When he reached the station, he changed out of his uniform and put on trousers and a flannel checked shirt. He pulled on his spare navy-blue police sweater over it, and then went over to Jenny’s cottage and knocked on the door. There was no reply.
“Damn and blast!” yelled Hamish.
The door suddenly opened and Jenny Lovelace stood there, her hair dripping wet and with a large bath towel wrapped round her. “I was in the bath,” she said. “What’s the matter? You look desperate.”
Hamish shuffled his boots and a slow blush crept up his thin cheeks. His long lashes dropped quickly to veil his eyes.
“Come in then,” said Jenny when he did not speak. “I’ll put some clothes on.”
♦
While she was getting ready, Hamish took a look at the pictures in the gallery. They were of the Sutherland countryside, but they were pretty-pretty, like the kind of pictures you used to see on old–fashioned calendars. They had not captured the wild, stark, highly individual beauty of Sutherland, and were strangely lifeless and dead. They were competently drawn and the draughtsmanship was excellent. He was examining a view of a path winding through graceful birch trees into a romantic sunset when Jenny came in.
She was wearing faded jeans and a man’s checked shirt, much like his own. Her curls were damp and tousled and her feet bare. When she came to stand beside him, she barely reached his shoulder. “What do you think?” she asked.
“Very good,” said Hamish politely.
“I do quite well with the tourists in the summer. Of course, I charge very low prices. I don’t need much. Come through to the kitchen and have some coffee.”
Hamish loped after her. The kitchen was warm and cluttered. A primrose-yellow Raeburn cooker stood against the wall and the table was covered with paints and brushes.
She poured him a cup of coffee and sat opposite him, clearing a space on the table in front of her by sweeping an assortment of stuff to the side with one small dimpled hand, like a child’s.
She gave him a gamine grin. “You’re looking better now,” she said. “I thought the Hound of Heaven was after you.”
“It’s this place,” said Hamish ruefully. “It’s getting me down.” He told her about the witchcraft investigation, and then about the fake murder.
“They do have a rather childish sense of fun,” said Jenny defensively.
“Now me myself,” said Hamish, “I would call it pure and simple malice.”
“Maybe it’s because you don’t understand the Highlander.”
“I’m one myself.”
“Of course you are,” giggled Jenny. “Silly of me. You mustn’t listen to all this rubbish about poor Agatha Mainwaring. She’s one of those women who deliberately goads her husband into being nasty so that she can play the martyr.”
“That’s one way o’ looking at it,” said Hamish slowly.
“Never mind the Mainwarings,” said Jenny. “Tell me about yourself. Married?”
“No. Are you?”
“I was. In Canada. It didn’t work out. He was jealous of my painting. He was an artist himself. At my first exhibition in Montreal, he waited until one minute before the show opened and then told me he had always thought my work was too chocolate-box and I wasn’t to be disappointed if the critics panned it. I never forgave him.”
Hamish looked at her curiously. “I would never have guessed ye to be one of those Never-Forgive sort of people. Every husband or wife usually says something crashingly tactless they wouldn’t dream of saying to a friend.”
“But not about my painting,” said Jenny fiercely. “I put my whole personality into my work. He was insulting me and everything I stood for. Can’t you see that?”
“Yes, yes,” said Hamish soothingly, although one hazel eye slid to an oil painting on the kitchen wall. It was of a Highland cottage situated on a heathery hilclass="underline" competent, colourful, and yet lifeless.
“Anyway,” said Jenny, “we’re talking about me and I meant to find out about you.”
Hamish settled back and began to describe his life in Lochdubh and told several very tall and very Highland stories that set Jenny giggling.
“And what about your love life?” she suddenly asked.
“Is there any more coffee?” Hamish held out his cup.
“Meaning you won’t talk about it.” Jenny laughed. She went over to the Raeburn, where a glass coffee-pot had been placed to keep warm. Hamish eyed her appreciatively. She was everything Priscilla was not. Jenny was small and plumpish in all the right places, with that tousled hair. Priscilla was never tousled, always cool, slim, blonde, and efficient. Priscilla would never have a cluttered kitchen like this. And Priscilla would never spill hot coffee on her bare feet as Jenny had just done, for Priscilla never spilt anything and Priscilla would never go around on her bare feet. In fact, thought Hamish, feeling more cheerful than he had done in a long time, Priscilla is a pill.
They chatted for some time until Hamish reluctantly said he’d better get back to the police station.
“Come any time,” said Jenny.
“I will,” said Hamish Macbeth. She held out her hand and he took it in his. The physical reaction of his own body amazed him. He looked down at her in surprise, holding her hand tightly.
“Goodbye,” said Jenny, tugging her hand free.
The snow had melted and great sheets of rain were whipping through the town, Hamish noticed in a bemused way. Towser watched him reproachfully as he entered. Hamish donned his waterproof cape and put the dog on the lead and went out to the shops.
The butcher’s shop was a cheery, gossipy oasis in the desolation of Cnothan. The butcher, John Wilson, had heard all about the ducking of the ghillies and wanted the details firsthand. Hamish gossiped happily and came away with a bonus of two free lamb chops and a bag of bones for Towser. He went into the grocer’s next door and bought a bottle of wine, vaguely planning to ask Jenny to dinner as soon as possible. He then went into the hardware, which was farther up the street, to buy a corkscrew. He thought there might be one in the bar but did not want to poke around that horrible lounge of the MacGregors to look for it. “Get it yourself,” said the owner of the shop. “It’s over there on the left.” The accent was English but the manner was pure Cnothan. Hamish wondered if the outsiders became as rude as the locals in sheer self-defence.
♦
In the Clachan, Alistair Gunn and Dougie Macdonald were suffering the taunts of William Mainwaring. “So your joke backfired,” jeered Mainwaring, “and the pair of you let that copper shove you in the loch.”
“Weel, ye haff to go carefully when you’re dealing with a poofter,” growled Alistair Gunn.
“What are you talking about?” demanded Mainwaring.
“He means Macbeth,” said Dougie in his high singsong Highland whine. “The man is a fairy, a homosexual. You should have smelt him. He wass stinking of the perfume.”
Mainwaring looked amazed. “Aye,” said Alistair, enjoying startling the Englishman. “He’s wan o’ them. I can always tell.”
Mainwaring suddenly burst out laughing and slapped Alistair on the back. “Well, old chap,” he said, “it takes one to know one.” And, still laughing, he went off.
Alistair stood there stupidly, mulling over that ‘it takes one to know one.’ Then a slow feeling of outrage started somewhere in the pit of his stomach and spread throughout his whole body.
“I’ll kill that man,” he howled.
Later that evening, Mrs. Struthers, the minister’s wife, was just finishing a lecture on microwave cooking to the Mothers’ Meeting in the church hall. The dishes she had prepared were proudly laid out on a table in front of her.