“I’d better do that shopping for mother,” said Priscilla. “Do you want to wait here?”
“Yes, how long will you be?”
“About an hour.”
Hamish sat in the station car park and thought about the case. But after almost an hour was up, he kept glancing in his rearview mirror to see if there was any sign of Priscilla coming back.
And that was when he saw a car just leaving the car park. On the roof rack was a chair covered in transparent plastic sheeting. He was sure he recognized that chair. He started up the engine, swung the Land Rover around, and started off in pursuit.
The car in front was travelling very fast. It went around the roundabout and headed out on the A9 towards Perth. Hamish put on the siren but the car in front only seemed to go faster.
He caught up with it twenty miles out on the Perth road and signalled to the driver to halt. The driver, a small, ferrety, red-haired man rolled down the window and the reason why he had not heard the police siren became apparent as a blast of sound from his tape deck struck Hamish like a blow.
“What is it?” said the man crossly.
“You were doing over the limit for a start,” said Hamish. “Where did you get that chair?”
“At the auction rooms in Inverness. I’m a dealer.” He handed over a grimy business card.
“Get out and let’s have a look at it and I’ll maybe forget about the speeding.”
“I’ll just lift up a corner of the sheeting,” said the dealer, whose name was Henderson. “Don’t want it to get wet.”
Hamish peered under the plastic. It was the Brodies’ chair that he had last seen when Trixie had been carrying it along the road.
“How much did you pay for it?” asked Hamish.
“A hundred and fifty.”
Hamish whistled. “And where are you taking it?”
“Down to London eventually. I’ve got several more auctions to go to. Get a better price for it there. It’s a Victorian nursing chair. Good condition. Look at the bead work.”
“Do you know where it came from?”
“Auctioneer said some knocker from the north brought it in.”
“Knocker?”
“One of those women that goes around houses spotting antiques where the owners don’t know the value. Usually offers them a fiver for something worth a few hundred.”
“Or gets it for nothing,” said Hamish, half to himself. Aloud he said, “I won’t be booking you this time, Mr Henderson, but go carefully. I might be getting in touch with you.”
“It isn’t stolen, is it?” asked the dealer anxiously.
“No, but don’t sell it for another week. It may be connected with a murder.”
Hamish drove back. The rain was coming down heavier than ever. He remembered Priscilla and put his foot down on the accelerator.
She was not in the car park. He went into the station and looked around. No Priscilla. He looked at the indicator board and saw a train for the north was just leaving. He ran to the platform in time to see the back of it disappearing around the curve of the track.
So much for Brief Encounter, he thought miserably.
He drove to the auction rooms and found that Trixie had put the chair in for sale along with some other pieces of furniture and china ornaments.
“We had an auction last evening,” said the auctioneer. “I was about to send Mrs Thomas her cheque.”
“How much?”
“Nearly a thousand pounds. She could have got a lot more in London but I wasn’t about to tell her that.”
Hamish told him to hold the cheque until they found out if Trixie had left a will.
He drove through the slashing rain and winding roads until he reached the police station at Lochdubh.
He phoned Tommel Castle and asked for Priscilla without remembering to disguise his voice.
“Miss Halburton-Smythe is not here,” said Jenkins.
Hamish wondered whether she was still waiting in Inverness.
He phoned the castle again and, disguising his voice, stated he was John Burlington. This time Priscilla answered the phone.
“Oh, it’s you, Hamish,” she said in a flat voice.
“I’m awfully sorry, Priscilla,” said Hamish. He told her about the chair.
“That’s all right,” said Priscilla, although her voice sounded distant. “There’s a little bit of information that might interest you. Jessie, the maid, says she saw Trixie going over to the seer’s at Coyle. You could ask him what he told her.”
When Hamish put down the phone, he thought about going over to the seer’s that evening, but decided to leave it till the morning. Angus Macdonald, the seer, had built up a reputation for being able to predict the future. Hamish thought he was an old fraud, but the local people were proud of him and believed every word he said. On the other hand, it would be unlike Trixie to go alone. She probably had taken some of her acolytes with her. He asked Angela Brodie, Mrs Wellington, and several others but they knew nothing about it. He asked Mrs Kennedy and the boarder, John Parker, and then Paul, without success.
Then he remembered that Colonel Halburton-Smythe had said he was going to take Trixie over to Mrs Haggerty’s old cottage. He looked at his watch. They would be finishing dinner at the castle and so the colonel could not accuse him of scrounging and perhaps he could talk to Priscilla and apologize again for having left her in Inverness.
But the colonel was determined Hamish was not going to be allowed anywhere near his daughter.
He told Hamish curtly that Trixie had taken several bits and pieces of old furniture.
“I’d better go and look at the place,” said Hamish, “if that’s all right with you.”
“I suppose I’d better let you have the key,” said the colonel, “but I can’t see what it’s got to do with a murder investigation.”
“I’ll look anyway,” said Hamish. “She sold some of that furniture and a chair that Angela Brodie gave her for nearly a thousand pounds at the auction in Inverness.”
“I find that hard to believe,” blustered the colonel. “Fine woman, she was. Very womanly, if you know what I mean. That lout of a husband probably sold the stuff when he was down at the dentist’s. She would not have tricked me.”
“Maybe. Let me have the key anyway. Did she say anything about going over to Angus Macdonald?”
“Not that I remember. I hope that’s an end to your questions, Macbeth. If I thought for one moment you suspected me of this murder, I would report you to your superiors.”
Hamish sadly left the castle. Priscilla must know he had been visiting for the servants would have told her. But there was no sign of her. The castle door slammed behind him, a bleak finality in the sound. He was disgusted with himself. He thought of his fevered fantasies at the station, of the way that kiss had started him dreaming again, and put Priscilla Halburton-Smythe firmly from his mind.
But there seemed to be a great black emptiness there for she had occupied his thoughts for so long.
∨ Death of a Perfect Wife ∧
5
I know of no way of judging the future but by the past.
—Patrick Henry.
Hamish was just moving out of the police station in the Land Rover in the morning when Blair appeared, holding up a beefy hand.
“I hear ye’re going to consult the oracle,” he said with a grin.
“Meaning what?”
“It’s all over the village that Angus Macdonald is going tae solve the case by looking at his crystal balls.”
“Want to go yourself?” asked Hamish.
“I’ve got mair to dae with ma time. Typed out your report frae the dentist?”