“Are you worried she’s fallen in love with someone else?” asked Hamish.
“There can’t be anyone else. If you’re thinking of Sean Gourlay, forget it. Oh, she took the odd cake and things over to the bus, but then she’s like that. Always ready to welcome any newcomer to the village. But after the initial visits, she lost interest. There’s something secret and nervy about her. I got out my torch and examined her eyeballs in case she had been taking the drugs for herself.”
“Well, that’s enough to put any woman off her husband, for a start,” said Hamish.
“Aye, but I had to know. It’s not drugs. She’s plain miserable. One minute she’s all over me, and the next, she’s telling me to get lost.”
“Sean Gourlay…” began Hamish.
“Forget it,” sighed Dr Brodie. “Admit it, you’ve had a bee in your bonnet about that one since he came here.”
“But everything’s gone wrong since he came here,” protested Hamish. “Everything’s wrong, everything’s polluted. Mr Wellington’s lost his faith and is ranting rubbish from the pulpit which was written in the last century, and he doesn’t believe a word of it. Mrs Wellington’s a wreck, Jessie and Nessie are selling up, and the women at the Mothers’ Union are that spiteful, you wouldnae believe it. There’s something at the back of it all, and I mean to find out!”
♦
The next morning, Sean and Cheryl returned. The next afternoon, they had a public row on the waterfront. Cheryl called Sean every name under the sun. She was astride the scooter and had a rucksack on her back. The fluency of her obscenities amazed the villagers, the mothers clamping their hands over their children’s ears but continuing to listen themselves.
Shorn of obscenities, Cheryl’s complaint was that she was sick of the village and sick of Sean and she was leaving and she would not be back.
Sean shrugged and smiled lazily and then loped off with long strides, up towards the manse. Cheryl drove off on the scooter, put-putting her way out of Lochdubh, over the newly repaired hump-backed bridge, up the long road which led past Tommel Castle Hotel and out of sight.
One down, thought Hamish Macbeth savagely, and one to go.
∨ Death of a Travelling Man ∧
5
There’s a great deal to be said
For being dead.
—E. C. Bentley
After a week of squally, sleety rain, the weather became balmy again and the waters of the loch still. Seagulls cruised lazily overhead, swooping occasionally to admire their reflections and then soaring effortlessly up again. On the surface, Lochdubh looked much the same as ever. Smells of strong tea and tar and peat smoke. Sounds of radio, clattering dishes, bleating sheep, and chugging boats.
But underneath it all the theft of the Mothers’ Union funds spread like a cancer. Hamish, after wondering how long Priscilla meant to ignore him, eventually caved in and took the single-track road up out of the village to the hotel.
He felt a slight pang when he saw her busy in the gift shop, her smooth blonde hair lit by a shaft of sunlight. She was selling expensive souvenirs to a group of men who, Hamish noticed with irritation, were taking a long time about their purchases.
At last the shop was empty. Priscilla gave Hamish a guarded look and said, “Coffee?”
“That would be grand. Haven’t seen you around for a bit.”
“I’ve been here, you know,” said Priscilla with an edge on her voice. “I gather you and Doris had a pleasant dinner last week.”
“She invited me,” said Hamish defensively, for he felt guilty at having accepted the invitation, knowing he had only done it in the hope that Doris would tell Priscilla, which she evidently had.
Priscilla handed him a mug of coffee. “Well, let’s hope our new receptionist doesn’t fall for you as well.”
“New receptionist? What’s happened to Doris?”
“Dear me. Didn’t she tell you? She left. She’s got a job in a hotel in Perth.”
Hamish felt nothing but relief. Doris had all but proposed to him and it had been an agonizing and embarrassing evening.
“Well, what’s been going on?” asked Priscilla. “I heard about the money disappearing from the Mothers’ Union.”
“Oh, it’s the bad business.” Hamish pulled a chair up to the counter and sat down. “All the women are at each other’s throats, the one accusing the other. Dr Brodie’s had four packets of morphine stolen and the only suspect was Sean, but he was searched and we couldn’t find anything. His girlfriend’s gone off but the bastard’s still there, like some canker in the middle of the village.”
“It’s those demonic good looks of his, Hamish. He’s just a small-time crook, not the devil. I know he took that scarf and then slipped it back somehow.”
“He’s doing a rare job, nonetheless. He’s managed to talk Mr Wellington out of his faith and Mr Wellington has been using some old sermons he found and it’s all hell-fire and damnation and they love it. Archie Maclean told me he gave up seeing a video of The Werewolf Women of Planet Xerxes because, to quote him, ‘the kirk was better fun’. You should hear those sermons. A real medieval hell, wi’ devils and pitchforks and weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. I tried to get him to talk to the priest, I tried to get him to preach kindness and love thy neighbour, but the man’s sunk in gloom. Mrs Wellington looks a wreck. Nessie and Jessie Currie are selling up and leaving, and what that’s got to do with Sean I don’t know, but I feel it has. Angela Brodie’s gone on the twitch again and this time is spending a fortune on clothes.”
“It sounds awful. How’s Willie?”
“I don’t know whether the lad’s smitten with Lucia Livia, or whether it’s the dirty stoves at the restaurant he’s after. He lives to clean. Look at that!” Hamish held up one glittering black boot for her inspection. “Even the insoles are polished. Look at my shirts! Starched, every one of them. I’ve got such knife-edged creases in my trousers, it’s a wonder I don’t cut myself.”
“Some people would think you were lucky,” pointed out Priscilla, “living as you do with a combination of housekeeper and valet.”
“No, it iss not! I sat down to my breakfast this morning and Willie screeches, “A fly! A fly!” seizes a can of fly-killer and pumps it all over the kitchen and all over my food. If they ever take a blood sample from me, it’ll be three parts insecticide and one part disinfectant. But I’ve got used to Willie. He’s a kind enough lad. He’s jist stark-staring mad, that’s all. No, I feel if I could sort Mr Wellington out and get him to put some sense into the villagers, things would get better.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” said Priscilla, unhitching her coat. “I’m just about to lock up for lunchtime anyway.”
“You? What can you do?”
“He might just listen to me. It’s worth a try.”
“Well,” said Hamish doubtfully, “do your best. Have you forgiven me?”
“For letting Blair get away with all sorts of mayhem? I still think that was bad of you, Hamish, but when have I ever been able to stay mad at you for long?”
“It’s a long time since you’ve been to see me.”
“I’m an old–fashioned girl. The gentlemen are supposed to call on me.”
“Well, I’ll call on you tonight and take you for dinner.”
“Can’t. The hotel’s too busy. Sunday’s free. Let’s catch the hell-fire sermon and then go to the Napoli.”
“Suits me. But see if you can do something with Mr Wellington!”
♦
Priscilla found the minister in his study. He was sitting in front of the fire, reading a book. “Oh, Miss Halburton-Smythe,” he said in a dull voice, “what can I do for you?”