“What is he doing there?” Priscilla’s voice was sharp.
“Just sloping about talking to the locals. I want a bit of company at dinner, Priscilla. It’s not like a date. I know you’re engaged to Hamish.”
“Oh, very well. What time?”
“Eight suit you?”
“Fine.”
“See you then.”
“Bye.”
Priscilla replaced the receiver. Why had she done that?
Well, to be honest, she was furious with Hamish. It was quite clear to her that he had gone to Drim simply to get out of house-hunting. And the house outside Strathbane had been perfect, situated on a rise, good garden, airy rooms, nothing like that poky police station. She experienced a stab of conscience, which was telling her that she should leave Hamish Macbeth’s character alone and not try to change him. But her father had raged about the proposed marriage and had told Priscilla that Hamish Macbeth was a layabout who would never come to anything, and Priscilla was hell-bent on proving her father wrong.
¦
Hamish felt in a mellow mood when he returned to Lochdubh. He could not help contrasting his own village favourably with Drim. The little white houses faced the loch. There was an openness and friendliness about the place. The air was dear and light, with that pearly light of northern Scotland where the nights are hardly ever dark in the summer. A seagull skimmed the loch, its head turning this way and that, looking for fish; a seal rolled and turned as lazily as any Mediterranean bather; people stood at their garden gates, talking in soft Highland voices; and the hum and chatter of the diners in the Italian restaurant came to Hamish’s ears, reminding him that he was hungry.
To make amends to Priscilla, he went into the police station and phoned her. He was told she was out and settled back to wait. If Priscilla was “out,” it meant she was headed in his direction. But as the hands of the clock crept around and his stomach rumbled, he realized that Priscilla must have gone somewhere else. He decided to treat himself to a meal at the Italian restaurant. He ambled along. As he drew nearer, he saw a couple sitting at the front window of the restaurant, noticed the gleam of candle-light on blonde hair, and saw with a stab of shock that Priscilla was having dinner with Peter Hynd. Hamish stood like a heron in a pool, one foot raised, arrested in mid-air. Then he slowly turned and began to walk back the way he had come.
? Death of a Charming Man ?
3
A man that studieth revenge keeps his own wounds green.
—Francis Bacon
Had Hamish been a Lowland Scot, he would have confronted Priscilla and Peter, or, at least, have phoned her later to tell her what he thought of her. But he was Highland, and his vanity was deeply wounded. So, maliciously hell-bent on mischief, he drove up to the Tommel Castle Hotel.
The first welcome sight that met his eyes was a new receptionist, a small, pretty girl with a cheeky face and a mop of auburn curls.
He had seen her before. She had, he judged, started work at the hotel about a fortnight ago. He smiled at her and said, “Where’s Priscilla?”
“She’s gone out,” said the receptionist. “Can I help? Och, I’m being silly. You’re Hamish.”
“You’re Scottish,” exclaimed Hamish. “I thought only the English took jobs as receptionists in Highland hotels. Are you from these parts?”
“No, from Perth.” She held out a small hand. “Sophy Bisset.”
“Well, Sophy Bisset, are you on duty for long tonight?” She glanced at the clock. “Harry, the night porter, should be here any moment to relieve me.”
“Fancy a bite of dinner?”
Her bright grey eyes twinkled at him. “I thought you lot had your dinner in the middle of the day and your tea by five.”
“I’ve been working hard.”
“As a matter of fact, I’ve only had a sandwich since lunchtime. Oh, here’s Harry.”
“Come along and I’ll stand ye dinner at that Italian place.”
She looked amused, as if at some private joke, but she picked up her handbag and said cheerfully, “All right. Let’s go.”
Seated in the Land Rover, she said, “This is very kind of you, Hamish. Safe in the arms of the law.”
“Chust so,” said Hamish, throwing her a slanting look. Had there been a mocking edge to her voice?
Wishing he were not wearing his uniform, Hamish ushered her into the restaurant. “Oh, there’s Priscilla. Surprise, surprise,” said Sophy, and Hamish at once knew that Sophy had been perfectly aware that they would meet Priscilla and her date. Willie Lamont, Hamish’s ex-policeman, came bustling up in his waiter’s uniform of striped sweater and indecently tight trousers. “Tch, Willie,” admonished Hamish. “If you go around in breeks like that, someone will be pinching your bum.”
“Lucia made me wear them,” said Willie sulkily. Lucia was his Italian wife. “Are you going to join Priscilla?”
“We’ll chust sit at this wee table in the corner.”
Willie handed them menus and sailed off.
Hamish looked at Sophy over the top of his menu. “You knew Priscilla was here,” he accused.
Sophy nodded, her eyes dancing. “The only reason a man like you would ask me out, Hamish Macbeth, would be to get revenge on Priscilla. I mean, just look at her. She could have stepped out of the pages of Vogue.”
There was simple admiration in her voice. Hamish reluctantly lowered the menu and looked at his beloved. She was wearing a white frilly blouse with a plunging neckline and a short, tight black skirt. The bell of her golden hair shone in, the candle-light She threw back her head and laughed at something Peter was saying.
“Look at me instead,” ordered Sophy. “She’s not enjoying herself one bit.”
“Could’ve have fooled me,” grumbled-Hamish. Willie came back and took their orders.
Priscilla was not enjoying herself. Before Hamish had come in, she had been about to leave. At first it had been nice to be out with such an attractive and charming man, bat Priscilla was conscious of Willie the waiter’s disapproving stares and of the cold looks she was getting from several of the villagers at the other tables, who obviously felt that she should not be out with another man. Then there was something about Peter that repelled her. She sensed in him a calculating hardness, and when he talked about meeting Hamish that afternoon, Priscilla became perfectly sure Peter had asked her out just to spite Hamish, although Peter did not tell her what Hamish had said. At last she gathered up her handbag and said, “Thank you for a lovely evening. I’ll have a word with Hamish before I go.”
Before Peter could say anything, she sailed over to Hamish’s table. “Good evening,” said Priscilla sweetly. “Finished your work, Sophy?”
“Yes, Harry’s on duty.”
“Did you give the Dunsters in room twenty-five their bill?”
“Yes, they paid and will leave in the morning.”
“And did the Trents arrive?”
“Just after you left. They’re in room fourteen.”
“And did you – ”
“For heffen’s sake,” said Hamish Macbeth loudly and crossly. “Leave the girl be, Priscilla. She’s not on duty now.”
“Then the pair of you should get on very well,” snapped Priscilla. “When were you last on duty, Hamish? And don’t give me that crap about investigating in Drim. You just wanted to get out of house-hunting.”
Peter fidgeted behind Priscilla. Things were not working out as he had planned. He was on the outside while, it appeared, two attractive women were competing for the attentions of Hamish.
