“Do you like police work?”
Willie looked puzzled. “I never really thought about it, to tell you the truth. Everyone says it’s a good job and you get respect.”
“But not from Hamish Macbeth. Would you expect Lucia to work once she was married?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Willie.
The lizard eyes looked at him with calculation. “You would be a boon to this restaurant of mine, Willie. Girls like Lucia I can get, but I am old and need someone to manage the place. Luigi and Giovanni would not mind. They are no good with orders and bookkeeping and know it. What would you say if I asked you to leave your job and come into business with me?”
Willie saw stretching out before him a life of endless cooking and cleaning and thought he might faint from excitement.
“Oh, that would be grand.”
“Then I suggest you tell that lanky drip of nothing called Hamish Macbeth the good news as soon as possible. He has done better for himself than he deserves.” Mr Ferrari leaned over and picked up a copy of the local newspaper. “He is, I see, engaged to Priscilla Halburton-Smythe.”
“Oh, aye,” said Willie, “I knew that was on the cards.”
♦
Priscilla had arrived back at the police station with bottles of champagne which she had bought at Patel’s. “I thought we would all celebrate the end of the nightmare,” she said, popping a cork. “Hamish, are you sure you didn’t let slip about any of this to anyone other than us?”
“Of course not. Why?”
“Mr Patel kept shaking my hand and saying, “Congratulations.””
“He probably knows you were there with me when we caught Cheryl,” said Hamish.
“That must be it,” said Priscilla doubtfully.
Nessie Currie erupted into the room and glared at her sister. “So this is where ye are!” she cried. “And drinking champagne like the veriest whore. Shame on ye. Are ye not in enough trouble as it is? Are ye…?”
Jessie smiled mistily at her sister over the rim of her champagne glass as Mrs Wellington interrupted Nessie’s tirade with a booming cry of “Hamish has burnt the video and you’ve got most of your money back.”
Nessie sank down slowly into a chair and heard the whole story. “Oh, my,” she said weakly, “and here’s me ranting and raving. And of course there’s every reason why we should be drinking champagne on this happy day, Miss Halburton-Smythe. Yes, I’ll hae a glass and drink to your health.”
“Thank you,” said Priscilla in surprise.
Angela smiled teasingly at Hamish. She already looked years younger. “John always said you’d never do it, Hamish, but I was sure you would.”
“I’m surprised at Dr Brodie,” said Hamish. “I haff solved the murders afore.”
“Oh, not that. When is it to be?”
“When’s what?”
“Why, your wedding!”
“What wedding?” howled Hamish.
“It’s in the Gazette this morning,” said Angela, puzzled. “You and Priscilla.”
“Oh, my poor father,” said Priscilla weakly. “He’ll have a stroke.”
“You mean,” said Angela, her face falling, “that you haven’t…that you didn’t know anything about it?”
“Not a thing.”
The phone rang in the police station office. Hamish went to answer it. It was Superintendent Peter Daviot from Strathbane. “Well done, Hamish,” he cried.
“Thank you,” said Hamish modestly. “I was just doing my job.”
“Not your job, man, your engagement. Terrific news. My wife’s going out to look for an engagement present for you.”
“But – ”
“Not another word, you sly dog!”
And the superintendent rang off.
“Don’t worry, Hamish,” came Priscilla’s voice from next to him. “We’ll get the paper to print an apology.”
He twisted his head and looked up at her. She looked amused, cool and beautiful…and distant.
With one abrupt movement, he pushed back his chair, and reaching up an arm, jerked her down on to his knees and began to kiss her, dizzy with emotion, fatigue, whisky and champagne.
The phone began to ring again but both ignored it. Willie walked in and picked it up. “Oh, it’s yerself, Mrs Macbeth,” he said to Hamish’s mother. “Yes, that’s right. Well, himself is tied up at the moment. I’ll get him to ring back.”
He shook his head over the entwined couple and went out.
“Who was that?” murmured Priscilla against Hamish’s lips.
“Don’t know and don’t care. Kiss me again.”
“Is this a proposal, Hamish?”
“Aye.”
“Well, take your hand out of my brassiere and listen to me for a moment.”
Hamish gave her a wounded look. “You’re not going to be sensible, are you?”
“Yes, I am. I don’t think I trust you, Hamish. I love you but I don’t trust you. I think you’ve got too much of an eye for the ladies.”
“But I’m proposing to you, Priscilla.”
“Okay, but just an engagement, a long engagement.”
“Anything you say.”
“Do you love me?”
“I’ve been trying not to for years.”
“Now kiss me again.”
♦
Willie arrived back at the police station. It was as quiet as the grave. He walked into the living room and scowled at the mess of dirty glasses and empty champagne bottles. Then he saw a note addressed to himself pinned on Hamish’s bedroom door. He took it down and opened it. It said, “Tell everyone I have gone out. Must get some sleep. Hamish.”
But Willie wanted to tell Hamish that he was leaving, so he gently opened Hamish’s bedroom door. Hamish and Priscilla were lying together on Hamish’s narrow bed. They were both fast asleep. They were lying on top of the bedclothes, fully dressed with all their clothes, and with Towser at their feet, but Willie blushed furiously and quickly shut the door again.
Then he brightened as he turned and looked around the messy room. He would give the police station one last good clean-up.
♦
Mr Wellington returned home that evening after a round of visits to the old and sick in the parish. He expected his wife to be asleep. He had complained to Dr Brodie about the number of sleeping pills she was taking, but Dr Brodie said that she must be getting them from another doctor, possibly in Strathbane. To his surprise, he smelled cooking, delicious cooking. It seemed he had been having squalid cold meals for ages.
“Ah, there you are,” said his wife briskly as he entered the large manse kitchen. “Sit down. Dinner’s nearly ready. Steak-and-kidney pie, mashed potatoes and Brussels sprouts, and make sure you eat all your greens, dear. You’ve been looking peaky of late.”
“Yes, my love,” said the minister happily.
“Oh, by the way, that money that was missing from the Mothers’ Union turned up again. It was left in the church hall on the kitchen counter…no note, no anything. We’re all quite sure it was a passing tramp or someone like that who had a fit of conscience and put it back.”
Mrs Wellington briskly and efficiently took a golden-crusted steak-and-kidney pie out of the oven.
Mr Wellington clasped his hands and bowed his head. “Thank you, God,” he said.
“Why, you’re praying,” cried Mrs Wellington.
“Why, so I am,” said the minister.
♦
Dr Brodie could not quite put his finger on it but he knew that things had changed the minute he opened the door and walked into his house. He went into the kitchen. His wife was sitting behind a pile of textbooks as usual, but there seemed to be a lightness in the very air.
“I feel a bit daft,” he said, sitting down. “I was checking the drugs cabinet and I found those missing packets of morphine. They’d got stuck inside a packet of something else. I should call Hamish.”