He was lying peacefully. There was only a faint flicker of life in his pulse. They rushed him to hospital, but he was dead on arrival.
¦
Hamish Macbeth heard the news of John’s death later in the day. He thought sourly that all the inquiries that would be buzzing about Strathbane, first the wrongful arrest of Mary French, and now this, would keep everyone too busy to think about his promotion or landing some young constable in his home.
He decided to go up to the castle and see how Priscilla was.
Priscilla was dealing with the home-coming of her parents. They had arrived bringing their Caithness hosts, Mr and Mrs Turnbull, with them, along with Jamie Turnbull, their son, who was home on leave from his regiment. It was typical of her father not to phone to find out if there were any spare rooms, thought Priscilla furiously. Actually there were, for all had left, with the exception of Jenny Trask and her mother, a small capable woman who said they would have a few days’ rest after ‘little’ Jenny’s ordeal before travelling south. But the phone had been ringing steadily with bookings as the news of the arrest and subsequent death of the murderer got out. A murderer at large was bad for business. A murder solved gave the hotel an interesting cachet, particularly as the murderer had not turned out to be one of those dreadful common people.
“I am glad to see you, Mr and Mrs Turnbull and Jamie,” said Priscilla firmly, “but you can only stay a few days. Our books are getting full again.”
“What is this?” demanded the colonel, bristling. “May I remind you, dear girl, that this is
Hamish strolled in to hear that last sentence. Priscilla stood facing her father, cool and calm as usual, and then suddenly she cracked. “You’ve done bloody nothing to get this hotel off the ground. Nothing! I’ve worked and slaved, and so has Mother, while you strut around annoying the guests and then we have to soothe them down. You didn’t even bother to come back to help me when you knew there had been a murder committed. The attack on Deborah didn’t even move you. Oh, no! I’ve got to stay here and cope with the lot, me and Mr Johnson. I’m tired of your poncing, your vanity, and your bullying. Get stuffed, Daddy dear!”
She stormed off. The colonel stood, his mouth opening and shutting. “Why don’t we all go into the bar?” said Mrs Halburton-Smythe brightly. “I’m sure we could all do with a drink.” And propelling her husband in front of her and Mr and Mrs Turnbull, she shooed them toward the bar like a fussy mother hen shepherding her chicks.
Jamie Turnbull found Priscilla in the kitchen. “You’ve had a hard time,” he said. He was a tall, pleasant- looking young man. “Believe me, I tried to get your father to go home, but he wouldn’t budge.”
“It’s all right now,” said Priscilla weakly. “I wish I hadn’t lost my temper.”
“He needed a telling off. Look, you’re frazzled to bits. Why don’t you come with me and we’ll go off for a drive, have dinner somewhere and keep away from this workhouse.”
“Oh, I’d love that,” said Priscilla. “Once Daddy’s recovered from the shock, he’ll be raging about the place all day.”
The kitchen door opened and Hamish Macbeth looked in. “All right, Priscilla?” he asked. “I wass wondering if you felt like a bite to eat at that new Italian place this evening?”
Suddenly Priscilla remembered looking down from the castle and seeing Jenny kissing him. “I already have a dinner date, Hamish,” she said coldly. “But if you’re at a loose end, your little friend Jenny’s still about.”
Hamish retreated and banged the kitchen door. He walked moodily out to the Land Rover and stood beside it, kicking the gravel in the drive. He had seen Priscilla come to life. She had been magnificent when she had given that old scunner of a father of hers the dressing down he so much deserved. And he had been looking forward to telling her about the case. But all she wanted to do was go off with Jamie Turnbull, Jamie Turnbull who, as Hamish knew, was rich, popular and a captain in a Highland regiment. Jenny, indeed! He was not interested in Jenny.
And then there was Jenny herself, walking towards him with a grey-haired woman who, he guessed, was probably her mother.
