needed her mind, or so he persuaded himself.
He west back to Edie’s and got in the police Land Rover. Now that he was actually going to see her, now that he was soaring up and out of Drim, he felt excited and impatient. He longed to put on the police siren, not to clear the way, for there was nothing else on the road, but for the sheer exhilaration of the sound.
When he drove up to the hotel, Priscilla was standing outside, saying farewell to a party of guests. She was wearing a black business suit with a white blouse. He was suddenly conscious of his baggy trousers and the frayed collar of his shirt. She seemed to belong to another world.
She saw him and half raised a hand in acknowledgement of his presence. He waited patiently until the guests had gone and then she turned towards him. “Hamish?”
“This is silly,” he said. “No!” he added quickly, holding up his hand. “You’re about to say that yes, it’s silly of me to be spending my holidays in Drim and we’ll get into a pointless, hurting argument, and I need help.”
Her face softened. “I gather from Mrs. Daviot that you’re not the flavour of the month. Come inside and tell me all about it.”
He followed her into the office. “Where’s Johnston?”
“Day off,” said Priscilla. She shut the door. “Now tell me what’s been going on.”
He sat, down in a chair by the window and stretched out his long legs. He outlined the few facts he had, about how he could not understand Heather, about how the atmosphere of Drim distorted everything, about how, on the face of it, seemed as if Peter Hynd were indeed alive and had sold his house. He ended up by asking, “What did you think of him?”
“Do you know,” said Priscilla, “if you had told me that Peter Hynd was a murderer, I would not have been surprised. He had great charm, but there was something ruthless and manipulative about him. I think if his vanity was wounded, he could turn vicious.”
“But a man like that could be a murderee,” Hamish pointed out. “Cruelty and viciousness create cruelty and viciousness. I feel like chucking the whole thing and returning to Lochdubh, but there’s something there, I know there is.”
A silence hung between them. Then Hamish said, “If only it were possible for you to have a wee word with Heather.”
“Wee Heather appears to regard you as her property,” said Priscilla. “If you remember, she did not want me to come with you that evening.” She flushed slightly and again there was an awkward silence as both remembered the evening of love that never was.
“I could, though,” said Priscilla after a few moments, “go back with you, if you would like. Things are quiet here.”
“You could stay at Edie’s with me, chust for a few days.”
Hamish brightened. He kept seeing that large double bed in Edie’s spare room.
But that hope was dashed when Priscilla said, “I suppose Edie has another spare room.”
“I suppose she has,” said Hamish sulkily. “Why?”
“This is the Highlands of Scotland. We are not married.”
“Oh.” He realized the truth of what she said and reminded himself firmly that he had only come to get her help on the case.
The truth of what Priscilla had said was borne out when later that day they both arrived at Edie’s. “To be sure, I am honoured you want to stay here,” fluttered Edie, “but I’ve only got the little room at the end of the corridor. It’s not as if you can share the same room.”
“Then Priscilla can have my room and I’ll take the wee one,” said Hamish. “Don’t worry, I’m used to roughing it.”
Edie bridled. “There will be no need for that, no need for that at all. Never let it be said that I cannot make a room comfortable.”
Edie was brightening visibly by the minute. Not only had she the bonus of two paying guests out of season but she was flattered that Priscilla was staying. Certainly she did experience a certain pang of regret, for she had been looking forward to cosy evenings alone with Hamish Macbeth, but on the other hand, Priscilla’s presence would give her a certain cachet.
Once the rooms had been changed and Priscilla had unpacked, Edie remembered she was due at the manse for the first meeting to arrange the pantomime. Priscilla, to Hamish’s surprise, said she would like to go too, and the gratified Edie agreed to take her along. The efficient Priscilla then said she would go out shopping and make them a meal before they went to the manse. “What are you up to?” asked Hamish as they walked down to the shop together.
“It’s a good way for me to meet the women of the village,” said Priscilla. “No, you can’t come. They’ll talk more openly to me. We need a list of Peter Hynd’s victims. I might be able to pick up some gossip.”
“And what am I to do with myself?”
“You could try to have another talk with Heather. Her father will be off at the fishing.”
“All right, but there’s something about that child that scares me.”
¦
Seated in a large dim drawing-room in the manse later that evening, Priscilla took stock of the assembled women. Hamish had given her thumbnail sketches of the women who interested him most. Ailsa Kennedy was easily identified by her eyes and flaming red hair, Nancy Macleod by her black with the grey roots. Then there was the hairdresser, Alice MacQueen, sitting beside Edie. There were twelve other women there, but Hamish felt that Nancy, Alice, Edie, and Ailsa were the main characters, particularly Nancy and Ailsa. If murder had been done and done by a man, then it stood to reason it was a cuckolded man.
The minister’s wife, Annie Duncan, had two spots of colour burning high on her cheeks. Priscilla and Edie had been the first to arrive and had heard from outside the manse, as they waited patiently for someone to answer the door, the faint sounds of what seemed to be a marital row. Priscilla, after having registered that her presence seemed to be calmly accepted, settled down to admire the tact and efficiency of Annie, who was now discussing parts. The pantomime was to be Puss in Boots. For a number of women who had reportedly been at each other’s throats only recently because of Peter Hynd, they appeared strangely docile now. There was no competition for parts. They passively let Annie choose who should do what. Annie herself was to be Dick Whittington, keeping to the British pantomime tradition of having a woman play Principal Boy. The choice of heroine was a surprise. Nancy Macleod was chosen, Nancy of the heavy body and greying hair. Various other parts were allotted, Annie making the suggestion that young Heather Baxter should be asked to play the cat because it might cheer her up. When the muscical numbers were discussed and Nancy was urged to sing one of them, Priscilla realized why she had been chosen for the lead. She had a beautiful soprano voice, strong and clear as a bell, and as she sang she lost years, and the beautiful young girl she had once been showed through the tired middle-aged face. The evening finished amicably over tea and cakes. Priscilla felt let down. No rivalries. No undercurrents. Nothing to report to Hamish. But as she walked away from the manse with Edie, her companion suddenly said bitterly, “Who does she think she is?”
“Who?” asked Priscilla.
“Herself. Lady Muck. Mrs. High and Mighty Annie Duncan. My singing voice is every bit as good as Nancy’s. Nancy playing the lead! Nancy supposed to be a young girl with that lumpy figure o’ hers. It’s a crying shame. Not even discussed. Me, in the chorus. I’ve a good mind not to take part.”
“That would be a shame,” said Priscilla. “It’ll all be good fun, you’ll see.”
“And did you see,” went on Edie, unheeding, “the way Annie elected herself as Principal Boy. My legs are better’n hers any day.”
In vain did Priscilla try to soothe her down. Edie would not be comforted. When they returned, Edie announced she was going to bed. “I’ll look in Hamish’s room and see if he’s there,” said Priscilla.
“Well, leave the bedroom door open,” snapped Edie. “I’ll have none of that in my house.”
Priscilla pushed open the door of Hamish’s room but it was empty. She returned to the kitchen just as Hamish came in.
“Did you see Heather?” asked Priscilla. “I’ll make us some tea.”
“No, I decided to drop in on Jock Kennedy’s. The back shop was full of men, drinking, but as Jock swore it was jut a gathering of friends and no money changed hands, there was nothing I could do about it. It was all very boring, the men carefully talking about sheep and fish. Then Ailsa came crashing in. It must have been a stormy
