“Have you phoned Mountain Rescue?”
“Not yet.”
“Do it and then get on your skis.”
“I havenae got any skis.”
“There’s a spare pair out in the shed.”
“I cannae ski. There was nae need for sich activities in the town.”
“Get on the phone then.” Hamish stood up and strapped a pair of snow-shoes on his back and then slung a bag with an emergency medical kit over his shoulder.
Willie went rather sulkily back to the office.
Power’s not a very good thing, thought Hamish ruefully, as he set out into the snow.
Willie’s a pain in the neck, but I always seem to be snapping at him.
♦
Priscilla had just finished stock-taking. As usual, she had opened the shop, despite the weather, because the hotel was full and guests often dropped in for a chat or to buy something to take home.
The door of the shop swung open, letting in a whirling cloud of snow. Sean Gourlay stood there, grinning, pulling off a ski mask.
“What brings you here?” asked Priscilla. “It’s hardly a day for shopping for souvenirs.”
He stooped down and took off his skis. Then he removed his anorak and swung it over the back of a chair. “I thought I might get a cup of coffee and a chat,” he said, smiling at her. “It’s awfully boring with all this snow.”
He had come close to her as he spoke. He was, thought Priscilla, not for the first time, a devastatingly handsome man. But there was Cheryl.
“How’s your girlfriend coping with it all?” she asked, backing away and then turning round to pour him a cup of coffee.
“Oh, whining as usual,” he said with a light laugh. He took the mug of coffee from her. “Cheryl’s not really my girlfriend, just a little creature who tags along.”
“Oh, really,” said Priscilla coolly.
“I know that sounds cruel, but she had been living with this chap and he threw her out, so she had nowhere else to go. What does a beauty like you find to do in Peasantville?”
“Helping to run a family hotel keeps me very busy,” said Priscilla. His very presence was making her feel claustrophobic. His grass-green eyes were glittering hypnotically and he was exuding a strong air of male virility.
“Never feel like running away from it all?”
“No. I like it here.”
“And what about boyfriends?”
“Mind your own business.”
He smiled at her, unruffled. “Can’t be much around here,” he said. “You don’t fit in. You’re much too glamorous for a place like this.”
Priscilla gave an impatient little sigh. “Do you want to buy anything?”
“I might.” His eyes roamed over the goods and then came to rest on Priscilla’s coat and scarf, which were hanging on a hook behind the counter. “Perhaps that scarf.”
“That’s mine.”
“I’d like to buy it, nonetheless. I’d like something of yours.”
“Perhaps you had better go, Mr Gourlay.”
He came round the counter and stood next to her, very close. “No, I don’t think so,” he said softly. “Not until I get that scarf.”
Priscilla backed off to the end of the counter and then she quickly pressed the alarm bell under it. Immediately she had done it, she felt silly. There was no need to feel so frightened of him. Men had made passes at her before.
“Finish your coffee and go,” she said firmly. “You are wasting my time and I’ve got a job to do.”
The shop door crashed open and Dougie the gamekeeper stood there, a shotgun in his hand. “I heard the bell,” he said.
Priscilla now felt thoroughly foolish. “I must have pressed it by mistake. This is Mr Gourlay, Dougie. He’s just leaving.”
Sean clipped on his skis and put on his coat. He pulled a black ski mask down over his face. “Bye, beautiful,” he said. And then he was off.
“Did ye really press thon bell by accident?” asked Dougie.
“No,” said Priscilla. “He scared me. I don’t know why.”
“If he comes again,” said Dougie, “jist ring the bell. And tell Hamish about this.”
“There’s no need to tell Hamish,” said Priscilla. “He’s probably having a lovely time sitting in his kitchen with his feet on the stove.”
Then she gave an exclamation. “My scarf’s gone. He must have taken it.”
“Aye, weel, ye’ll need tae phone Hamish now. That’s theft.”
♦
Sean skied easily down towards the village. He had heard gossip about the local bobby and Priscilla. Some said he was sweet on her, some said she was sweet on him. Whatever way, he planned to let Hamish see him wearing the scarf. Irritating that Highland pig would be a pleasure. And then he cursed under his breath. Who was to know whether Hamish would recognize that scarf? And what if that hoity-toity bitch called him to report a theft? Then Hamish would have him, Sean, just where he wanted him. Damn. He skied back and made his way across country so that he would arrive at the back of the shop. The snow was easing now. He looked in the window. Priscilla was just putting on her coat. Then she switched off the lights and went out and locked the shop door behind her.
He waited a few moments and then slid quietly round to the front. He unzipped a pocket in his anorak and took out a set of tools. He fiddled expertly with the lock until the tumblers clicked and then he eased the door open. It only took a moment to go quickly in and drop the scarf on the floor behind the counter. Then, just as quickly, he was outside again and had locked the door.
♦
Hamish Macbeth had finally managed to reach the stranded climbers. One man was all right, the other man’s leg had been broken in several places. Hamish gave him an injection and then sent up a distress flare, hoping he himself would not die of exposure before the Mountain Rescue team found them. He was too weary to give these inexperienced climbers a lecture on the folly of going up mountains in the north of Scotland in such weather. At least the snow was thinning slightly, but it was bitterly cold.
To his relief, he heard the whirring of helicopter blades and stood up and waved and shouted. One by one, they were hoisted into the helicopter, the injured man, strapped on to a stretcher, going first. “Set me down in the village,” shouted Hamish above the roar of the engine and the pilot nodded.
