“Why?”
“Because his presence in this village brought murder with it. I feel it should have been my Christian duty to marry him, and yet I could not. I asked him if he believed in God and Jesus Christ, and he laughed and said, “No more than you do. I’m like the rest of Scotland. Church is for births, marriages, and deaths.””
“You did the right thing. I want the man out of here as well. Tell you what. I’ll go and see them and speed them on their way.”
Hamish drove to Cnothan, taking his pets with him. At the caravan park, he was told that Mrs. Fleming had left but that Mr. Fleming was staying on.
Hamish drove into the village of Cnothan. He braked to a halt when he saw Jock. The artist was talking to one of the local girls, Fiona Crumley. As Hamish watched, Jock bent forward and whispered something in Fionas ear, and she blushed and giggled.
He got out of the Land Rover. “A word with you, Jock.”
“See you later,” said Fiona.
Hamish watched her go and then said, “I want you out of here, Jock. I warned you.”
“I like it here. You can’t force me to go.”
“Shouldn’t you be back with Dora? I hear you wanted to marry her.”
“Och, that was just to keep her quiet. I got rid of her by telling her to go to Glasgow and find a minister.”
“Why the church? Why not a registry office?”
“Dora wants a white wedding.”
“I’m warning you for the last time. Get the hell off my beat.”
Jock laughed and walked away. Hamish set off down the main street in pursuit of Fiona. He caught up with her at the loch side – that grim black loch man-made by the Hydro Electric Board.
“A word of warning for you,” said Hamish. She looked at him round-eyed. “Keep clear of Jock Fleming. I think you should know he’s got syphilis. Oh, he’ll swear he hasn’t, but I’d hate to see a lassie like you catching a nasty sexual disease.”
“Thanks, Hamish. He seemed so nice.”
“And warn your friends.”
The news of Jock’s fictional syphilis spread like fire in the heather out from Cnothan and across to Lochdubh. Hamish was lucky that no one actually confronted Jock with the fact that he had the disease. They simply shunned him. He was told his caravan was needed for a pre-booking and no other van was available. Shops refused to serve him. Hamish was relieved when he finally got the news that Jock had left.
♦
Hamish thought several times about phoning Elspeth but each time couldn’t muster up the courage. After all, what could he say? He had no right to string her along. But wasn’t he as bad as Effie, getting excited about Priscilla coming back? Wasn’t he a fantasist as well?
His spirits were dampened somewhat by an unexpected visit from Colonel Halburton-Smythe. The fussy little colonel walked into the kitchen one morning when Hamish was washing up dirty dishes. He sat down at the table unasked and looked around him.
“To think my daughter might have been living here,” he said.
Hamish stacked the last clean dish on the rack and leaned against the counter. He wondered if all retired military men who insisted on being addressed by their army rank were as infuriating and pompous as Priscilla’s father.
“Did you come to criticise my home?” he asked.
“I came about this idea you put up to Johnson. It’s mad.”
“What’s mad about it?”
“Ghosts and murder. Haven’t we had enough real murder in Lochdubh already without manufacturing fictional ones?”
“So don’t do it. Lose customers. What do I care?”
“Don’t be so hasty. Tell me about it.”
So Hamish patiently described his ideas. The colonel studied him after he had finished with shrewd little eyes. “Wouldn’t such an idea bring in the riffraff?”
“Not if you charge enough. Tell me, at country house parties, don’t they still dress up and play charades?”
“Yes.”
“Well, there you are. People love dressing up. If you ferret around in the trunks in the storage room, you’ll probably find enough thirties and twenties clothes to save you buying any.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“What about the ghost? Any murdered people in the castle’s past?”
“In the early part of the twentieth century, the then Lord Derwent killed his wife. A maid witnessed him throwing her down the stairs. It never went to court, and the maid was paid off.”
“There you are. The ghost of Lady Derwent haunts the castle, crying for justice.”
“So I need to pay someone to play the ghost and keep their mouths shut?”
“No, then they’d all know it wasn’t real. I know someone who could fix up ghostly effects for you.”
“I’ll think about it. Horrible business about that artist having syphilis, and to think he was painting my daughter! I’ll be off.”
“Aren’t you going to thank me for my great ideas?”
“Oh, they are a bit ridiculous. But thank you for trying.” He marched out.
Later that day, Hamish did not know whether to be amused or furious when Mr. Johnson said that the colonel had gathered the staff together to tell them about ‘his’ great ideas about a ghost and murder weekends.
♦
That evening, Gloria Addenfest called on Hamish. “Came to say thanks,” she said. “I’m off to the States. I’m glad it’s all over. Funny. I liked that Barnard woman. I thought she was the only one around that was any fun. All goes to show what a great judge of character I am. I even asked her to visit me in New York.”
“She fooled us all,” said Hamish heavily.
“Here’s my card anyway. You can come and stay with me any time.”
After she had left, a voice nagged in his head that he should go. Priscilla would be as distant as ever. But what would he do with his cat?
His next caller was Jimmy Anderson.
“Tell me, Jimmy,” said Hamish, opening a bottle of whisky and putting it in front of the detective, “did Betty say anything at the subsequent interview about what she did with Effie’s mobile phone?”
“Didn’t ask her. Doesn’t matter now. What’s this rumour going around that Jock has syphilis?”
“I put it about to get rid of him. His wife had left, and he was already chatting up some young girl in Cnothan. I hope that’s the last we ever see of him. He’ll always bring trouble.”
“I hear you went to visit Blair,” Jimmy said.
“How did you find out?”
“He phoned up drunk and weepy and said nobody had bothered to find out how he was except Hamish Macbeth.”
“The old scunner. I took him a bottle of whisky. He grabbed it from me and slammed the door in my face. It’s a wonder that man isn’t dead.”
“I think God keeps him on this earth to remind us that suffering purifies the soul.”
Hamish poured himself a small measure of whisky. “I saw Robin in Strathbane.”
“How’s Auld Iron Knickers getting on?”
“Fine. She likes Inverness.”
“Someone said, mind you, and if you can believe this, that they had seen Robin down in Inverness arm in arm with Daviot.”
Hamish manufactured a laugh. “Now, that really is daft. Daviot, of all people.”
“That’s what I said. So are you going to take your holiday now?”
“Starting as soon as possible. Like now.”
“So where are you going?”
“Och, I’m chust staying here,” said Hamish awkwardly.
“You know, every time I drive into peasantville, I look to see what the hell it is that keeps you here, but I’m blessed if I can.”
“Never mind. Make that your last whisky this evening. One of these days you’re going to run off the road.”
“All right, mother.” Jimmy swallowed his whisky. “Here’s hoping we never have to cope with another murder again.”
♦
Hamish was in Patel’s shop the next morning when Angela came up to him. “Have you seen the Bugle?”