He awoke with a groan. Jenny stirred and put an arm across his naked chest.
“Are you awake, Hamish?” she whispered.
“Yes,” said Hamish gloomily. He had to propose – now or never.
“There’s something I’ve got to tell you.”
Both twisted round and stared at each other, for they had said the same thing at the same time.
“You first,” said Hamish.
“This is going to be difficult,” said Jenny. “I love you, Hamish, but I’m going back to my husband.”
“I thought you were divorced?”
“I am. But this awful murder and Mainwaring insulting my painting suddenly made me realize I’ve never stopped loving Andrew. He phoned from Canada yesterday evening. He still loves me, Hamish, and wants me back.”
Hamish at first felt a burst of sheer masculine fury, followed immediately by an odd floating feeling of relief.
“We’re very good in bed together,” said Jenny in a small voice. “But it’s not enough, is it, Hamish?”
“No, I suppose not. When are you leaving?”
“Not for a few months. I’ve got to sell up here and start shipping my paintings and belongings to Canada. Hamish, are you mad at me? I shouldn’t have gone to bed with you. But it just sort of happened.”
Jenny got out of bed and went to the window and drew the curtains. She scrubbed at the steamed-up glass with her fist and peered out. She shivered and crossed her arms over her naked breasts. “It’s snowing again, Hamish. What do you want to do?”
“Come back to bed and I’ll show you,” said Hamish Macbeth.
♦
The rest of Hamish’s stay at Cnothan was quiet and dull. The snow changed to weeks of driving rain. He no longer made love to Jenny as lust on both sides disappeared, to be replaced by a comfortable friendship.
The first sunny morning in ages heralded his last day in Cnothan. He wanted to be out of the police station before MacGregor’s return. He whistled as he cleaned the rooms and then he cleared all the groceries out of the kitchen cupboards and took them over to Jenny.
“MacGregor left me nothing,” said Hamish, “so he can find things exactly the same on his return. There’s three funny bottles of liqueur missing from his nasty bar, so I’ve left him a note, telling him to bill Blair.”
“I’ve made you some sandwiches and a Thermos of coffee for the bus,” said Jenny.
Hamish drew her into his arms and kissed her gently. “I’ll miss you, Jenny.”
She gave a little sniff and buried her head against his tunic. “You can come and stay with us in Canada.”
“No, Jenny. That would not be at all the thing. I’ll drop you a line from time to time.”
“Here, I’ve a present for you.” Jenny went to the corner and picked up a large square parcel.
“What is it?” asked Hamish.
“It’s that painting of Clachan Mohr I did when I was angry.”
“You could get a lot of money for that, Jenny,” said Hamish awkwardly. “Or you could take it to your husband. He’d never call you a chocolate-box painter again.”
“He’s admitted he was jealous,” said Jenny cheerfully. “He really knows my paintings are good. I really don’t like that one, Hamish.”
“Well, I’ll take it,” said Hamish. But he privately thought it was a pity that Jenny did not realize her ex- soon-to-be non-ex husband had been right in the first place and was probably only being tactful now.
The small Lochdubh bus came screeching to a halt outside the post office as he stood there an hour later with his bags, his painting, and his dog.
The driver threw him an evil look and went off to buy cigarettes.
Hamish climbed on the bus, put his luggage on one seat and sat on the other with Towser beside him. The whole town was swimming in lazy golden light and people walked up and down aimlessly, looking drugged in the unfamiliar warmth.
A car drew to a halt beside the bus. Hamish looked idly down at the driver who was climbing out and his heart gave a painful lurch. Priscilla Halburton-Smythe. He stared straight ahead, his heart racing.
She poked her head in the door of the bus. “Want a lift to Lochdubh, copper?” she called. Towser threw himself on Priscilla, uttering ecstatic yips of welcome.
“Aye, that’ll be grand, Priscilla,” said Hamish, his eyes wary.
He tried not to look at her, but was painfully aware of slim, stylish elegance and golden hair.
He wrestled with his bags and painting and climbed down from the bus. Priscilla opened the boot. “Put your bags in there, Hamish,” she said. “What’s that parcel? It looks like a painting.”
“It is,” said Hamish. “I’d better put it in the back seat so it disnae get damaged.”
“Won’t Towser sit on it?”
“No, he’ll sleep on the floor. You know that, Priscilla.”
“Yes, I know that.” She straightened up after arranging his bags in the boot and slammed down the lid. Her eyes were clear and untroubled but slightly questioning.
“You haven’t given me much of a welcome,” she said.
“I’m glad to see you,” said Hamish formally. Then he went and climbed into the passenger seat, after putting Towser and the painting in the back of the car.
Priscilla was about to drive off when she suddenly switched off the engine and said, “There’s some woman running towards us. Do you know her?”
“It’s Jenny,” said Hamish. He rolled down the window.
“I’m glad I caught you,” panted Jenny. “You forgot your sandwiches and Thermos.” She peered across Hamish at Priscilla.
“Priscilla, this is Jenny Lovelace. Jenny, Priscilla Halburton-Smythe.”
Priscilla reached across Hamish and shook hands. Then Jenny blushed furiously. “Oh, I’ve put oil-paint on your hand. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right,” said Priscilla, opening her handbag and taking out a packet of tissues and a bottle. “I have some nail-varnish remover that will take it off.”
She would, thought Hamish glumly.
“Can…can I have a word in private with you, Hamish?” asked Jenny.
Hamish slid out of the car. Priscilla watched as Jenny said something and then threw her arms around Hamish’s tall figure and hugged him fiercely. Priscilla felt silly and miserable and wished she had not come. She had phoned Cnothan and had learned Hamish was leaving that day. A woman had answered the phone in the police station. Probably Jenny.
“That must have been who phoned yesterday when you were out,” whispered Jenny. “I forgot to tell you. Sorry.”
“It’s all right, Jenny. Goodbye. Write to me.”
Hamish climbed back in the car. Jenny’s eyes filled with tears, and she turned and ran away up the main street.
Priscilla let in the clutch, and the Volvo moved off smoothly. She was wearing a tailored tweed jacket, worn open over a white shirt, with a slim heather wool skirt and sheer tights ending in sensible brogues. The bell of her fair hair fell smoothly on either side of the classic oval of her face.
“I came because I was feeling sorry for you,” said Priscilla. “Cnothan is not my favourite place. But you appear to have been happy here.”
Hamish grunted and folded his arms.
“Who is she?”
“Local artist.”
“That her painting you’ve got in the back?”
“Yes.”
Priscilla drew to a stop outside Cnothan Game. “I’d like to see it,” she said.
“Go ahead,” said Hamish. At that moment, he didn’t care what she did. She had no right to barge coolly back into his life and open up all the old wounds.
Priscilla opened the parcel carefully and then studied the painting for a long time.