♦
The shrill sound of Hamish’s alarm clock woke him. He struggled out of bed, feeling as if he had not slept at all. The dog and cat moved into the warm space in the bed left by his body and went back to sleep.
He washed and shaved, put on his uniform, and went out to the hen house to collect eggs for Jimmy’s breakfast.
He went back in with the eggs in his cap, set them on the kitchen table, lit the stove, and was just putting the frying pan on it when a knock at the kitchen door heralded the arrival of Jimmy. The detective’s foxy face looked tired, and his eyes were bloodshot.
“Give me a dram, Hamish. I’m fair worn out.”
Hamish poured him some whisky and began to fry up breakfast. “So what’s new?” he asked.
“Damn all,” said Jimmy. “Nobody saw or heard anything. Forensic have moved their search to the rowing boats.”
“I’m sure it’s connected with Effie’s murder.”
“Still on about that? Why?”
“You may have learned from talking to the villagers that because of that notebook of his, they thought Hal was some sort of spy. But I don’t think any of them are to blame. I think the murderer of Effie is still around and thought that Hal had something in that book that would be incriminating. I hadn’t any help before, but now you can start digging into backgrounds. There’s Effie’s sister, Caro, the ex-wife, and Jock himself.” He told Jimmy what the gamekeeper had seen.
“I learned Jock’s agent is up here. What about her?”
“Not likely,” said Hamish, blushing slightly as he set Jimmy’s breakfast in front of him on the table.
“Oho!” said Jimmy. “Why the red face, Hamish? Fancy her, do you?”
“She’s a perfectly nice woman,” said Hamish defensively. Then he said, “What I was wondering was whether there was any madness in Caro, anything in her background – drugs, mental breakdown, anything. I think she’d had enough of Effie’s shenanigans, and Effie passing off Caro’s work as her own might have been the last straw.
“Then there’s Jock Fleming. He has a blazing row with her and then phones her later, he says, to be kind.”
Jimmy yawned. “When I’ve finished this, Hamish, I’ll use your bed for a few hours’ kip.”
“Take the bed in the cell.”
“Bound to be as hard as nails. Are you squeamish about me sleeping in your bed?”
“No, but the dog and cat are there, and they wouldnae take kindly to be disturbed.”
“Hamish! They are not humans. They’re animals. Get yourself a woman. Oh, stop glaring at me and put me in the cell.”
“How’s Blair?”
“In hospital. Not only a broken leg but a broken collarbone as well. He’ll be out of commission for a while.”
“Think they’ll let you run the case, or will they bring in some horror from Glasgow or Inverness like they’ve done before?”
“I think I’m safe provided we get a quick result. You were due to go on holiday, weren’t you? I hope you didn’t book up anywhere, because your leave has been cancelled.”
“I’d already cancelled it,” said Hamish, opening the door of the one cell in the police station. “Pleasant dreams.”
♦
Hamish did a few chores around the police station and checked on his sheep before rousing the dog and cat.
“We’re off to the Tommel Castle Hotel,” he said. “You can have a run around while I’m interviewing folks.”
He helped them up into the Land Rover and drove off. It was wonderful not to have Blair rampaging around.
At the hotel, he let Sonsie and Lugs out and made his way round to the back door and walked into the kitchen.
Clarry, the chef, was supervising his assistants, who were getting the hotel breakfasts ready.
“Have you time for a chat?” asked Hamish.
“Yes, we’ve only a few early birds. The rush doesn’t start until nine o’clock.”
In the days when Hamish had been made a sergeant and before his subsequent demotion, Clarry had been his policeman. But it had turned out that Clarry’s only interest was in cooking, and he had subsequently retired from the force to work at the hotel.
Hamish sat down next to Clarry. “You’ve heard about the death of Mr. Addenfest?”
“Yes, first thing I heard when I came on duty.”
“Did you speak to him yesterday?”
“I had words with him.”
“What about?”
“He’d ordered a packed lunch earlier. He came into the kitchen in the early evening to complain that what he was being charged for the packed lunches was much more than the contents were worth. I told him we supplied the best packed lunches in Scotland and if he had any complaints, he could take them to the manager. He asked me my name and wrote it down in that notebook he was always carrying around. He said, “I’m wise to the lot of you. What’s more,” he said, “that artist was murdered and I can prove it. I have insights that your local village idiot of a copper doesn’t have.””
“Did you tell anyone what he had said?”
“I was that furious, I told a lot of people. Bessie came in for a coffee, and I told her.”
“Bessie! Man, you might as well have put up a neon sign in the village.”
“How was I to know he’d go and get himself kilt? I mean, everyone was saying thon artist committed suicide.”
“Weren’t the police up here during the night asking everyone about Hal?”
“Aye, but I was off duty, so they didn’t ask me. I suppose they only interviewed the staff who live in.”
Hamish went out into the main area of the hotel and into the manager’s office.
“This is a bad business,” said Mr. Johnson.
“Have the guests been checking out?”
“Not yet. But most of them won’t have heard anything. It’s too early.”
“Clarry said Mr. Addenfest was in the kitchen in the early evening complaining about his packed lunch. Did he come to see you?”
“I didn’t know he had even returned to the hotel. He may have left by the kitchen door.”
Hamish went back to Clarry. “Did Addenfest leave by the kitchen door?”
“Aye, he slammed out. Nearly took the door off its hinges.”
Hamish thanked him and then went back and asked Mr. Johnson which room Jock was in.
“He’s not paying, so we put him up in one of the attic rooms. It’s number sixty-two. We only put guests in there if we’re fully booked and they insist on staying. Hardly room to swing a cat.”
Hamish went up to the top of the castle, located Jock’s attic room, and knocked on the door. He waited. There was no reply. Suddenly anxious, he tried the handle. The door was unlocked. He opened it and went in.
There were two figures wrapped around each other on a single bed. One was Jock, and the other was the maid, Bessie.
∨ Death of a Dreamer ∧
7
To see her is to love her,
And love but her forever,
For Nature made her what she is,
And ne’er made anither!
—Robert Burns
Hamish was about to retreat when Bessie woke up suddenly, saw him, and let out a scream. Jock awoke at the sound and struggled up against the pillows.
“I’ll see you downstairs in the lounge, Jock,” said Hamish.
Hamish sat in the lounge and began to wonder if he had been gravely wrong in his assessment of Jock’s character. Jock had seemed to him like an easy-going man, only interested in his work.
Betty Barnard entered the lounge. “Hamish! What brings you here?”
“I want a word with Jock. He’ll be down any minute.”
“Mind if I stay?”
“I would like a word with him in private.”