“Hamish,” cried Jenny. “I was coming to see you. You have been so awfully clever. Do tell Mummy and me how you solved the case.”
“I haven’t the time at the moment,” said Hamish.
“Maybe later,” urged Jenny.
“My daughter tells me there’s a good Italian restaurant in the village,” said Mrs Trask. “We would be honoured if you would join us for dinner tonight. I owe you a great debt of thanks. If it had not been for your intelligence and capability, my poor daughter might still be under suspicion of murder.”
“She was never that,” said Hamish, although her words were balm to his soul so recently wounded by Priscilla.
Priscilla came out of the castle with Jamie. They got into Jamie’s Jaguar and roared off.
Hamish watched them go with bleak eyes.
“So please say you will come,” urged Mrs Trask.
“Yes, I’d be delighted,” said Hamish finally.
“Good, we’ll meet you there at seven o’clock.”
Hamish drove back to the village. The village spinsters, Jessie and Nessie Currie, were waiting for him outside the police station.
“Just imagine!” cried Jessie. “A lawyer being involved in drug smuggling! In drug smuggling!”
“And it’s just said on the radio that he took his own life,” said Nessie. “Did he inject himself with crack?”
“No,” said Hamish crossly. “He was a madman who killed by mistake. Had he lived, the charge would probably have been reduced from murder to culpable homicide.”
“You said it was the drugs,” said Jessie, disappointed. “Not much of a policeman, are you? Not much of a policeman.”
“Run along, ladies,” said Hamish. “I have work to do.”
He went into the police station by the kitchen door at the back. His dog, Towser, who had been feeling neglected during the case, stared at him accusingly. He had had no walks, only let out into the field at the back, and, worse man that, Hamish had been feeding him dog food, and Towser liked people food. “I sometimes think you’re the only friend I’ve got, Towser,” said Hamish. The yellowish mongrel turned his back on him as if to remind him that even that was in doubt.
Hamish looked at the kitchen. The sink was piled high with dirty dishes. He sighed and went back out to the butcher’s, where he bought a pound of liver. He returned and cooked it and then, when it was cool, cut it up and gave it to Towser. Then he washed the dishes while the dog ate and then cleaned the rest of the kitchen. He moved to the remainder of the house, changing the sheets on the bed, washing them by hand because he had not yet got a washing machine and hanging them out in the back garden to dry. He then took Towser for a long walk. A stiff breeze was sending choppy angry little waves splashing on the beach, but it gradually entered his soul that murder had left Lochdubh, that everything was back to normal, and he had a pleasant dinner to look forward to…and sod Priscilla.
By evening, he felt it had all been some sort of nightmare. The police station was clean, and warm from the fire in the kitchen stove. Towser was happily stretched out before it. He phoned his cousin in London to tell him about the case and then he bathed and dressed in a clean shirt and tie and his one pair of good trousers.
Jenny and her mother were already there and waiting for him when he arrived at the restaurant. As soon as the pre-dinner drinks had been served, he was pressed to tell them all about it.
“It was the madness of it all,” said Hamish. “That was the clue. Your daughter helped a lot, Mrs Trask.”
“She’s a bright girl,” said Mrs Trask fondly and patted her daughter’s hand. “But how did she help?”
“She said she was upset because she sensed one of them was mad. I found myself thinking about that. Then my cousin, Rory, who works for a newspaper, said the religious correspondent had been taken off to a mental asylum. I talked to him again before coming here, and he was saying how odd it was that in newspapers, the church, law, or various other places which house eccentrics, that someone can be going quite mad and yet all that happens for a long time is that they build up the reputation of being a ‘great old character’. Now John Taylor had punched a policeman in the face outside the Old Bailey for trying to stop him parking on a double-yellow line. You would have thought that would have been the end of Mr Taylor’s career, but not a bit of it. The policeman did not press charges, but it got in the newspapers and John Taylor received very affectionate comments from various columnists.”
