flirting with the women of your parish.” Hamish felt ridiculously like a Victorian reformer. “He’s stirring up all sorts of emotions. Have you not noticed the way the women are behaving?”
“Oh, they’ve been getting a bit silly, but that’s women for you,” said the minister indulgently. Hamish glanced at Annie Duncan, but her head was bent over the teapot.
“It iss more than that,” said Hamish firmly. “There was a fight. Jock Kennedy and Peter Hynd, and Peter…er…kicked him where he shouldn’t have.”
“As he was up against an ox like Jock, then I suppose he had to protect himself anyway he could,” said Mr. Duncan. “It will all settle down. You know what the Highlands are like. There is always a certain antipathy to the newcomer.”
“It is because of this silly antipathy that a lot of good people go away from the Highlands and leave the trash behind,” said Hamish bitterly.
Annie’s voice came, cool and amused. “Peter Hynd does seem capable of rousing jealousy in men and women alike.”
“I am not jealous of the man,” said Hamish. “This is a serious matter. If that young man does not settle down and stop playing silly games with the locals, then someone will stab him. I am taking this verra seriously. Talk to them on the sabbath, minister, and warn them against bitterness, envy, and lust.”
“Dear me, and they call poor Callum a Holy Roller,” said Annie, sounding amused.
“May I point out that the thing that causes most passions to run high,” said the minister, “is strong drink, and we have none of that in Drim.”
“Havers,” said Hamish. “Every man has his bottle. The fact that isn’t sold openly doesn’t stop them drinking, and I’m willing to bet that there’s more than one illegal still up in the hills.”
“I am sure your motives are of the best.” Mr. Duncan’s voice was suddenly steely. “You do your job and I will do mine. I am not lax in reminding my flock on Sunday of the virtues of life. Now, may we talk of something more pleasant? Miss Halburton-Smythe, I believe your family home is now a hotel? Does that disturb you, or have you come to accept it?”
Priscilla talked easily of the difficulties of settling into a hotel life while Hamish sat and brooded. Was he perhaps jealous of Peter Hynd? But he had been uneasy about the man before Peter had ever taken Priscilla out for dinner.
When they emerged from the manse, wreaths of mist were stealing down the sides of the mountains, like long, searching fingers.
At the Land Rover, Priscilla hesitated beside it. “Hamish,” she said, “when I went to the seer looking for you, he said an odd thing.”
“Aye, what was that?”
“He said a beautiful young man would come between us.”
Hamish looked bleakly at the descending mist. “You neffer believed a word that man said before.”
“And why should I now?” rejoined Priscilla lightly. “You’re quite right Hamish. This place is enough to give anyone the creeps.”
They climbed into the Rover. Hamish released the handbrake. He saw a little figure moving towards them up the road through the mist. Heather Baxter. Her eyes were blank but tears were streaming down her cheeks. He swore under his breath and jerked the brake on again and climbed down. The girl saw him coming and swerved away off the road and began to run across the peatbog beside the loch, off into the mist. “Heather!” called Hamish sharply. “Heather!” But only silence came back to him.
“Something must be wrong at the Baxters’,” he said when he rejoined Priscilla. “I’m going over there.”
But when they got to the Baxters’ cottage, it was closed and silent No smoke rose from the chimney. Hamish wondered whether to go back into the village and look for Betty Baxter. As he was standing there, irresolute, Heather Baxter came round the side of the cottage. She looked calm and composed. “Oh, Mr. Macbeth,” she said. “Can I help you?”
“I saw you crying,” said Hamish.
“Me? Och, no, it must haff been a trick o’ the mist.”
“Where’s your ma?”
“Edie Aubrey is running the bingo. She’s there.”
“Not the exercise class?”
“After it, she sometimes has the bingo.”
“And your farther?”
“Up in bed.”
“Look, Heather, if there is anything you ever want to talk to me about, phone me up.” Hamish scribbled the Lochdubh police-station telephone number on a piece of paper and handed it over.
“Thank you,” said Heather, taking the paper, but Hamish noticed she crumpled it up in her hand.
He returned to Priscilla and drove off. Up the twisting road they went, crawling through the now-thick mist until, at the top, they moved out into brilliant sunshine and blue sky. Hamish stopped and looked back. Below them, shrouded somewhere in the mist and at the foot of those black mountains, lay Drim. He shivered.
“I’ve done my best,” he said to Priscilla. “That place gives me weird fancies. Best leave it alone.”
And indeed, among the bright heather and with the warmth of the sun striking through the glass, he could feel all his fears melting away. There were a lot of strange places in the Highlands of Scotland where the very earth gave out a bleak atmosphere of misery, as if years of hardship had been recorded in the ancient rock and thin poor soil. They made things seem exaggerated. With a feeling of relief, he drove home to Lochdubh.