Hamish Macbeth 05; Death of a Hussy hm-5

by M C Beaton

  “Oh, yes,” said Priscilla absently. “Nice for him,” and she continued to read her letters.

  The colonel gave her bent head a pleased smile. He had been wrong. His daughter quite obviously had no romantic interest in that lazy village copper.

  What on earth is Hamish playing at? thought Priscilla furiously, he can surely do better than get tied up with that little drip. He’s probably sorry for her. Typical Hamish! He’ll probably end up tied down for life to some dowdy female just because he’s sorry for her. She picked up her letters and walked slowly from the room. She had called at the police station several evenings in a row but Hamish had always been out.

  She looked at the clock. Ten in the morning. She was due to leave for London at the weekend. She’d better find out what Hamish was thinking about, fooling around with Alison Kerr.

  She drove down to the police station, but although the Land Rover was parked outside, there was no sign of Hamish. She peered in the living room window. Towser was stretched out on the sofa, his eyes closed.

  Now, if I were Hamish, thought Priscilla, where would I be at this time in the morning without dog or car? She stood for a moment. Small flakes of snow were beginning to fall. Her face cleared. He was probably at the Lochdubh Hotel, mooching coffee.

  And that is exactly where she did run Hamish to earth. He was sitting in the manager’s office, a mug of steaming coffee in his hands.

  He rose in pleased surprise as Priscilla walked in. “I thought you would be back in London,” said Hamish.

  “Not till the weekend,” said Priscilla. “Morning, Mr. Johnson. I just wanted a quick word with Hamish.”

  “I’ve got to get back to work,” said the hotel manager.

  “Be my guest, Miss Halburton-Smythe. Help yourself to coffee.”

  “No, not here,” said Priscilla.

  “Is it police business?” asked Hamish anxiously.

  “Something like that.”

  They walked together to the police station, Priscilla refusing to discuss what was bothering her until they were both indoors.

  “It’s like this,” she said, not looking at him. “I’ve been hearing tales that you are courting Alison Kerr.”

  He studied her averted face and a flash of malice appeared in his eyes. “I had tae get interested in someone sometime,” he said softly.

  “Just so long as you’re really interested in her and not just sorry for her,” said Priscilla.

  “Well, that iss verra kind of you, Miss Halburton-Smythe. I am glad I haff your blessing. Alison is all for a white wedding and I suppose I’ll just half to go along with it.”

  Priscilla sat down at the table. Towser put his heavy head on her lap and she absent-mindedly stroked his ears.

  Her face was quite expressionless. Hamish looked at her thoughtfully and remembered the days when he would have given his back teeth for some sign of jealousy from Priscilla. He was glad he was not in love with her anymore, but he valued her friendship, he told himself, and even dressed as she was that morning in tweed skirt and blouse with an old oilskin coat thrown over them, she looked very beautiful. Her bright hair almost hid her face as she bent over the dog.

  He sighed and sat down at the table next to her. “I am pulling your leg, Priscilla,” he said. “Alison has been getting driving lessons from me. That lassie’s obsessed with driving. She eats, sleeps, and drinks driving. I’m pretty sure that aunt of hers never gave her permission to use the car, but that’s her problem.”

  “I suppose she’s an interesting girl?” remarked Priscilla slowly.

  “Meaning that someone as plain as that must have something going for her? Shame on you, Priscilla.”

  “I didn’t mean that at all,” said Priscilla, raising her head at last.

  “She must be in her thirties but away from the driving wheel, she’s scared o’ her own shadow,” said Hamish. “I wish I’d never agreed to teach her. She clings to me, like a limpet, emotionally, I mean. I can feel her sticky presence even when she isn’t here. She’s got a crush on me…for the moment. She’s a walking parasite on the perpetual lookout for a host.”

  “Hamish!” exclaimed Priscilla, torn between relief that he was still heart free and amazement at his unexpected cruelty.

  “I sound awful, don’t I? But there’s something unhealthy about her. I feel like swatting her with a fly swatter. It’s not that she physically clings to me – she mentally clings and even when she’s not about, I can feel that sticky mind of hers fantasizing about me.”

