He was in his office when Hamish arrived. He was a very thin, tall Englishman as gaunt as his name, wearing full Highland dress.
“The tourists like it,” he said, fidgeting with the hem of his kilt, although Hamish had made no comment.
Hamish explained that they were still trying to find out if Jamie Ross had been missing from the reception for enough length of time to get to Cnothan and back.
Simon Gaunt shook his head. “Damn near impossible, I would say,” he said. “The police have already asked me the same question and interviewed the waiters and other members of the staff. He went out for about an hour. Mr. Ross said he had drunk too much and needed to clear his head. He said he walked up and down by the river for quite a while, until he felt sober enough to go back. But you know that. He evidently made a statement to that effect.”
Mr. Gaunt poured himself a cup of coffee from a Thermos jug on his desk. Hamish sniffed the air and then looked at the hotel owner hopefully. The hotel owner stared back and put the top firmly back on the jug without offering Hamish any.
Hamish sighed inwardly. That’s the English for you, he thought. He meant the southern English, the residents of Cumbria, Yorkshire, Lancashire, and Northumberland not really qualifying.
He fished in the pocket of his sports jacket for his notebook. He might as well take down some notes and type up a report for Blair to show he had been working. The photograph of William Mainwaring, which had been tucked between the pages of his notebook, fell out and slid over the desk to land in front of Mr. Gaunt.
“Oh, are you after Mr. Williams as well?” asked the manager, peering at the photograph.
“That’s the dead man,” said Hamish sharply. “William Mainwaring.”
Mr. Gaunt fished in his sporran and brought out a pair of spectacles that he popped on his nose. He picked up the photograph again and then grinned. “Well, I suppose Williams is better than Smith.”
“You mean Mainwaring was calling himself Williams? Not Smith? You mean he had a woman with him?”
“And what a woman,” said Mr. Gaunt. “I thought it was his daughter at first.”
Hamish thought of Jenny and his heart lurched.
“When was this?” he asked.
“About a month ago. They checked in for one night.”
“He was married,” said Hamish desperately. “How do you know it wasn’t Mrs. Mainwaring?” – although Hamish knew that no one would ever describe Mrs. Mainwaring as looking like her husband’s daughter.
Simon Gaunt’s face took on a dreamy look. “She was like a Highland beauty dressed in Paris. Masses of shiny black hair falling to her shoulders, white skin, and the sort of mouth you dream about – full and sensual. She was wearing a cream wool dress with a white leather belt, black stockings, and scarlet high heels, those sandal-type with thin straps. They were in the dining-room for a long time. He was prosing on about something and she was looking at him with amusement, but she hardly said a word. I was in the dining-room myself that evening, for the Laird of Crochty was in. The laird likes to dine here.”
Hamish let out a little sigh of relief. Helen Ross. Not Jenny. He would worry about Helen Ross later, but right at that moment he was glad it hadn’t been Jenny.
“Was that the only time they stayed here?” he asked.
“Yes, definitely. I wouldn’t forget the likes of her in a hurry.”
Hamish asked more questions and then said, “Oh, while I’m here, I would like to reserve one of your best rooms for Friday night for a Mr. Diarmuid Sinclair.”
“And who’s he?” asked the manager. “I like to keep one of the best rooms free in case one of the laird’s friends wants to stay overnight. The laird is very fond of my hotel.”
Hamish looked at the hotel owner in amazement. “You mean to say you haff never heard of Mr. Diarmuid Sinclair?”
“No, I can’t say I have,” said Mr. Gaunt.
Hamish laughed. “He’ll walk in here looking like an old crofter and sounding like an old crofter and no one would ever guess he made his millions as a young man in the South African gold mines.”
Mr. Gaunt pretended to look carefully at the register. “Why!” he said, “we have our best suite free. It used to be a lounge but we turned it into our best suite with hall and bathroom. We have had royalty there.”
“Is that a fact,” said Hamish. “Who?”
“When this was a private house, the queen paid a visit to Mrs. Crummings, the then owner. Mrs. Crummings was a retired housekeeper from Storroch Castle. The queen took tea in that very bedroom, although, of course, it was not a bedroom then.”
“My, my,” said Hamish. “Queen Elizabeth herself.”
“Well, no,” said Mr. Gaunt. “Queen Mary.”
“I’m thinking that would be long before you were born,” said Hamish.
“Yes, yes,” said the hotel owner testily, “but nonetheless, do assure Mr. Sinclair that we have had royalty here.”
Hamish was escorted out of the hotel by Mr. Gaunt, a friend of the famous Mr. Diarmuid Sinclair meriting such distinguished attention. He walked along the river bank. He wondered whether he should warn Diarmuid that he had lied about him but decided against it. The sun was still sparkling on the water, but the wind had become chill and the sky was turning a murky colour.
He decided he would try to see Helen Ross alone before he said anything to Blair. Blair would not respect Jamie Ross’s feelings but would accuse Helen in front of her husband of having spent the night with Mainwaring. Hamish sat down on a bench and stared at the water. Now that he was away from the atmosphere of Cnothan, strong motives for murder leapt into his mind. Jamie, for all his pleasant personality, was a hard-nosed businessman and probably had a ruthless streak. In order to succeed in the Highlands and cope with the hellish bureaucracy of crofting laws, landlords, factors, environmentalists, and God knows how many obstructive quangos, you had to be ruthless. And how would such a ruthless man take the infidelity of his wife? By ruining his business? Hamish shook his head, and a passing woman gave him a clear berth. Then there was Mrs. Mainwaring. It was her money Mainwaring was using to wine and dine Helen Ross. Agatha Mainwaring was a powerful woman who drank too much. What if it was not a cold-blooded, premeditated crime, but done by someone who had found the incomer by the lobster tank, interfering as usual and poking his nose in where he had no right to be, and had struck him a blow that had broken his neck and toppled him into the tank? Maybe whoever it was did not know Mainwaring was dead but thought that a few nibbles by the lobsters would serve him right, and had run away, only to return later to find Mainwaring had turned into a skeleton. Had the call that had sent him rushing off thirty miles to the Angler’s Rest been made to keep him out of the way? Or had it been another practical joke to keep him from interfering with the locals’ Saturday-night drinking pleasures? The witchcraft scare had not been connected to the murder. Or had it?
Land greed was a powerful force in the Highlands. The two crofters, Birrell and Macdonald, could have put their daughters up to the scare, roping in Watson’s daughter as well in order to confuse the issue.
On the other hand, it could have been a practical joke that had gone wrong.
Say Alistair Gunn, not knowing his own strength, had pushed Mainwaring, and Mainwaring had struck his head on the side of the tank and broken his neck.
Or there was Harry Mackay. He had been grossly insulted by Mainwaring. “Couldn’t even get a fuck in a brothel,” or something like that, Mainwaring had said. Mackay had been furious. The insult to Mackay’s masculinity might refer to something in the past. Had Mackay been married, engaged, and had Mainwaring with his uncanny way with women taken some female away from Mackay?