Sarah’s fine eyes glowed with sympathy. “I think you have a very hard life, Mrs. Macbean.”
Mrs. Macbean took another roller-flavoured sip of whisky. “Aye, that’s the truth.”
“I never thought of any crime being committed up here,” said Sarah. “I mean, people like me come up here for the quality of life.”
“Quality of life! Ha! Sheep and rain and cold and a lot o’ stupid teuchters.”
“Teuchters?”
“Highlanders. Sly, malicious and stupid. I hate the bastards.”
Sarah looked puzzled. “But they’re all Scottish. Just like you.”
“Don’t insult me.” Sarah covered her glass as another roller flew through the air. Mrs. Macbean leaned forward and whispered, “It’s like one o’ those primitive tribes up the Amazon. They havenae evolved.”
“You are a philosopher.”
“I’ve got my head screwed on.”
“I did hear about a murder up here. Some dentist.”
Mrs. Macbean’s face suddenly closed up. She had a mouth like Popeye’s and it seemed to disappear up under her nose.
“Got to go,” she muttered.
Sarah watched her march off, and then stop at the bar to whisper something to the barman. What would Hamish make of that, she wondered. Eager to tell all the secrets of her marriage life and talk about the burglary, but clams up when Gilchrist is mentioned.
The barman approached her. “Would you be wanting anything else?” he asked truculently.
“No, thank you.”
“Right.” He picked up her unfinished drink and walked off with the glass.
Sarah’s protest died on her lips. She felt she had done enough investigation for Hamish Macbeth for one day. Through the smeared glass of the windows, she could see the snow was falling ever thicker. She stood up and put on her coat. She had never credited herself with an overactive imagination, yet she could swear as she walked to the door that the air was heavy with menace.
∨ Death of a Dentist ∧
6
I have no great relish for the country; it is a kind of healthy grave.
—Rev. Sydney Smith
The floodlights outside the Tommel Castle Hotel came as a relief to Sarah, who had endured a terrifying drive back from The Scotsman.
She parked the car she had borrowed from the hotel, and, bending her head, she darted through the blinding sheets of driving snow and into the warmth and security of the hotel. She went up to her room to change although she wondered if Hamish Macbeth could possibly keep their date in such weather. She smiled as she took a simple black wool dress down from a hanger in the wardrobe. She had not expected to be dressing up at all. But she could hardly continue her hiking in such weather and it was marvellous to be secure in a comfortable and warm hotel room while the storm raged outside.
At seven o’clock promptly, she was waiting at the reception desk. Mr. Johnson, the manager, came out of his office. “Will you be having dinner here tonight?”
“I should think so,” replied Sarah. “Hamish was to meet me here at seven, but I don’t think he’ll make it. Do you usually have dreadful weather like this?”
“Not until about January, and even then, it’s usually central Scotland that gets the worst of it. We’re nearer to the Gulf Stream up here and that often keeps the worst of the snow away, but every few years, we get something nasty like this.”
The hotel door opened and Hamish came in and stood brushing the snow from his clothes. He was wearing snowshoes.
“That’s right,” said Mr. Johnson sarcastically. “Leave a snowdrift on the floor.”
“Good for the carpet.” Hamish bent down and unstrapped his snowshoes. He was wearing a one-piece ski suit which he unzipped and stepped out of and hung on a coat rack in the corner. He was dressed in a checked shirt and dark green corduroy trousers. He fished in his trouser pocket and drew out a tie.
“If you’re thinking of dining here, Hamish,” said the manager, “then you don’t need to bother about the tie, not on an evening like this. You’ll be about the only people in the dining room. A party of ten who were supposed to be here by now are stranded down in Inverness by the bad weather.”
“Right you are.” Hamish stuffed the tie back in his pocket. “Are you ready to eat?” he asked Sarah.
She nodded. “I didn’t have much for lunch.”
They walked together into the dining room. Hamish looked around. This had been the family dining room when Tommel Castle had been a family home instead of a hotel. He could remember the long mahogany dining table, the gleaming silver and fine china. The oriental rugs had gone and the floor was covered with serviceable fitted carpet and the room dotted with separate tables. Jenkins, once the Halburton-Smythes’ butler and now the hotel’s maître d, approached them and handed them menus. His face was stiff with disapproval. He loathed Hamish.
Jenkins was a snob.
“Ignore him,” said Hamish. “He aye looks as if he’s got a bad smell under his nose.”
They ordered and then looked at each other. Hamish was struck again by Sarah’s beauty and Sarah thought Hamish looked very endearing with his red hair still tousled from the storm.
“So how did you get on?” asked Hamish, privately glad that Jenkins had given their order to a humble waitress to deal with and had taken himself off, not because he was intimidated in any way by Jenkins, but because the butler reminded him of happier days when he had been so much in love with Priscilla. He gave a little sigh. He wouldn’t like any of that pain back again. People babbled on about love in song and verse. Hamish thought love should come with a government health warning. Love seemed to mean a short period of rosy elation followed by months and years of dark agony and worry and tearing jealousy.
“What are you thinking about?” asked Sarah.
Hamish pulled himself together. “I was thinking of the day I’ve had. There’s something there that I’m missing.” He told her about Kylie, about the Smiley brothers, and then asked, “And how did you get on?”
Sarah carefully repeated her conversation with Mrs. Macbean, ending with, “I was glad to get out of there, Hamish. The very air had become threatening.”
“That’s interesting. Villainy can produce that sort of atmosphere.”
“It could be. On the other hand, I got the impression that Mrs. Macbean was a bitter and unbalanced woman. I think her shrinking away from me when I mentioned Gilchrist was caused by nothing more sinister than a sort of paranoid secrecy. Women will tell you about their private lives and then suddenly resent you bitterly for having been the recipient.”
“It could be. I didn’t order any wine and that sour-faced Jenkins didn’t even offer us the wine menu.”
“I don’t feel like drinking wine. Do you?” asked Sarah.
“Not really. After that headache-inducing hooch, I don’t feel like any more alcohol. Now one thing did come up today. The CID will have gone through the contents of Gilchrist’s house, his papers, photographs, bankbooks, things like that. I would dearly like to know what they found out.” He looked at her quizzically.
Sarah laughed. “You want me to have another go at hacking. But how on earth are we both to get to the police station in this weather?”
“Priscilla has a computer in her apartment at the top of the castle.”
“Wouldn’t Mr. Johnson think it odd if we asked for the key? I assume it’s locked up when she is away.”
“You could say she had asked you to collect something for her. I know, an address logged in her computer.”
“I’ll try.” She stood up. “You wait here. I’ll ask the manager myself.”
After only a few minutes she came back and placed a key on the table. “Very trusting of him,” said Sarah, sitting down. “I mean, I could be some con pretending to be a friend of Priscilla’s.”