It should have been raining, thought Hamish, steady, weeping rain like they had had during the previous weeks. A tragedy in bright sunshine seemed much more frightful than one on a day when the skies were grey.
“Here we are,” said the gamekeeper, pointing ahead.
The ground sloped down. At the bottom of the slope was a wire fence. Hanging over the fence was a body, still and grotesque and unreal in the clear air.
“What a mess!” whispered Lord Helmsdale in awe as they reached the scene.
Captain Bartlett hung almost upside-down, suspended by his right leg from the top strand of the fence. The gun was on the other side of the fence, its butt in a gorse bush, the side-by-side barrels resting on the top strand of the fence, glaring wickedly like two black fathomless eyes at the group. There was no doubt the captain had been straddling the fence when he was shot.
“Don’t touch anything,” said Hamish. “The forensic boys from Strathbane will need to see everything.”
They stood around Hamish in white-faced silence.
The sun was hot. A buzzard sailed high in the clear air.
Then Lord Helmsdale cleared his throat noisily. “You can see what happened, Macbeth,” he said, his voice once more loud and robust. “The silly ass was using his gun as a support to balance himself as he climbed over. Everyone does it. Do it myself. Then the gun got caught in that damned bush, and when he tried to pull it clear, the triggers snagged and went off. Must have been both barrels. Look! He’s blown a hole clear through his chest.”
There were violent retching noises as Freddy threw up in the heather.
“But how could that happen?” asked Henry in a shaky voice. “There are two triggers, and besides, wouldn’t he have the safety catch on?”
“He should have,” said Hamish. He stepped around the body and peered at the gun. “But the safety catch is off. Verra careless, that. Now, those thorns are tough and springy and if the front trigger got caught, and if the captain pulled hard enough, it could pull both triggers.”
Hamish walked a few yards away and stepped easily over the fence so as not to disturb the body. He circled the gorse bush. “It is an accident that sometimes happens,” he said. “Even experienced sportsmen close a gun and then forget it is loaded.”
Hamish took out a clean handkerchief, took hold of the gun by the barrels, and slowly and carefully extricated it from the bush.
The gun was a Purdey, a hammerless side-lock, self-opening ejector gun. Hamish whistled softly. “A pair o’ these would set ye back around thirty-five thousand pounds,” he said.
He broke open the gun and took out two cartridges. Both were spent. He glanced at the body. “Both barrels.” He held up the spent cartridges. “Number six,” he said, half to himself. He laid the gun down carefully on the heather and knelt down by the fence. Carefully, he reached through the wires and felt inside the captain’s jacket pockets. The others watched, fascinated, as the policeman withdrew a handful of unused cartridges. He examined them and nodded. “Number six as well,” he said. He then stood for a long time in silence, staring at the dead man. The captain’s tweed cap had fallen from his head and lay in the heather. He had been wearing a shooting jacket, corduroy knee breeches, wool socks, and thick-soled shoes when he had been shot.
Henry said sharply, “The man’s shot himself by accident I don’t see any need for the rest of us to hang about How you can stand there, Macbeth, staring at that awful wreck of a man as if you were looking at a piece of meat on a butcher’s block, beats me. And what were you doing,” he added his voice suddenly shrill, “hugging Priscilla?”
“Policeman never did know his place,” said Colonel Halburton-Smythe.
“She was shocked and in need of comfort,” said Hamish, his eyes still fixed on the body. “Perhaps, Mr Withering, it would be as well if you went back and looked after her. There’s nothing anyone can do until the forensic team arrives from Strathbane. Would you call Strathbane police and get them to send up a forensic team as well as an ambulance?” he asked the colonel. “I’d better stay with the body until they get here.”
“Better get Freddy away quick,” said Lord Helms-dale. “Looks as if he’s going to faint.”
“I’ll be along shortly to get statements from everyone,” said Hamish.
“Why?” demanded the colonel. “It’s obviously an accident.”
“Oh, just in case,” said Hamish vaguely.
“Well, I have no doubt the matter will be taken out of your incompetent hands,” said the colonel viciously, “as soon as the detectives from Strath-bane arrive with the forensic team.”
“Just so,” said Hamish absent-mindedly.
The rest began to trail away. Henry looked back. Hamish was still standing looking down at the body.
“I think that copper’s off his head,” he grumbled.
“He’s cunning and lazy,” said Colonel Halburton-Smythe. “And devoid of natural feeling. He’ll probably lie down and go to sleep when we’re out of sight.”
“Known Priscilla long, has he?” asked Henry.
“Priscilla knows everyone in the village,” said the colonel. “She is too easygoing and good-natured. Macbeth takes advantage of her kindness. Priscilla doesn’t know quite when to draw the line. She even went off to a film show in the village hall with Macbeth last year. I had to warn him off. Thank goodness she’s marrying you, Henry.”
“Would you like me to wait with Macbeth?” asked Sinclair, the gamekeeper.
“No,” said the colonel. “I want you to be on hand to answer questions when the police arrive from Strathbane.”
When they were out of sight, Hamish climbed back over the fence to the side where the captain was half- hanging, half-lying. He opened the captain’s game bag, which was slung around his neck, and peered inside. It was empty. He reached up to push his cap back on his head and then realized he had not put on the rest of his uniform, bar his trousers. He wished he had brought Towser with him instead of leaving the animal cooped up in the car.
He bent down and searched the springy heather near the dead man. Then, crawling along on all fours, he began to search away from the body. “It’s chust too convenient – that’s what gets me,” he muttered. “He was coming away from the moor and without his brace. Had he given up? But there’s grouse available. Angus got his brace easily enough.” He thought back to the party. No-one had seemed to like the captain. The three women who had been clustered around him when he, Hamish, had arrived had turned cold and angry and bitter. And who was that girl who had suddenly begun to talk about accidents?
He searched while the sun climbed higher in the sky and its rays beat down on his head.
Then he heard the sound of voices and looked up. Walking over the crest of the hill came a familiar heavy-set figure, sweating in a double-breasted suit.
Hamish recognized Detective Chief Inspector Blair with his sidekicks, detectives Jimmy Anderson and Harry MacNab.
After them came ambulance stretcher-bearers and the forensic team and three uniformed policemen.
Hamish knew the investigation was about to be taken out of his hands. Although he had once solved a case and let Blair take the credit, he knew that Blair had now convinced himself that he, Hamish, had had nothing to do with it.
Walking back to stand beside the dead body, Hamish bent down and looked in the game bag again. Something caught his eye. As Blair marched up to him, Hamish slid one small grouse feather into the pocket of his trousers.
? Death of a Cad ?
5
Nothing in his life became him like the leaving of it…
—shakespeare.
Detective Chief Inspector Blair was not a Highlander. He had been brought up in Glasgow, that city which produces some of the brightest brains in the world, along with some of the biggest chips on the shoulder. Blair, as Hamish often remarked, had a chip on his shoulder so big, it was a wonder his arm didn’t
