“Good idea. But I’ll bet she won’t do it.”
“She already has,” said his mother triumphantly.
“My! Can. I speak to her?”
“No, son, she’s out sledging with the children.”
They talked for a little and then Hamish rang off, trying to imagine Priscilla sledging with his brothers and sisters. Hamish had been an only child for many years, and then, when his mother was in her forties, she had begun to produce brothers and sisters for him, three boys and three girls. This largely explained Hamish’s unmarried state, for it was a Highland tradition that the eldest should stay unmarried and help to support the family. He sent everything he could home and had learned to be thrifty, as well as expert at cadging free meals.
Lunch was an edgy affair. He wondered what on earth was up when he entered the dining-room and felt the weight of the silence. Harriet told him afterwards, as they all set out for the afternoon walk with Jane, that Sheila had decided to carry her lunch into the television room in order to watch the midday showing of the Australian soaps. Heather had lectured her on the stupidity of this pastime and had even gone in and switched off the television. Shelia had burst into tears and thrown her first course of vegetable soup at Heather’s head.
They marched inland, Jane striding out in front, the rest trailing behind. The sky was darkening above and the sun was sinking low on the horizon and then, just before darkness fell, Jane stopped and pointed to the west. It was an awesome sight. They were almost at the centre of the island. It was below sea-level. Out to the west, it looked as if the whole of the Atlantic were about to come charging down on them. “How terrifying to look up at the sea,” said Harriet. She moved closer to Hamish and he put an arm around her shoulders and she leaned against him briefly, then straightened up and disengaged herself, her cheeks pink.
The exercise had revived everyone’s spirits and there was a sort of silent agreement not to quarrel. John Wetherby caught up with Jane and they headed back to the hotel. Hamish noticed that John and Jane were talking like old friends.
Dinner was pleasant. Then television destroyed everything. Heather wanted to watch a production of King Lear in modern dress; the rest wanted to watch ‘Cheers’ and ‘The Golden Girls.” Heather lectured them bitterly on the folly of watching rubbish produced by American imperialists. Jane put it to a vote and the American imperialists won. Heather stalked off to bed.
Immediately the atmosphere lightened. Diarmuid stayed to watch the comedies and laughed as hard as the rest. But when it was over, John Wetherby suddenly glared at his ex-wife, who was sharing a sofa with Diarmuid. Jane had changed into a short miniskirt and blouse. “Pull your skirt down, for God’s sake,” he snapped. “You’re showing everything.”
Jane blushed furiously. It was the first time Hamish had seen her really put out. Then she gave that merry laugh and suggested they all move through to the lounge for drinks.
Hamish retired to bed early. Once, more he felt gloomy. Once more he wished he had never come.
???
The next day was a hell of low cloud and driving rain. House-bound, the guests idled about. Hamish began to read some of Jane’s magazines to pass the time. He found a serial in
“I’m going out for a walk,” called Jane. “Anyone coming?”
Diarmuid half-started to his feet but his wife pulled him back down. No one else moved.
“Then I’ll go myself,” said Jane. She was wearing a bright-yellow oilskin. She hesitated at the door and looked at John Wetherby. He grunted and picked up his newspaper and hid behind it.
Jane walked out.
The day dragged past. But at four in the afternoon, Hamish realised it was pitch-black outside and Jane had not returned.
“Where’s Jane?” he asked suddenly.
“Probably in the kitchen,” said John. He was now playing chess with Diarmuid.
“I’ll look,” said Harriet quickly.
She came back after about ten minutes. “She’s not in her room, and not in the kitchen, not anywhere. Her oilskin’s missing.”
Hamish got his own coat and made for the door. “Wait a bit,” called Harriet. “I’m coming with you.”
They collected torches from a ledge beside the door and made their way out into the howling gale. “Where would she go?” shouted Hamish.
“The beach,” said Harriet. “She usually walks on the beach when she’s on her own.”
They walked rapidly along the beach. The tide was coming in and great waves fanned out at their feet. Hamish was cursing himself. He had taken his duties too lightly. He should never have let her go off on her own. “You’d better take my hand,” he shouted at Harriet. “I don’t want you getting lost as well.”
Harriet had a warm, dry hand. Despite his anxiety, Hamish enjoyed the feel of it.
And then the wind dropped, just like that, as it sometimes does on the islands, with dramatic suddenness. There was no sound but the crashing of the waves.
They stopped and listened hard.
Harriet squeezed his hand urgently. “Listen! I heard something. A faint cry.”
“Probably a sheep.”
“Shhh!”
In the pause between one wave and the next, Hamish heard a faint call. It was coming from someplace in front of them. It could be a nocturnal seabird, but it had to be investigated. They walked slowly on, stopping and listening.
And then they heard it, a cry for help. Hamish swung the torch around and its powerful beam picked out a pillbox on a bluff above the beach, one of those pillboxes built out of concrete during the Second World War. Dragging Harriet after him, he ran towards it. “Jane!” he called.
“Here!” came the faint reply.
A door had been put on the pillbox, quite a modern door with a shining new bolt. Hamish jerked back the bolt and Jane Wetherby tumbled out. As Harriet comforted her, he shone the torch inside. It was full of old barrels and fishing nets and bits of machinery. Someone was using it as a storehouse.
He went back to Jane. “What happened?” he asked.
“I was walking along the beach and I saw the pillbox door open. It was the first time I had seen it open. It was a bit nosy of me, but I went to have a look inside. Nothing but nets and things. And then someone pushed me and I went flying inside and the door was slammed and bolted behind me. Those village children, no doubt.”
“Are you all right?” asked Harriet anxiously.
“Yes, fine. I wasn’t scared. I just didn’t want to spend the night in there. It was getting so cold.”
The night was bitter cold. Hamish walked back, worried. A less healthy and robust woman than Jane, locked up there and left for, say, twenty-four hours before she was found, might have died of exposure. “Who owns that pillbox, or rather, who uses it?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” said Jane.
Back at the health farm, and after Jane had answered all the guests’ questions, Hamish took her aside and said it was time he had a quiet talk with her, perhaps when the others had retired for the night…
“Come to my room,” said Jane.
Hamish eyed her nervously and scratched his red hair. “What about the kitchen?” he suggested, and Jane agreed. Twelve o’clock was decided on.
The guests retired early. Hamish lay reading more magazines until midnight. Then he left his room and went through to the kitchen. He pushed open the door.
Jane was standing by the table in the centre of the room. She was wearing a black, transparent nightie over a suspender belt and black stockings and very high-heeled black shoes. “Good evening, copper,” she said.
? Death of a Snob ?
4
