Fair Isle sweater, and a bottle opener with a deer-horn handle.
The sun was high in a cloudless sky, and the field where the fair was being held commanded a good view of the loch. The village of Lochdubh looked down at its mirrored reflection. Surprised and delighted children were winning prizes at the fairground stands. The cakes, scones, and home-made jam were disappearing fast.
Priscilla had spoken courteously to the press about the murder, about her forthcoming marriage, about her ideas on modern womanhood.
Hamish thought she was doing very well. She was wearing a simple blue cotton shirtwaister and she looked cool and fresh.
Hamish did not know that Priscilla was hating every moment of it. The morning had started well with all the fun in the school kitchen. She had promised to be nice to the press for Henry’s sake, but after she had given serveral very lengthy interviews, she told Henry she had talked enough. Taking her arm, he silently piloted her straight into another press interview, this time with a raddled female columnist who smelled of whisky and whose perpetually angry eyes were always on the lookout for another victim to tear to pieces. Normally, she specialized in savagely criticizing Princess Diana’s clothes or Prince Charles’s speeches, that ruse of the inferior woman journalist who tries to put herself on a par with the famous by putting them down.
Between interviews, Henry had found time to tell Priscilla of his dream of buying a castle and entertaining all the trendy Chelsea set, along with magazine writers and journalists from the Sunday colour supplements. Priscilla felt a lump rising in her throat. Life was beginning to stretch out in front of her in a series of exhausting press interviews. Henry found the Lochdubh community funny and quaint, something to exhibit to his London friends. Priscilla looked around the pleasant, old–fashioned scene, the purple mountains, the tranquil loch, the friendly, innocent faces of the crofters and felt Henry was turning her into a stranger in her own community.
But when it came to the prize-giving, Henry was superb. He made a warm, funny, amusing speech. He presented the first prize – pony racing – to a small child in jodhpurs. He picked her up in his arms and beamed at the cameras. “He’s going to kiss her,” thought Priscilla wildly, and Henry did.
He presented the prize for the best home-made jam and insisted on tasting it, rolling his eyes ecstatically. The crofters were delighted with him. They appreciated hard work, and Henry
“I suppose our date is off,” said a gloomy voice in Priscilla’s ear.
She swung about and looked up into the hazel eyes of PC Macbeth.
“Why?”
Hamish shuffled his feet. “Well, the pair of you seem to be doing just grand. And it now seems odd to have asked out another man’s girl.”
“Yes,” said Priscilla bleakly.
“I thought you would be up there with him.”
“I felt I’d had enough exposure to the press for one day,” said Priscilla. “And it’s Henry’s show.”
“It is that,” said Hamish admiringly. “If his plays ever flop again, he’d make his fortune as an actor.”
“I doubt it,” said Priscilla. “Ham actors are out of fashion.” She blushed hotly. “I didn’t mean that. It’s the heat.”
“So we are not going out for dinner?”
“I think I could still manage to go,” said Priscilla, not looking at him. “I mean, it’s not as if I can drop in on you any more once I am married. I’ll make some excuse and meet you at the police station at seven.”
Hamish looked over her head, his eyes sharpening. The crowd were laughing at one of Henry’s jokes. At the back of the crowd loomed the bowler-hatted head of Detective Chief Superintendent Chalmers. Behind him came Blair, Anderson, MacNab, and six uniformed officers.
“Something’s up,” said Hamish.
Chalmers and the rest shouldered their way through the crowd to where Freddy Forbes-Grant was standing.
“Excuse me,” muttered Hamish, making off in the same direction. He arrived in time to hear Chalmers saying softly, “We would like you to come with us, Mr Forbes-Grant.”
“What?” demanded Freddy, turning red with anger. “Push off. You’re spoiling the fun.”
“We do not want to make a public scene,” said Chalmers. “Think of your wife.”
“What
A silence had fallen on the crowd. Henry’s voice from the platform tailed off. Old Mr Lewis, who had won the prize for the best marrow, stood with the huge vegetable in his arms and stared open-mouthed.
“Come along,” said Chalmers, taking Freddy by the arm.
“Keep your hands to yourself,” shouted Freddy, jerking his arm free.
Chalmers sighed. “You leave me no alternative. Frederick Forbes-Grant, I hereby charge you with the wilful murder of Captain Peter Bartlett and would like to caution you that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence against you.”
“You’re mad,” said Freddy, tugging at his handlebar moustache.
A great silence had fallen on the crowd.
Then Vera whispered, “Oh, no. Look, there’s something I’ve got to tell you…”
“Oh, what’s the use. I did it,” said Freddy loudly. “Put on the manacles.”
“Just come along quietly,” said Chalmers.
The police crowded around Freddy and they all began to move away towards the cars.
Hamish caught up with Chalmers. “Are you sure?” he asked.
“Pretty sure. A pair of thick gloves was found stuffed down the side of a chair in his bedroom. We can’t say anything definite until the lab has a look at them, but it certainly appears as if they’ve been used in the murder. There’s a smear of oil on them.”
“But the rooms were searched thoroughly by Blair!”
“Oh, Blair.” The superintendent shrugged.
“He may not be all that bright,” said Hamish, “but I’m sure when it comes to routine police work, he’s pretty thorough.”
“Meaning someone else put them there? But Mr Forbes-Grant has just admitted to the murder.”
“Aye.” Hamish pushed back his cap and scratched his head. “Do you want me to come along?”
“I don’t think there’s any need. You stick to your duties here. I’ll telephone you when we get a statement and let you know what he said.”
Vera Forbes-Grant was being ushered into a car behind the one that was taking her husband to Strathbane. She looked shocked and excited at the same time.
A buzz of voices rose as the police cars drove away. The press were tumbling out of the beer tent, the less experienced rushing for their cars, the older hacks staying to collect eyewitness accounts of the arrest.
Henry’s voice, coming over the loudspeaker system, startled them all. “I think, for the sake of all the people of Lochdubh who have worked to make this fair a success,” he said, “we should go on and not let this terrible murder spoil our day. There is nothing we can do. If Mr Lewis will bring that splendid marrow of his back up to the platform, he will receive his prize. Now, Mr Lewis, tell the folks how you managed to achieve this giant.”
“What happened?” Priscilla found Jessica and Diana standing beside her. “We’ve just arrived,” said Jessica, “and someone said someone has been arrested.”
“Freddy,” said Priscilla. “They’ve arrested Freddy for the murder.”
Both girls exchanged startled glances. Then Jessica let out a slow breath of relief. “Of course, it must have been him,” she said. “He must have found out about Vera and Peter. That old bag, Vera, will be swanning all over the place now, saying Freddy killed for her sake.”
“I am very sorry for Vera,” said Priscilla. “It came as a terrible shock.”
“She’ll get over it.” Diana shrugged. “She’ll be drooping around the castle by tonight, trying to queen it over the rest of us as if she’s some sort of
“The pair of you make me sick,” said Priscilla, shaken out of her normal calm. “If Mummy doesn’t tell you to pack and leave, then I shall.”
“Don’t get so uppity,” said Diana, with a drunken giggle. “We weren’t going to stay anyway. That dump of a castle is enough to make anyone commit murder. Come on, Jessica. Let’s have a beer.”
