The painting was of a thrush sitting on a branch of berries. The red of the berries glowed.
“This is exquisite,” said Jock. “You’re very good indeed.”
Effie blushed with pleasure.
Jock appeared to have relaxed. He admired painting after painting and then her pieces of pottery. “Do you have an agent?” he asked. “These are much too good just to be shown in Patel’s and the gift shop.”
“No, I don’t have one.”
“My agent, Betty, will be here soon on holiday. I’ll bring her along, if you like.”
“Oh, Jock, that would be marvellous.” She had moved so close to him she was practically leaning against his side.
He felt uneasy. “I’ve got to go, but I’ll let you know when Betty arrives.”
Jock made for the door. “Where are you having dinner?” asked Effie.
“The Tommel Castle Hotel. Bye.”
He walked out to his car. He stopped for a moment and breathed in deep lungfuls of air. Then he got in and drove off.
¦
Jock was not meeting anyone for dinner. But he decided to treat himself to dinner at the hotel.
He entered the dining room. A beautiful blonde approached him and said, “Have you come for dinner?”
“Yes.”
“We’ve one table left,” said the vision. “Thank goodness the tourists are back.”
“You’re a very glamorous maitre d’,” commented Jock.
“I’m standing in this evening. My parents run this hotel. I’m Priscilla Halburton-Smythe. Our maitre d’ is off sick.”
She handed him a large menu and said, “Your waiter will be along in a minute. Would you like a drink?”
“No thanks. I’ll order wine with the meal.”
He watched Priscilla as she walked away. What a figure! And that beautiful bell of golden hair that framed her face! There was a remoteness about her which quickened his senses.
He made his meal last, watching while the other diners gradually finished theirs, hoping all the time for another few words with the beauty.
His back was to the window. At one point, he had an uneasy feeling of being watched. He turned round quickly, but there was no one there.
Priscilla at last came into the dining room and approached him. “Would you like anything else?”
“I would like you to join me for a coffee.”
Priscilla looked amused. “I’ve just been hearing about you. You’re Jock Fleming.” She sat in a chair opposite him.
“Are you always here?” asked Jock.
“I work in London. I came up yesterday on holiday. I usually fill in for any of the missing staff when I’m here. It’s a duty holiday to see my parents, and I find it can get a bit boring if I have nothing to do.”
“I’d like to take you out one evening,” said Jock. “Just friends,” he added quickly, suddenly noticing she was wearing an engagement ring. “Where is your fiance?”
“In London.”
“So what do you say? What about tomorrow night at that Italian place?”
“All right,” said Priscilla with a laugh. “What time?”
“Eight o’clock suit you?”
“Fine. Now I’d better go and see how they’re getting on clearing up the kitchen.”
Outside, Effie scuttled off from her observation post in the bushes opposite the dining room. Who was that woman? Perhaps she was Jock’s agent. She would need to find out.
? Death of a Dreamer ?
2
—William Shakespeare
Priscilla had appeared in Lochdubh at the end of Hamish’s last case and then had disappeared again like the mountain mist. If he thought of her – which he told himself was hardly ever – he decided it would be a long time before she ever came back.
They had been engaged at one time, and Hamish had broken off the engagement. There was a sexual coldness and distance about Priscilla that had been too hurtful to bear. And yet he had not found any other woman with whom he could fall so passionately in love as he had done with Priscilla.
He may have considered his emotions free of her, but the residents of Lochdubh did not, and so no one told him she was back at the hotel.
It was another lovely day, and he was tempted to skip going on his rounds, which covered more and more miles each year as the government shut down other local police stations. But duty was duty, and some of the old folk in the oudying crofts might have fallen ill. He got in the police Land Rover and set off, taking his dog and cat with him.
There was a new softness to the air. Hamish guessed there was some rain coming. The water in the loch had changed to light grey, although the sky was still blue and the mountains appeared very close, each cleft and rock as distinct as in a steel engraving.
At one point in the afternoon, he parked up on the moors and took out a packed lunch he had brought with him along with food for the dog and cat. He sat down in the heather and fed the animals and himself.
All at once, he had a sudden sharp feeling that Priscilla was near, but he dismissed it from his mind. If she were back in Lochdubh, someone would have told him.
¦
Down on the waterfront, Mrs. Wellington, large and tweedy and wearing a brown velvet hat with a pheasant’s feather stuck in it, hailed Angela Brodie. “Have you told Hamish that Miss Halburton-Smythe is up at the hotel?”
“I’ve only just learned of her arrival,” said Angela. “I went to the police station to tell him, but he was out.”
“We’re not going to tell him,” said Mrs. Wellington, waving a plump arm which seemed to encompass the whole village.
“Why not? He’s bound to find out sooner or later.”
“We think the reason he’s never married is because he’s still hankering after her.”
“But that’s no reason to treat him like a child.”
“We don’t want him getting hurt. With any luck, she’ll be off back to London before he knows anything about it.”
¦
Effie was dressing with extreme care for the ceilidh that evening. She dreamed of dancing with Jock, of him holding her close and whispering into her hair that he loved her. She had bought a white cotton dress and a tartan sash in Strathbane. “I look the very picture of a highland lass,” she told her reflection. She had also bought make-up for the first time in her life. She sat down at her dressing table she had hardly ever used, and applied the foundation cream and then powder. She painted her lips with a scarlet lipstick and then surveyed the effect with pleasure. “I look about nineteen,” she told her reflection.
¦
Jock Fleming, dressed in his one good suit, collar, and tie, walked into the Italian restaurant and was ushered to a table by Willie Lamont, the waiter.
“I’m waiting for someone,” said Jock. “I’ll choose what to eat when she arrives. Ah, here she is now.”
Priscilla was wearing jeans, a cotton shirt belted at the waist, and low-heeled sandals. Jock suddenly felt overdressed.
Then he realised the other diners in the restaurant had fallen silent.
