“Now, now, man, isn’t prison just the answer?” said Hamish bracingly. “Think o’ it, man. Locked away from cakes. Good exercise, lots of reading, no cruel world to cope with. Better than a health farm any day.”
Can I really be saying all this, wondered Hamish wildly.
“I don’t deserve to live,” said Paul.
“Maybe not. But prison will be a hard enough life to make you feel you’re atoning for your sins. Discipline. Told what to do from morning to night. What on earth possessed you to try and poison auld Macdonald? You’re not a Highlander. You didn’t believe he could guess the murderer?”
“I thought she might have told him about the divorce. She didn’t want to tell anyone in the village because she wanted to appear the perfect wife until the last minute before the divorce. I heard he was going about saying he could solve the case. I panicked.”
“You’re a bad man, Paul,” said Hamish severely. “Prison’s just the place for you. You’ll be looked after.”
“Will you come and see me?” Paul sounded like a lost child.
“Aye, I might at that. Come along, man, and get it over with. Now, I’ll jist put these nice handcuffs on you to make it all official.” And talking to the big man as if he were a child, Hamish led him back along the promontory out of the sound of the sea.
Mr Daviot, the police superintendent, had made another surprise call on Blair. He was demanding a rundown on the progress of the Thomas poisoning when Anderson, from his post at the window, turned around with a grin on his face and said, “Here’s Macbeth, bringing in his man.”
“Caught a poacher?” said Blair, getting to his feet, while inside he prayed, “Look God, please do not let it turn out that Macbeth has found the murderer. Jist dae that for me and I’ll never swear again.”
Detectives MacNab and Anderson, Blair and Daviot all crowded at the window watching as Hamish led Paul Thomas down towards the hotel. The constable was talking the whole time and Paul Thomas had tears running down his face. Hamish stopped and took out a handkerchief and wiped the man’s tears away and got him to blow his nose.
“Quick!” said Mr Daviot. “Downstairs. It looks as if the husband did it after all.”
Hamish had reached the forecourt of the hotel when they came running out.
He looked at Mr Daviot, not at Blair. “I have charged Paul Thomas with the murder of his wife, Alexandra Thomas.”
“Has he confessed?” asked Mr Daviot.
“Yes,” said Hamish.
Blair heaved a sigh of relief. It didn’t take much brains to solve a murder when the murderer just walked up and said he’d done it.
“I’ll just take the suspect off tae Strathbane,” said Blair pompously.
“Wait a minute,” said Mr Daviot. “Come inside, Hamish, and tell us what happened.”
Hamish, thought Blair furiously. The super called him Hamish!
They all walked in to the manager’s office and explained to Mr Johnson that they would be using it for a bit. When they were all seated, Hamish told Mr Daviot how the murder had taken place and why.
When he had finished, Blair ground his teeth. The super was looking at Hamish with admiration.
Mr Daviot then turned to the big man who was slouched in his chair. “Do you understand what is going on, Mr Thomas? You know you are being charged with your wife’s murder?”
“Yes,” said Paul wearily. “I wanted to kill myself but Hamish said I would be better off in prison. He said no-one could hurt me in prison. I wouldn’t have to think for myself.”
Blair opened his mouth to say something and Mr Daviot flashed him a warning look. “Yes, yes,” said Mr Daviot soothingly. “Hamish is quite right. Now, we’ll just take a statement. See to it, Anderson.”
Mr Daviot took Hamish aside while Paul was drearily confessing to the murder. “Brilliant work, Hamish,” he said. “My wife and I would be honoured if you would join us for dinner tonight. We’ll drive over here. Eight o’clock, say? And do ask Priscilla to join us.”
Blair moved away. He was shocked and furious. Like a horrible dream arose the vision of Hamish Macbeth as his superior.
At last, Hamish stood outside the hotel and watched them all drive away. He watched the car bearing Anderson, Blair, MacNab, Daviot, and Paul climbing up the long hill out of Lochdubh until it dwindled to the size of a toy.
Then he strolled back to the police station to phone Priscilla Halburton-Smythe and tell her about the end of the case and that invitation to dinner.
♦
Blair sat in the corner of the dining-room at the Lochdubh Hotel that evening. He was no longer furious. He was too miserable for that. His was a dark corner, but he knew the super had seen him, for Daviot had nodded curtly in his direction before turning back to his guests. It wasn’t fair, thought Blair, who had turned up in the hope of being included in the party.
Priscilla Halburton-Smythe was wearing a flame-coloured chiffon dress that clung to her figure. Beside her, looking like the lord of the manor, thought Blair, enviously, sat Hamish Macbeth, resplendent in a tuxedo which Blair assumed Priscilla had lent him, not knowing Hamish had bought it from a second-hand clothes shop in Inverness that year.
Then Blair noticed that the festive air about the party seemed to be dying fast. He wondered what was up.
Mr Daviot had discussed with his wife Hamish’s transfer to Strathbane while they were driving over to Lochdubh. “Poor chap,” said Mr Daviot. “He must have hated being tucked away in that backwater. He’ll be delighted.”
At first, when he told Hamish the plans for his future over dinner, he did not notice that Hamish was beginning to look more miserable by the minute. “It means more money and promotion, of course,” said Mr Daviot happily. “The accommodation is comfortable enough for single men. You won’t be able to have your dog there, but I’m sure we’ll find him a place in the police kennels.”
“Well,” giggled Mrs Daviot. “Ay’m sure Hamish won’t be single for long.” She gave Priscilla a coy nudge in the ribs with her elbow.
Priscilla laughed. “Hamish and I are just good friends.”
“Can I have a word in private with ye, Mr Daviot?” said Hamish, deciding it would be better to start addressing the super in a more formal manner.
Mr Daviot looked surprised. Then he looked at his wife who was winking at him and pointing to Priscilla. The superintendent’s face cleared. Hamish obviously wanted to talk about marriage plans.
They walked through to the lounge. “Look, Mr Daviot,” said Hamish urgently, “you need a policeman here and I am perfectly happy with the job. I do not want promotion. I do not want to work in the town.”
“Why, in heaven’s name?”
“I have my home here and my sheep and hens and geese. I have my friends and neighbours. I am a very happy man.”
Mr Daviot looked up at him curiously. “Are you really happy?”
“As much as a man can be.”
The superintendent felt a pang of pure envy.
“Well, if that’s the way you want it. What does Priscilla think about settling down in the village police station?”
“Priscilla is not marrying me. We’re just friends. As a matter of fact, she’s got a fellow in London.”
Priscilla herself was saying very much the same thing to Mrs Daviot. She was feeling uncomfortable under Mrs Daviot’s prying questions and had answered them coldly and then haughtily. Both looked up in relief as the men rejoined them.
Mrs Daviot then saw Detective Chief Inspector Blair for the first time. She was smarting after Priscilla’s cold behaviour. Blair was such a nice man, thought Mrs Daviot, meaning that he could be guaranteed to grovel. “Dehrling,” she said to her husband, “there’s thet naice Mr Blair. Do esk him over to join us for coffee.”