Priscilla Halburton-Smythe suddenly appeared in the doorway, a brace of grouse dangling from one hand, and smiled at the sight of Hamish with his huge boots on the desk, bottle of beer in one hand, phone in the other and hen in front.
“I see you’re interviewing one of the village criminals,” said Priscilla.
“Not I,” said Hamish. “I am waiting for my cousin in London to come back to the telephone with some vital information.”
“I meant the hen, silly. Joke. I’ve brought you some grouse.”
“Have they been hung?”
“No, I shot them today. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing. It is verra kind of you, Miss Halburton-Smythe.”
Since Hamish’s family did not like grouse, the policeman was calculating how soon he could manage to get into Ullapool, where he would no doubt get a good price for the brace from one of the butchers. If they were fresh, that would give him a few days. Hamish did not possess a freezer except the small compartment in his refrigerator, which was full of TV dinners.
Hamish stood up, startling the hen, who flew off with a squawk, and pulled out a chair for Priscilla. He studied her as she sat down. She was wearing a beige silk blouse tucked into cord breeches. Her waist was small and her breasts high and firm. The pale oval of her face, framed by the pale gold of her hair, was saved from being insipid by a pair of bright blue eyes fringed with sooty lashes. He cleared his throat. “I cannot leave the telephone. But you will find a bottle of beer in the refrigerator in the kitchen.”
“I thought you didn’t like cold beer,” called Priscilla over her shoulder as she made her way across the tiny hall to the kitchen. “I keep one for the guests,” called Hamish, thinking wistfully that he had kept a cold bottle of beer especially for her since that golden day she had first dropped in to see him about a minor poaching matter four whole months ago.
“No more trouble, I hope,” added Hamish as Priscilla returned with a foaming glass. “I hope it is not the crime that brings you here.”
“No, I thought you might like some birds for the pot.” Priscilla leaned back and crossed her legs, tightening the material along her thighs by the movement. Hamish half closed his eyes.
“Actually, I’m escaping,” said Priscilla. “Daddy’s brought the most awful twit up from London. He wants me to marry him.”
“And will you?”
“No, you silly constable. Didn’t I just say he was a twit? I say, there’s a picture show on at the village hall tonight. Second showing, ten o’clock. Wouldn’t it be a shriek if we went to it?”
Hamish smiled. “My dear lassie, it is Bill Haley and his Comets in Rock Around the Clock, which was showing a wee bit before you were born, I’m thinking.”
“Lovely. Let’s go after whoever you’re speaking to speaks.”
“I cannot think Colonel Halburton-Smythe would like his daughter to go to the pictures with the local bobby.”
“He won’t know.”
“You have not been long in the Highlands. Give it a day, give it a week, everyone around here knows everything.”
“But Daddy doesn’t speak to anyone in the village.”
“Your housemaid, Maisie, is picture daft. She’ll be there. She’ll tell the other servants and that po-faced butler, Jenkins, will see it as his duty to inform the master.”
“Do you care?”
“Not much,” grinned Hamish. “Oh, Rory, it is yourself.”
He listened intently. Priscilla watched Hamish’s face, noticing for the first time how cat-like his hazel eyes looked with their Celtic narrowness at the outer edges.
“Thank you, Rory,” said Hamish finally. “That is verra interesting. I am surprised that fact about her is not better known.”
The voice quacked again.
“Thank you,” said Hamish gloomily. “I may be in the way of having to report a wee murder to you in the next few days. No, it is chust my joke, Rory.” Hamish’s accent became more sibilant and Highland when he was seriously upset.
He put down the phone and stared into space.
“What was all that about?” asked Priscilla curiously.
“Gossip about a gossip,” said Hamish, getting to his feet. “Wait and I’ll just lock up, Miss Halburton-Smythe, and we’ll be on our way. I’ll tell you about it one of these days.”
∨ Death of a Gossip ∧
Day Four
Above all, when playing a big fish, stay calm.
—Peter Wheat, The Observer’s Book of Fly Fishing
It was a very subdued party that met in the lounge in the morning. Heather Cartwright was visibly losing her usual phlegmatic calm. Her plump face was creased with worry, and her voice shook as she asked them to be seated.
Lady Jane was absent, but everyone seemed to jump a little when anyone entered the room. John Cartwright, in a weary voice, said he felt they had not all learnt the art of casting properly and so he would take them out to the lawn at the back to give a demonstration. His eyes turned to the major to make his usual remark, that those with experience could go ahead, but somehow he could not bring himself to say anything.
They stood about him, shivering in the chill, misty morning air as he demonstrated how to make the perfect cast. He warmed to his subject but his little audience fidgetted restlessly and moved from foot to foot.
Finally, their unease reached him, and he stopped his lecture with a little sigh. “Enough from me,” he said. “We will go to the upper reaches of the river Anstey. I’ll leave word at the, desk for Lady Jane. There is no point in disturbing her if she’s sleeping late.”
Like the day before, the warmth of the sun began to penetrate the mist. “Bad day for fishing,” said the major knowledgeably, and Alice could only envy the quick way in which he had recovered from his humiliation.
“I like the sunshine,” she said, and then could not resist adding, “and I hope Lady Jane doesn’t turn up to spoil it.”
“Got a feeling we won’t be seeing her,” said the major cheerfully.
And then it was as if they all had the same feeling. Everyone’s spirits began to lift. John Cartwright smiled at his wife and pressed her hand as he drove up the twists and winds to the river. “I’ve a feeling we’ve been worrying too much about that woman,” he murmured to Heather. “Don’t worry. I’ll see to it she doesn’t plague us anymore.”
Alice gave a little sigh of relief. Obviously the Cartwrights were going to tell Lady Jane to leave. She grinned at Charlie, but Charlie was looking white and sick and turned his head away.
She shrugged. Again, the sunshine was bleaching away the worries of the night. She was prepared to accept that she did not stand a chance with Jeremy. Let him have Daphne. There was no use fighting it. She would enjoy the exercise and scenery as much as she could. Once more her thoughts returned to Mr Patterson-James. She was sure he would be impressed when she described her holiday.
But when she climbed out of the car and waited for Heather to hand her her rod, she could not help wishing Jeremy would join her as he had done on the other days.
But John Cartwright, with the continued absence of Lady Jane, was once more on form. He was determined his little class should get the proper schooling. He said he was going to give them a demonstration of how to catch a salmon. When they all had their gear on he led the way up a twisting path beside the river at a smart trot. Alice felt the sweat beginning to trickle down her face as she stumbled along after him. Below them, at the bottom of the steep bank, the river Anstey foamed and frothed. At times, delicate strands of silver birch and alder and hazel screened the river from their view, and then, around another turn it would appear again, tumbling headlong on its way to the sea. To the right, the tangled forest climbed up the mountainside.