  “Really, Hamish Macbeth, are you not getting a little bit carried away? Your vanity might be prompting you into thinking she fancies you.”

  “Perhaps,” said Hamish with a disarming smile. “Now when I’m interested, really interested in a lassie, I wouldnae know if she had a fancy for me or not unless she threw herself into my arms.”

  But you are no longer interested in me, thought Priscilla, rather bleakly. Aloud, she said, "Where"s Maggie Baird gone?"

  “I think she’s gone to get herself beautified. Think it possible?”

  “Hard to imagine,” said Priscilla. “Is there some fellow about? Is that what caused the attack at the party? Did she see some old lover in the crowd? There were a few guests from England at the Lochdubh Hotel who joined in the festivities.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” said Hamish, stretching out his long legs. “I think she saw nobody but herself.”

  “Oh, Hamish, no one finds their own appearance such a shock.”

  “Not people like you. But just imagine if she had let herself go to seed but carried around in her head the image of what she used to be like. And then suddenly she saw herself in all her glory.”

  “Could be. I remember a fashion buyer at a store in London saying that because most of their customers were middle-aged and plump, they decided to use plump middle-aged models. It was a disaster. The buyer said she found out that when a woman buys a gown she’s seen on a young and pretty model, she sees herself a little bit as that model. Interesting psychology. I’d better be going.”

  “Are you driving down to London?”

  “No, only to Inverness. There’s too much fog on the motorways at this time of year. I get the train at eight in the morning. When is Alison’s driving test?”

  “Time’s passed quickly. It’s this Friday morning.”

  “Well, good luck with your pupil. Bye, Hamish. See you in the summer.”

  “Bye.” He kissed her cheek and for a moment she felt his face, unexpectedly smooth, against her own. She gave a little ducking motion of her head and turned and left the police station.

  The day of Alison’s driving test dawned sunny and fair, with a white frost rapidly melting from the roads and heath-land. The sea loch sparkled and shimmered with light and the little eighteenth-century cottages strung out along the waterfront looked neat and picturesque. The distorted giant shapes of the Two Sisters, the mountains which dominated the village, were covered with snow. The air was redolent with the smells of a West Highland village – wood smoke, fish, tar, and strong tea.

  As Hamish drove Alison into the village, he saw the examiner standing outside the hotel and muttered, “Oh, dear.”

  “What did you say?” demanded Alison sharply.

  “Nothing,” lied Hamish. But he had recognised the examiner, nicknamed The Beast of Strathbane, Frank Smeedon. But better not tell Alison that. Smeedon had been off work for some months and his replacement had been a kindly, cheery man. Poor Alison, thought Hamish bleakly.

  “Now just keep calm and do your best,” he told Alison.

  He could not bear to watch the start of the test but strolled off along the waterfront. Alison would be away for half an hour. He went into the Lochdubh Hotel and into the manager’s office.

  “You’ve got a face like a fiddle,” said Mr. Johnson.

  “I’ve just dropped Alison off for her driving test and the examiner is Smeedon.”

  “Oh, my, my, she hasnae a hope in hell,”
said Mr. Johnson. “That man hates wee lassies.”

  “It’s her own fault for looking like a waif,” muttered Hamish. “She’s in her thirties. Why is he such a woman hater? He’s married, isn’t he?”

  “Aye, he’s not only married, he’s got a bint on the side.”

  “Neffer!” exclaimed Hamish. “Who?”

  “D’ye ken that driving school in Strathbane, Harrison’s? Well, there’s a secretary there, a little blond tart. He’s old enough tae be her father.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Maisie MacCallum.”

  “And does Mrs. Smeedon know about this?”

  “No, she’s an auld battleaxe, and she’d kill him if she ever found out. Coffee, Hamish?”

  “No, it’s a grand day. Think I’ll chust stretch my legs. In fact, I haff neffer seen a better day.”

  Mr. Johnson, like Priscilla, had known Hamish long enough to recognise the danger signals in the sudden sibi-lancy of Hamish’s Highland accent.

