Death of a Dreamer

by M C Beaton

  A pleasurable tear ran down Effie’s cheek, and she was wondering just how long she could stretch out this splendid dream when she saw Jock at his easel.

  Her dream bubble burst as she experienced a jealous pang. She wanted to be the only artist in Lochdubh. Probably some amateur, she thought, approaching him. Jock’s coterie of admiring women had left for dinner—dinner in Lochdubh still being in the middle of the day, except in posh places like the Tommel Castle Hotel.

  Effie stood behind him and studied his work. His colours were magnificent. He had caught the purplish green of the forestry trees on the other side of the loch, and the reflections in the glassy loch had been painted by the hand of a master.

  She did not want to interrupt him, but he turned round and smiled at her. “Grand day,” said Jock.

  “Oh, please go on. I’m an artist myself, and I hate to be interrupted,” said Effie.

  “I don’t mind. I was just about to take a break. What do you do?”

  “Small pictures of birds and flowers, and I’m a potter as well.” She held out her hand. “Effie Garrard.”

  “I’m Jock Fleming. Wait a bit. I saw some of your pottery at the gift shop up at the hotel. You're very talented.”

  “Thank you. I live up in the hills above the village. Drop in on me any time you like.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Jock smiled at her again.

  Effie gazed up at him in a dazed way. “Come now,” she said.

  “Can’t. I promised the policeman I’d drop in for a dram.”

  “I know Hamish. I’ll come with you.”

  “Not this time. It’s man’s talk. But I’ll see you around.”

  Effie retreated, cursing herself She had been too pushy. But she would act differently the next time. And, oh, there would be a next time. She hardly noticed the walk home. This time she was at her own wedding with Jock at her side. The church bells rang out over Lochdubh, and the villagers threw rose petals. “I loved you that first moment I saw you,” Jock murmured.

  “Oh, it’s yourself,” said Hamish, letting Jock into the kitchen. “Where’s your stuff?”

  “In my car.”

  “You surely didnae drive the few yards from Mrs. Dunne’s?”

  “No, but it’s a good place to put my paints when I’m taking a break.”

  “Sit down,” said Hamish. “I’ll get the whisky out.”

  Jock looked around the kitchen. It was a narrow room with cupboards and fridge along one wall and a wood-burning stove, which was sending out a blast of heat.

  “I’m surprised you've got the fire on today,” said Jock.

  “It’s got a back boiler. I’m heating up water for a shower.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to have an immersion heater?”

  “Thae things cost a mint.” Hamish put a bottle of whisky, a jug of water, and two glasses on the table. “Besides, it'll be a long time afore we see a summer like this again.”

  He poured out two measures. “Water?”

  “Just a splash.”

  Hamish sat down opposite him.

  “Where are your animals?” asked Jock.

  “Somewhere around,” said Hamish, who had no intention of telling his visitor that the dog and the cat had eaten well and were now stretched out on his bed. The Currie sisters had started telling him he was behaving like an old maid. Even Archie Macleod had commented the other day that it looked as if Hamish was married to his dog and cat.

  “How’s the painting going?” asked Hamish.

  “It was going fine until I got interrupted by a pushy woman.”

  “Mrs. Wellington, the minister’s wife?”

  “No, another artist. Effie Garrard.”

  “That quiet wee thing. I’d never have thought of her as being pushy.”

  “Oh, maybe I’m being hard on the woman.”

  “How pushy?” asked Hamish with his usual insatiable highland curiosity.

  “Let me see. She asked me to drop in on her any time. Then she wanted me to go back with her there and then. I said I was coming to see you, and she said she would come as well. I told her it was man talk and got rid of her.”

  “Maybe she’s lonelier than I thought,” said Hamish. Jock laughed. “You underrate my charms.”

  “I believe you're pretty well known. More whisky?”

  “Just a little,” said Jock. “My agent’s coming up from Glasgow.”

  “I didn’t know artists had agents.”

