“We could try the Caledonian Hotel,” he said.
They walked in silence along to the hotel that overlooks the River Ness to find that it stopped serving lunches at two. Hamish found a phone box and tried several other places to find they had stopped serving lunch at two as well.
“Hamish, let’s just pick somewhere cheap and easy,” said Priscilla. Water was dripping from the brim of her hat on to her nose.
Hamish’ looked around desperately. There was a cheap-looking restaurant called the Admiral’s Nook. The bow window was festooned with fishing nets.
“This’ll do,” he said.
They went inside and sat at a crumby table.
Hamish looked at the menu. There was a wide choice. Waitresses were standing in a group at the back of the restaurant, talking. He waved his hand. Several blank stares were directed towards him and then they all went on talking again.
“Pick out what you want,” said Hamish.
“What about spaghetti bolognaise?” said Priscilla. “These places usually have a Scottish-Italian cook.”
“All right.” Hamish approached the waitresses. “Two plates of spaghetti bolognaise,” he ordered. They all looked at him as if he had said several obscene words and then one peeled off from the group and headed for the kitchen.
Hamish returned to the table. He wondered if Priscilla was thinking of that John Burlington, who would probably have organized things better.
The waitress approached with two plates piled high with spaghetti and topped with a sort of grey sludge. Her hands were covered in scabs.
“Where’s the parmesan cheese?” asked Hamish, faint but pursuing.
“Whit?”
“Parmesan cheese,” said Priscilla in icy tones.
“We dinnae hae any o’ that,” said the waitress triumphantly.
“Well, brush the crumbs off the table,” said Hamish crossly. She slouched off and did not return.
“This smells like feet,” said Priscilla. “I daren’t eat it.”
“Come away,” said Hamish, putting down his fork. “This damn place reeks of salmonella. No, I’m not calling for the bill, nor am I going to protest. It would take all day.” He checked the menu for the price and left several Scottish pound notes on the table and marched Priscilla outside.
“Where now?” asked Priscilla bleakly.
“Follow me,” said Hamish grimly. He led her to where his Land Rover was parked. “Stay there,” he said, holding open the door for her.
He came back after some time carrying two packets of fish and chips, a bottle of wine, a bottle of mineral water, two glasses, and a corkscrew.
“This wine’s for you,” he said, uncorking it.
“Food at last,” said Priscilla.
They ate in a contented silence. “Sorry I was so grumpy,” said Priscilla. “How did you get on?”
“Oh, Thomas was at that dentist all right.”
“But it doesn’t mean he didn’t do it,” said Priscilla.
“Why?”
“He could have put the arsenic in something he knew she would eat before he left.”
“They’ve got everything out of the kitchen and there’s not a smell of arsenic anywhere. Except the curry. Can’t find any of that.”
“Curry? Oh, I know about the curry,” said Priscilla. “She made some for herself and gave the rest to Mrs Wellington for the minister’s supper.”
Hamish realized he was looking at her with mouth open. “Better get back,” he said. “If she hasn’t eaten it, it might still be in her fridge. No better still, wait here and I’ll phone.”
He returned after ten minutes, his face triumphant. “She didn’t touch the curry. Trixie took some for herself out of the pot and gave the rest in the pot to Mrs Wellington. She’s still got it. I’ve phoned Blair.”
“I’d better do that shopping for mother,” said Priscilla. “Do you want to wait here?”
“Yes, how long will you be?”
“About an hour.”
Hamish sat in the station car park and thought about the case. But after almost an hour was up, he kept glancing in his rearview mirror to see if there was any sign of Priscilla coming back.
And that was when he saw a car just leaving the car park. On the roof rack was a chair covered in transparent plastic sheeting. He was sure he recognized that chair. He started up the engine, swung the Land Rover around, and started off in pursuit.
The car in front was travelling very fast. It went around the roundabout and headed out on the A9 towards Perth. Hamish put on the siren but the car in front only seemed to go faster.
He caught up with it twenty miles out on the Perth road and signalled to the driver to halt. The driver, a small, ferrety, red-haired man rolled down the window and the reason why he had not heard the police siren became apparent as a blast of sound from his tape deck struck Hamish like a blow.
“What is it?” said the man crossly.
“You were doing over the limit for a start,” said Hamish. “Where did you get that chair?”
“At the auction rooms in Inverness. I’m a dealer.” He handed over a grimy business card.
“Get out and let’s have a look at it and I’ll maybe forget about the speeding.”
“I’ll just lift up a corner of the sheeting,” said the dealer, whose name was Henderson. “Don’t want it to get wet.”
Hamish peered under the plastic. It was the Brodies’ chair that he had last seen when Trixie had been carrying it along the road.
“How much did you pay for it?” asked Hamish.
“A hundred and fifty.”
Hamish whistled. “And where are you taking it?”
“Down to London eventually. I’ve got several more auctions to go to. Get a better price for it there. It’s a Victorian nursing chair. Good condition. Look at the bead work.”
“Do you know where it came from?”
“Auctioneer said some knocker from the north brought it in.”
“Knocker?”
“One of those women that goes around houses spotting antiques where the owners don’t know the value. Usually offers them a fiver for something worth a few hundred.”
“Or gets it for nothing,” said Hamish, half to himself. Aloud he said, “I won’t be booking you this time, Mr Henderson, but go carefully. I might be getting in touch with you.”
“It isn’t stolen, is it?” asked the dealer anxiously.
“No, but don’t sell it for another week. It may be connected with a murder.”
Hamish drove back. The rain was coming down heavier than ever. He remembered Priscilla and put his foot down on the accelerator.
She was not in the car park. He went into the station and looked around. No Priscilla. He looked at the indicator board and saw a train for the north was just leaving. He ran to the platform in time to see the back of it disappearing around the curve of the track.
So much for
He drove to the auction rooms and found that Trixie had put the chair in for sale along with some other pieces of furniture and china ornaments.
“We had an auction last evening,” said the auctioneer. “I was about to send Mrs Thomas her cheque.”
“How much?”
“Nearly a thousand pounds. She could have got a lot more in London but I wasn’t about to tell her that.”
Hamish told him to hold the cheque until they found out if Trixie had left a will.
He drove through the slashing rain and winding roads until he reached the police station at Lochdubh.
