Death of a Snob
Hamish Macbeth #6
1991, EN
When Police Constable Hamish Macbeth is offered a holiday at Jane Wetherby’s “Happy Wanderer” health farm on the Isle of Eileencraig, he accepts. Unfortunately it is not the holiday he hoped for. When one of the guests, stuck-up Morag, is found dead, Hamish must solve the death of a snob.
? Death of a Snob ?
1
Heap on more wood! – the wind is chill;
But let it whistle as it will,
We’ll keep our Christmas merry still.
—
Police constable Hamish MacBeth was a desperate man – ill, friendless, and, at the approach to Christmas, near to death.
Or so he told himself.
The start of the misery had been the beginning of a Scottish winter which seemed hell-bent on proving any scientist believing in the greenhouse effect a fool. Like many others in the village of Lochdubh on the west coast of Sutherland, Hamish had contracted a severe cold with all its attendant miseries of boiling head, running nose, aching joints, and monumental self-pity. Although he had not phoned anyone to tell of his misery, nevertheless, like all people in the grip of self-pity, he expected his friends to have telepathic powers.
The only bright spark in all the gloom was that he was going home for Christmas. His parents had moved to a croft house and land near Rogart. He would soon be there, with his mother to fuss over him.
He was hunched up in his bed. He was hungry and thirsty but could not be bothered getting up to get himself anything. His dog Towser, a yellowish mongrel, lay stretched out at the end of his bed, snoring happily and apparently as indifferent as the rest of Lochdubh to the long lank bundle of misery that was P.C. Macbeth.
The wind of Sutherland, always savage, had taken on a new dark intensity and boomed down the sea loch outside, bearing long snaking writhing arms of fine snow, tearing at the fabric of the house, yelling and shouting in triumph. And then suddenly, the phone in the police-station office began to ring, sharp and insistent. He hoped no one had committed a crime. He felt too ill to cope, but if he did not attend to the matter himself, Sergeant MacGregor would have to travel all the way from Cnothan, and the peeved sergeant would then set about making trouble for him at police headquarters in Strathbane. He shoved his feet into a battered pair of carpet slippers and, snivelling dismally, he went through to the cold office and picked up the phone.
“Hamish,” came his mother’s voice, “I’ve got bad news.”
His heart gave a lurch. “Are you all right?” he asked. “Nothing up with Farther?”
“No, no, son. It’s about Christmas.”
“What about Christmas?” Hamish had a bleak feeling that whatever his mother had to tell him about Christmas was not going to cheer him one bit.
“Well, Aunt Hannah’s coming all the way from America. Sprung it on us at the last minute.”
Hamish gripped the phone and stifled a sneeze. Aunt Hannah was a fat, loud-mouthed harridan who loathed Hamish. But she had been generous to the not-too-comfortably-off Macbeths with presents of money and gifts for Hamish’s little brothers and sisters. Never anything for Hamish. She loathed him and never died of saying so.
His mother’s voice grew plaintive, “So you see, son, after all Hannah’s done for us and her coming all this way to see us…”
There was another long silence.
At last Hamish said bleakly, “You don’t want me to come.” It was not a question.
“I knew you’d understand,” pleaded his mother. “I mean, it’s only this one Christmas. You could come at the New Year when she’s gone.”
“Aye, all right,” muttered Hamish.
“I mean,” coaxed Mrs. Macbeth, “you’e got lots o’ friends in Lochdubh. Your voice sounds funny.”
“I haff got the influenza,” said Hamish, his Highland accent growing more sibilant, a sure sign he was upset.
“Och,” said Mrs. Macbeth with all the heartlessness of a busy mother with a large family, “you always did think you were dying when you got a wee bit o’ a cold. Take some aspirin and go to bed.”
Another silence. “Wass there anything else?” Hamish finally asked in accents as chilly as the police office.
“No, no, that was all. Sorry, son, but you know how Hannah is. Ever since you put that mouse down her back when you were eight, she’s never been fond o’ you. The new house is just fine. Rare and warm. The fires draw just grand.”
“When’s Aunt Hannah arriving?” asked Hamish.
“On the twentieth.”
“Provided I am still alive,” said Hamish stiffly, “I’ll run over with your presents before then.”
“Aye, that’ll be great. See you then.”
Hamish shuffled back miserably to bed. No one wanted him. He was alone in the world. He was dying and nobody cared.
There came a sharp rap at the back door. He sneezed dismally and stayed where he was. Towser stirred lazily and slowly wagged his tail. The rapping came louder now, more peremptory.
Hamish’s conscience gave him a nudge. He was Lochdubh’s only policeman, the weather was savage, and someone out there might be in trouble. He groaned as he got up again, slung an old woollen dressing-gown about his shoulders, and made his way to the kitchen door.
He opened it and Priscilla Halburton-Smythe was borne in on a gust of wind and snow.
“Oh, it’s yerself, Priscilla,” said Hamish.
Priscilla, once the love of his life, until Hamish had grown heartily sick of the weight of the torch he was carrying for her, slammed the door on the storm and looked at Hamish.
“I know crime’s thin on the ground here at the best of times,” she said briskly, “but it’s two in the afternoon and you’ve obviously just got out of bed.”
“I am a sick man,” said Hamish furiously, “but a fat lot you care. You never even thought to phone.”
“How on earth was I supposed to know you were sick?” asked Priscilla. She looked slowly around the kitchen, at the cold stove, at the dirty pots and dishes piled up in the sink. “This place is enough to make anyone ill. For heaven’s sake, get back to bed and leave me to clear up this mess.”
“Couldn’t you chust make us a cup of tea and come and sit by the bed and talk to me?” moaned Hamish.
“Nonsense. You’ll feel miles better when this place is spick and span.” Priscilla radiated nervous energy. She had grown thin and spare and her hair was scraped up in an untidy knot on the top of her head. Hamish thought that since her family home, Tommel Castle, had been turned into an hotel, she had not once relaxed. Although her father, Colonel Halburton-Smythe, owned the hotel, all the work fell on Priscilla. As there was excellent fishing and shooting, if was busy even in whiter. It was Priscilla who saw to everything, from ordering the food and drink to soothing down the guests, offended by her lather’s blunt manner. In an amazingly short time, she had made a