  “Well, we do. She takes her cut and finds me a gallery for an exhibition, and the gallery takes fifty percent. I used to do it myself until she found me and offered her services.”

  “How long do you think you'll stay up here?”

  “I don’t know. The light is fascinating, like nowhere else. I hope the good weather holds so I can make the most of it.”

  For the next two days, Effie found she could not concentrate on anything. She sat by the front window, looking down the brae to Lochdubh from early morning until late at night, waiting to see if Jock would call.

  On the morning of the third day, she found that all her colourful dreams were beginning to get as thin as gossamer. This time she drove down in her little Ford Escort, not wanting to waste time walking, suddenly anxious to see him.

  Jock was sitting at his easel, talking animatedly to Angela Brodie and Freda Campbell, the schoolteacher. Both were married, thought Effie sourly, and should be with their husbands. Freda was not long married, too, and to that local reporter, Matthew Campbell.

  She waited patiently in her car for them to go. Then Jock began to pack up his things. Effie watched in dismay as they all headed for Angela’s cottage.

  She sat nervously biting her thumb.

  At last, she got out of her car and went to Angela’s cottage. The kitchen door was standing open, and she could hear the sounds of laughter. Squaring her small shoulders, she marched straight into the kitchen. Three startled pairs of eyes turned in her direction.

  “Hullo, Jock,” said Effie, ignoring the other two.

  “Hullo. What can I do for you?”

  “I’ve got some paintings and would like your opinion. Can you come up and see them?”

  “I’m just about to get back to work,” said Jock, getting to his feet. “Thanks for the company, ladies.”

  Effie followed him, practically running to keep up with his long strides. “What about this evening?” she panted.

  “Oh, all right,” said Jock. “I’ll be up at six. I’m meeting friends for dinner.”

  She gave him directions and then asked, “What friends?”

  “Run along, Effie. I’ll see you later.”

  For the rest of that day, Effie scrubbed and dusted until her cottage was shining. She took a bath in the brown peaty water that always came out of the taps and then dressed in a white wool dress and black velvet jacket. For the first time in her life, she wished she had some make-up. She had never worn any before, claiming it blocked up the pores.

  Then she sat by the window. At five minutes past six, she was beginning to despair when she saw his car bumping and lurching over the heathery track that led to her cottage.

  She flung open the door and stood beaming a welcome. Jock ducked his head and followed her in. “Now, where are these paintings of yours?” he said.

  “I thought you might like a glass of whisky first.”

  “I’m pressed for time.”

  Effie had laid out a selection of her small framed paintings on the table. “Here they are,” she said.

  He picked one up and took it to the window and held it up to the light. “I’m surprised you can do anything in here,” he said. “There isn’t enough light.”

  The painting was of a thrush sitting on a branch of berries. The red of the berries glowed.

  “This is exquisite,” said Jock. “You're very good indeed.”

  Effie blushed with pleasure.

  Jock appeared to have relaxed. He admired painting after painting and then her pie
ces of pottery. “Do you have an agent?” he asked. “These are much too good just to be shown in Patel’s and the gift shop.”

  “No, I don’t have one.”

  “My agent, Betty, will be here soon on holiday. I’ll bring her along, if you like.”

  “Oh, Jock, that would be marvellous.” She had moved so close to him she was practically leaning against his side.

  He felt uneasy. “I’ve got to go, but I’ll let you know when Betty arrives.”

  Jock made for the door. “Where are you having dinner?” asked Effie.

  “The Tommel Castle Hotel. Bye.”

  He walked out to his car. He stopped for a moment and breathed in deep lungfuls of air. Then he got in and drove off.

  Jock was not meeting anyone for dinner. But he decided to treat himself to dinner at the hotel.

  He entered the dining room. A beautiful blonde approached him and said, “Have you come for dinner?”

  “Yes.”

  “We've one table left,” said the vision. “Thank goodness the tourists are back.”

  “You're a very glamorous maître d’,” commented Jock.

