think any of us will have the courage to write again.”
Jessie and Nessie Currie pushed forward. “We’d written an awfy nice story, “From Our Kitchen Window,” and he just sneered at us,” said Nessie, “after I’d read only a few words. Then there’s the money we spent on a computer.”
“On a computer,” echoed the Greek chorus that was her sister.
“And I think we should be getting our money back.”
There was a cry of approval.
“Here comes the wee man,” shouted a voice from the back of the crowd.
John Heppel drove up. I wonder how he knew the television people were here, thought Hamish. Or does he smell out publicity the way a wasp can smell jam?
“Mr. Heppel,” said Jessma. “It seems your writing class wants their money back.”
John did not have make-up on, but he had browned his face with fake tan.
He took up a position in front of the camera. He cleared his throat. “One must be cruel to be kind,” he said pompously. “The shelves of bookshops are already overcrowded with books which should never have been published.”
“Like yours, you dirty wee man,” shouted Alistair Taggart. “I’ll get you if it’s the last thing I do.”
John spread his chubby hands in a placatory gesture. “You are all suffering from wounded ego. You…”
From the back of the crowd, a well-aimed tomato sailed over heads and landed right on John’s face. The villagers cheered. The tomato was followed by an egg. Other missiles sailed through the air. “Stop filming!” howled John, dodging right and left, but the camera rolled on. He saw Hamish and shouted, “You’re condoning this!”
“All right, that’s enough,” said Hamish reluctantly.
John rounded on Jessma. “Harry Tarrant, your boss, is a friend of mine. I’ll get him to sack you.”
“He’s the drama executive,” said Jessma. “I work for news.”
John strode off to his car, staggering slightly as Archie Maclean landed a kick on his bottom.
Jessma turned to Hamish. “We’ve got good stuff here. Watch the news at six.”
“How did you hear about the class?” asked Hamish.
“Six of your villagers phoned in last night with complaints.”
“Won’t you get in trouble with this drama executive he was talking about?”
“No. He might shout and complain, but we can say we can’t consult the drama department over news.”
“Let’s hope that’s the end of John,” said Hamish. “I’ll be right glad to see the back of that man.”
The wind had shifted round to the north and was blowing with increasing ferocity. The crowd began to scatter, people huddling coats around themselves.
Hamish set off on his beat. He decided to call in at the Tommel Castle Hotel. The hotel had once been the home of the love of his life, Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, until her father had fallen on hard times and had turned the place into a successful hotel.
Hamish wanted to hear if there was any news about Priscilla. He knew she had planned to get married and that the wedding kept getting postponed, and although he told himself he was no longer interested in her, his heart rose at each postponement.
Mr. Johnson, the manager, came out to greet him. “Mooching coffee as usual, Hamish?”
“No, but if you’ve got any, I’d like a cup.”
“Come into the office.”
Hamish followed him in with Lugs at his heels. “That dog of yours is too fat,” said Mr. Johnson.
“He’s chust fine,” said Hamish, irritated, while mentally promising to put Lugs on yet another diet.
Mr. Johnson poured him a cup of coffee. “What brings you?”
“You forget. The hotel’s on my beat. I’m supposed to check up that you aren’t harbouring terrorists or running drugs.”
“You need to check on Dimity Dan’s for drugs.”
“You’ve heard something?”
“Just a buzz here and there. Priscilla’s not married, if that’s why you really came.”
Hamish’s face flamed as red as his hair. “This was supposed to be a friendly call,” he said stiffly.
“Well, sit down and stop glaring at me. What’s all this about John Heppel creating mayhem in Lochdubh? One of the maids said there was quite a scene on the waterfront.”
Hamish told him about the writing class. “That’s a shame,” said Mr. Johnson. “We’ve got a writer staying here, Mary Timper. You know, she writes family sagas. Very popular.”
“Any chance of meeting her?”
“Why?”
“I just had this idea that maybe I could get her to talk to the folks who’d written stuff, and get a proper opinion from her.”
“I suppose it’ll do no harm if you ask her.” He picked up the phone and dialled a number. “Miss Timper. There’s someone down here would like a word with you. It’s our local bobby. No, no, nothing serious. He wants to ask your help. Right. He’ll be in the lounge.” He replaced the phone. “She’ll be right down. Take yourself off to the lounge and leave that dog of yours here.”
Left alone, Lugs sadly eyed the closed door through which his master had just left. Then he sniffed the air. Biscuits! Mr. Johnson had left a plate of biscuits on his desk beside the coffee cups.
He stood up on his hind legs and felt with his forepaws. Then he climbed up on Mr. Johnson’s chair. He chomped his way through the whole plate of biscuits and then tried to slurp the coffee out of the manager’s cup, but it tipped over and the contents spilled across the desk.
Somewhere in Lugs’s doggy brain, he sensed he was now in trouble. He climbed down from the chair and sat near the door. A maid opened the door. Lugs darted past her and ran out to the Land Rover and lay down on the far side of it.
In the meantime Hamish was shaking hands with Mary Timper. She was a pleasant, grey-haired motherly- looking woman with pale blue eyes magnified by large glasses.
“What brings you to Sutherland?” asked Hamish.
“I came because of the hotel’s reputation. I like hotels. I like someone else to do the cooking and house- cleaning once in a while. But you didn’t call to ask me why I’m here, did you?”
“No. We’ve got a writing class in Lochdubh.”
“Ah, yes, someone called John Heppel. I haven’t read him.”
“You wouldn’t want to. It’s like this.” Hamish told her about the humiliation of the villagers and ended with, “So I just wondered if maybe you could look at their work and give them all a bit of a boost.”
She sighed. “I’m not an editor.”
“You see,” pleaded Hamish, “some of the folks bought computers, and they were all so excited about the writing. The winters up here are long and dreary. I hate the idea of them thinking it’s all been a waste of time.”
“Oh, very well. I’ll have a go. When?”
“I thought maybe this evening about seven-thirty at the village hall? I’ll call for you.”
“You are persistent, aren’t you? All right. I’ll do my best.”
¦
Before Hamish went out that evening to collect Mary, he turned on the six o’clock news. They had given quite a large coverage to the humiliation of John by the villagers. He felt suddenly uncomfortable. Surely John deserved it all, but the anger and violence of the villagers, highlighted by the camera, made him uneasy.
When Hamish drove Mary to the village hall, she kept nervously protesting that she did not have the talents of an editor. But once she got started, Hamish thought she did marvellously. She even got one of the locals to read out a translation of Alistair’s work. She made tactful suggestions to each, but always throwing in a bit of praise, which made each villager glow with pride.
The evening was just winding up with the villagers crowding around Mary to thank her when the door of the village hall burst open. A crofter from Cnothan, Perry Sutherland, stood there, his face as white as paper.
“Hamish Macbeth!” he shouted.
“I’m here. What’s the matter, Perry?”
“It iss thon writer. He hass killed himself.”
