Diarmuid’s hand. He wondered uneasily if Jane was after Diarmuid, and his heart sank. Jane was determined to seduce someone to get at John Wetherby. Did she realise that by getting at John she would have Heather to deal with? For if any affair was obvious enough for John to notice, then it would be plain as day to the horrible Heather as well.
He went to bed trying to work things out in his mind. There was a ferry arriving and leaving again on Boxing Day. He was determined to be on it. Jane needed a minder to protect her from malice, not a policeman, and she had enough money to hire one. He resolved to tell her that in the morning.
But he awoke very early, and in the distance he heard the reassuring sounds of domestic clatter. Then he remembered that Harriet was making the Christmas dinner, which was to be served in the middle of the day. He shaved and dressed and made his way to the kitchen. Harriet was bending over one oven, taking out a tray of mince pies. A huge stuffed turkey stood ready to be placed in the other, larger oven.
“My, you’ve been busy,” said Hamish admiringly. She was wearing a scarlet wool dress and a frilly apron. Instead of her usual sensible walking shoes, she was wearing a pair of scarlet low-heeled pumps.
“My big day,” said Harriet, avoiding his gaze. “Can I get you some coffee?”
“Yes, and you’d better tell me the truth about why you’ve been avoiding me,” said Hamish. “Come on. If it’s because I’m getting on your nerves, I’ll float off like the Highland mist.”
“No, it’s not that,” said Harriet slowly. She leaned her floury hands on the kitchen table. “I became a bit worried. I am not in a position to get into any emotional entanglements, and I like to cut them off before they start to happen. That’s a bit muddled, but I’m sure you know what I mean. I began to sense something there. Attraction. On my side, at least.”
Normally shrewd, Hamish should have asked her why she was avoiding any emotional entanglement, but he felt such a surge of elation that she found him attractive that common sense went out the window.
“Och, I’m not the type to get heavy,” he said.
“There is also the question of age. I am forty-five and you, I judge, are somewhere in your early thirties.”
“Is this a proposal of marriage?”
“Hamish Macbeth! Don’t be silly.”
“Well, then, I suggest we continue to be attracted to each other. Friends it is,” said Hamish with a grin. “Need any help?”
She looked at him half-ruefully. “Yes, I could do with a bit of help. You do make me feel like a pompous fool. Friends we are. The oven’s ready for the turkey, if you’d just put it in.”
“Actually, I’m thinking of leaving on the ferry tomorrow,” said Hamish after shutting the oven door. “It hasn’t been the nicest of visits. Jane needs a minder, not a copper.”
“I might leave with you,” said Harriet, “although it will be a waste of left-over turkey.”
“Why?”
“Jane doesn’t really like the idea of meat. She’ll probably throw the rest away. I won’t be around to make turkey hash or turkey sandwiches.”
“Then just wrap it up and I’ll take it with me.”
“Hamish Macbeth, whatever for?”
“It’ll go to waste otherwise. She can’t offer it to anyone on the island, her being so unpopular.”
“All right, Hamish. If you are prepared to carry a turkey carcass back to Lochdubh, you are welcome.”
“How did you come to write cookery books?” asked Hamish.
Harriet worked away at the kitchen table and told him about her writing career while pleasant smells filled the kitchen. The snow had disappeared, as it always seemed to do on Christmas Day, but there was the usual gale howling outside to intensify the air of cosiness inside.
After his pleasant morning, Hamish was prepared to find Christmas dinner a let-down – because of the nature of the guests rather than the cooking, which turned out to be superb. There was soup made from the turkey giblets, followed by the finest Scottish smoked salmon. Then came the turkey, brown and glistening, with chestnut stuffing and chipolata sausages. John carved the turkey and the atmosphere was fairly jolly. But it was Jane, not Heather, who turned things sour.
