along in,” she said cheerfully.
“So how’s yourself?” asked Annie, once he was settled in a chair in the living room. “Isn’t it grand they’ve got someone for these murders, and an outsider, too.” Hamish clasped his hands round his knees and looked at her steadily. “Annie, it is my belief that Randy Duggan was not killed by Beck.”
Her mouth dropped open. “But…b-but…” she stammered, “it’s all over. Nothing to do with us.”
“It would be grand if I could believe that.”
“If you could believe that! And just who are you, Hamish Macbeth? You’re only a village copper. If your superiors in Strathbane are satisfied, then what’s it to do with you?”
“It’s to do with justice, Annie. I don’t like the idea of a murderer going free, and neither should you.”
“You’ve no right to come here and talk rubbish. Just because you wear a uniform, you think you can go around bullying poor widows.” She began to cry. Hamish looked at her in frustration. “Annie, Annie, pull yourself together, lassie. What’s so awful about me thinking the murderer is still at large?”
“Because you’re wrong,” she shouted through her tears. Hamish left. He had done what he had come to do, which was to start the gossip circulating fast around Lochdubh that he was still on the look-out for the murderer.
¦
Two hours later, Priscilla was arranging a new consignment of paperweights on the shelves of the gift shop when the shop bell clanged and Lucia came in. She was wearing a gleaming red oilskin with bright-red Wellington boots. “Hallo,” said Priscilla. “Come to buy something, or just a chat?”
“Just a chat,” said Lucia, taking off a scarlet rain hat and shaking out her dark curls.
“It’s quiet today.” Priscilla went behind the counter and picked up a jug of coffee. “Care to join me?”
“Thank you.”
“So what’s new in Lochdubh? Everyone must be feeling cheered up at the arrest of Beck. When these awful things happen, I’m always frightened it might turn out to be one of us.”
“Someone still might be determined to make it one of us.”
Lucia perched on a chair at the counter and took the cup of coffee Priscilla was holding out to her.
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” began Lucia primly, and Priscilla reflected that not only had the beautiful Lucia lost her charming Italian accent but was rapidly assuming the mannerisms of a Scottish village housewife of the gossipy variety, “Hamish Macbeth is going around tormenting everyone and saying this man, Beck, did not murder Duggan but one of us did.”
“And why should he say that?”
“It’s his pride. He’s begun to believe he solved all those past cases himself.”
“He did!”
“We have only his word for it.”
“Oh, no, I was there at some of them, and believe me, if it had not been for Hamish’s brains and Highland intuition, some criminals would still be at large.”
“Willie says there’s another reason.”
“That being?”
“That if it’s Strathbane that’s not convinced that Beck did the murder, then it stands to reason that Hamish should go around accusing one of us.”
“I don’t follow your reasoning.”
“Don’t you see, Hamish is the one who is the most likely suspect. He was the one who was saved from being beaten by Randy because of his death.”
“I know Hamish Macbeth very well,” said Priscilla severely, “and he would never harm anyone, let alone kill him.”
Lucia dropped her long eyelashes and looked thoughtfully at her coffee cup. “I sometimes wonder if any of us really knows Hamish. I mean, I was shocked when I heard he had been found in bed with that Betty woman, and her someone else’s fiancee, too.”
Priscilla reached across the counter and firmly took Lucia’s coffee-cup from her. “I can’t spend any more time gossiping,” she said. “I have work to do.” Lucia picked up her rain hat and put it on. She walked to the door. With her hand on the doorknob she looked over her shoulder. “Poor Priscilla,” she murmured, and then she left.
Priscilla grimly went back to stacking the shelves. Damn the philandering Hamish Macbeth. Because of Lucia’s last remarks about Hamish and Betty, she had forgotten the earlier ones about Hamish’s not believing Beck was the murderer. John and Betty were still at the hotel. They were not due to leave until the end of the following week. She would be glad to see them go.
¦
Towards evening, the rain eased off and a watery sun turned the sea loch to gold. Hamish, who had completed some long neglected paperwork, stretched and yawned. He went outside and leaned on the garden gate.
He saw the Currie sisters approaching and wished he could turn and run indoors, but that would show guilt over having been found in bed with Betty, and what he did in his own bed in his own home was his business. Or so he told himself as both approached, with identical shopping baskets over their arms and the pale sun glinting on their glasses.
“You should be ashamed of yourself, ashamed of yourself,” said Jessie, who had an irritating habit of repeating everything.
“What I do in my own bedroom is nothing to do with you.”
“We’re talking about you going round the village throwing suspicion on everyone so you don’t get suspected of murdering that Duggan yourself,” said Nessie.
“What!” Hamish looked every bit as bewildered as he felt.
“Accusing folks, accusing folks,” snapped Jessie.
“You’re the only one that has to worry,” said Nessie. “Weren’t you the one that stood to get a pounding from Randy Duggan and weren’t you the one who was saved by his murder?”
“His convenient murder, his convenient murder,” said Jessie.
“That’s daft,” said Hamish. “And who’s been saying such a thing?”
“It’s self-evident,” said Nessie smugly.
Both sisters moved on.
Hamish stared after them and scratched his head. Now who had been putting that idea into their heads?
He had a sudden sharp longing to see Priscilla, not, he told himself severely, for any romantic reasons, but simply to toss around a few ideas.
He changed out of his uniform into a shirt, sweater and jeans, and drove up to the Tommel Castle Hotel. He parked the Land Rover, and as he was walking across the gravel of the forecourt, Betty came out.
Hamish blushed. “I’m sorry I haven’t called you, Betty,” he said awkwardly, vivid memories of what they had done together rushing into his head. “I did try once, but you were out.”
“That’s all right.” She reached up and kissed him on the cheek. Hamish drew back hurriedly. “Where’s John?”
“Around,” she said carelessly. “Let’s go up to my room and have a…chat.” She wet her lips.
“No, no,” babbled Hamish, backing towards the castle and stumbling as he went. “I’m on business.”
He mopped his brow as soon as he was indoors. He went through to the hotel office where Priscilla was working at a computer. She gave him a closed look but said, “Take a chair and help yourself to coffee. I’ll be through with this in a minute.”
He poured coffee, sat down and watched as she competently typed out hotel accounts. The bell of her fair hair shone golden in a shaft of sunlight. He thought briefly of the dark swarthiness of Betty with a sudden stab of revulsion.
At last, she switched off the computer and said quietly, “Well, Hamish?”
“Well, Priscilla, I’m not going to chew over why I was in bed with Betty. I want to talk about the case.”
“What case?”
“The murder of Randy Duggan, lassie.”
