Hamish MacBeth 06 (1991) - Death of a Snob

by M C Beaton

  “Your mother’s cooking,” said Priscilla. “Iwas going to take you out to dinner in Inverness, and then I thought you would probably like to go straight home.”

  “Aye, that would be grand,” said Hamish, his face lighting up’in a smile.

  “So,” said Priscilla as she drove the hotel Range Rover out over the bridge and took the road to the north, “tell me about the case,”

  Hamish began, reluctantly at first, and then all at once he was back on Eileencraig. He described all the guests vividly, with the exception of Harriet Shaw.

  “And so you went to Glasgow,” said Priscilla, “and stayed at that expensive little hotel. Unlike you, Hamish. Hamish?”

  “I wasnae paying,” mumbled Hamish.

  “And who was?”

  “Harriet Shaw.”

  “So you were a kept man,” commented Priscilla coolly.

  “What was she like?”

  “Who?”

  “Hamish!”

  “Well, nice, ordinary, straightforward. Writes cookery books.”

  “I know, I have several of her books. She’s very good. What prompted the generous offer, or should I ask?”

  “. She wass helping me wi’ my inquiries,” said Hamish stiffly. “If she hadn’t volunteered to pay, I couldn’t even have afforded a more modest hotel.”

  “You could have staved with Jean,” pointed out Priscilla, an edge to her voice.

  Hamish cursed under his breath. Of course, after a stay with his family, Priscilla would know the names of all his relatives.

  “Look,” he said, “it chust happened. She was helping me wi’ my inquiries.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Priscilla flatty. “How old is she?”

  “About forty-five.”

  “As old as that? And where is she now?”

  “Gone to meet her fiance’in London.”

  “Oh.” There was a long pause. Then Priscilla said cheerfully, “I remember seeing her on television. Pleasant-looking woman. Certainty looks a lot younger than forty-five.”

  “Not when you meet her,” said Hamish, thrusting a knife into his memory of Harriet in order to keep the atmosphere between himself and Priscilla tight.

  “Well, it’s all very odd,” remarked Priscilla.

  “What is?” demanded Hamish, hoping she would not pursue his relationship with Harriet Shaw any further.

  “This Heather Todd, the one who was killed. Imagine writing a whole novel and your husband not even knowing about it.”

  “He said she was always scribbling at something and he thought she was preparing a speech for the Workers’ Party.”

  “Still, to keep up that Communist front and yet relish reading romances. A sort of double life. Perhaps she is to be…”

  “You didn’t meet her,” said Hamish. “She was a nasty, irritating woman. When I told her I was in forestry because I didn’t want her to know I was a policeman, she hectored me about the destruction of the environment until I began to want to see the whole world covered in concrete. She had that sort of effect. She was a woman begging to be murdered.”

  “That’s what I meant,” said Priscilla. “Surely to be pitied. And Jane? Are all her friends like me, mere acquaintances?”

  “So it seems.”

  “And have you thought about that rock that Jane said nearly killed her?”

  “No, why?” Hamish sounded puzzled. “I took a good look at the bathroom heater and decided the builder had been right. It was an accident, so I never got around to asking her closely about the rock or bothering to see where it had happened.”

  “Think of it this way,” said Priscilla as they drove over the Domoch Firth bridge, “Heather liked to dress like Jane. Jessie was no doubt prowling the island on her time off long before the day of the murder, waiting for an opportunity to get rid of Heather. There’s little daylight this time of year. She could have seen Jane in the darkness, mistaken her for Heather, and shied a rock at her; Now if that had happened, and she had succeeded in killing Jane, it would really have complicated things.”

  “I should have questioned that further,” said Hamish ruefully. “In feet, I’ve been verra lucky all round. If Harriet Shaw hadn’t been there, and herself an author to let me know all about the selling of books, and if Jessie hadn’t cracked at the sight of that red wig, it would have been difficult to prove. But the biggest mistake of all was not asking at the hotel what name the maid had used. Can you imagine? Jessie used the name Fiona Stuart, Heather’s pseudonym.”

  “But even if you had found out earlier, it wouldn’t have meant a thing,” pointed out Priscilla. “It wouldn’t have meant anything unless you had got the idea about the book.”

  “That’s true,” agreed Hamish. “But what about you, Priscilla? I’m surprised you stayed with my family for so long.”

  “I had the best Christmas I’ve ever had, Hamish.” Priscilla left the main road and drove the car expertly towards the Struie Pass. “So easygoing. Such fun. And your mother is a darling.”

  “What about Aunt Hannah?”

  “Well, that’s the odd thing. She was quite miffed that you weren’t there and felt you had deliberately snubbed her.”

  “That’s her way,” said Hamish. “She always did like making people feel guilty.”

  “But she didn’t manage to spoil the fun. I slept for hours and hours and ate huge meals, played Scrabble and Monopoly, went for walks with your brothers and sisters, and went to the pub with your father. You are lucky, Hamish. I often wish I had brothers and sisters.”

  “You’ll have children of your own one day,” said Hamish. There was a sudden constraint between mem and they drove most of the rest of the way back to Lochdubh in silence.

  When they were driving along the waterfront at Lochdubh, Priscilla said awkwardly, “You left me the keys, so I took the liberty of preparing a meal for us.”

  “That was kind of you. Thank you.”

  Towser frolicked before them into the kitchen and stood wagging his tail next to the cooker and looking up at them hopefully. “I’d better feed the dog first,” said Priscilla, “You go through the living room, Hamish, and put your feet up. The fire’s made up. All you have to do is put a match to it.”

  Hamish took off his coat and hung it up. He went into the living-room and lit the fire. Then he remembered he had bought Priscilla a bottle of perfume before boarding the train in Glasgow and was glad he had done so because there was a pile of Christmas presents from his family lying on the table and also one with a card that he recognised from the handwriting as being from Priscilla.

  “I’ve got you a present,” he shouted. “It’s in my coat pocket”

  “Thank you, Hamish.” Priscilla went to his coat, which was hanging behind the back door, and felt in the pockets and then pulled out a small square box. As she did so, a crumpled piece of paper fell out and dropped to the floor. She picked it up and automatically smoothed it out. It was Harriet’s letter to Hamish. She shouldn’t have read it, but she did.

  So, thought Priscilla, reading between the lines, Hamish made a pass, and a heavy one, too.

  “Like it?” called Hamish.

  “What?” Priscilla feverishly tore off the wrapping paper from the present. “Yes. Lovely. My favorite French perfume.” She carefully put the crumpled letter back in his pocket. Towser was eating with relish, his tail still wagging, delighted to be home.

  With nervous efficient movements, Priscilla grilled a steak, fried potatoes, mushrooms and tomatoes, put the lot on a tray and carried it through.

  “I’m being fair spoiled,” said Hamish with a grin. Then he said, “Where’s yours?”

  “I’m not really hungry,” said Priscilla, “and I’ve just remembered I have a lot to do. I’d better go.”

  “Oh, can’t you stay for a bit? I thought Johnson was handling everything.”

  “No, no. Must run. ‘Bye, Hamish.” And she fairly ran from the room and the next minute he heard the kitchen door slam.

  He felt
very fiat. He had not even opened his presents.

  Women!