“Oh, yes you have. I saw you trying to make me jealous by flirting with that Irishman.”
“Get this straight,” said Priscilla, her eyes like chips of ice. “I’ve never fancied you, nor will I ever.”
“You’re nothing but a prick tease.”
“And you’re nothing but a prick,” said Priscilla. “Get yourself another Lady Macbeth.”
She headed for the door. He caught her arm and twisted her round, his eyes blazing. “You can’t do this to me!”
Mr. Johnson appeared flanked by the chef, Clarry, who was wielding a meat cleaver.
“Miss Halburton-Smythe,” said Mr. Johnson, “I believe Hamish is waiting for you.”
Harold released her, his face flaming with rage.
♦
“What’s up?” asked Hamish as he climbed into the passenger seat of Priscilla’s car after lifting Sonsie and Lugs into the back.
“I’m not going to be playing Lady Macbeth,” said Priscilla. “Harold ordered me to stay for the rehearsal today.”
“You can see his point,” said Hamish awkwardly. “Or was there anything else?”
“Yes, he got frisky.”
“Oh, dear. Then who is going to play Lady Macbeth?”
“Angela has been understudying.”
“Poor Angela.”
“Hamish, I have just endured a rather nasty scene. Don’t mention that damn play again!”
The day was blustery but fine as Priscilla negotiated the zigzag road down to Grianach.
“It’s beautiful, Hamish. That’s a good natural harbour. Good protection. The waves out there look enormous.”
Priscilla parked by the harbour. Hamish let the dog and cat out and stood breathing in the clean, salty air. James Fringley came striding forward to meet them.
“I thought I told you never to come here again,” he said.
“This is Miss Priscilla Halburton-Smythe,” said Hamish. “Priscilla, Mr. James Fringley, who handles the sales of the stuff. Priscilla here is anxious to give you an order for goods for her hotel gift shop.”
James smiled. “If you just walk up to the house with me, Miss Halburton-Smythe, I can show you a range of goods.”
“You wait here, Hamish,” said Priscilla.
Hamish sat down on a bollard and looked out over the glittering water. The light’s too bright and sharp, he thought. A big storm is coming. While he sat there, a few of the locals appeared, saw him, and sheered away.
Pity, he thought. I could get to love this place almost as much as Lochdubh. How far away it is from the cities, the drugs, and the crime.
He turned his dinner with Anna over in his mind. There was something about the woman that repelled him. It was as if some inner kernel of her was as cold as ice. He had met Russians before, all sorts of warm, jolly people. Still, to have risen to the rank of inspector must mean she had to be very tough indeed.
Hamish suddenly wanted a cigarette. He wanted to sit smoking and staring out to sea. But he had given up some time ago. I would be stupid to start again. Just the one, he thought. He rose and went into the village shop and said to the troll behind the counter, “Ten Bensons, please.”
A flood of angry Gaelic erupted from the man, which Hamish translated to mean that if he didn’t get out of the shop he would be hit on the head with an axe.
He retreated to the harbour. The craving had gone and he gave a sigh of relief. To think he had nearly blown it.
Priscilla came back with a delighted James Fringley. “Business is over, Hamish. I think we should go up into the hills for our picnic.”
As she drove off, Hamish asked, “Where’s the goods?”
“He’s bringing it over tomorrow. That stuff will sell like hotcakes. I’m even going to put an ad in the Highland Times. Christmas is coming, and people will be looking for presents.”
♦
They picnicked on a flat rock in a hollow protected from the wind high up on the moors.
Hamish, watching Priscilla as she efficiently laid out the picnic, thought that she was, for him, rather like cigarettes. Just when he thought the craving had gone, back it would come. He longed to take her in his arms but dreaded rejection. He forced himself to chat lightly about this and that until the yearning went away.
When they arrived back at the hotel, Hamish asked, “Will you be watching the performance?”
“No, I’m going off to London. I’ll tell Mr. Johnson about Fringley bringing the stuff for the gift shop.”
“You seem to be able to come and go with that job of yours.”
“I take contracts, Hamish. That’s the blessing about being a computer programmer. I’ll start another contract when I get back.”
Hamish was torn between relief and sadness that she was going. Without Priscilla around, he could really concentrate on the case.
♦
He decided to call on Angela and see if she was ready for her big part. He found her in her kitchen, sitting in front of her computer as usual.
“What’s this?” asked Hamish. “I thought you would be walking up and down, feverishly remembering your lines.”
“I’m not going, Hamish.”
“Why?”
Angela sighed and pushed a lock of hair away from her thin face. “I just don’t want to do it. It’s Harold. Why should I bother to help him out when he was so rude to me?”
“How rude?”
“I went up to the hotel yesterday to talk to him about writing. He said to me loftily that he couldn’t be bothered wasting the time to talk to me. He said if I was having difficulties, I should wait for inspiration. So when he came tearing down here to tell me to play Lady Macbeth, I told him I hadn’t the time because I was waiting for inspiration. I suggested he get inspired and find someone else.”
“Unlike you to be so harsh.”
“Hamish, I have met many writers at writers’ conventions and not one has blethered on about inspiration. It’s hard work, and you just sit down and do it. Every writer knows that.”
Hamish scratched his fiery hair. “Angela, don’t you feel you might be letting the rest of the folk in the village down? They’re all so excited about being in a play.”
“Yes, I was struck by guilty conscience, so I phoned him and said if he was absolutely stuck, I would do it. He said harshly he had someone and hung up on me.”
“I wonder who it could be?” marvelled Hamish. “No one else has had time to learn the lines.”
“Maybe he’s got some actress up from London. Anyway, I’m still mad at him.”
“Writing seems to have stiffened your spine,” said Hamish. “The old Angela could be bullied into doing anything for anyone. Even your kitchen’s still clean!”
“Well, you know how it is. I think I am a real writer at last. I sit down at the computer and am overcome by a burning desire to defrost the fridge.”
“Keep at it. I’ll be going to the play tonight. What about you?”
“I can’t now, Hamish. What if it’s a dreadful failure and everyone blames me for letting them down?”
“I’m sure the ambitious Harold will have found someone.”
∨ Death of a Gentle Lady ∧
12
The glass is falling hour by hour, the glass will fall forever
But if you break the bloody glass you won’t hold up the weather.
—Louis MacNeice
The wind had roared away earlier and now mist was creeping up the loch, making the dark evening even darker. Hamish was glad they had a calm night for the performance because he had checked his barometer and the glass was falling.
He walked along to the church hall. He wondered whether the murderer would try to kill him again.
People were streaming out of cottages, and the air was full of excited chatter. I don’t like Harold, thought Hamish, but he’s certainly brought a bit of excitement to the village.