Sheila and Ian asked for second helpings and Hamish was just about to hand his plate over as well when Jane said seriously, “All this overeating is very bad for you, Sheila. Didn’t I tell you in the summer that it was not crazy diets which took off the fat but sensible exercise and eating smaller meals?”
Sheila’s face crumpled. “You’re horrid,” she said.
“What do you want my wife to look like?” demanded Ian furiously. “Some sort of girlish whore, like you?”
Jane said in a maddeningly reasonable voice, “Your affection and loyalty to your wife do you credit, Ian, but it is known as enabling, just like giving an alcoholic drink. I have often noticed…”
“Shut up, you stupid bitch,” said John. “Don’t you realise you are being downright cruel?”
Jane looked at him, open-mouthed.
“Here, now.” Diarmuid leaped to Jane’s defence. “It’s Jane’s job to see we are all healthy.”
“Not while we’re her guests,” said Harriet. “Realty, Jane, you are going to turn into one of those people who pride themselves on speaking their mind while they tramp over everyone’s finer feelings.”
Comforted by all the voices in her defence, Sheila took a plate of turkey from John, and then threw another metaphorical log on the already blazing fire. “Like Heather, you mean?” she said sweetly.
“Don’t try and pick on me or it’ll be the worse for you,” said Heather. “I am glad I am a woman of independent mind and haven’t got a brain stuffed with rubbish from romances.”
“But you haven’t got an independent mind, Heather dear,” John brandished the carving knife at her. “It’s full of Communist claptrap. You’re the sort of woman who would have turned her husband and family over to the KGB, all to the glory of Joe Stalin. And furthermore, if you have such an independent mind, why do you try to dress like Jane? She can get away with wearing short frocks because she’s got good legs and a first-class figure while you just look like mutton dressed as lamb.”
Harriet looked desperately at Hamish, who rose to his feet. He raised his glass. “Merry Christmas, everyone,” said Hatnish Macbeth.
Startled, they all muttered “Merry Christmas.” Hamish remained on his feet. “Her Majesty, the Queen,” he proposed. All dutifully drank that one, except Heather. “And here’s to our cook, Harriet Shaw,” went oh Hamish gleefully, while everyone hurriedly replenished their glasses. “And to our hostess. “Harriet began to giggle. “Do sit down, Hamish. You’ll have us quite drunk.”
But the sudden rush of alcohol into the systems of the angry guests worked well. The quarrels appeared to have been temporarily forgotten by the time the Christmas pudding was served.
After the meal was over, Jane led the party through to the lounge.
“Oh, dear,” murmured Harriet, for under the tree was a pile of presents. Jane had bought presents for everyone. Harriet had guessed she would, but had forgotten to warn Hamish. Diarmuid got that item of headgear usually advertised in mail-order catalogues as a ‘genuine Greek fisherman’s hat. He was delighted and ran to a mirror to admire the effect. Harriet got a newfangled pastry-cutter; Sheila, a new romance called Texas Heat; Ian, a pair of slippers; John, a pocket calculator; Heather, a large volume entitled The Degradation of the Working Classes in Victorian Scotland; and there was even a present for Hamish. It was a grey-green sweater ornamented with strutting pheasants.
The guests then went to fetch their presents for Jane. “I forgot to warn you,” whispered Harriet to Hamish. “Have you got anything?”
Hamish suddenly remembered the bottle of perfume in his luggage. He had bought it to give to Priscilla and had then forgotten about it, having packed it by mistake along with his shaving-kit. “I only need a bit of Christmas wrapping,” he whispered.
Soon Jane was crowing with delight as she unwrapped her presents, although they were a singularly unimaginative set of offerings, from a cheque from her ex-husband to a record of protest songs from Heather.
“Gosh, I’ve eaten so much,” sighed Heather.
“A good walk is what we need.” Jane got to her feet. “Why don’t you all go ahead and I’ll catch up with you?”
Heather fumbled about the coats hanging at the doorway, complaining she could not find her oilskin. “Take
