Angus had been warned off the Halburton-Smythes estate many times. The last time a gamekeeper had given him a beating, but all that had done was to make Angus swear he would continue to take every bird and beast he felt like taking off the estate. When he was crazy with whisky, he often claimed to be Colonel Halburton- Smythe’s bastard son. As Angus was about the same age as the colonel, no-one even troubled to listen to the story – except Colonel Halburton-Smythe, who had been heard raging that one day he would shoot Angus and stop his lying mouth.
Hamish walked off with the brace dangling from his hand. He could not be bothered waking Angus up and charging him with theft. It was too fine a day. And taking a statement from Angus was always a wearisome business involving hours and hours of highly inventive Highland lies.
Then he remembered how Jeremy Pomfret had pressed him to ‘referee’ the contest for the first brace. Returning the grouse Angus had poached would give him an excuse to go to the castle and see what was happening. He might also see Priscilla.
Towser was panting for an outing when he returned to the police station, so he drove off with the large mongrel sitting up beside him on the passenger seat and the dead birds slung in the back.
The narrow road that led out of Lochdubh towards Tommel Castle wound through a chaos of tormented rocks, relics of the days when great glaciers had covered this part of the north-west of Scotland. In among the rocks, tarns filled high with water from the recent rains shone blue in the sun. These hundreds of tarns, or small pools, never failed to fascinate Hamish. On bright days, they scintillated sapphire-blue, and when the sky was heavy and grey mists twisted among the mountains, they glinted whitely or lay black and fathomless. The skies dictated the beauty of the scene, so that it was always changing, brilliant one day, weird and ghostly another.
Ahead reared up the fantastic pillared mountains of Sutherland, with quartzite sparkling on the upper slopes and the deep purple of heather on the foothills.
As he approached the castle, he caught a glimpse of red-and-white behind a stand of larch. He stopped the car and got out. A helicopter stood on a flat piece of ground behind the trees, the pilot leaning against its side, smoking a cigarette. Hamish looked at his watch. It was eight-thirty.
“Fancy anyone wanting to eat birds that hasnae been hung.” marvelled Hamish. “Some of thae Arabs have more money than sense.”
A few minutes later, Hamish drove up to the front door of the castle. Jenkins, the butler, had observed his approach and was standing waiting inside the open door.
“The kitchen entrance is around the back,” he said.
“I ken that fine,” said Hamish. “Aye, it’s a grand day. I just want a wee word with Miss Halburton- Smythe.”
“That will not be possible,” said Jenkins stiffly. “Miss Halburton-Smythe and the guests are at breakfast.”
Hamish looked over Jenkins’s shoulder and the butler turned round.
Red-eyed and haggard, Jeremy Pomfret was marching up to them.
“That bastard Bartlett!” he shouted.
“I assume Captain Bartlett has gone out shooting.” said Jenkins.
“I thought so.” said Jeremy bitterly. “He’s not at breakfast and he’s not in his room. And his gun’s gone.” He noticed Hamish for the first time. “You see, I told you he was up to something. Sneaked out early. Well, he’s been found out and the bet’s off. Came to my room last night with a bottle of champers. “Have a drink, old boy,” says he. Made me drink the whole bottle. Said we’d meet up at breakfast and go out together, and all the time the bastard was planning to get up early and beat me to it. God, I feel awful.”
“Aye, it’s a terrible thing when they force the stuff down your throat,” said Hamish amiably.
“He didn’t force it,” muttered Jeremy. “But when a chap offers another chap champagne, a chap can’t refuse.”
“True, true,” said Hamish, leaning lazily against the castle door. “It’s awf’y hard to say no to the champagne.”
“I have already told you, Mr Macbeth,” said Jenkins, “that Miss Halburton-Smythe is not to be disturbed.”
Hamish recognized one of the maids who was crossing the hall with a tray. “Jessie,” he said, “be a good girl and tell Miss Halburton-Smythe I want a wee word with her.”
“Sure thing,” said Jessie, who was an American movie addict.
“Jessie,” said Jenkins sharply. “I have informed this constable that Miss Halburton-Smythe is at breakfast.”
But Jessie either didn’t hear, or pretended not to hear. Jenkins clucked with irritation and went after her.
“What are you going to do now?” asked Hamish, turning his attention back to Jeremy.
“Nothing, not with this hangover. I’ve a mouth on me like a Turkish wrestler’s jock strap. I’m going back to bed.”
He trailed wearily back up the stairs.
Priscilla came out of the dining room into the hall. She was wearing biscuit-coloured linen trousers, thin sandals, and a frilly Laura Ashley blouse. Her blonde hair was pinned up on top of her head. She looked as fresh as the morning.
“What did you want to see me about?” she asked Hamish.
Hamish, who had been staring at her, pulled himself together. “I wondered if you would like me to bring over Uncle Harry’s clothes or whether you would like to collect them from the police station.”
Priscilla looked amused. “Instead of coming all the way up here to ask me what to do,” she said, “you could have brought the clothes along with you and solved the problem.”
“Och, so I could’ve,” said Hamish stupidly. “There’s another thing. Angus, the poacher, was down by the harbour and – ”
He broke off and cocked his head to one side. Someone was running hard up the gravel of the drive.
He went out to the front steps, with Priscilla after him.
John Sinclair, the estate’s head gamekeeper, came running towards them. “He’s shot hisself,” he cried. “Oh, what a mess!”
“Who is it?” demanded Priscilla, pushing in front of Hamish.
“It’s Captain Bartlett, and he’s got a great hole blown clean through him.”
Priscilla turned and clutched at Hamish’s sweater in a dazed way. Sinclair ran on into the castle, shouting the news.
“It’s awful,” whispered Priscilla, beginning to shake. “Oh, Hamish, we’d better go and look. He might still be alive.”
He put his arms around her and held her close. “No, I don’t think so,” he said in a flat voice.
The guests, headed by Colonel Halburton-Smythe, came tumbling out of the castle. Henry Withering stopped short at the sight of Priscilla enfolded in Hamish’s arms.
“Lead the way, Sinclair,” barked the colonel. “And you, Jenkins, call the ambulance. The ladies had better stay behind. Macbeth, what are you doing here? Oh, never mind, you’d better come with me.”
Hamish released Priscilla and set out with the colonel and the gamekeeper. Henry, Freddy Forbes-Grant, and Lord Helmsdale followed. Sir Humphrey Throgmorton returned to the castle with the ladies.
The day was becoming hot. The air was heavy with the thrum of insects and the honey-laden smell of the heather.
As they left the castle gardens, Colonel Halburton-Smythe spotted the helicopter. “What the hell is that thing doing on my property?” he demanded. Hamish explained about the Arabs in London and the promised payoff of ?2,000.
“Bartlett had no right to order helicopters to descend on my land without asking me,” said the colonel. “Oh, well, the man’s dead and he won’t be needing that two thousand now.”
“Aye, that’s right,” said Hamish, looking thoughtfully at the helicopter.
“Don’t stand there as if you’d never seen a helicopter before,” said Colonel Halburton-Smythe impatiently.
Hamish fell into step with the others and they set out over the moors at a steady pace.
