“All right, Hamish. Goodbye.”
Priscilla slowly replaced the receiver. Something had happened to Hamish Macbeth and she was sure it was nothing to do with the murder case he had been on.
? Death of a Snob ?
8
Good breeding consists in concealing how much we think of ourselves and how little we think of the other person.
—MARK TWAIN
The tinny alarm bell shrilled in Hamish’s ear and he started up. He had fallen asleep still dressed, and he felt hot and dirty. He had a shower and changed and then went along to Harriet’s room and tapped on the door.
He felt he had behaved very badly. She had not thrown herself at him. He had read too much into simple friendliness and he had no right to be angry with her.
There was no reply to his knock and all at once he knew she had left. He looked at his watch. Seven in the morning.
He went down to the reception desk. The night porter, still on duty, answered his query by saying that, yes, she had left. There was a letter for him. Hamish glanced at it. He could not bear to read it and shoved it into his pocket.
He had breakfast and then packed and made his way to the station to catch the Edinburgh train, stopping off on the way to buy a bottle of perfume for Priscilla. He felt he should have gone to visit his relatives and stayed with them in Glasgow for another night, but could not bring himself to do so. Before boarding the train, he bought the morning papers.
The news of the arrest of Jessie and her husband had occurred too late for the first editions. He wondered if he would be mentioned in the later editions and then decided, probably not. Glasgow police would take the credit, not out of vanity, but simply to avoid long-winded explanations to the press about how some holidaying Highland copper came to solve the mystery.
He had had very little sleep and nodded off, only waking when a shout of ‘Waverly, next stop!’ heralded his arrival in Edinburgh.
A group raising money for famine relief were singing Christmas carols in a corner of the station. It seemed almost indecent to hear Christmas carols in the new year.
Hamish lugged his travelling-bag to the Inverness train. Every seat was taken and he had to stand as far as Stirling. When he was finally seated, he remembered Harriet’s letter and reluctantly pulled it out.
Dear Hamish,
?
Do not think too badly of me. I should have told you at the beginning that I was engaged. It was all my fault. I am sorry our great adventure had to end this way and please don’t feel too badly rejected. Think of me sometimes. I shall certainly never forget you.
Love, Harriet.
He shrugged and put the letter back in his pocket. As the towns slid past on the road to the north, Perth, Blair Atholl, Dalwhinnie, Kingussie, Aviemore, he felt the whole business receding. Eileencraig with Jane and her health farm, Geordie and his truck seemed a million miles away. He wondered briefly if Jane and John Wetherby would remarry.
And then he arrived in Inverness. Snow was falling as he walked along the platform, the seagulls of Inverness were screaming overhead, and there was Priscilla, standing at the end of the platform with Towser on a leash.
She dropped the leash and Towser came bounding up to meet him, ridiculous, tail wagging energetically, scrabbling at Hamish in delight with large muddy paws.
“He looks well,” said Hamish, dropping a kiss on Priscilla’s cold cheek, “and so do you.” She was almost restored to her former beauty. Her golden hair had a healthy shine and the hollows had left her cheeks.
“Your mother’s cooking,” said Priscilla. “I was going to take you out to dinner in Inverness, and then I thought you would probably like to go straight home.”
“Aye, that would be grand,” said Hamish, his face lighting up in a smile.
“So,” said Priscilla as she drove the hotel Range Rover out over the bridge and took the road to the north, “tell me about the case.”
Hamish began, reluctantly at first, and then all at once he was back on Eileencraig. He described all the guests vividly, with the exception of Harriet Shaw.
“And so you went to Glasgow,” said Priscilla, “and stayed at that expensive little hotel. Unlike you, Hamish. Hamish?”
“I wasnae paying,” mumbled Hamish.
“And who was?”
“Harriet Shaw.”
“So you were a kept man,” commented Priscilla coolly.
“What was she like?”
“Who?”
“Hamish!”
“Well, nice, ordinary, straightforward. Writes cookery books.”
“I know, I have several of her books. She’s very good. What prompted the generous offer, or should I ask?”
“She wass helping me wi’ my inquiries,” said Hamish stiffly. “If she hadn’t volunteered to pay, I couldn’t even have afforded a more modest hotel.”
“You could have staved with Jean,” pointed out Priscilla, an edge to her voice.
Hamish cursed under his breath. Of course, after a stay with his family, Priscilla would know the names of all his relatives.
“Look,” he said, “it chust happened. She was helping me wi’ my inquiries.”
“Oh, yes,” said Priscilla flatty. “How old is she?”
“About forty-five.”
“As old as that? And where is she now?”
“Gone to meet her fiance in London.”
“Oh.” There was a long pause. Then Priscilla said cheerfully, “I remember seeing her on television. Pleasant- looking woman. Certainty looks a lot younger than forty-five.”
“Not when you meet her,” said Hamish, thrusting a knife into his memory of Harriet in order to keep the atmosphere between himself and Priscilla tight.
“Well, it’s all very odd,” remarked Priscilla.
“What is?” demanded Hamish, hoping she would not pursue his relationship with Harriet Shaw any further.
“This Heather Todd, the one who was killed. Imagine writing a whole novel and your husband not even knowing about it.”
“He said she was always scribbling at something and he thought she was preparing a speech for the Workers’ Party.”
“Still, to keep up that Communist front and yet relish reading romances. A sort of double life. Perhaps she is to be…”
“You didn’t meet her,” said Hamish. “She was a nasty, irritating woman. When I told her I was in forestry because I didn’t want her to know I was a policeman, she hectored me about the destruction of the environment until I began to want to see the whole world covered in concrete. She had that sort of effect. She was a woman begging to be murdered.”
“That’s what I meant,” said Priscilla. “Surely to be pitied. And Jane? Are all her friends like me, mere
