“You had better go home and type up your statement,” said Mr Daviot. “Give my regards to Priscilla and tell her my wife was asking after her.”
Mr Daviot got in and Blair shot off with an angry grinding of gears.
Hamish went wearily to his Land Rover and drove to the police station. As he got out two large figures loomed up. The Nairn brothers.
“If it iss all right wi’ you,” said Luke cheerfully, “we’ll hae that telly now.”
∨ Death of a Glutton ∧
9
Life is just one damned thing after another.
—Frank O’Malley (attributed)
John Taylor stood patiently after turning out his pockets. He had surrendered his braces, tie and shoelaces. “I’d better have those pills,” he said, pointing to a pharmacist’s bottle which lay among the other items taken from him.
The custody sergeant picked it up. “What is it?” The label was worn.
“My heart medicine,” said John gently. “I am sure you would not want me to die in one of your cells.”
The custody sergeant shook out a couple of white pills from the bottle. “I’ll jist keep these and hae them examined.”
John was led to a cell in Strathbane police headquarters. He knew he would be transferred to prison in the morning. “You won’t have eaten, sir,” said the young policeman who had escorted him to his cell. “Can I get ye some mutton-pie and chips frae the canteen?”
John shuddered fastidiously. “I am not hungry. But I would like a couple of bottles of mineral water, if you would be so kind.” He gave a flickering smile. “I am very thirsty.”
The mineral water was delivered along with a tray of food and he was urged to eat. The day wore on, light faded outside his cell, and the seagulls of Strathbane screamed like lost souls as they scavenged the streets.
By late evening, John had still not eaten anything but he asked for pen and paper.
He wrote a letter to his son and daughter. In it, he said he was sure they would enjoy his money. He was only delighted they would have to suffer the publicity that their father was a murderer. All his brief love he had felt for them when he had been talking to Hamish had gone. He hated them both. He quoted from King Lear. He reminded them it was sharper than a serpent’s tooth to have a thankless child. He folded the paper neatly and put it squarely in the middle of the small table in his cell.
Then he opened the first of the bottles of mineral water and doggedly began to swallow all the small pills in the pharmacist’s bottle.
The analysis of the pills came through in the morning. They were extremely strong barbiturates. Cursing and sweating, the duty sergeant ran to John Taylor’s cell.
He was lying peacefully. There was only a faint flicker of life in his pulse. They rushed him to hospital, but he was dead on arrival.
♦
Hamish Macbeth heard the news of John’s death later in the day. He thought sourly that all the inquiries that would be buzzing about Strathbane, first the wrongful arrest of Mary French, and now this, would keep everyone too busy to think about his promotion or landing some young constable in his home.
He decided to go up to the castle and see how Priscilla was.
Priscilla was dealing with the home-coming of her parents. They had arrived bringing their Caithness hosts, Mr and Mrs Turnbull, with them, along with Jamie Turnbull, their son, who was home on leave from his regiment. It was typical of her father not to phone to find out if there were any spare rooms, thought Priscilla furiously. Actually there were, for all had left, with the exception of Jenny Trask and her mother, a small capable woman who said they would have a few days’ rest after ‘little’ Jenny’s ordeal before travelling south. But the phone had been ringing steadily with bookings as the news of the arrest and subsequent death of the murderer got out. A murderer at large was bad for business. A murder solved gave the hotel an interesting cachet, particularly as the murderer had not turned out to be one of those dreadful common people.
“I am glad to see you, Mr and Mrs Turnbull and Jamie,” said Priscilla firmly, “but you can only stay a few days. Our books are getting full again.”
“What is this?” demanded the colonel, bristling. “May I remind you, dear girl, that this is my hotel, a hotel which I started and made prosper?”
Hamish strolled in to hear that last sentence. Priscilla stood facing her father, cool and calm as usual, and then suddenly she cracked. “You’ve done bloody nothing to get this hotel off the ground. Nothing! I’ve worked and slaved, and so has Mother, while you strut around annoying the guests and then we have to soothe them down. You didn’t even bother to come back to help me when you knew there had been a murder committed. The attack on Deborah didn’t even move you. Oh, no! I’ve got to stay here and cope with the lot, me and Mr Johnson. I’m tired of your poncing, your vanity, and your bullying. Get stuffed, Daddy dear!”
She stormed off. The colonel stood, his mouth opening and shutting. “Why don’t we all go into the bar?” said Mrs Halburton-Smythe brightly. “I’m sure we could all do with a drink.” And propelling her husband in front of her and Mr and Mrs Turnbull, she shooed them toward the bar like a fussy mother hen shepherding her chicks.
Jamie Turnbull found Priscilla in the kitchen. “You’ve had a hard time,” he said. He was a tall, pleasant-looking young man. “Believe me, I tried to get your father to go home, but he wouldn’t budge.”
“It’s all right now,” said Priscilla weakly. “I wish I hadn’t lost my temper.”
“He needed a telling off. Look, you’re frazzled to bits. Why don’t you come with me and we’ll go off for a drive, have dinner somewhere and keep away from this workhouse.”
“Oh, I’d love that,” said Priscilla. “Once Daddy’s recovered from the shock, he’ll be raging about the place all day.”
The kitchen door opened and Hamish Macbeth looked in. “All right, Priscilla?” he asked. “I wass wondering if you felt like a bite to eat at that new Italian place this evening?”
Suddenly Priscilla remembered looking down from the castle and seeing Jenny kissing him. “I already have a dinner date, Hamish,” she said coldly. “But if you’re at a loose end, your little friend Jenny’s still about.”
Hamish retreated and banged the kitchen door. He walked moodily out to the Land Rover and stood beside it, kicking the gravel in the drive. He had seen Priscilla come to life. She had been magnificent when she had given that old scunner of a father of hers the dressing down he so much deserved. And he had been looking forward to telling her about the case. But all she wanted to do was go off with Jamie Turnbull, Jamie Turnbull who, as Hamish knew, was rich, popular and a captain in a Highland regiment. Jenny, indeed! He was not interested in Jenny.
And then there was Jenny herself, walking towards him with a grey-haired woman who, he guessed, was probably her mother.
“Hamish,” cried Jenny. “I was coming to see you. You have been so awfully clever. Do tell Mummy and me how you solved the case.”
“I haven’t the time at the moment,” said Hamish.
“Maybe later,” urged Jenny.
“My daughter tells me there’s a good Italian restaurant in the village,” said Mrs Trask. “We would be honoured if you would join us for dinner tonight. I owe you a great debt of thanks. If it had not been for your intelligence and capability, my poor daughter might still be under suspicion of murder.”
“She was never that,” said Hamish, although her words were balm to his soul so recently wounded by Priscilla.
Priscilla came out of the castle with Jamie. They got into Jamie’s Jaguar and roared off.
Hamish watched them go with bleak eyes.