“Aye, well, the fish and chip shop will be doing a grand trade tonight.”
Hamish caught up with the others, said goodbye to the Daviots and then escorted Priscilla to her car.
“That was a disgusting meal, Hamish,” said Priscilla. “But I forgive you all. I never thought to see the day when you would attempt to court a superintendent. High time you decided to do something with your life.”
Hamish hesitated. He dare not tell her he had only done it to spite Blair. She kissed him lightly on the cheek and climbed into her car. “Want a lift?”
“No, I’ll walk.” Hamish raised a hand in farewell and she drove off.
As he strolled along the waterfront, he suddenly saw a figure hurrying along the pavement on the other side of the road. The figure had an anorak hood pulled well over the head, but by those gleaming sneakers, he was sure it was Trixie. She turned her head away as if hoping not to be recognized. He turned and watched her. She was heading for the hotel.
He wondered what she was up to. She appeared to have taken over the gardening from Paul, who could often be seen sitting on the wall outside his house, staring at the loch. Then he forgot about her and wondered instead how Colonel Halburton-Smythe was taking the news that Hamish Macbeth had been invited to dinner.
“Ask the super and his wife by all means,” the colonel was raging, “but I will not have that scrounging bobby in this house.” “In that case,” said Priscilla coolly, “I shall just have to take them all out to a restaurant. Daviot would be very disappointed not to find Hamish at the dinner.”
Jenkins, the butler, who had been serving the colonel’s supper of whisky and sandwiches, bent and whispered something in the colonel’s ear. The colonel looked startled and left the room followed by his butler. He returned a few moments later, looking very pleased about something, and said, “Maybe I was too harsh, Priscilla. Ask your local bobby by all means.”
What had Jenkins said, wondered Priscilla. The butler loathed Hamish. Her father’s change of heart meant that Jenkins had told him something that had led the colonel to believe that Hamish would be unable to attend that dinner. It was no use asking Jenkins what he had said. Jenkins did not like her either.
She waited until Jenkins came back in with the coffee and slipped out and went down to the cook-housekeeper’s parlour, halfway down the backstairs.
Mrs Angus, the cook-housekeeper, was slightly drunk, but then, that was her usual condition. Priscilla told her about the dinner and dicussed the menu and then said, “Does Jenkins know something about Hamish Macbeth? I’ve got a feeling he doesn’t expect him to attend.”
“That’s right,” said Mrs Angus in her hoarse whisky voice. “Jamie, the water bailiff, told some- one that Hamish Macbeth was going out poaching on the river tonight. You ken how Hamish and Jamie have the understanding, for Hamish aye takes just the one fish. Big-mouth Jamie was joking tae someone about the local copper being a poacher and that someone has reported it to that Mr Daviot.”
“Who would do a thing like that? No-one in the village, surely. Jenkins?”
“Cannae be him. He’s been here all evening. But Hamish is to be on that river at midnight and probably that’s when this superintendent will go looking for him.”
Priscilla looked at the clock. Eleven-thirty! She ran to her room and changed into a sweater and tweed skirt and flat shoes and then climbed out of the back window so her father should not see her leave, got in her car, and roared off in search of Hamish.
The police station was in darkness and there was no reply to her knock so she drove off again in the direction of the River Anstey.
She parked the car and headed up the track beside the river to Hamish’s favourite beat. A thin drizzle was beginning to fall.
Hamish waded into the river and started to cast. The water gurgled about his waders and the wet air smelled of pine, bell heather, and honeysuckle. And then he heard someone crashing down through the undergrowth from the path. He reeled in his line and was making for the opposite bank when a familiar voice stopped him in his tracks. “Hamish!”
“Priscilla?”
Hamish waded towards the voice. He could see the white blur of her face.
“Get out of there,” hissed Priscilla. “Someone’s told the super about your poaching and he’s probably coming to arrest you. Get out! Give me your rod and net and I’ll hide them in the bushes. Get your waders off.”
Hamish handed her the rod and net and then sat down on the bank and pulled off his waders. Priscilla emerged from the undergrowth and took the waders and went off to hide them with rod and net.
“Hadn’t we better just go?” said Hamish when she came back.
“Listen!”
Priscilla stood close to him and they listened in silence. Then they heard furtive little sounds, the scrape of a foot, the crackling of a twig.
“We’d better look like a courting couple,” said Priscilla. “Put your arms around me.”
Hamish gathered her close. His senses were reeling. “Better make a good show of it,” he muttered and bent his head and kissed her.
The world went spinning off. He was whirling off into infinity with Priscilla in his arms. And then a blinding light was shone on his face. He and Priscilla broke free.
Hamish stood dazed, rocking slightly on his heels.
“What is the meaning of this?” he heard Priscilla demanding in arctic tones, but that voice seemed to be coming from a very long way off.
“I’m awfully sorry,” he heard Mr Daviot reply. “Really very sorry. Jamie said there was a poacher on the river, and…”
“As you can see, Mr Daviot, it is all very embarrassing. Jamie, I’m surprised at you,” said Priscilla. The water bailiff shuffled his feet.
“Well, I’m sorry to have interrupted your…interrupted…er…” said the superintendent.
“Exactly. Good night, Mr Daviot. I shall expect to see you and Mrs Daviot at dinner at eight.”
“Yes, well, erm, good night, er, Hamish.”
But Hamish was standing with a vague smile on his face looking at nothing.
After they had gone, Priscilla bustled about, getting the fishing tackle and the waders, avoiding looking at Hamish. The intensity of that kiss and her own reactions had alarmed her. It was all very well to help Hamish on the road up the police ladder, but she had no intention of marrying him. She did not belong to his world or he to hers. At last, she tugged at his sleeve as though to wake him from a dream and he meekly took the things from her and followed her back up the hill.
∨ Death of a Perfect Wife ∧
3
The pursuit of perfection, then,
is the pursuit of sweetness and light…
—Matthew Arnold.
Detective Chief Inspector Blair had said Hamish was half-witted. At the dinner at Tommel Castle that night, Mr Daviot began to think Blair was right. Hamish tripped over things, knocked over things, absent-mindedly put his elbow in the gravy boat, and had a silly sort of smile on his face the whole time.
Mr Daviot sympathized with the colonel, who appeared to dislike the local policeman intensely. What on earth did Priscilla see in the man?
Priscilla Halburton-Smythe was wearing a short black slip of a dinner gown. It showed off her slim figure and set off the pale gold of her hair. Mr Daviot wished his wife had not chosen to wear beige silk with an enormous bow on one plump hip. He was used to his wife’s genteel tones, but during that dinner party, they grated on his ear.
Why could she not say glass instead of gless, or that instead of thet! He became very cross with her and to most things she said, he interrupted with, “Don’t be silly,” or, “No-one’s interested in that,” until his hurt wife became as clumsy and gauche as Hamish.