How incredibly long it had taken to climb up the mountain to that crag and how quickly he was whizzed down and deposited on the waterfront in front of the wide car park of the deserted Lochdubh Hotel. He trudged wearily along to the police station, aching in every muscle.
He was furious to find the station unmanned and the kitchen stove out. But perhaps Willie had been called out on an emergency. He played back the answering service and heard Priscilla’s voice asking him to call.
He sat down and phoned her at the hotel and listened to the tale of the theft of the scarf.
As he spoke to her, a churning, grating and whirring sound from outside told him that the Lochdubh snow-plough was once more back in action.
“Don’t worry, Priscilla,” said Hamish. “In a way that’s the best news I’ve heard all day. I’ll get rid of the bastard now.”
He left a note for Willie and then got out the Land Rover and moved off slowly along the newly cleared road. He stopped at the manse. The lights were on in the front room and he could clearly see Sean sitting at the dining table with the minister and his wife. There was no sign of Cheryl.
Well, he thought with satisfaction, what’ll they think of their ewe lamb when they hear what I’ve got to say?
Mrs Wellington answered the door and looked with disfavour at the tall lanky figure of the sergeant.
“What is it, Hamish?”
“I want a word with Sean Gourlay.”
“Come in.”
Hamish followed her into the manse dining room. “Sean Gourlay,” said Hamish, “I am arresting you for theft and must ask you to accompany me to the police station. Anything you say – ”
“Wait a minute,” said Sean easily. “Theft of what?”
“Miss Halburton-Smythe’s scarf. You took it from her gift shop this afternoon.”
“This is ridiculous,” exclaimed Mrs Wellington. “She probably lost it.”
“It’s an awful fuss to make about a scarf,” pointed out the minister. “My umbrella was stolen last time I was in the Lochdubh bar, but no one did anything about that.”
“Nonetheless,” began Hamish, “I – ”
“Fiddlesticks!” said Mrs Wellington. “We are going up right now to have a look at that gift shop, and mark my words, I am sure that scarf will be there. Young girls are so careless.”
“If you insist,” said Hamish. “I can take a statement from Priscilla when I’m there.”
He drove them up to the castle and received a long lecture from Mrs Wellington about how police were always persecuting innocent citizens instead of going after real criminals.
Priscilla avoided looking at Sean as she led them all over to the gift shop and unlocked the door and switched on the lights. “My scarf was with my coat on that hook behind the counter,” said Priscilla. “Mr Gourlay said he wanted it.”
“Why?” asked Hamish sharply.
“It’s a pretty one and I thought poor little Cheryl might like that.”
“That’s not what you said to me,” protested Priscilla.
“This is all a fuss about nothing.” Mrs Wellington heaved her tweedy bulk behind the counter. “You probably dropped that scarf. It’s probably on the floor or somewhere. Why, here it is!” She held it up. “Is this the scarf?”
“Yes,” said Priscilla, amazed. “But how…?”
“How did, it get there?” demanded Mrs Wellington. “It didn’t get anywhere. It just lay where you dropped it while you and this Highland layabout go around persecuting innocent young men. Oh, yes, Hamish, I know you’ve had your knife into poor Sean since the day he arrived.”
Her booming voice went remorselessly on and on while Hamish led them out to the car. She was still berating him when he dropped them off at the manse. “And furthermore,” added Mrs Wellington, “Miss Halburton-Smythe is being influenced by your tawdry mind. She is a lady. I know we are supposed to live in a classless society, but you would do better, Hamish Macbeth, to consort with your own kind of female!” Sean let out a chuckle of sheer delight.
Exhausted and furious, Hamish headed for home and then slammed on the brakes outside the Napoli restaurant. In the glow of candlelight he could see Willie seated at a window table.
He hurtled into the restaurant and towered over Willie, who cringed when he saw him.
“What the devil do you think you are doing?” howled Hamish.
Lucia rushed forward, her eyes full of tears. “He was helping me,” she sobbed.
“Now then.” Old Mr Ferrari made his majestic way over. “Haud yer wheest, Sergeant. The policeman here was helping Lucia clean the stove in the kitchen, and a grand job he made o’ it, too. If all the coppers in Scotland were that helpful, the polis might hae a better image.”
Hamish sank down suddenly into the chair opposite Willie. “Has everyone run mad?” he asked. “Begin at the beginning, Willie, and tell me why you left your post.”
“It was awf’y quiet,” said Willie, “and I thocht I’d jist call at the kitchen door to see if Lucia was all right. You see, I think it’s part o’ ma duties tae – ”
“Yes, yes,” said Hamish. “Skip that bit.”
“Well, herself was scrubbing at the stove wi’ her wee hands and no’ doin’ the job well at all, at all. “You need pure ammonia for that,” I says and I hae a bottle at the station. I only meant tae show her, but I got working and I didnae notice the time and then Mr Ferrari told me tae sit down and hae a glass o’ wine. So I was jist having a glass o’ chanter when you walked in.”
“Chianti,” said Hamish.
“Aye, weel, that’s what I said.”
Hamish leaned back in his chair and surveyed his side-kick and took several deep breaths. If Willie had not been in Lochdubh, he thought, then his own day would have been much the same. Perhaps instead of constantly shouting at this infuriating policeman, it might be an idea to try some kindness.
“Some wine?” asked Mr Ferrari, deftly placing a glass in front of Hamish with one hand and holding up a bottle with the other.
Hamish Macbeth sighed. If you can’t beat them, join them.
“Aye, that would be grand,” he said.