“Sobering up for the big day,” he said when he saw Hamish.
“Good luck,” said Hamish politely, fishing for his car keys.
“You’ve heard about the bet?” asked Bartlett.
Hamish nodded. “I hear it’s for quite a bit of money,” he said.
“Yes, quite a stroke of luck that, finding old Pomfret here.” Bartlett’s white teeth gleamed in a broad smile. “And I thought I was going to have to be content with that Arab’s miserly two thousand pounds.”
Hamish, who had been about to open his car door, stopped and turned around. “And what Arab would that be, Captain?” he asked slowly.
“Just some old oil sheikh in London. He’s heard stories about the honour of dining on Scottish grouse on the day of the Glorious Twelfth itself, so I offered to get a brace for him – at a price, you understand.”
“And how will you get them to London in time for the sheikh’s dinner, Captain?”
“He’s paying for that. He’ll have a helicopter here before nine in the morning. That’ll take the birds to Inverness airport. The helicopter pilot will put them on the shuttle plane to London, and one of the sheikh’s flunkeys will pick them up at London airport.”
Hamish studied the captain thoughtfully. “And the sheikh will send you a cheque, I suppose?”
“Not likely. When I hand over the grouse, the helicopter pilot will hand me a packet – two thousand pounds in cash. I drive a hard bargain.”
“So,” said Hamish, “if you bag a brace by noon or so, you’re sure to get the two thousand?”
“Exactly,” said Peter Bartlett with a wolfish grin. “Just can’t lose.”
“So if you don’t get the first brace, you’ll only have to pay Mr Pomfret three thousand pounds. And, of course, those side bets you’ve been making.”
Peter Bartlett thrust his head forward, peering into Hamish’s face in the gathering gloom. Then he threw back his head and laughed.
“Don’t worry, my dear constable-chappie. I won’t lose.”
“In that case,” said Hamish, opening his car door, “I’ll say good night.”
“Look here,” said the Captain, putting a hand on Hamish’s shoulder, “do you believe in that thing, you know, where you can tell what’s about to happen? The second sight – that’s it.”
Hamish patiently turned around. He was accustomed to weeping drunks, fighting drunks, and psychic drunks.
“And just what do you think is going to happen?” he asked politely.
“I’ve got this feeling someone’s out to get me,” said the captain. “I feel a lot of menace about…oh, it’s hard to explain.”
“I think it iss very easy to explain, Captain Bartlett,” said Hamish. “If a man puts as many backs up as you have, then it iss almost a form of suicide. I haff met people before who could not bring themselves to put an end to their lives, and so they went around goading other people into doing it for them. Good night, Captain Bartlett.”
He drove off and left Peter Bartlett staring after him.
? Death of a Cad ?
4
I once read the last words of a suicide, in which he stated he hoped the jury would not return a verdict of ‘accidental death’ or ‘death by misadventure’ because he thoroughly understood what he was doing when he shot himself, and did not wish it handed down to posterity that he belonged to the class of idiots who inadvertently would handle a weapon in such a way as to cause risk to themselves or others.
—charles lancaster.
Police constable Hamish Macbeth did not sleep well. Towser lay at the end of his bed, across his feet, snoring dreadfully. The sleepless sea-gulls wheeled and screamed over the loch outside, an owl hooted mournfully, and then there came the sharp bark of a fox.
“And to think the tourists come here for the peace and quiet,” mumbled Hamish. After another futile hour of trying to fall asleep, he struggled out of bed. Although it was only five in the morning, the sky was already light He looked out of his bedroom window, which faced over the loch.
It had been a bad summer to date, but this morning had all the signs of heralding a perfect day. A thin mist was rising from the glassy loch. The humped hills on the other side with their stands of larch and birch floated in the mist like a Chinese painting. He opened the window. The morning air was sweet with the smell of roses.
Hamish had succeeded in growing a splendid rambling rose over the door of the police station, and flowers rioted around the blue police sign and trailed over the steps.
The one cell in the police station had stood empty for a long time. The village drunk had joined Alcoholics Anonymous in Inverness and no more enlivened the little police station with nightly renderings of ‘The Road to the Isles’ and ‘The Star o’ Rabbie Burns’.
It was not a job for an ambitious man, but Hamish took his responsibilities seriously. He could make enough to send money home to his father and mother. His job meant he did not have to pay rent or pay for the use of the police car. It was the duty of every Celt to stay unmarried until the next in line was old enough to go out to work. But there had been a long gap between the birth of Hamish, now in his thirties, and the next Macbeth child, Murdo. And Murdo was proving to be a genius at school and would probably win a scholarship to university and so Hamish’s responsibilities must go on a bit longer.
He decided to stay awake and scrambled into an old army sweater and his shiny regulation trousers. Uncle Harry’s dinner jacket and trousers were hung carefully over a chair, the expensive cloth and tailoring looking out of place in Hamish’s tiny shabby bedroom, like an aristocrat who has lost his way home from his club.
Towser rolled over on one side and spread himself comfortably out over the bed. Hamish looked down on the dog and sighed. There had been a time not so long ago when he had banished the dog from his bedroom – for what would, well, some girl think should she decide to share his bed?
But hope had gone. Now Hamish wondered gloomily if he was destined to share his bed with the mongrel for years to come.
He went out to the shed in the back garden to get the feed ready for the chickens and geese.
Henry had put his hand on Priscilla’s knee. If only he could get that nasty little picture out of his mind.
He went about his morning chores and then went back inside and made himself a large breakfast, more for something to keep himself occupied than because he was hungry. Towser, smelling the frying bacon, slouched out of the bedroom, looking dazed and rumpled like a dissipated drunk, and placed a large yellowish paw on Hamish’s knee, which was his lazy way of begging.
Hamish picked at his breakfast and then gave up and put his plate on the floor for Towser.
He decided to go down to the harbour and look at the catch brought in by the fishing boats.
As he walked along, he kept remembering snatches of overheard conversation from the party. That Vera had been insulted by Captain Bartlett had been all too evident. So was the fact that, up until a few moments before she had thrown her drink in his face, she had been madly in love with him. Perhaps Priscilla was better off with that neat little playwright of hers, thought Hamish gloomily. She might have become engaged to someone like Peter Bartlett. How old was Henry? wondered Hamish. Certainly a lot older than Priscilla. Even older than he was himself. Probably pushing forty. It would have somehow been more understandable if Priscilla had fallen for a man as young as herself.
Lochdubh was a sea loch. The little stone harbour smelled offish and tar and salt. He was just debating whether to mooch some herring for his dinner when his sharp ears caught the sound of heavy snoring, rather like Towser’s coming from behind a pile of barrels stacked next to the sea-wall. He ambled around the barrels and stood looking down at the unlovely sight of Angus MacGregor, local layabout and poacher, lying on the ground between the barrels and the sea-wall. He smelled strongly of whisky. He was lying on his back, a shotgun cradled on his chest, and smiling beatifically.
Hamish bent down and gently removed the gun. Then he heaved the still-sleeping Angus over on his face and with experienced hands searched in the deep ‘poacher’s pocket’ in the tail of Angus’s coat. He lifted out a brace of dead grouse.
