fall off.
Blair detested the upper classes because they made him feel inferior, and the Highlanders because they lacked any inferiority complex whatsoever.
But as he stood in front of the fireplace in the drawing room of Tommel Castle late that afternoon, he was enjoying himself. The Halburton-Smythes and their guests were grouped around him. On either side of Blair stood detectives Anderson and MacNab – like a couple of wally dugs, thought Hamish, who was standing by the window, meaning like those pairs of china dogs that not so long ago ornamented many mantelpieces in Scotland and have now become collector’s items.
Strained faces, white in the gloom of the drawing room, which had been built facing north so that the sun should not fade the carpet, turned towards Blair.
“It was a straightforward accident,” he said. Someone let out a sharp sigh of relief. There was a palpable air of slackening tension in the room.
“So,” went on Blair, enjoying their relief and glad he had kept these toffee-nosed creeps waiting so long for his verdict, “there’ll be no need for me to take any more statements from you.” He had been unable to interview the helicopter pilot, for while he was examining the scene of the crime, Hamish had returned to the helicopter, taken the pilot’s statement, and had told him he could return to Inverness, a piece of high-handedness that had driven Blair wild with rage.
He cast a venomous look in Hamish’s direction before going on with his lecture.
“It appears that Captain Bartlett went out very early so as to cheat on his bet and have first chance at thae birdies.” Jeremy Pomfret winced. “But before he could use his gun to shoot them, he used it to help himself get over the wire fence. The gorse bush caught the double trigger, and boom, boom, goodbye world.”
“For heaven’s sake, man, show a bit of respect for the dead,” snapped Colonel Halburton-Smythe.
Blair rounded on him. “You should be grateful tae me for finding out so quickly it was an accident instead of suspecting you all of murder.”
“Any fool could see it was an accident,” boomed Lady Helmsdale.
“Anyway,” went on Blair in a loud, hectoring voice, “his gun was loaded with number six shot. It went off and blew a hole through his chest. The pathologist has already confirmed that the shot found in the remains of his chest was number six. The colonel of his regiment has been informed of his death. As far as the colonel knows, Bartlett had no close relatives still alive. He’ll be sending someone over this week to pick up the captain’s effects just in case a relative turns up.”
“He had an aunt in London, I think,” said Diana, and then turned pink.
“Anyway,” said Blair, “the procedure is this. In cases of fatal accident, the procurator fiscal studies the pathologist’s report and the police reports. Then an inquiry is held – in camera, so you won’t have to worry about the press. It may be in a week’s time or a month’s time, so remember, even if you’ve gone back home, you must be ready to go to Strathbarie when you’re summoned.”
The door of the drawing room opened and Jenkins came in, followed by two maids carrying tea, cakes, and scones.
Blair licked his lips and looked longingly at the teapot.
“Thank you, Mr Blair,” said Mrs Halburton-Smythe. “If you have nothing further to add, I see no reason for you to stay.”
Blair flushed angrily. The least they could have done was to have offered him a cup of tea. He wanted to vent his anger on someone and looked about for Hamish Macbeth. But the Highland constable appeared to have vanished.
Blair crammed on his soft felt hat and signalled to Anderson and McNab and strutted from the room.
Hamish had not left. He had had no lunch and wanted to see if he could manage to get some tea and scones. He had slid quietly down behind a large sofa by the window and was sitting on a small footstool.
Jessie, the maid, had a soft spot for Hamish. She quietly handed him down a plate of scones and a cup of tea when Jenkins wasn’t looking.
Hamish drank his tea and listened to the conversation.
“Poor Peter,” came Vera’s choked voice. “What an awful death.”
“As if you cared,” said Jessica, suddenly and loudly. “It’s a good thing it wasn’t murder, considering we all saw you throwing a glass of gin over him.”
“You leave my wife alone, young lady,” said Freddy. “Captain Bartlett was a rotter and a cad, and I’m not going to pretend he was otherwise just because he’s dead.”
“I thought he…he was rather nice,” ventured Pruney Smythe timidly.
“Oh, he could charm anything in skirts and he didn’t give a damn about age or appearance,” said Jessica with a nasty laugh. She had meant to hurt Vera, but the shaft struck home in Pruney’s spinster bosom and she burst into tears.
“Now look what you’ve done, you horrible thing, you,” said Priscilla. “Come with me, Pruney. You’ll feel better after you’ve had a lie-down.”
Mrs Halburton-Smythe raised her voice. It held a note of steel. Afternoon tea in the drawing room was the one social event over which she was allowed complete control without interference from her domineering and fussy husband. “These remarks are all in bad form,” she said. “The man is dead and the least we can do is show some respect. We have all had a harrowing day, a lot of it unnecessarily harrowing. That man Blair is an uncouth pig. Hamish Macbeth may be a useless scrounger, but at least he’s not abrasive. Now, the crofters’ fair is to be held in Lochdubh in five days’ time and the Mod wants us to help raise funds. And, Henry dear, it quite slipped my mind. The Crofters Commission has asked me if you will be good enough to present the prizes.”
“I’d love to,” said Henry, looking gratified. “What on earth is the Mod?”
“It’s a Gaelic festival of song,” said Priscilla, coming back into the room. “We usually run the White Elephant stand. The crofters’ sale is good fun and you can pick up some great bargains in hand-knitted woollies and thingies made out of deer horn. Oh, and the sheepskin rugs they sell are very cheap.”
Jenkins came in, looking hot and annoyed. “It is the gentlemen of the press,” he said. “They are all outside the front door talking to that man Blair.”
“Then clear them off the estate,” snapped the colonel. “If that idiot Macbeth would only do his job. Phone him at the police station, Jenkins, and tell him to come here immediately. Once Blair starts pontificating to the press, he’ll be here all night.”
Hamish felt himself going hot with embarrassment and wished he had not stayed to scrounge tea. He knew Jessie Would not betray him, but if anyone in the room walked over to the window, they would find him.
He slid to the floor and rolled his thin, lanky body under the sofa.
The voices rose and fell, becoming more animated as the shadow of sudden death rolled away. Jenkins came back to say that there was no reply from the police station, only a rude recording of a voice singing in Gaelic. Hamish groaned to himself. He never checked his answering machine, for the simple reason that since he had had a second-hand one installed two months ago, he had forgotten to play it back. The previous owner had obviously used the tape for recording his favorite Gaelic tunes.
Hamish shared the Highlander’s weakness for secondhand gadgets and machinery of all kinds and, like his peers, was apt promptly to lose interest in the new toy immediately after he had got it.
The guests began to leave to spend the time before dinner in their rooms.
Hamish was about to crawl out from under the sofa and make his escape when a weight on his side told him that two people had sat down on it.
“It’s been a violent introduction to the Highlands, I’m afraid,” came Priscilla’s voice.
“Poor Peter,” replied Henry Withering. “I’d hate to pop off and then sit up there hearing everyone down here being so glad I’d gone. Don’t worry, Priscilla darling. I think I’m getting to like this place, despite all the dramatics. Would you like to live up here once we’re married?”
“I never thought of it,” said Priscilla. “I always assumed you’d want to be in London. But if you think you can bear being somewhere so remote…well, I would love to live here. Not in the castle, I mean. Somewhere of our own.”
“We’ll build our own castle,” said Henry. “Come here. I’ve been longing to kiss you all day.”
Hamish sweated with embarrassment.
Henry put his arm about Priscilla’s shoulders. She felt suddenly shy and looked down. Her gaze sharpened. A
