“He’s the police,” said the barman gloomily. They all stared stolidly as Hamish melted butter in a pan and proceeded to fry the steaks.
“Just go on eating as if he wasn’t here,” said the barman.
“What’s this?” demanded Hamish suddenly, looking at a rack of good French claret.
“We keep that for special customers,” said the cook.
Hamish finished frying the steaks in grim silence. He put them back on the plates, tucked a bottle of claret under his arm, and made his way back to the dining room.
“I would hae been better to have cooked you a meal back at the police station,” he said to Priscilla. “It makes me sick the way the Scottish Tourist Board moans on and on about the decline o’ tourists. If they checked up on places like this, they might get them to come back.”
“Never mind, Hamish. It tastes lovely now and you’ve got us some decent wine.”
“I was silly to bring you here,” said Hamish. “We could have gone to the Lochdubh Hotel. The only reason I didn’t want to go there was because your father would have heard all about it before we’d even sat down. I thought if we came here, he might not find out until tomorrow.”
“As it is, it’s a wonder he hasn’t phoned already,” said Priscilla. “Mrs Wellington will surely have told him by now.”
“But not where we’ve gone,” pointed out Hamish.
The other guests had left. They were alone in the dining room.
“Who do you think murdered Bartlett?” asked Hamish after a brief silence. “You must have thought about it.”
“I didn’t really. I was pretty sure it must have been someone from outside. I know Mummy’s guests are pretty obnoxious, but…”
“Yes, why are they obnoxious? I mean, why ask those particular people?”
“A lot of people were pressing for invitations to meet Henry. Mummy just chose the first and most pressing requests. We owed the Helmsdales and Sir Humphrey hospitality. Pruney’s all right. Mummy thought, for some hare-brained reason, that Diana and Jessica were friends of mine. Jeremy had already been invited anyway. It just happened, that’s all.”
“What were the Helmsdales like when you stayed with them?”
“I never really thought about it. Their place is comfortable, the food is appalling, and the guests usually entertain themselves. We stayed there for a week last October. I travelled up from London. I’ve known both of them since I was a child. Lady Helmsdale is always so massive and booming that one never thinks of her as a woman with normal jealousies and weaknesses and that sort of thing. Helmsdale himself is a caricature of the Scottish landed aristocracy. I don’t really believe he thinks deeply on any subject.”
“Odd, when you think of it,” said Hamish. “They, the Helmsdales, I mean, must have been in love at one time.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t think so,” said Priscilla, surprised. “One always marries someone suitable, you know, if one is like them. She was a Tarrison, you know, the big flour company, and he had a title and needed money. That’s the way it’s done.”
“And what about your case? You wouldn’t marry someone just to please your parents?”
“It’s not so strange. I mean the whole idea of having a Season is to meet the right sort of bloke.”
“But the Season’s finished. You don’t get presented to the Queen any more or anything like that.”
“No, the court presentations went out a long time ago. They tried to replace the ritual by having the debs curtsy to a cake at the Grosvenor House Hotel, but that began to seem pretty damned silly after a bit. But it still goes on – quieter, maybe. One’s parents throw a cocktail party to tell people one’s Out, and then bung one into secretarial college while one lives in squalid digs with a lot of other debs. But one still goes to Ascot, Henley, and Goodwood and all that. The pas and mas are very much in the background but they ferret out who has money and who hasn’t, and who’s pretending to be one of the upper set, but isn’t.”
“Amazing,” said Hamish. “Here we are, rushing towards the end of the twentieth century, and here am I, a respectable bobby who has to take you out in secret, just as if I were the footman in Victorian times.”
“It’s all my fault,” said Priscilla miserably. “I should stand up for myself. I’m all Daddy and Mummy have got and I can’t bear to disappoint them.”
“By going about with someone like me? You’re awf’y young, Priscilla.”
“I’m old enough to know my own mind and to know that I should not be creeping around having dinner with you at some tatty restaurant when I’m newly engaged.”
“Yes, why
“I forget,” said Priscilla, tears standing out in her eyes.
“I shouldnae be grilling you,” said Hamish gently. “It’s all none o’ my business, after all. Did you hear what happened to Peter Fisher, him that went down to Ullapool to see if he could defect to Russia?”
Priscilla shook her head and Hamish leaned back in his chair and proceeded to tell a long and extremely Highland story about the adventures of Peter Fisher until Priscilla began to laugh.
Then he got Priscilla to tell him some of her adventures as a fashion editor’s assistant.
It was beginning to get dark outside, and suddenly Hamish became aware that they had been sitting in the deserted dining room for some time.
“I’d better get the bill,” he said regretfully. He crossed to the wall and pressed a bell.
After some time, the waiter appeared, minus his white jacket.
“Ah thocht ye’d be awa’ name tae yer beds,” he said.
“I could hardly do that without paying the bill,” said Hamish.
The waiter jerked his thumb in the direction of the kitchen. “He says it’s on the house.”
“If by ‘he’ you mean the barman who’s probably the manager as well, go and tell him from me that I know this place is owned by the Belmont Catering Company, and there is no reason to cheat them further. Get my bill.”
The waiter went off and eventually slouched back with the bill. Hamish noticed he had not been charged for the bottle of claret, but felt he could not bear any more argument. He paid the bill, and when the waiter had left, he looked sadly at Priscilla.
“In a way, this is goodbye, Priscilla,” he said. “As you say, you will not be able to drop in at the police station when you’re a married woman.”
He held out his hand, and Priscilla slipped her own into it. She looked into his eyes, wanting to tell him all her worries about Henry, about the engagement, and yet feeling it would be disloyal to Henry to discuss him with another man.
“Sorry to interrupt,” came a sarcastic voice from the dining-room door.
Hamish dropped Priscilla’s hand as if it were a hot brick and turned about.
Anderson was standing in the doorway.
“Chalmers sent me to get you,” he said. “There’s been another murder.”
“There
“It wasn’t Freddy,” said Anderson heavily. “Mr Forbes-Grant’s secure in prison in Strathbane. His wife’s been murdered.”
“Vera!” cried Priscilla, hanging on to the table. “How?”
“Poison. Someone poisoned her.”
? Death of a Cad ?
12
Thou shall not kill, but needs not strive,
Officiously to keep alive.
—arthur clough.
This gets more like a Hammer horror movie every day,” grumbled Henry Withering.
No-one answered him. They were all huddled in the drawing room, listening to the footsteps of the police
