He put down his fork and got to his feet.
“Where are you going?” asked Angela.
“I am going to the Lochdubh Hotel for a decent meal. I hear they’ve got a new chef. Like to come?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Angela, tears starting to her eyes. “I’ve been slaving all day, getting the place clean, making the bread…”
Dr Brodie went out and very quietly closed the door behind him.
Angela sat down and cried and cried. Trixie had said he was killing himself with all that junk food and cheap wine and cigarettes. She had done it all for him and he had sneered at her. At last, she dried her eyes. There was the Bird Society meeting. Trixie would be there and Trixie would know what to do.
Mrs Daviot said to her husband, “That’s a distinguished-looking couple.”
The superintendent looked over the top of his menu. A tall thin man with flaming red hair in a well-cut but slightly old–fashioned dinner jacket was ushering in a tall blonde who was wearing a strapless jade green gown with a very short ruffled skirt and high-heeled green silk shoes. The waiter came up to take the Daviots’ order. “Visitors, are they?” asked Mr. Daviot, indicating the couple.
“Oh, no,” said the waiter, “that’s Miss Halburton-Smythe and Mr Macbeth, the local constable.”
“Ask them to join us,” said his wife eagerly. Mrs Daviot was a social climbing snob and longed to be able to tell her friends that she had had dinner with one of the Halburton-Smythes.
Soon Hamish and Priscilla were seated at the superintendent’s table. “I think it would be better if we just stuck to first names,” said Mrs Daviot eagerly. “I’m Mary and my husband is Peter.”
“Very well then,” said Priscilla. “It’s Priscilla and Hamish.”
Hamish cursed the impulse that had led him to waste a whole evening, when he could have been alone with Priscilla, in spiting Blair. Mary Daviot was a small, fat, fussily dressed woman whose Scottish accent was distorted by a perpetual effort to sound English. Her husband was small and thin with grey hair, grey eyes, and a grey face. “So you’re Macbeth,” he said surveying Hamish.
“Do call me Hamish, Peter,” said Hamish sweetly.
There was a silence while they all decided what to have to eat. “The prices are ridiculous here,” said Mr Daviot finally. He turned to the waiter, “We’ll all have the set menu.”
“Perhaps you would care for something else,” said Hamish to Priscilla.
“No, darling,” said Priscilla meekly.
Hamish knew she was angry with him for having used her in order to introduce himself to the superintendent and his heart sank.
“All ready for the Glorious?” Mrs Daviot asked Priscilla.
Priscilla raised her eyebrows.
“I mean The Glorious Twelfth,” explained Mrs Daviot.
“I suppose my father is,” said Priscilla. “I don’t shoot any more. Few enough birds as it is.”
Hamish ordered a good bottle of claret. “We’ll just have a glass of yours,” said Mr Daviot when Hamish offered him the wine list.
“You were involved in that murder case where that chap was shot on the grouse moor, weren’t you?” the superintendent asked Hamish.
“Yes.”
“Tell me about it. I wasn’t in Strathbane then.”
As Hamish talked, Priscilla endured the coy and vulgar conversation of Mrs Daviot.
The first course arrived. It was salmon mousse. A tiny portion moulded into the shape of a fish with a green caper for an eye stared up at Hamish.
“I gether the chef is famous for his novel kweezin,” said Mrs Daviot.
“I’m not a fan of nouvelle cuisine,” said Priscilla. “They never give you enough to eat.”
She glanced at Hamish who seemed to be enjoying himself talking to the superintendent. Hamish did not like Mr Daviot much but found him an intelligent policeman.
Priscilla realized with a shock that she had not thought about John Burlington in recent days. But now she wished with all her heart that he would miraculously turn up and take her out of the dining-room and away from Mrs Daviot’s greedy eyes that seemed to be pricing her gown, her earrings, and her necklace.
The next course was Tournedos Bonnie Prince Charlie. A small piece of fillet steak rested on a small round of toast. Two mushrooms and two radishes cut in the shape of flowers decorated the plate. A kidney-shaped side dish contained a small portion of sliced carrots and an even smaller portion of mange-tout. Hamish mentally cut down the supply of free-range eggs by two-thirds and cast a hurt look at Mr Johnson who came hurrying up.
“Everything all right?” he asked. There was a crash behind him and he swung round. Dr Brodie had upset his chair and was storming from the dining-room.
“Excuse me,” muttered Mr Johnson and went after the doctor.
“So it looks as if there’ll be no more murders in Lochdubh,” said Mr Daviot.
“I hope so,” said Hamish. “But we have a creator of violence in our midst.”
“What’s met?” asked Mrs Daviot.
“It’s someone who sets up situations and animosities in people that often lead to murder.”
“I don’t believe in that sort of thine.” said Mr. Daviot. “Murderers are usually on booze or drugs or both. Or there’s the ones that are born bad. No one makes another person murder them.”
“I think they do,” said Priscilla. “It’s often a way of committing suicide. You don’t do it yourself but you drive someone else into doing it for you.”
“I never let popular psychology interfere with police work,” said the superintendent. “Nothing beats a good forensic lab and this genetic fingerprinting is a wonder.”
He and Hamish fell to discussing cases which had been solved by genetic fingerprinting and Priscilla was again left to talk to Mrs Daviot. This is what life would be like were I married to Hamish, she thought. But surely the fact that Hamish had sought out the superintendent meant that he was showing signs of ambition at last. Suddenly cheered, Priscilla endured Mrs Daviot’s questioning.
The last course arrived. Flora Macdonald’s Frumenty. It tasted to Priscilla like whipped cream with a dash of cooking sherry.
“We must meet up again soon,” Priscilla realized Mrs Daviot was saying.
Priscilla hesitated. She did not want to have to endure the company of this woman again. On the other hand, if Hamish had taken a step towards promotion, then she should help him. Besides, her father would be delighted to meet the new superintendent.
“Come for dinner tomorrow night,” she said.
“Eight o’clock. Tommel Castle. Do you know the road?”
“Oh, yes,” breathed Mrs Daviot. “Peter, Priscilla’s asked us for dinner tomorrow night.”
“That’s very kind of you,” said Mr Daviot.
“Yes, thank you, Priscilla,” said Hamish, quickly including himself in the invitation.
Priscilla wondered what her father would say about having Hamish Macbeth as a dinner guest.
When the dinner was over, Mr Daviot signed his bill and Hamish told the waiter airily he would settle his with Mr Johnson in the morning.
On the road out, Hamish fell back a little behind the others. “What did you think of your meal?” asked Mr Johnson.
“You auld scunner,” said Hamish furiously. “I’m starving. That was child’s portions. It’s worth half a dozen eggs and that’s all you’re going to get.”
“Keep your hair on, laddie. The nouvelle cuisine is now being replaced by vieille. Brodie nearly had a heart attack with rage. Says the whole of Lochdubh’s out to starve him.”