“It’s a good way for me to meet the women of the village,” said Priscilla. “No, you can’t come. They’ll talk more openly to me. We need a list of Peter Hynd’s victims. I might be able to pick up some gossip.”
“And what am I to do with myself?”
“You could try to have another talk with Heather. Her father will be off at the fishing.”
“All right, but there’s something about that child that scares me.”
♦
Seated in a large dim drawing-room in the manse later that evening, Priscilla took stock of the assembled women. Hamish had given her thumbnail sketches of the women who interested him most. Ailsa Kennedy was easily identified by her eyes and flaming red hair, Nancy Macleod by her black with the grey roots. Then there was the hairdresser, Alice MacQueen, sitting beside Edie. There were twelve other women there, but Hamish felt that Nancy, Alice, Edie, and Ailsa were the main characters, particularly Nancy and Ailsa. If murder had been done and done by a man, then it stood to reason it was a cuckolded man.
The minister’s wife, Annie Duncan, had two spots of colour burning high on her cheeks. Priscilla and Edie had been the first to arrive and had heard from outside the manse, as they waited patiently for someone to answer the door, the faint sounds of what seemed to be a marital row. Priscilla, after having registered that her presence seemed to be calmly accepted, settled down to admire the tact and efficiency of Annie, who was now discussing parts. The pantomime was to be Puss in Boots. For a number of women who had reportedly been at each other’s throats only recently because of Peter Hynd, they appeared strangely docile now. There was no competition for parts. They passively let Annie choose who should do what. Annie herself was to be Dick Whittington, keeping to the British pantomime tradition of having a woman play Principal Boy. The choice of heroine was a surprise. Nancy Macleod was chosen, Nancy of the heavy body and greying hair. Various other parts were allotted, Annie making the suggestion that young Heather Baxter should be asked to play the cat because it might cheer her up. When the muscical numbers were discussed and Nancy was urged to sing one of them, Priscilla realized why she had been chosen for the lead. She had a beautiful soprano voice, strong and clear as a bell, and as she sang she lost years, and the beautiful young girl she had once been showed through the tired middle-aged face. The evening finished amicably over tea and cakes. Priscilla felt let down. No rivalries. No undercurrents. Nothing to report to Hamish. But as she walked away from the manse with Edie, her companion suddenly said bitterly, “Who does she think she is?”
“Who?” asked Priscilla.
“Herself. Lady Muck. Mrs. High and Mighty Annie Duncan. My singing voice is every bit as good as Nancy’s. Nancy playing the lead! Nancy supposed to be a young girl with that lumpy figure o’ hers. It’s a crying shame. Not even discussed. Me, in the chorus. I’ve a good mind not to take part.”
“That would be a shame,” said Priscilla. “It’ll all be good fun, you’ll see.”
“And did you see,” went on Edie, unheeding, “the way Annie elected herself as Principal Boy. My legs are better’n hers any day.”
In vain did Priscilla try to soothe her down. Edie would not be comforted. When they returned, Edie announced she was going to bed. “I’ll look in Hamish’s room and see if he’s there,” said Priscilla.
“Well, leave the bedroom door open,” snapped Edie. “I’ll have none of that in my house.”
Priscilla pushed open the door of Hamish’s room but it was empty. She returned to the kitchen just as Hamish came in.
“Did you see Heather?” asked Priscilla. “I’ll make us some tea.”
“No, I decided to drop in on Jock Kennedy’s. The back shop was full of men, drinking, but as Jock swore it was jut a gathering of friends and no money changed hands, there was nothing I could do about it. It was all very boring, the men carefully talking about sheep and fish. Then Ailsa came crashing in. It must have been a stormy meeting up at the manse.”
“No, it seemed all very quiet. What did Ailsa say?”
“She started by cursing Annie Duncan for having chosen Nancy Macleod as the lead, with herself as the Principal Boy. Ailsa felt she herself should have got one of the main parts. She said that great lump Nancy would make a mockery of the whole thing. Up starts Jimmy Macleod and says his wife has the best voice between here and Inverness, and furthermore, his wife is a lady and not given to whoring around; and I had to stop Jock from hitting him, but Ailsa jeered, ‘That’s what you think,’ and then suddenly everyone decided to go home. One minute the room was full of men, and the next they had all faded out into the night.”
“Goodness, Hamish, if you had been at the manse, you would have thought them all the best of friends. It was only when we left that Edie began to complain like mad about Annie Duncan’s high-handedness, and yet there was nothing high-handed in Annie’s behaviour. They seemed to placidly accept all her suggestions.”
“Well, as you know, there is always a sort of tradition about letting the minister’s wife have her way.”
“There’s just one little thing.” Priscilla hesitated. “Go on,” said Hamish morosely. “Anything’ll help, we haven’t got much.”
“When Edie and I arrived at the manse, we heard the minister and his wife having a row.”
“Could you hear what it was about?”
“No, couldn’t make out the words. The walls are thick.”
“And the reverend didn’t join you ladies at any point?”
Priscilla shook her head. “So where do we go from here?” asked Hamish.
“For a start, there’s the first rehearsal tomorrow afternoon in the community hall. The scripts haven’t arrived yet, but Annie’s going to run through the musical numbers.”
“You go,” said Hamish, “and maybe I’ll drop in. Perhaps we should pay a visit on Heather…both of us. I’d like to know what you make of her.”
∨ Death of a Charming Man ∧
9
Retired to their tea and scandal, according to their ancient custom.
—William Congreve
Heather was singing to herself and scrubbing the kitchen floor when Priscilla and Hamish arrived the following morning. She looked up and saw Priscilla and primmed her lips in disapproval.
“We are on the telephone,” she said, getting to her feet.
“We don’t like people chust dropping in. This is still a house of grief.”
“Just a few more questions,” said Hamish easily.
“Why?” demanded Heather, wiping soapy hands on her apron. “You’re supposed to be here on holiday.”
“I don’t suppose you believe that any more than anyone else,” said Hamish.
Heather’s eyes slanted at Priscilla. “What’s she doing here?”
“Manners!” said Hamish sharply.
Heather folded her arms. “It’s my house and I can say what I like.”
“I’ll go outside and take a look around,” said Priscilla quickly.
As soon as she had gone, Heather appeared to relax. “A coffee-or a cup of tea, Mr. Macbeth?” she asked in housewifely tones.
“Nothing at the moment,” said Hamish. “You’re a bit hard on Priscilla, Heather. What’s she ever done to you?”
“She’s, a woman,” said Heather curtly. “Don’t like women much. They’re cruel.”