“Look, pet, the Harringtons might leave tomorrow for the simple reason that you won’t come to the point,” he heard the colonel say. “Harrington’s a fine young chap. It’s not as if you’re in love with anyone. You can’t go on turning down one fellow after another.”
“I could get a job, Daddy.”
“Nonsense. Marriage and children’s the only career for a woman. What will I tell the Harrington’s?”
“Tell them anything,” yawned Priscilla, “I’m so beastly tired, Daddy. I promise I’ll be nice to John tomorrow if you’ll just go away.”
“Very well,” said the colonel. “But don’t keep him waiting around too long.”
At last, to Hamish’s intense relief, he heard the door close. Priscilla threw back the bedclothes and looked down at Hamish’s ruffled red hair.
“You look quite sweet without that horrible uniform on,” said Priscilla. “You must have been nearly suffocated. Your face is all red and you’re breathing like a grampus.”
“I’m all right,” said Hamish, sitting up with an effort. “Let me have a look at those notes.”
Priscilla took them out from under her pillow and handed them to him. He frowned as he studied them, and then his face sharpened. “I’ve got to use the phone,” he said.
“You look terrible,” said Priscilla. “What is it? Why can’t you use the phone at that police station of yours?”
“Blair’s there and probably all night. Can I use the one in the estates office?”
“Yes, so long as no one discovers you.” Priscilla felt rather sulky and wondered why. “I wouldn’t have thought you were so keen on your job.”
“Aye,” said Hamish, climbing over her to get out of bed. “I’ll just creep down the stairs. No one will hear me.”
“Good night,” said Priscilla crossly.
Hamish smiled down at her as she lay against the pillows. “Thank you for all you have done, Miss Halburton-Smythe.” He bent suddenly and kissed her on the cheek, turned red as fire, and fled from the room.
“Well, well,” thought Priscilla. She put a hand up to her cheek and stared in a bemused way at the closed door.
Hamish sat beside the phone in the estates office and in his head turned over the names of his many relatives. There was Rory in London, Erchie in New York, Peter in Hong Kong, Jenny in Aylesbury, which was near enough to Oxford…
At last, he picked up the phone and began to dial.
♦
A pale dawn was lighting up the sky and the water as Hamish Macbeth wearily made his way along the waterfront. There was something he had to do before he went to sleep and it was something that only duty was prompting him to do. His heart felt heavy, and his lips moved in a soundless Gaelic prayer.
He turned in at a white-painted gate and went around the back of the house to the kitchen door. He rapped loud and long on the glass until he saw a light go on upstairs. He waited, hearing footsteps descending, shuffling footsteps approaching the kitchen door.
The door opened and Tina Baxter stood blinking at him nervously. She clutched a pink woollen dressing gown tightly at her neck. All colour drained from her face.
“Aye, it’s me,” said Hamish heavily. “Mind if I come in?”
She stood aside, and he walked past her into the kitchen. She followed him and sat down at the kitchen table as if her legs could no longer bear her weight.
“I was here earlier,” said Hamish, “talking to you about young Charlie’s future. You were wearing a blue dress.” He took an envelope out of his tunic pocket and extracted the piece of material he had found on the bush beside the pool. “Is this yours?”
“Yes,” whispered Mrs Baxter. She covered her face with her hands and began to cry.
“I couldn’t help it,” she sobbed. “The disgrace. My Charlie’s name in the papers. I had to shut her mouth.”
Hamish sat down opposite her. His head was beginning to clear, and his earlier fright was beginning to recede as common sense took over. The first rays of sun began to warm the kitchen.
“Mrs Baxter,” he said gently. “Immediately after the murder all the bushes and braes and heather and trees were combed for clues by the forensic boys. It’s awfy strange they didn’t find this and I did.”
“I did it.” Tina Baxter stared at him, her face working.
“Aye, that you did. Not the murder. You cut a bit out of your dress and left it there, hoping someone would find it. So now we’ll have another wee chat about Charlie. He’s twelve years old. Twelve years old. Just think o’ that. He’s a strong boy but there is no way he could have overpowered a woman of Lady Jane’s size. Then there’s the lad’s character…”
“It’s bad blood, bad blood,” said Una Baxter, her hands clutching and unclutching the material of her dressing gown. “His father was violent. He threatened to kill me if I didn’t give him a divorce.” Her voice was rising hysterically.
“I am thinking,” said Hamish sincerely, “that you would drive a saint to violence. I feel like striking you myself. Do you know that because of your silly clue-planting you had me thinking you knew that Charlie did it and were trying to fix the blame on yourself? You’re a dangerous woman. Now, here’s what you are going to do. You are going to leave Charlie here to stay with his aunt and I suggest you go back home and see one o’ thae head doctors. You’ll drive the bairn mad with all your hysterics.”
“If you don’t do what I say, I will let the newspapers know that you believed your own boy capable of murder and nearly got him accused of it by your clumsiness.”
Hamish rose to his feet. “So think on that, Mrs Baxter. I’ll bring mair scandal down on your head than you ever could hae imagined.”
♦
It was the last day of the fishing course. Unless the police requested otherwise, Blair would take their home and business addresses and allow them to leave on the Sunday morning. The river Artstey was still closed to them. Heather and John had suggested they fish the Marag.
On returning to the police station, Hamish found that Blair was still asleep. He typed up his notes, studied the results, and then put them to one side. He thought long and carefully about each member of the fishing school. He decided he was being haunted by the scale of the crime. He began to read through his well-thumbed ten-volume edition of Famous Crimes. Motives tumbled one after another before his tired eyes. Murder for money, for passion, for revenge. Alcohol or drugs brought out the Hyde side of the character, but no one in the fishing school case drank daily to excess and not one of them had shown any sign of being a drug user. He made one pot after another of strong tea. His dog, Towser, prowled about uneasily, stopping to lick his master’s hand as if wondering what was keeping him from his bed, for Towser liked to stretch out on the bed at Hamish’s feet.
“It is all a matter of lack of conscience,” thought Hamish.
By the time the little fishing class was setting out for their last day, Hamish was sound asleep, his dog snoring at his feet, and a sheaf of notes clutched to his chest.
He was awakened by Blair shaking his shoulder. “It’s noon,” snarled Blair savagely. “By God, I’ll report you for sheer laziness. I’ve got a job for you. You’ll come along with me to that hotel this evening and you’ll take down the addresses of the whole lot of ‘em. I don’t just mean their home addresses, we’ve got those. I mean where they work and where they’re likely to be visiting.”
“Get out!” said a small, shrill voice behind Blair. The large detective swung around in amazement. Charlie Baxter stood in the doorway clutching a mug of tea. “This is Constable Macbeth’s house,” he said, “and you’ve got no right to bully him.”