fault of the atmosphere of Drim, which easily conjured up Gothic fantasies in the mind.
“Catch anything?” Heather asked.
“Twoirout.”
“Da would like a trout for his tea, and so would I.”
“And so would I,” said Hamish. “Sit down over there and I’ll see what I can do.”
She sat down and clasped her hands over her knees and closed her eyes. Hamish threw her an amused look. “Praying?” She nodded fiercely and he wondered if she was praying to the Christian God or one of the Celtic pagan ones. To his amazement, he caught his next trout almost immediately.
Heather opened her eyes. “And another,” she said solemnly and fell to praying again. He cast again but without much success. The day began to grow darker. And then the hair began to rise on his neck, for Heather’s voice was rising in a keening sound. He knew she was chanting in Gaelic but he could not make out the exact words. He was about to call to her to stop her nonsense when he felt a tug on the line.
Some minutes later, Heather’s voice died away and she looked in satisfaction at the large trout he was landing.
“Come home with me,” she said after she had wrapped the present of two trout up in docken leaves. “Mrs. Aubrey’s a dreadful cook.”
“Off with you,” said Hamish, “and don’t put your faith in the old gods, Heather. That sort of thing’ll turn you potty.”
“It got me the trout for Da’s tea,” said Heather practically, and off she went.
Hamish headed back to the village, carrying his catch. He nodded and said, ‘Good evening’ and ‘Grand night’ to passing villagers, who stopped and stared at him but did not return his greeting.
Edie received the trout with enthusiasm. “I have a new French cookery book,” she said, “and there is a very interesting way of baking trout with cheese, so…”
“My treat, my cooking,” said Hamish firmly. “I’m a dab hand wi’ the trout.”
He gutted the fish and grilled them and served them with boiled potatoes and peas.
He felt a sudden wave of fatigue. He had not had much sleep on the train north. He cocked his head. A gale was beginning to blow up outside. “I thought you were too sheltered here in Drim to get much wind,” he said. “Oh, we get it all right when it’s blowing in from the west,” said Edie. “I hate the wind.”
The noise outside rose. The wind, channelled down the loch between the tall walls of the mountains, screamed and howled.
It was cosy in the kitchen. The fish were excellent and the potatoes, which turned out to have come from Edie’s garden, floury, and almost sweet.
“Strange the way Peter Hynd left,” said Hamish, pushing away his empty plate. He groped in his pocket for a packet of cigarettes and then realized with a start that he had given up smoking some time ago.
“Cigarette?” asked Edie, holding out a packet.
For one awful moment he nearly took one. “Given up,” he said curtly.
“You don’t mind if I…?”
“Go ahead.”
Edie lit her cigarette and then said, “The men here were very nasty to Peter. I think that’s why he left. You know shortly before he went, someone threw a brick through his window.”
“I didn’t hear about that!”
“No, well, you wouldn’t. You know how they all stick together in these villages.”
Hamish looked at her. “Peter Hynd liked to flirt. Was there anyone in particular? Was it just flirting?”
“Ailsa Kennedy was hinting that he had gone further than that with her, but no one really believed her. Then there was Jimmy Macleod’s wife, Nancy. Alice MacQueen said she saw her leaving Peter’s cottage in the middle of the night, but she would hardly leave her husband’s bed to go out in the night without him knowing. Still, it’s all over now. The house has been sold.”
“What? So soon?”
“Yes, the man from Newcastle and his wife were here early today. A Mr. Apple. He’s got the grand plans for building that extension. He’s going to move the builders in right away.”
“Like all incomers, he might find it hard to get help.”
“He’s importing his own. Got caravans for them and a mobile home for himself and his wife coming up by road tomorrow.”
Hamish felt his fatigue leaving him. In order to finalize the deal, Peter would need to have signed the papers at the lawyers’.
“I’ll be off in the morning early,” he said. “I’ve got to see someone in Inverness.”
“I’ll put an alarm beside your bed,” said Edie. “What time do you want breakfast?”
“About seven. I can make my own.”
“Och, no, I’ll be up and about. I’ve little else to do now the exercise classes have finished.”
Hamish looked at her curiously. “Did Peter Hynd flirt with you?”
Her eyes grew dreamy. “Yes, he did. I felt young again, excited, happy. And when he went away, I looked in the mirror and there again was just me, Edie Aubrey, middle-aged and plain. He had a knack of making every woman feel she was the one who was special to him. I thought I was his favourite, but now I’ve got over the madness I realize he was only playing around.”
¦
Hamish experienced a feeling of mounting excitement as he drove to Inverness, propelled southward by the Sutherland gale. One way or another, the investigation would now be over. With any luck he would find that Peter Hynd was alive and well. To think that any man in Drim was not only capable of impersonating a good-looking Englishman but also of forging his signature was ridiculous. And with any luck, Betty would turn out to have died from a heavy fall.
To his disappointment, the genial Mr. Brand was on holiday and he had to deal with his older, crusty partner, Mr. MacDougal. Mr. MacDougal listened impatiently to Hamish’s request and then said, “I dealt with Mr. Hynd myself.”
“That’s great,” said Hamish. “Did he tell you where he was staying?”
“Yes, he had come up from London. Jenny!” The pallid girl slouched in. “Bring Mr. Hynd’s address.”
Hamish waited. A seagull perched on the window-ledge outside and looked in curiously through the grimy panes. Jenny came in and put a slip of paper in front of Hamish and he found himself looking down at the Vale of Health address. “This won’t do,” he said sharply. “That’s the house he rents out.”
“That’s all we’ve got,” said Mr. MacDougal. “Now, I’m very busy and I’m expecting a client.” He stood up.
“One moment,” said Hamish. “What did Peter Hynd look lie?”
“Pleasant, upper class, fair hair, only stayed for as long as it took to sign the papers.”
“May I take a copy of the papers? I would like to have the signature checked.”
“Mr. Brand, who is a good fellow but too easygoing, told me he had faxed signatures to the bank in London already. Are you here on official business?”
“I’m just following up inquiries of my own.”
“If you return with an official request from headquarters, then we will let you have the papers. Until then…”
When Hamish went into the outer office he asked Jenny, “Was the Peter Hynd who came to sign the final papers the one you had met before?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?” she said rudely. “But I wouldn’t be knowing. I got a ladder in my tights and ran out to get a new pair, and when I got back I heard he’d been in.”
Hamish left the lawyers’ in a bad mood. Surely it was silly to go on following this ridiculous hunch that Peter Hynd was dead. Still, to wrap it up neatly, it might be a good idea to go to Strathbane and get an official request to take those papers and have a handwriting expert check the signature. He decided to go over Blair’s head. Blair would hate him for it, but then Blair hated him anyway.
To his surprise he was ushered into Mr. Daviot’s office without having to wait, but the minute Mr. Daviot said solemnly, “Sit down, Macbeth,” his heart sank. No ‘Hamish.’
“I find to my surprise,” said Mr. Daviot, “that you have chosen to take your holidays in Drim, of all places. My
