∨ Death of a Dreamer ∧
9
How happy could I be with either,
Were t’other dear charmer away!
—John Gay
“You’ve lost that look,” complained Jock, working busily on Priscilla’s portrait.
“What look?” asked Priscilla.
“The distant one, the remote one. What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing in particular.”
“Didn’t look that way,” grumbled Jock.
Priscilla had been thinking about Hamish Macbeth. In London, it had been easy to dismiss him from her mind. But up here when he seemed to be pursued by other women, it was hard not to think about him.
Elspeth had confided in her that she had had an affair with Hamish and that she had presented him with an ultimatum – marriage or nothing else. Priscilla had been amazed at the bitter jealousy that admission had caused her. Now there was Betty Barnard.
Jock interrupted her thoughts again. “When I’ve finished this,” he said tentatively, “would you consider buying it?”
“I’ll think about it,” said Priscilla. So even this artist hasn’t got any designs on me other than money, she thought. Hamish has nothing to worry about.
♦
Hamish was roused from his breakfast chores by a knock at the door. He assumed it was Robin and was wondering whether to say anything about having seen her last night. But then he would have to confess that he had been in the restaurant with Betty, and she would give him a stern lecture on socialising with a suspect.
But it was a strange woman who stood on the doorstep. “I am Mrs. Addenfest,” she said.
“Come in,” said Hamish, standing aside. She walked past him into the kitchen, a subtle perfume wafting about her.
She sat down at the kitchen table and crossed a pair of excellent legs. Her hair was an expensive dyed blonde – no brass, but a sort of silvery gold. She had high cheekbones, a full mouth, a straight little nose, and calculating brown eyes which betrayed that she was actually much older than she looked. Hamish guessed she had gone in for an expensive facelift to match the expensive hair. She was dressed in Fifth Avenue’s idea of suitable fashion for the Highlands of Scotland: a tweed jacket with patches at the elbows and a brown velvet collar and that King tweed skirt, sheer stockings, and brogues the colour of chestnuts.
“How can I help you?” he asked.
“I axed up at the hotel and was told you was the brightest around.” The Brooklyn voice emanating from this richly manufactured beauty came as a surprise.
“So what is it you want from me?”
“Who killed him?”
“I wish I knew,” said Hamish. “We’re working hard on it. When did you arrive?”
“Last night. Fact is I feel I owe it to Hal – I mean, to be here and arrange the funeral and all. He never got around to changing his will, although he meant to leave me with zilch. I’m one rich lady.”
“Coffee? Although I wouldnae recommend it. Tea’s better.”
“Tea’s fine.” She watched as Hamish put an old smoke-blackened kettle on the stove. She gave a harsh laugh. “You find out who murdered Hal and I’ll buy you a new teakettle.”
“There will be no need for that,” said Hamish huffily. “I haff an electric one somewhere.”
The cat and dog wandered in. She eyed the cat warily. “That looks like a lynx.”
“It’s a highland wild cat, but a domesticated one.”
“Can you get rid of it for now? It scares the pants off me.”
Hamish opened the kitchen door, and the dog and cat slouched out.
“Tell me about Hal,” said Hamish. “How did you meet?”
“It was back in New York when I was working as a model. Hal was the type of man who liked arm candy. I was tired of slaving as a model, and with models getting younger and younger, I wanted security. He was working for an accounting firm and climbing fast up the corporate ladder. We rubbed along pretty well.”
“I gather he divorced you and got out of paying anything.”
“He could afford the best lawyers, and I couldn’t. He’d put a private detective on me and found out I was having affairs. Jeez, he must be turning in his grave at the thought of me getting all his money. I’ll give him a big send-off.”
“Did he have any enemies?”
“Not murderous ones. Nobody liked him, but because he was chairman of the company, they all crawled to him. When he retired, though, he found no one wanted to know him. He was so vain he decided it must be my fault. I think he thought that if he got rid of me, he’d get friends. Didn’t happen.”
“Did you hear from him after he moved here?”
“Just one odd phone call. He said, “Listen, you old bitch, I’m going to get married again and to a real woman who appreciates me and who doesn’t go dropping her panties in motels for every trucker who takes her fancy.” I hung up on him, and that’s the last I heard until you police got in touch with me. I went straight to his lawyers before I left, and bingo, Gloria’s hit the jackpot.”
“Gloria being you?”
“Sure. May I call you Hamish?”
“Of course.”
“Okay, Hamish. Who’s this female who’s getting her portrait painted by Jock Fleming? Is she a suspect?”
“Priscilla Halburton-Smythe,” said Hamish stiffly. “Her parents own the hotel. I’ve known her for a long time. Mrs. Addenfest, I would suggest strongly that you leave all investigation to the police. There is a dangerous murderer out there.”
“Look, I couldn’t stand the man, but I’ve got his money and I feel, well, kinda responsible for him now. When’s the coroner releasing the body?”
“We don’t have coroners in Scotland. You need to contact the procurator fiscal’s office. Hang on and I’ll get you the address.”
He went through to his office. When he came back, it was to find that Robin had arrived.
She was once more her neat and businesslike self. “Mrs. Addenfest and I are becoming acquainted,” said Robin.
“How long will you be staying?” Hamish asked Gloria.
“Just till I get him buried.”
“Aren’t you taking the body back to the States?”
“Too much trouble. I’ll see the preacher here and arrange a funeral. I’ve heard the Church of Scotland will bury anybody. He didn’t have any religion. Like, he thought he was God.” She picked up her handbag. “Where do I find the local preacher?”
“If you walk out to the waterfront and turn right, you’ll see the church and the manse where he lives right next door.”
“Thanks. See ya.”
She departed on a cloud of perfume.
“What do you make of her?” asked Robin.
“Not much. She married for money, and I haff no time for the women who court men for money or for advancement in their jobs.”
He looked narrowly at Robin. “You’ve got a love bite on your neck,” he accused.
“I do have a private life, Hamish, and it has nothing to do with you.”
Good God, thought Hamish, trying – and failing – to imagine Daviot in the throes of passion. What on earth was his boss doing? Daviot had always seemed like a rather rigid, moral man, given to preaching the benefits of family life.
“Stop staring at me!” snapped Robin.
“I was thinking about the ex-wife. I wonder when she arrived. It would be really difficult if it turns out we have two murderers. We’ll go and see Jimmy and find out if he checked when she arrived in this country.”
♦
Priscilla made her way up to Jocks temporary studio for the morning session. There was no sign of Jock. She waited and waited, but he did not arrive. Priscilla had told Jock that she would need to consider if she had enough money to pay for the portrait. Jock had said she could have it for the ‘knock-down price’ of ten thousand pounds.