“No, I thought he would be here by now,” said Hamish.
“Here?” shrieked everyone.
“Aye,” said Hamish. “They had to let him go. That business where he was said to strangle the club secretary was a bit of a storm in a teacup. The good major was drunk and the secretary objected to the fact that the major hadn’t paid his membership fee and seemed to have no intention of doing so. One word led to another and the major attacked the secretary. Several members of the dub pulled them apart. The police were called, but no charges pressed. You can’t send a man to prison for a murder just because he got drunk and bad-tempered a wee while ago.”
“But if he isn’t the murderer,” said Alice, “who is?”
They all looked at each other in dismay.
Then a faint scream reached their ears, borne on the light breeze.
“Daphne!” said John Cartwright, lurching to his feet. They all scrambled for the loch and waded in. Hamish took off his boots, socks and trousers and, cutting a ridiculous figure in his tunic, cap and underpants, waded into the water after them.
As they ploughed through the shallow loch towards the river, they saw Daphne. Her rod was bent, her line was taut, and she called over her shoulder, “Keep clear! I want to get this one myself.” They all moved forward, however, watching as she battled with the leaping, plunging fish.
“She’ll lose it,” said Heather. “John, do something.”
“Not me,” said John. “She wouldn’t thank me for any help. Just look at her face!”
Daphne seemed to have aged. Her mouth was clamped tight with deep grooves of strain down either side.
Half an hour passed. Even Hamish, ridiculous in his half dress, stayed where he was. Daphne had played her salmon – for a salmon it was – into the shallow water.
With an exclamation of rage, she suddenly threw her rod down and leapt on the salmon, falling on it in a sort of rugby tackle. Then she rose from the frothing, swirling water, clutching the salmon to her bosom.
She ran to the shore, stumbled up the bank, fell and cut her knee, stood up with a great tear across one wader, ran again until she collapsed on the tussocky grass with the writhing fish under her.
They all scrambled to shore. “Let me get the hook out and kill it for you,” called John.
“Don’t you dare,” said Daphne. “That’s going to be my pleasure.”
They were saved from watching Daphne kill her fish by a yell from the opposite shore. The major was standing there in full fishing rig.
He waded across to join them.
Hamish watched his approach. He would have expected the major to bluster, to scream about the disgrace of being taken along to the police station, but the major’s eyes were riveted on Daphne and her salmon.
“By Jove, where did you get that?”
“Over there,” panted Daphne.
“What fly were you using?”
“A Gore Inexpressible. It’s one of my father’s inventions.”
“Where does he fish?”
“He’s got an estate in Argyll he uses in the summer. Wouldn’t even let me try, which is why I came here. I want one hundred photos to send to him.”
Heather opened her mouth to sympathize with the major over his treatment at the hands of the police, but he was already back in the water, a fanatical gleam in his eye, his whole concentration bent on the foaming water.
Then she noticed the still, intent sort of look on Jeremy’s face. Oh dear, thought Heather. That remark of Daphne’s about her father having an estate in Argyll really got home. Poor Alice.
“Coo-ee!”
The slim figure of Priscilla Halburton-Smythe could be seen on the opposite shore. “Mr Macbeth,” she called.
“Better put your pants on first,” said Marvin Roth to Hamish, but Hamish was already off and wading across the loch in Priscilla’s direction.
“Sheesh!” said Marvin. “She’ll scream the place down when she sees him.”
“Your Highlander is very prudish about some things,” said Heather. “But any state of undress doesn’t seem to embarrass them, and I’m sure the Halburton-Smythes have become used to it by now.”
“You’re all wet,” giggled Priscilla as Hamish waded out. “I came rushing over to tell you that Daddy’s in a fearful rage. He’s had collect calls from the States and from London. Lucy Hanson, the secretary, accepted the calls and messages thinking they were something to do with the estate. I asked Daddy to give them to me to pass on, but he won’t.”
“Maybe if we went now we could take a look in the office when he’s not around,” said Hamish, water dripping down his long, red-haired legs.
“We might be lucky. Everyone’s out in the garden having tea. Haven’t you got anything to dry yourself with? You look like something out of a Carry On film.”
“If we open the windows of the car, I’ll dry soon enough,” said Hamish. “It is just my legs that are wet. The water did not reach my bum.”
“We’ll take my car,” said Priscilla, “then I’ll drop you off back here. Anyone catch anything?”
So as they drove along, Hamish told her about Daphne’s catch, and Priscilla threw back her head and laughed. She was wearing a simple pink cotton sheath, and her slim, tanned legs ended in white sandals with thin straps and very high heels. Her legs were like satin. Hamish wondered if she shaved them or whether they were naturally smooth. He wondered what it would be like to run a hand down – or up – all that silky smoothness.
“Stop dreaming,” said Priscilla. “We’re here.”
“I should have put my trousers on at a quiet bit down the road,” said Hamish. “But there doesn’t seem to be anyone about so I’ll just pop them on.”
“Well, hurry up. Oh, lor!”
Hamish had got his socks on and had his trousers draped on the gravel drive preparatory to putting them on when Colonel and Mrs Halburton-Smythe and five guests including John Harrington rounded the corner of the house.
The colonel goggled at Hamish, who stood frozen, one leg in his trousers and one out. He’s going to say, “What the hell is the meaning of this?” thought Hamish.
“What the hell is the meaning of this?” screamed the colonel. Mrs Halburton-Smythe, who was younger than the colonel and had rather pretty, if faded, blonde good looks, shouted, “Come here this minute, Priscilla.”
Priscilla thought wildly of the crazy explanations about Daphne’s salmon and said hurriedly, “I’ll tell you about it later. Get in the car, Mr Macbeth.”
The colonel started his wrathful advance.
Hamish leapt into the car, still half in and half out of his trousers. Priscilla jumped in the other side and they fled off before the colonel could reach them.
“Now I’m for it,” said Priscilla gloomily. “He will never listen, you know, which is why no one ever really tells him anything.”
Hamish wriggled into his trousers. “And what will you tell your young man? Your father told me – warned me off in fact – that you were about to become engaged.”
“I suppose I’d better get engaged to someone,” said Priscilla, concentrating on her driving and therefore missing the look of pain on her companion’s face. “After all, they did take me to London to do the Season and a fat lot of good that was. It cost them a lot of money. All the other girls seemed content to marry someone suitable. My friend, Sarah, was wild about this chap, but she married someone else. She said as she walked up to the altar, she thought, “I wish it could have been so-and-so,” but she’s got a baby now and seems pretty happy.”
“I should think it would be hell to be married to someone you didn’t love,” said Hamish, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
“Really? One never thinks of bobbies as being romantic somehow,” said Priscilla carelessly, and the drive back continued in silence.