Jeremy was drinking with Daphne in the bar. At last, he escorted Daphne to her room and leaned against the door post and smiled at her. “Are you inviting me in?” he asked.
“No,” laughed Daphne. “Not tonight, Napoleon. I’ve got a headache.”
Jeremy stood frowning after she had shut the door. Anxiety gnawed at him despite the amount of gin he had drunk. He went slowly along to a room further along the corridor and rapped on the door.
“Open up, Alice,” he said. “It’s me.”
¦
Hamish found his steps leading back to the scene of the murder. He shone his torch here and there among the bushes, not much hoping to find anything, since the police had already been over the ground very thoroughly.
He suddenly switched off his torch and stood very still. Up above the pool, in the little glade where the fishing party had sat after the discovery of the murder, a twig snapped. He began to move very silently in the direction of the glade, walking in the long grass beside the path so that his feet would make no sound. There was something ancient and eerie about the Highland silence. The night was very still. He stopped at the edge of the glade. A small moon shone down through the trees. Bars of light cut across the scene.
Moving through the flickering bars of light, crouched low like some jungle animal, was Amy Roth. Her restless hands searched the grass.
“Good evening, Mrs Roth,” said Hamish.
Amy stood up slowly and turned to face him, her face a white disc in the shadow.
“Who is it?” she whispered.
“Constable Macbeth.”
“Oh.” She gave a little laugh and brushed nervously at her clothes. “I lost my lighter. It’s gold. I thought I might have left it here.”
“A funny time and a scary place to come looking for a lighter,” said Hamish. “Why are you
“It’s late,” she said, moving towards him. “I’m going back to the hotel.”
“How long is it since you have suspected your husband of the murder?” asked Hamish.
Amy put her hands to her face. “Marvin can be so violent,” she whispered. “But he couldn’t…surely…” With a gasp, she thrust past him and fled down the path. Hamish watched her go and shook his head. He had only been guessing, but his remark seemed to have struck gold. He shone his torch around the glade and then decided to examine the ground about the pool before finishing his search. He searched and searched about the ground and the bushes when something caught his eye. He forced his way into the undergrowth and shone his torch. A strand of blue material was caught on a thorn. Strange that the forensic men had missed it.
He carefully took it off the thorn and examined it. It was of a powder blue colour and made of acrylic. He remembered Alice had been wearing a blue trouser suit on the first day of the fishing class.
He sat down thoughtfully by the pool and turned the scrap of material over between finger and thumb. But someone very recently had been wearing just such a colour. His hand suddenly clenched, and he was seized with a feeling of fear and dread.
“Oh no,” he whispered.
? Death of a Gossip ?
Day Seven
—Gilmer G. Robinson, Fly Casting
At three minutes after midnight, Hamish parked his car well away from the Halburton- Smythe castle and finished his journey on foot. He was wondering whether to risk trying the door and finding his own way about when it opened and Priscilla whispered, “Hurry up, before we wake the whole house.”
She led the way up flights of stairs to her bedroom. She was wearing a white cotton nightgown and negligee, very unrevealing, but Constable Macbeth felt he had never seen such a seductive-looking outfit in his life.
“Now,” said Priscilla, sitting down on the bed and patting the space beside her, “I managed to get into the estates office when they were all jawing about your inquiries at dinner. Mummy believed my story. She said it was just the sort of hare-brained thing you
Hamish took the notes. “I do shorthand myself, Miss Halburton-Smythe. But whether I could read this. Yes, I think…”
“Are you asleep, Prissie? I want to talk to you.”
“Daddy,” squeaked Priscilla. “Into bed, quick, and under the blankets. As far over by the wall as you can get.”
Hamish was fortunately not in uniform. The night was warm so he was wearing a checked cotton shirt and an old pair of flannels.
He leapt into bed, under the blankets, and crouched down. Priscilla got in beside him and leaned against the pillows. “Come in!” she called.
Hamish lay very still with his head under the blankets. His face was pressed against Priscilla’s thigh. He tried to move it away and she slapped the top of the bed-clothes as a warning to him to lie still.
Colonel Halburton-Smythe came into the room. He sat down on the edge of the bed, and Priscilla shifted to make room for him. She was jammed against Hamish, who felt like groaning.
“Look, pet, the Harringtons might leave tomorrow for the simple reason that you won’t come to the point,” he heard the colonel say. “Harrington’s a fine young chap. It’s not as if you’re in love with anyone. You can’t go on turning down one fellow after another.”
“I could get a job, Daddy.”
“Nonsense. Marriage and children’s the only career for a woman. What will I tell the Harrington’s?”
“Tell them anything,” yawned Priscilla, “I’m so beastly tired, Daddy. I promise I’ll be nice to John tomorrow if you’ll just go away.”
“Very well,” said the colonel. “But don’t keep him waiting around too long.”
At last, to Hamish’s intense relief, he heard the door close. Priscilla threw back the bedclothes and looked down at Hamish’s ruffled red hair.
“You look quite sweet without that horrible uniform on,” said Priscilla. “You must have been nearly suffocated. Your face is all red and you’re breathing like a grampus.”
“I’m all right,” said Hamish, sitting up with an effort. “Let me have a look at those notes.”
Priscilla took them out from under her pillow and handed them to him. He frowned as he studied them, and then his face sharpened. “I’ve got to use the phone,” he said.
“You look terrible,” said Priscilla. “What is it? Why can’t you use the phone at that police station of yours?”
“Blair’s there and probably all night. Can I use the one in the estates office?”
“Yes, so long as no one discovers you.” Priscilla felt rather sulky and wondered why. “I wouldn’t have thought you were so keen on your job.”
“Aye,” said Hamish, climbing over her to get out of bed. “I’ll just creep down the stairs. No one will hear me.”
“Good night,” said Priscilla crossly.
Hamish smiled down at her as she lay against the pillows. “Thank you for all you have done, Miss Halburton- Smythe.” He bent suddenly and kissed her on the cheek, turned red as fire, and fled from the room.
“Well, well,” thought Priscilla. She put a hand up to her cheek and stared in a bemused way at the closed door.
Hamish sat beside the phone in the estates office and in his head turned over the names of his many relatives. There was Rory in London, Erchie in New York, Peter in Hong Kong, Jenny in Aylesbury, which was near enough to Oxford…