  “Hey!” said Mr. Johnson in alarm. “What I told you about Smeedon is in confidence!”

  But Hamish had gone.

  Alison was meanwhile feeling calm and confident. She had driven correctly along one-track roads, she had reversed competently and performed a three-point turn with exact precision. She sat in the car and correctly answered all Mr. Smeedon’s questions on the Highway Code. When he snapped his notebook shut and picked up his clipboard, she smiled at him, waiting for the tremendous news that she had passed.

  “Well, ye’ve failed,” said the examiner.

  Alison’s world came tumbling about her ears. Failure again. “What did I do wrong?” she asked in a shaky voice.

  “Not allowed to tell ye,” he said smugly.

  “But that’s not true! All that’s been changed. I read in the paper that examiners – ” began Alison desperately. There was a rap at the window on the driving instructor’s side. Smeedon looked up and saw Hamish Macbeth.

  “Good day to ye, Miss Kerr,” said Smeedon, opening the door and getting out. Alison laid her head on the steering wheel and wept.

  “Good morning, Mr. Smeedon,” said Hamish lazily. “Spring won’t be far off and the thoughts of men will rum to love. But of course in your case, they’ve already turned.”

  “Blethering idiot,” snapped Smeedon, beginning to stride towards his own car. Hamish put out a long arm and held Smeedon’s shoulder in a strong grip. “I’m not asking ye if Miss Kerr passed her test,” said Hamish, “for you were determined to fail her before she even got behind the wheel. Whit hae ye got against the lassies? I wonder what Maisie MacCallum would say if she knew what you were really like?”

  Smeedon looked as if he had been struck by lightning. His face took on a grey tinge. Like quite a lot of first-time philanderers, he was convinced his doings were immune from the probings of prying eyes.

  “You wouldnae dare,” he breathed.

  “I’m a verra kindly man,” said Hamish, “but I hate injustice and that Alison Kerr is a champion driver – everything exactly by the book. Now if I thought you’d failed her out o’ spite, there’s no knowing what I’d do. They’ve been complaints about ye before but always from failed drivers and it was probably put down to disappointment on their part. But what if a policeman were to add his voice to the complaints? And what if that self-same policeman were a verra moral fellow and decided Mrs. Smeedon ought to know what you were up to…?”

  “I passed Miss Kerr,” said Smeedon desperately.

  “You told her?”

  “Aye, well I was thinking of something else and made a wee mistake.”

  “Just you stand there and write out that she’s passed and that’ll be an end o’ the matter,” said Hamish.

  The examiner rapidly scribbled out a form that stated that Alison Kerr had passed her driving test. Hamish twitched it out of his fingers. “Now off with you,” he said sternly.

  “You’ll not…?”

  “No, I won’t be saying a word to Mrs. Smeedon,” said Hamish, but, as the examiner scurried to his car, he added softly, “but that complaint about you failing people out o’ spite is going in just the same.”

  He went over to the Renault, opened the door, and slid into the passenger seat.

  “Here,” he said, holding out Alison’s pass form, “dry your eyes wi’ this.”

  Alison took it blindly and then blinked down at it through her thick glasses. She stared at it. Then she scrubbed her eyes under her glasses with her sopping handkerchief and looked again.

  “But he said I’d failed.”

  “We all make mistakes,” said Hamish comfortably. “He’s put it right.”

  Alison flung her arms around him and pressed a damp kiss against his cheek. “You did this,” she said in a choked voice. “You made him do it.”

  “Now, now,” said Hamish, pulling free and resisting a strong temptation to wipe his cheek with the back of his hand. “Never mind who did or said what. You’re free to drive on your own.”

  Alison looked at him shyly. “It’s nearly lunch time,” she said, “and I booked a table for us at the hotel…you know, for a celebration lunch. My little surprise.”

  “That’s very nice,” said Hamish, “but I am on duty.”

  “But Hamish!” Alison had dreamt about this lunch since she first thought of the idea.

