me and everything I stood for. Can’t you see that?”
“Yes, yes,” said Hamish soothingly, although one hazel eye slid to an oil painting on the kitchen wall. It was of a Highland cottage situated on a heathery hill: competent, colourful, and yet lifeless.
“Anyway,” said Jenny, “we’re talking about me and I meant to find out about you.”
Hamish settled back and began to describe his life in Lochdubh and told several very tall and very Highland stories that set Jenny giggling.
“And what about your love life?” she suddenly asked.
“Is there any more coffee?” Hamish held out his cup.
“Meaning you won’t talk about it.” Jenny laughed. She went over to the Raeburn, where a glass coffee-pot had been placed to keep warm. Hamish eyed her appreciatively. She was everything Priscilla was not. Jenny was small and plumpish in all the right places, with that tousled hair. Priscilla was never tousled, always cool, slim, blonde, and efficient. Priscilla would never have a cluttered kitchen like this. And Priscilla would never spill hot coffee on her bare feet as Jenny had just done, for Priscilla never spilt anything and Priscilla would never go around on her bare feet. In fact, thought Hamish, feeling more cheerful than he had done in a long time, Priscilla is a pill.
They chatted for some time until Hamish reluctantly said he’d better get back to the police station.
“Come any time,” said Jenny.
“I will,” said Hamish Macbeth. She held out her hand and he took it in his. The physical reaction of his own body amazed him. He looked down at her in surprise, holding her hand tightly.
“Goodbye,” said Jenny, tugging her hand free.
The snow had melted and great sheets of rain were whipping through the town, Hamish noticed in a bemused way. Towser watched him reproachfully as he entered. Hamish donned his waterproof cape and put the dog on the lead and went out to the shops.
The butcher’s shop was a cheery, gossipy oasis in the desolation of Cnothan. The butcher, John Wilson, had heard all about the ducking of the ghillies and wanted the details firsthand. Hamish gossiped happily and came away with a bonus of two free lamb chops and a bag of bones for Towser. He went into the grocer’s next door and bought a bottle of wine, vaguely planning to ask Jenny to dinner as soon as possible. He then went into the hardware, which was farther up the street, to buy a corkscrew. He thought there might be one in the bar but did not want to poke around that horrible lounge of the MacGregors to look for it. “Get it yourself,” said the owner of the shop. “It’s over there on the left.” The accent was English but the manner was pure Cnothan. Hamish wondered if the outsiders became as rude as the locals in sheer self-defence.
¦
In the Clachan, Alistair Gunn and Dougie Macdonald were suffering the taunts of William Mainwaring. “So your joke backfired,” jeered Mainwaring, “and the pair of you let that copper shove you in the loch.”
“Weel, ye haff to go carefully when you’re dealing with a poofter,” growled Alistair Gunn.
“What are you talking about?” demanded Mainwaring.
“He means Macbeth,” said Dougie in his high singsong Highland whine. “The man is a fairy, a homosexual. You should have smelt him. He wass stinking of the perfume.”
Mainwaring looked amazed. “Aye,” said Alistair, enjoying startling the Englishman. “He’s wan o’ them. I can always tell.”
Mainwaring suddenly burst out laughing and slapped Alistair on the back. “Well, old chap,” he said, “it takes one to know one.” And, still laughing, he went off.
Alistair stood there stupidly, mulling over that ‘it takes one to know one.’ Then a slow feeling of outrage started somewhere in the pit of his stomach and spread throughout his whole body.
“I’ll kill that man,” he howled.
Later that evening, Mrs. Struthers, the minister’s wife, was just finishing a lecture on microwave cooking to the Mothers’ Meeting in the church hall. The dishes she had prepared were proudly laid out on a table in front of her.
William Mainwaring walked in, his eyes roving about the room, obviously looking for his wife. Mrs. Struthers was glad Agatha had not put in an appearance and prayed that Mr. Mainwaring would leave as soon as possible.
“And that concludes my lecture,” she said. “I now have some paper plates and knives and forks here and I would like you ladies to sample my cooking.”
Her mouth gave a nervous twitch as Mainwaring approached the table. “What a strange selection,” he said in a wondering voice. “ What’s that cup of goo?”
“It’s a sweet-and-sour sauce,” said Mrs. Struthers.
“And what’s it made of?”
“Pineapple juice and marmalade and a spoonful of vinegar.”
“Yech!” said Mainwaring. “ And look at that baked potato. It doesn’t look cooked.”
He seized a fork. Mrs. Struthers made a sort of dismal bleating sound like a lamb lost on a dark hillside. She knew that potato hadn’t been in long enough, and she had been hoping to slide it away to the side.
“Hard as hell,” cried Mainwaring triumphantly. “ Look, if you want to know about microwave cookery, it’s all very simple.” He moved round the table and began a lecture.
Woman eyed each other uneasily, and then, with that peculiar Highland talent for disappearing from an awkward situation, the audience gradually melted away.
Mrs. Struthers fought back tears as she looked at her cooking. There were some splendid dishes there. “I’d better be off, then,” said Mainwaring, abruptly cutting short his lecture when he realized he was addressing an empty room.
When the door had closed behind him, Mrs. Struthers sat down and began to cry. She picked up a bottle of British sherry she had used for cooking and took a gulp from it.
For the first time in her blameless life, she knew what it was to want to kill someone.
Mainwaring returned to The Clachan. When he had finished tormenting someone, he immediately had to find another victim. His eyes fell on Harry Mackay, sitting over in a corner. He went to join him.
“Business must be bad these days,” said Mainwaring cheerfully.
“What makes you say that?’” asked Harry Mackay sourly.
“Just that no one seems to want property these days and you spend most of your time in here.”
“Like yourself,” said the estate agent nastily.
“I wonder what your employers in Edinburgh would think if they knew exactly how little work you do,” said Mainwaring.
“You wouldn’t…” gasped Harry Mackay.
“I just might,” laughed Mainwaring. “You know me.”
“Oh, I know you, all right,” said the estate agent bitterly. “We all know you.”
¦
William Mainwaring at last returned home to see if he could rile his wife to round off the evening. She always claimed she never drank. He searched and searched for the empty bottle but could not find it because Agatha had buried it in the garden. It had been a whole bottle of the cheapest wine possible, called Dream of the Highlands, made by a local winery. She could not risk anything more expensive out of the housekeeping money. She had claimed Hamish had drunk a lot of whisky to explain the low level in the decanter earlier in the day, but there had been no further callers she could use as an excuse and so she had been driven out to buy the bottle of cheap wine.
For once, she was armoured against her husband’s gibes. Full of Dream of the Highlands, and lost in a rosy fantasy, she barely heard him. She had read an article in the newspapers about the poisoning of an Iraqi businessman in London using a slow-acting rat poison containing thallium, banned in Britain, but available on the Continent. It had a delayed effect and only started to work a week after it was administered. She imagined manufacturing an excuse to visit her sister in Kent. Instead, she would go to Paris and buy the rat poison. Then she would return to Cnochan and poison her husband and promptly set off again, so that when he died, she would be far away from the scene of the crime. A local bobby would not suspect anything. She would start to tell everyone that William had a bad heart.
And so Agatha Mainwaring, with a half-smile on her face, dreamt on, while her husband’s voice buzzed and