  “I’m standing in this evening. My parents run this hotel. I’m Priscilla Halburton-Smythe. Our maître d’ is off sick.”

  She handed him a large menu and said, “Your waiter will be along in a minute. Would you like a drink?”

  “No thanks. I’ll order wine with the meal.”

  He watched Priscilla as she walked away. What a figure! And that beautiful bell of golden hair that framed her face! There was a remoteness about her which quickened his senses.

  He made his meal last, watching while the other diners gradually finished theirs, hoping all the time for another few words with the beauty.

  His back was to the window. At one point, he had an uneasy feeling of being watched. He turned round quickly, but there was no one there.

  Priscilla at last came into the dining room and approached him. “Would you like anything else?”

  “I would like you to join me for a coffee.”

  Priscilla looked amused. “I’ve just been hearing about you. You're Jock Fleming.” She sat in a chair opposite him.

  “Are you always here?” asked Jock.

  “I work in London. I came up yesterday on holiday. I usually fill in for any of the missing staff when I’m here. It’s a duty holiday to see my parents, and I find it can get a bit boring if I have nothing to do.”

  “I’d like to take you out one evening,” said Jock. “Just friends,” he added quickly, suddenly noticing she was wearing an engagement ring. “Where is your fiancé?”

  “In London.”

  “So what do you say? What about tomorrow night at that Italian place?”

  “All right,” said Priscilla with a laugh. “What time?”

  “Eight o’clock suit you?”

  “Fine. Now I’d better go and see how they're getting on clearing up the kitchen.”

  Outside, Effie scuttled off from her observation post in the bushes opposite the dining room. Who was that woman? Perhaps she was Jock’s agent. She would need to find out.

  Chapter Two

  A dream itself is but a shadow.

  —William Shakespeare

  Priscilla had appeared in Lochdubh at the end of Hamish’s last case and then had disappeared again like the mountain mist. If he thought of her—which he told himself was hardly ever—he decided it would be a long time before she ever came back.

  They had been engaged at one time, and Hamish had broken off the engagement. There was a sexual coldness and distance about Priscilla that had been too hurtful to bear. And yet he had not found any other woman with whom he could fall so passionately in love as he had done with Priscilla.

  He may have considered his emotions free of her, but the residents of Lochdubh did not, and so no one told him she was back at the hotel.

  It was another lovely day, and he was tempted to skip going on his rounds, which covered more and more miles each year as the government shut down other local police stations. But duty was duty, and some of the old folk in the outlying crofts might have fallen ill. He got in the police Land Rover and set off, taking his dog and cat with him.

  There was a new softness to the air. Hamish guessed there was some rain coming. The water in the loch had changed to light grey, although the sky was still blue and the mountains appeared very close, each cleft and rock as distinct as in a steel engraving.

  At one point in the afternoon, he parked up on the moors and took out a packed lunch he had brought with him along with food for the dog and cat. He sat down in the heather and fed the animals and himself.

  All at once, he had a sudden sharp feeling that Priscilla was near, but he dismissed it from his mind. If she were back in Lochdubh, someone would have told him.

  Down on the waterfront, Mrs. Wellington, large and tweedy and wearing a brown velvet hat with a pheasant’s feather stuck in it, hailed Angela Brodie. “Have you told Hamish that Miss Halburton-Smythe is up at the hotel?”

  “I’ve only just learned of her arrival,” said Angela. “I went to the police station to tell him, but he was out.”

  “We're not going to tell him,” said Mrs. Wellington, waving a plump arm which seemed to encompass the whole village.

  “Why not? He’s bound to find out sooner or later.”

  “We think the reason he’s never married is because he’s still hankering after her.”

  “But that’s no reason to treat him like a child.”

  “We don’t want him getting hurt. With any luck, she'll be off back to London before he knows anything about it.”

