meeting up at the manse.”
“No, it seemed all very quiet. What did Ailsa say?”
“She started by cursing Annie Duncan for having chosen Nancy Macleod as the lead, with herself as the Principal Boy. Ailsa felt she herself should have got one of the main parts. She said that great lump Nancy would make a mockery of the whole thing. Up starts Jimmy Macleod and says his wife has the best voice between here and Inverness, and furthermore, his wife is a lady and not given to whoring around; and I had to stop Jock from hitting him, but Ailsa jeered, ‘That’s what you think,’ and then suddenly everyone decided to go home. One minute the room was full of men, and the next they had all faded out into the night.”
“Goodness, Hamish, if you had been at the manse, you would have thought them all the best of friends. It was only when we left that Edie began to complain like mad about Annie Duncan’s high-handedness, and yet there was nothing high-handed in Annie’s behaviour. They seemed to placidly accept all her suggestions.”
“Well, as you know, there is always a sort of tradition about letting the minister’s wife have her way.”
“There’s just one little thing.” Priscilla hesitated. “Go on,” said Hamish morosely. “Anything’ll help, we haven’t got much.”
“When Edie and I arrived at the manse, we heard the minister and his wife having a row.”
“Could you hear what it was about?”
“No, couldn’t make out the words. The walls are thick.”
“And the reverend didn’t join you ladies at any point?”
Priscilla shook her head. “So where do we go from here?” asked Hamish.
“For a start, there’s the first rehearsal tomorrow afternoon in the community hall. The scripts haven’t arrived yet, but Annie’s going to run through the musical numbers.”
“You go,” said Hamish, “and maybe I’ll drop in. Perhaps we should pay a visit on Heather…both of us. I’d like to know what you make of her.”
? Death of a Charming Man ?
9
Retired to their tea and scandal, according to their ancient custom.
—William Congreve
Heather was singing to herself and scrubbing the kitchen floor when Priscilla and Hamish arrived the following morning. She looked up and saw Priscilla and primmed her lips in disapproval.
“We are on the telephone,” she said, getting to her feet.
“We don’t like people chust dropping in. This is still a house of grief.”
“Just a few more questions,” said Hamish easily.
“Why?” demanded Heather, wiping soapy hands on her apron. “You’re supposed to be here on holiday.”
“I don’t suppose you believe that any more than anyone else,” said Hamish.
Heather’s eyes slanted at Priscilla. “What’s she doing here?”
“Manners!” said Hamish sharply.
Heather folded her arms. “It’s my house and I can say what I like.”
“I’ll go outside and take a look around,” said Priscilla quickly.
As soon as she had gone, Heather appeared to relax. “A coffee-or a cup of tea, Mr. Macbeth?” she asked in housewifely tones.
“Nothing at the moment,” said Hamish. “You’re a bit hard on Priscilla, Heather. What’s she ever done to you?”
“She’s, a woman,” said Heather curtly. “Don’t like women much. They’re cruel.”
“Will, there are some nice women around. Mrs. Duncan has been verra kind to you, surely.”
“Oh, aye. She’s the minister’s wife and it’s her duty to be nice to people. Do you know I am to play the part of the cat in the pantomime?”
“No,” said Hamish, that being a piece of news Priscilla had failed to tell him. “Will you like that?” She wrinkled her brow. “It might be fine.” She curled her small hands into imitation paws and pretended to wash her face. “Aye, I reckon I could do that verra well.”
“So,” said Hamish, pulling out a chair and sitting down, “yon go here and there about the village without anyone noticing you much. You must hear things. Do you know any woman who was…er…involved with Peter Hynd?” Her eyes were suddenly like cold steel. “You mean who wass he screwing? My ain mither, for one.”
“Heather, you’re verra young. How can you know that?”
“Because I followed her up to his cottage one night,” she said wearily. She sat down at the table opposite him and rested her small pointed chin on her hands.
“B-but how could you know?” asked Hamish, blushing a deep red.
“I heard them.”
“But not
She jerked her head towards the television set in the corner.
“I see and hear it all on that.”
Oh, the lost days of youth, thought Hamish bitterly. Aloud he said, “It must have been hard for you.”
“Peter Hynd was an evil man,” she said. “Really evil. I’m glad he’s gone.”
“But you no longer think he was killed?”
“That wass chust a fancy.”
Hamish felt he should not be asking one so young the next question, but who else in this village was going to tell him?
“Heather,” he said, “do you know which of the others were sleeping with Peter Hynd?”
She held up a slim hand and ticked off the names on her fingers: “Nancy Macleod, Ailsa Kennedy, Alice MacQueen, and Edie Aubrey.”
“I cannae believe that! Edie! Come on, Heather.”
“The uglier they come, the harder they fall,” said Heather. “Now, Da will be back from the fishing and I’ve got to get his dinner on. I will speak to you again, Mr. Macbeth.”
“And I hope I’m strong enough to take it,” said Hamish after he had rejoined Priscilla and repeated what Heather had said. “What do you make of her?”
“I think she is a remarkably strong and self-disciplined little girl who is delighted to run the house and have her father to herself,” said Priscilla. “Of course, I may be wrong. It could all be a front. The child could be teetering on the edge of a nervous breakdown for all I know. But those women she listed! And her own mother. I can hardly believe it of Edie.”
“There’s one way to find out,” Hamish pointed out. “I could ask Edie point-blank. All she has to do is to deny it.”
“You know,” said Priscilla, “we’re barking up me wrong tree. Let’s look at this another way around. Let’s assume Peter Hynd was murdered and Betty Baxter was murdered. Who had the best motive? Why, the husband, Harry. Harry finds out Betty has been unfaithful to him. He murders Peter Hynd and gets rid of Peter’s belongings. The place is full of peatbogs where stuff, including Peter’s body and Peter’s car, could be sunk without trace. The murder twists his brain further and so he calls Betty and somehow gets her to think he is Peter, don’t ask me how, follows her down to the beach, and breaks her neck. He tells Heather to back him up on the frozen-cod story and she, being happy to have her mother out of the way,-goes along with it.”
“Except for one thing,” Hamish pointed out. “Harry Baxter has a cast-iron alibi.”
“Does he?” asked Priscilla eagerly. “We assume Betty was killed about seven in the morning. What if it were earlier? A post-mortem cannot tell the exact time of death. The fishing boats often come in around six.”
“Thought about that. Harry Baxter went straight to the bar. The bar opens up for the fishermen.”
Priscilla frowned. “Lochdubh is a close-knit community. Gossip from Drim filters over there. Harry would be pitied by his cronies. Say he did not go out fishing or say he did not go to the bar, would his friends cover up for him to get him out of trouble?”
Hamish’s hazel eyes gleamed. “They might at that. They don’t like Blair – who does? – and as they would think that poor old Harry would never do such a thing in a hundred years, they just could have decided to give him