  Hamish opened the door and got out. How sweet the air outside was! It was as if Alison had been wearing a cloying sticky perfume although she never wore scent. “Take yourself for a drive and enjoy yourself,” said Hamish, bending down and looking in at her. “Oh, and get a photocopy of that form and then send it off to the DVLC and you should get your licence back through the post in a couple of weeks’ time.” And before Alison could say any more, Hamish closed the car door and strolled off.

  It was as well for Hamish that Alison was more obsessed with driving than she was with him or she would have chased after him. She sat rather bleakly, watching him in the driving mirror. Then she looked again at that pass form and a slow glow of sheer happiness spread through her body. She was free! She could drive anywhere she liked. The sun was sparkling and the road in front of her curved along the waterfront, over a humpbacked bridge and up the hill out of Lochdubh.

  She switched on the engine and moved off. A car hooted and swept past her and the driver shouted something out of the window. She slammed on the brakes and sat shaking. She had forgotten to signal. She had even forgotten to check her mirrors or look around.

  She tried to move off again, but the car would not budge. She switched the engine off again and covered her face with her hands. Think! Then she slowly removed her hands from her face and looked down at the handbrake. She had forgotten to release it.

  There was no Hamish beside her now to prompt her.

  She squared her shoulders, switched on the engine again, moved into first gear, checked her mirrors, signalled, took a quick look over her shoulder and moved off slowly. By the time she had reached the top of the road leading out of Lochdubh, she had to pull onto the side of the road to flex her hands which had pins and needles caused by her terrified grip on the wheel.

  “This will never do,” she said aloud.

  She started off again. The road was quiet. No cars behind her and none coming the other way. Slowly, she increased her speed until she was bowling along, her hands relaxed on the wheel, but only dimly aware of the stupendous majesty of the Sutherland mountains soaring on either side of the road. She drove on and on, down past the Kyles of Sutherland and the towns of Bonar Bridge and Ardgay and then up the famous Struie Pass – famous for being a motorist’s nightmare – but Alison did not know that and put her fear down to her own inexperience. The road climbed and climbed, seeming almost perpendicular and then she was running along the pass through the top of the mountains and finally down and down the twisting hairpin bends towards the Cromarty Firth which lay sparkling and glinting in the pale sunlight.

  Alison came to a roundabout. A road went on
over a mile-long bridge towards Inverness. On the other side of the roundabout lay the road to Dingwall. Dingwall sounded like a smaller town and therefore one with manageable traffic. She went round the roundabout and realised as she took the Dingwall road that she had forgotten to signal. All her nervousness returned.

  She parked in one of the tiny town’s surprisingly many car parks, choosing a space well away from other cars and spending a quite twenty minutes reversing the Renault into a space that could comfortably have held three trucks.

  She carefully locked up and went down to the main street to look at the shops. She stopped by a phone box and, on impulse, went in and phoned the police station in Lochdubh. There was no reply. Then Alison noticed the light was fading fast. She had a long way to drive back. She headed back towards the car park, feeling in her pocket for the car keys.

  Where the keys should have been was a large hole.

  Alison stopped dead. She felt sick. She retraced her steps, scanning the ground. But Dingwall should receive an award for being the cleanest town in Britain – they vacuum the streets. There wasn’t even a scrap of paper.

  She stopped someone and asked directions to the police station.

  The police station was not at all like Hamish’s cosy village quarters. It was a large modern building with a plaque on the wall stating that the foundation stone had been laid by Princess Alexandria. She pushed open the door and went in.

  A fey-looking girl was standing at the reception desk, chain-smoking.

  “My keys,” Alison blurted out. “I’ve lost my car keys.”

  “We’ve got them,” said the girl, lighting a fresh cigarette off the stub of the old one. “Just been handed in.” And then she stood looking at Alison through the curling cigarette smoke.

  “Oh, that’s wonderftil.” Alison felt limp with relief. “I’ll just take them.”

  “You can’t get them till Monday,” replied the girl.

  “Monday! This is Friday afternoon. Monday!”

  “You see that door behind me?” The girl indicated a door behind her and a little to the right which was like a house door with a large letter box. “Well, the found stuff gets put through that letter box where it falls down to the bottom of a wire cage on the other side. The person who has the key to the door has gone off for a long weekend.”