“It might be a woman,” said Hamish.
Dr Brodie leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. “It might at that,” he said slowly.
Hamish had imagined his visit to Inverness would prove to be blessed with another sunny day. But to his annoyance, the weather had turned dark and rainy.
He called on the dentist, a Mr Jones, who was justifiably annoyed at his call, having already been interviewed by the Inverness police. Hamish was not surprised. He knew Blair had sent him to Inverness to get him out of the way.
“You are such an important witness, Mr Jones,” he said, “that I am afraid you have to be questioned all over again. I will not be taking up much of your time.”
“Oh, well,” said the dentist, mollified. “There’s not much to tell. What a baby that man was. He had a bad toothache because one of his back teeth was rotten. The root was all right so I said I would drill it and put in a filling. He started to shake and tremble and begged me to pull it out. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. Insisted on having gas. When he came round, I showed him his X-rays and said he needed a lot of work done and then he really panicked. He staggered out of the chair and ran for the door. It’s a good thing I’d got his National Health number before I’d started or I would have ended up doing that extraction for free. He should have rested a bit till the effects of the gas wore off.”
A bluebottle landed on the dentist’s white coat and he brushed it off with a shudder. “I’ve never seen so many flies as we’ve had this summer,” said Mr Jones. “But the air’s so warm and clammy, I can’t keep the windows closed.”
Hamish put away his notebook and headed for the station. He would just be in time to meet Priscilla’s train.
He put all thoughts of the case from his mind and concentrated on the simple pleasure of waiting for her to arrive. He found he was imagining sort of Brief Encounter situations. She would run towards him through the steam, her fair hair bobbing on her shoulders, and throw herself into his arms. But the days of steam trains were long over. He did not want to abandon one bit of his rosy fantasy. So the steam remained. Rain thudded down on the station roof and the restless seagulls of Inverness called overhead.
Twelve-thirty came and went and there was no sign of the train. He went up to the information kiosk but there was no-one there. He went into the Travel Centre where he was told the train would be half an hour late due to signal failure. He returned to the platform and waited, and again in that dream Priscilla endlessly ran towards him.
After three quarters of an hour, he returned to the Travel Centre. He was again told the story about signal failure and that the train should be in any minute. The loudspeaker in the station burst into song. It was one of those Scottish songs written to the beat of a Scottish waltz and sung through the nose.
“Oh, there’s the purple o’ the heather, And the ships aboot the bay, And it’s there that I would wander, At the kelosing hoff the day,” sang the voice and the rain fell harder on the roof and the wheeling seagulls screamed louder as if to compete with the singer.
Hamish went back to the Travel Centre with that feeling of impotence that assails the average Britisher in dealing with British Rail. A young man in a tartan jacket and with a sulky ‘get lost’ expression on his face eventually phoned the station manager’s office after Hamish had told him quietly what he would do to him if he didn’t look more willing. There was a broken rail outside Inverness, said the young man. But the train would be moving soon.
Back again went Hamish. At two-fifteen, the train crawled into the platform.
He waited by the barrier.
He nearly missed her. She was walking with her head down, her hair covered by a depressing rain hat.
“Priscilla!” he called.
She swung round. “Oh, there you are,” she said coolly. “Rotten train. I’m starving. Where are we going?”
Hamish blinked at her. He had been dreaming so long of that passionate arrival that he had forgotten to think about where to take her.
“We could try the Caledonian Hotel,” he said.
They walked in silence along to the hotel that overlooks the River Ness to find that it stopped serving lunches at two. Hamish found a phone box and tried several other places to find they had stopped serving lunch at two as well.
“Hamish, let’s just pick somewhere cheap and easy,” said Priscilla. Water was dripping from the brim of her hat on to her nose.
Hamish’ looked around desperately. There was a cheap-looking restaurant called the Admiral’s Nook. The bow window was festooned with fishing nets.
“This’ll do,” he said.
They went inside and sat at a crumby table.
Hamish looked at the menu. There was a wide choice. Waitresses were standing in a group at the back of the restaurant, talking. He waved his hand. Several blank stares were directed towards him and then they all went on talking again.
“Pick out what you want,” said Hamish.
“What about spaghetti bolognaise?” said Priscilla. “These places usually have a Scottish-Italian cook.”
“All right.” Hamish approached the waitresses. “Two plates of spaghetti bolognaise,” he ordered. They all looked at him as if he had said several obscene words and then one peeled off from the group and headed for the kitchen.
Hamish returned to the table. He wondered if Priscilla was thinking of that John Burlington, who would probably have organized things better.
The waitress approached with two plates piled high with spaghetti and topped with a sort of grey sludge. Her hands were covered in scabs.
“Where’s the parmesan cheese?” asked Hamish, faint but pursuing.
“Whit?”
“Parmesan cheese,” said Priscilla in icy tones.
“We dinnae hae any o’ that,” said the waitress triumphantly.
“Well, brush the crumbs off the table,” said Hamish crossly. She slouched off and did not return.
“This smells like feet,” said Priscilla. “I daren’t eat it.”
“Come away,” said Hamish, putting down his fork. “This damn place reeks of salmonella. No, I’m not calling for the bill, nor am I going to protest. It would take all day.” He checked the menu for the price and left several Scottish pound notes on the table and marched Priscilla outside.
“Where now?” asked Priscilla bleakly.
“Follow me,” said Hamish grimly. He led her to where his Land Rover was parked. “Stay there,” he said, holding open the door for her.
He came back after some time carrying two packets of fish and chips, a bottle of wine, a bottle of mineral water, two glasses, and a corkscrew.
“This wine’s for you,” he said, uncorking it.
“Food at last,” said Priscilla.
They ate in a contented silence. “Sorry I was so grumpy,” said Priscilla. “How did you get on?”
“Oh, Thomas was at that dentist all right.”
“But it doesn’t mean he didn’t do it,” said Priscilla.
“Why?”
“He could have put the arsenic in something he knew she would eat before he left.”
“They’ve got everything out of the kitchen and there’s not a smell of arsenic anywhere. Except the curry. Can’t find any of that.”
“Curry? Oh, I know about the curry,” said Priscilla. “She made some for herself and gave the rest to Mrs Wellington for the minister’s supper.”
Hamish realized he was looking at her with mouth open. “Better get back,” he said. “If she hasn’t eaten it, it might still be in her fridge. No better still, wait here and I’ll phone.”
He returned after ten minutes, his face triumphant. “She didn’t touch the curry. Trixie took some for herself out of the pot and gave the rest in the pot to Mrs Wellington. She’s still got it. I’ve phoned Blair.”