In all, it was an unpleasant dinner party for all but Hamish, who seemed off in another world. Mrs Halburton-Smythe, always nervous of her husband’s rages, sat like a silent ghost at the head of the table.
Conversation turned to the Thomases. “Pretty thing, Mrs Thomas,” said the colonel. “Called here today looking for bits of furniture. Brave woman. Struggles on down there with that oaf of a husband leaving her to hold the place together.”
“Did you give her anything?” asked Priscilla.
“I gave her that old pine washstand. It was stuck in the corner of the tack room covered in dust.”
“She seems very selective,” commented Priscilla. “That washstand’s Victorian. If she’s so hard up for furniture, you would think she would be after chests of drawers or beds or something.”
“Oh, she is. You know old Mrs Haggerty who died last year and no-one turned up to collect her bits and pieces out of that cottage? Turns out she hasn’t any relatives and the cottage belongs to the estate anyway. I promised to drive Mrs Thomas over to have a look at what’s there.”
“I would keep clear of her if I were you,” said Priscilla. “I don’t like her much. I think she’s a bossy bitch.”
“Mind your language, girl, and when did you start to become such a good judge of character?” The colonel flashed a vicious look at Hamish Macbeth.
Everyone except Hamish was glad when the evening was over. He was still floating above the ground on the memory of that kiss.
But reality crept back into Hamish’s mind the following morning. He had kissed Priscilla. She had not kissed him. She had only allowed him to kiss her because the water bailiff and the superintendent were shortly to arrive on the scene. He thought of the dinner party and felt it was like looking back on a party where one had been very drunk.
Hies were buzzing around the kitchen and he seized the fly spray mentally damning Trixie and her ozone layer, and slaughtered the lot. But the fly spray smelled so vile that he opened the kitchen door to let the air in and five bluebottles promptly flew in, followed by a posse of midges.
The doorbell went at the front of the police station. When he opened the door, a middle-aged couple were standing on the step. “We’re touring Scotland,” said the man in an American accent. “I’m Carl Steinberger and this is my wife. The hotel here is too pricey for us. We wanted to know if you knew of anywhere cheaper.”
Hamish did not want to put any custom Trixie’s way, but, on the other hand, she had the reputation of being a good housekeeper and a good cook. “There’s The Laurels,” he said, pointing along the road. “It’s a bed and breakfast, but if you want lunch, I’m sure Mrs Thomas will arrange something. Come in then and have a cup of tea.” Hamish adored American tourists, feeling more of an affinity with them than the English ones.
He slammed the kitchen door, muttering about the flies. “You’re unlucky,” he said to the Stein-bergers. “It was lovely in June. This weather’s miserable. Hot, wet and clammy and the flies are a menace.”
“I don’t know why you don’t have screen doors like they do in the States,” said Mr Steinberger.
“Screen doors?” Hamish stood with the teapot in one hand.
“Yes. All you need is a wood frame and some metal gauze or you could even use cheese cloth. Anything. Or strings of beads like they have in the Mediterranean countries.”
“Well, I neffer,” said Hamish. “Such a simple idea. I’ll get to work on it today.”
Mr Steinberger looked amused. “Doesn’t look like you’ve got much crime in this area to keep you occupied.”
“We have had the murders,” said Hamish grandly. He served the couple tea and scones and they chatted amiably. When they left, Mr Steinberger insisted on taking a photo of Hamish at the door of his police station. Rambling roses rioted over the porch, nearly obscuring the blue lamp. “They’ll never believe this back home,” he said.
Hamish went out to a shed in the garden and ferreted out some pieces of wood. Then he went to the drapers and bought cheese cloth. It was the sort of drapers that still sold cheese cloth.
He measured the doorway and then got to work. The rain had stopped and the sun blazed down and the flies buzzed about the kitchen.
Trixie Thomas appeared on the doorstep. “What do you want?” asked Hamish sharply, for he was sure it was Trixie who had reported his poaching activities to the superintendent.
“I wanted to know if I could go up to your field and collect sheep wool from the fences.”
“Whatever for?”
“Mrs Wellington has given me an old spinning wheel and I’m going to spin yarn.”
“Do you know how to do it?” asked Hamish curiously.
“Oh, yes, I once had lessons from a New Zealand woman at the Women’s Cultural Awareness Group in Camden Town in London.”
Hamish groaned inwardly. He knew Trixie would go ‘on stage’ with her spinning wheel as soon as possible, probably taking it out to the front garden where all could see and marvel at this further example of domestic perfection. She made no move to leave and he asked sharply, “Anything else?”
“I wanted to know if you would like to come to our Anti-Smoking League meeting tonight?”
“If there is one thing that will keep a man smoking,” said Hamish bitterly, “it’s folk like you going on at him. Why don’t you leave Dr Brodie alone?”
“Because he is a doctor and should know better.”
“You must have been a smoker yourself once,” said Hamish. “There is nothing mair vicious than an ex-smoker.”
Hamish himself was an ex-smoker and had vowed never to give in to the strong temptation to reform people who were still smoking. Trixie opened her mouth to say something and then thought better of it. She was feeling in a good mood. Colonel Halburton-Smythe had driven her over to an old deserted cottage and she had made quite a good haul. The colonel had entertained her with his worries about the possibility of his daughter perhaps marrying Hamish Macbeth.
“Mind if I use your toilet?” asked Trixie.
“Oh, very well,” said Hamish, standing aside to let her past.
She was gone a long time and he was just about to go in search of her in case she was searching the rooms when he heard her voice calling from the front of the house, “I see Paul. I’ll let myself out this way.”
Hamish went back to work. She seemed to have forgotten about collecting wool from the fences. His dislike of Trixie, he realized, was mainly because of the change she had wrought in Angela Brodie. Angela with her ridiculously curly hair now wore a perpetually harried look and was thinner than ever,
He finished the door and then discovered he needed hinges and set off in the direction of the ships chandlers which was also the local ironmongers and which was down by the harbour. As he was passing The Laurels, he heard a faint humming sound and looked into the garden. Sure enough, Trixie was there, busily spinning, a self-important look on her face. He went on his way and met one of the local fishermen, Jimmy Fraser. “What about a pint, Hamish?” asked Jimmy. “I’m buying.”
“All right,” said Hamish. They walked into the pub at the side of the Lochdubh Hotel. “What’s the matter, Jimmy?” asked Hamish. “I can practically see the steam coming out your ears.”
“It’s that wumman,” growled Jimmy.
“Which one?”
“Her. The Englishwoman. Archie Maclean took herself out in the boat last night. A wumman on a boat! It iss a wunner we didnae drown. Forbye, when I lit a cigarette, she struck it oot o’ my mouth, and when I went to belt her one, Archie said I wass to leave her alone and he iss the skipper. It’s a black day. There’ll be trouble from this.”