  Effie was dressing with extreme care for the ceilidh that evening. She dreamed of dancing with Jock, of him holding her close and whispering into her hair that he loved her. She had bought a white cotton dress and a tartan sash in Strathbane. “I look the very picture of a highland lass,” she told her reflection. She had also bought make-up for the first time in her life. She sat down at her dressing table she had hardly ever used, and applied the foundation cream and then powder. She painted her lips with a scarlet lipstick and then surveyed the effect with pleasure. “I look about nineteen,” she told her reflection.

  Jock Fleming, dressed in his one good suit, collar, and tie, walked into the Italian restaurant and was ushered to a table by Willie Lamont, the waiter.

  “I’m waiting for someone,” said Jock. “I’ll choose what to eat when she arrives. Ah, here she is now.”

  Priscilla was wearing jeans, a cotton shirt belted at the waist, and low-heeled sandals. Jock suddenly felt over-dressed.

  Then he realised the other diners in the restaurant had fallen silent.

  After Priscilla had sat down, he said, “We seem to be attracting a great deal of attention.”

  “You're new here,” said Priscilla easily, “and still a subject of gossip.”

  “But they're not gossiping. They're staring.”

  “Ignore them.” Priscilla picked up the menu.

  “Am I overdressed?” asked Jock.

  “I forgot to tell you. There’s a ceilidh in the church hall tonight. I thought we would go along afterwards. I’m surprised there’s so many in here. The restaurant is supplying a buffet supper at the ceilidh.”

  The mystery was solved when Willie approached to take their order and asked if they had tickets for the ceilidh.

  “Why?” asked Priscilla. “I’ve never needed a ticket before.”

  “It’s like this,” said Willie. “It’s a set meal here tonight which is covered by the ceilidh ticket because the restaurant is supplying the eats at the hall. If you've got a ticket, you don’t pay here and I mark your ticket that you've been fed.”

  “We haven’t got tickets,” said Jock impatiently. “We'll just choose from the menu.” He opened the menu and found it contained a single sheet of typed paper. On it was written three courses: salad, lasagne, and chocolate mousse.

  “You can’t have anything if you haven’t
got tickets,” said Willie.

  Jock raised his bushy eyebrows in despair.

  “Get us two tickets, and we'll pay for them,” said Priscilla patiently.

  “Wine’s extra,” cautioned Willie.

  “Just get the tickets, Willie.”

  Willie went away and came back with two tickets. Jock paid for them and said, “This is a madhouse.”

  “Never mind. We don’t need to bother choosing anything, as it’s all been chosen for us. How are you enjoying your stay?”

  “Very much. I’m being pestered a bit, though, by Effie Garrard.”

  “Our gift shop sells her stuff She’s very, very good.”

  “I’ll grant you that. Maybe she’s just lonely. Don’t you find it too quiet up here after London?”

  “I was brought up here.”

  “And will you live in London when you are married?”

  “Yes, my fiancé’s work is there.”

  “When’s the wedding?”

  A shadow crossed Priscilla’s face. “Peter, my fiancé, is waiting until he can get a good break from work.”

  “I would think any man in his right mind wouldn’t leave you loose for long.”

  Willie appeared behind Jock. “Would you like to examine the kitchen?”

  “No, I wouldn’t,” said Jock crossly.

  “Just for a minute.”

  “Go away, Willie,” said Priscilla.

  Willie retreated.

  “What was all that about?” asked Jock.

  “Oh, you'll find out sooner or later. I was once engaged to Hamish Macbeth.”

  “The policeman?”

  “Yes. He broke off the engagement, but I fear the villagers still hope we'll get together again.”

  “But they know you are engaged?”

  “Of course. But they prefer to ignore it.”

  “Odd place, this. It all seems so calm and unruffled on the surface, and underneath there seems to be all sorts of things going on. Why did Hamish break off the engagement?”

  “Mind your own business,” said Priscilla coolly, “and tell me about yourself.”

  So Jock did, telling her about his early days at Glasgow School of Art and his struggles to make a living as a painter.

  “And you can do that now?” asked Priscilla.