Two o’clock came and went and he yawned and stretched. Nothing was going to happen, he decided. Miss Tabbet was an old battleaxe and even Dolan must have decided to give her house a miss. The wind had risen and was howling outside. But suddenly he heard it. The tinkle of breaking glass coming from the kitchen.
He went quietly to the back of the house. A hand crept through a hole in the glass of the kitchen window and released the catch. Then the burly figure of a man climbed in over the draining-board and jumped lightly onto the floor.
Hamish switched on the kitchen light.
Sammy Dolan stood there, blinking at him. But before Hamish could charge him, Dolan whipped a wicked hunting-knife out of his boot.
“Stand back,” he said, “and no one will get hurt.”
Hamish reached behind him, picked up a frying pan from the cooker and then, darting forward like lightning and ducking to avoid a vicious stab of the knife, brought it down with all his force on Dolan’s forehead.
The Irishman groaned and fell to the kitchen floor. He was down but not out, so Hamish dragged him across the floor and handcuffed him to the iron leg of the cooker, read out the charge and then went through and called Strathbane and asked them to send help to pick Dolan up.
He returned to the kitchen. Dolan looked up at him hatefully and let out a stream of oaths. “Shut up,” said Hamish. He went upstairs in the direction of the snores. Miss Tabbet was lying on her back, her face glistening with cold cream. He put a hand on her shoulder and shook her awake.
“Get out of my bedroom, you…you rapist,” she screamed.
“The day I even think about raping someone like you I’ll check into the loony-bin,” said Hamish brutally. “I’ve caught your burglar.”
“What?” Miss Tabbet was obviously reluctant to let the thought of rape disappear.
“I’ve caught the burglar. I’m waiting for the van from Strathbane to take him away.”
She struggled up. “Where is he?”
“Handcuffed to your kitchen cooker.” Hamish turned and walked out and went back down to the kitchen.
Dolan was quieter, but at the sight of Hamish he said, “I’m going to charge you with police brutality.”
“Suit yourself,” Hamish shrugged and went to plug in the kettle. He felt he deserved a coffee.
Miss Tabbet appeared in the doorway wrapped in a pink chenille dressing-gown and stared at the figure of Dolan on the floor. Then her eyes went to the frying-pan, which Hamish had tossed onto the counter. She picked it up. “Why has my best frying-pan got a dunt in it?”
“Because I hit Dolan on the head with it.”
“Police brutality, that’s what it is,” whined Dolan.
“My best frying-pan,” screeched Miss Tabbet. “And what are you doing with that kettle?”
“You can put in a bill for the frying-pan if you like,” said Hamish coolly. “And as I have chust saved you from being robbed, you can allow me one cup of coffee.” His voice was quiet, but something in it made Miss Tabbet blink rapidly and retreat. To Hamish’s relief, he heard her going back upstairs. He made himself a cup of instant coffee and took it through to the living-room and waited patiently until a police van arrived from Strathbane and took Dolan away. It was six in the morning. He should really wake the schoolteacher again and ask her to lock up after he went but he could not bear any more of her grumbling, and besides, the burglar had been caught. He took a childish delight in leaving his unwashed coffee-cup on the living-room table. He went out into the light of a sunny morning, climbed into the Land Rover, and with a feeling of gladness, of release, set off for Lochdubh.
♦
After filing his report he slept most of the day and then awoke and phoned Priscilla. Sophy answered the phone and said she would find her. After quite a long time she came back and said in an amused voice that Priscilla had said she was out. “And what’s she miffed about?” asked Hamish.
“Some biddy reported we were seen kissing outside the craft shop in Cairask,” said Sophy gleefully.
“I hope you told Priscilla there was nothing in that,” said Hamish sharply.
“Oh, sure. But she wasn’t inclined to listen to me.”
“I’ll be right up.” Hamish slammed down the phone, cursing Sophy under his breath.
He could feel his engagement, unofficial though it still was, falling apart. He no longer knew what he wanted. Why had Priscilla turned into such a managing female? Why couldn’t she have left him alone? He suddenly wondered if she would ever change. Would she clatter around the police station in Lochdubh eternally unforgiving when she finally realized he had no intention of leaving the village? Why couldn’t people realize it was a rare gift to be happy with one’s lot? Although this particular policeman’s lot at the present moment, and thanks to Priscilla and Sophy, was not a happy one.
When he got to the hotel, Sophy said happily she would fetch Priscilla while Hamish paced up and down the reception. When Priscilla and Sophy walked in, Sophy went back behind the reception desk and leaned on it.
“Yes, Hamish?” asked Priscilla frostily.
He gathered her in his arms and she suddenly gave a little sigh and leaned against him. Sophy watched wide-eyed as Hamish, with his arm about Priscilla’s shoulders, led her outside.
“Now what’s all this?” asked Hamish gently.
“I couldn’t help remembering your reputation as a philanderer,” said Priscilla in a low voice.
“Look, you must know that Sophy found out that I was at Carrask and followed me over. We went for tea and then she kissed my cheek on leaving. That was all. But I couldnae help remembering the days when you yourself would have come over to see me.”
“I’ve been pretty bad, haven’t I, Hamish? Forget about promotion and houses in Strathbane. I’m sure we’ll be happy enough in the Lochdubh police station.”
“Come back with me now,” urged Hamish. “We never have any proper time together.”
For one awful moment, she hesitated and then she nodded her fair head.
Hamish’s excitement rose as he approached the police station, with Priscilla following in her own car. This was it, at last! Were there clean sheets on the bed? Damn, he needed a bath. He hadn’t had any supper and his stomach grumbled and rumbled. But food could wait.
Once inside the police station, he brushed aside Priscilla’s suggestion that they should have a cup of coffee and gathered her firmly in his arms. The time had come for action. He swept her up to carry her to the bedroom but she was a tall girl and her feet got jammed in the kitchen door.
“Put me down,” laughed Priscilla. “I can walk.”
Hamish put her down and just as he did so, the bell at the front police-station door rang shrilly and urgently.
They both looked at each other. The locals all used the back door. Only strangers rang the bell at the front…
“It’ll only take a minute,” said Hamish breathlessly. “Probably one o’ thae tourists lost something up on the moors.”
The wind was buffeting the police station and the blue lamp outside was swinging wildly as he opened the door. He dropped his gaze.
The small figure of Heather Baxter stood on the doorstep.
In her lilting Highland accent, she said, “I haff come to report a murder.”
∨ Death of a Charming Man ∧
5
No, no, he as dead;
Go to thy death-bed,
He will never come again.
—William Shakespeare
“Come in,” said Hamish quietly. He took Heather’s cold, damp hand and led her through to the kitchen. “Hot, sweet tea,” he said to Priscilla.