? Death of a Travelling Man ?
5
There’s a great deal to be said
For being dead.
—E. C. Bentley
After a week of squally, sleety rain, the weather became balmy again and the waters of the loch still. Seagulls cruised lazily overhead, swooping occasionally to admire their reflections and then soaring effortlessly up again. On the surface, Lochdubh looked much the same as ever. Smells of strong tea and tar and peat smoke. Sounds of radio, clattering dishes, bleating sheep, and chugging boats.
But underneath it all the theft of the Mothers’ Union funds spread like a cancer. Hamish, after wondering how long Priscilla meant to ignore him, eventually caved in and took the single-track road up out of the village to the hotel.
He felt a slight pang when he saw her busy in the gift shop, her smooth blonde hair lit by a shaft of sunlight. She was selling expensive souvenirs to a group of men who, Hamish noticed with irritation, were taking a long time about their purchases.
At last the shop was empty. Priscilla gave Hamish a guarded look and said, “Coffee?”
“That would be grand. Haven’t seen you around for a bit.”
“I’ve been here, you know,” said Priscilla with an edge on her voice. “I gather you and Doris had a pleasant dinner last week.”
“She invited me,” said Hamish defensively, for he felt guilty at having accepted the invitation, knowing he had only done it in the hope that Doris would tell Priscilla, which she evidently had.
Priscilla handed him a mug of coffee. “Well, let’s hope our new receptionist doesn’t fall for you as well.”
“New receptionist? What’s happened to Doris?”
“Dear me. Didn’t she tell you? She left. She’s got a job in a hotel in Perth.”
Hamish felt nothing but relief. Doris had all but proposed to him and it had been an agonizing and embarrassing evening.
“Well, what’s been going on?” asked Priscilla. “I heard about the money disappearing from the Mothers’ Union.”
“Oh, it’s the bad business.” Hamish pulled a chair up to the counter and sat down. “All the women are at each other’s throats, the one accusing the other. Dr Brodie’s had four packets of morphine stolen and the only suspect was Sean, but he was searched and we couldn’t find anything. His girlfriend’s gone off but the bastard’s still there, like some canker in the middle of the village.”
“It’s those demonic good looks of his, Hamish. He’s just a small-time crook, not the devil. I know he took that scarf and then slipped it back somehow.”
“He’s doing a rare job, nonetheless. He’s managed to talk Mr Wellington out of his faith and Mr Wellington has been using some old sermons he found and it’s all hell-fire and damnation and they love it. Archie Maclean told me he gave up seeing a video of
“It sounds awful. How’s Willie?”
“I don’t know whether the lad’s smitten with Lucia Livia, or whether it’s the dirty stoves at the restaurant he’s after. He lives to clean. Look at that!” Hamish held up one glittering black boot for her inspection. “Even the insoles are polished. Look at my shirts! Starched, every one of them. I’ve got such knife-edged creases in my trousers, it’s a wonder I don’t cut myself.”
“Some people would think you were lucky,” pointed out Priscilla, “living as you do with a combination of housekeeper and valet.”
“No, it iss not! I sat down to my breakfast this morning and Willie screeches, “A fly! A fly!” seizes a can of fly-killer and pumps it all over the kitchen and all over my food. If they ever take a blood sample from me, it’ll be three parts insecticide and one part disinfectant. But I’ve got used to Willie. He’s a kind enough lad. He’s jist stark- staring mad, that’s all. No, I feel if I could sort Mr Wellington out and get him to put some sense into the villagers, things would get better.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” said Priscilla, unhitching her coat. “I’m just about to lock up for lunchtime anyway.”
“You? What can you do?”
“He might just listen to me. It’s worth a try.”
“Well,” said Hamish doubtfully, “do your best. Have you forgiven me?”
“For letting Blair get away with all sorts of mayhem? I still think that was bad of you, Hamish, but when have I ever been able to stay mad at you for long?”
“It’s a long time since you’ve been to see me.”
“I’m an old–fashioned girl. The gentlemen are supposed to call on me.”
“Well, I’ll call on you tonight and take you for dinner.”
“Can’t. The hotel’s too busy. Sunday’s free. Let’s catch the hell-fire sermon and then go to the Napoli.”
“Suits me. But see if you can do something with Mr Wellington!”
¦
Priscilla found the minister in his study. He was sitting in front of the fire, reading a book. “Oh, Miss Halburton-Smythe,” he said in a dull voice, “what can I do for you?”
“I’ve been hearing about you from Hamish,” said Priscilla.
The minister gave her a tortured look. “Ah, yes,” he said with a weary sigh, “about my loss of faith.”
“I am more concerned about you losing your marbles,” said Priscilla incisively.
He turned his head away. “There is so much suffering in the world,” he moaned, “and what can I do about it?”
“You could do something with your own parish. If everyone did some good about themselves, their family and their neighbours, the ripples might begin to spread outwards. I spoke to several of the village women before I came here. The place is riddled with spite. Instead of being sunk in self-absorption and self-pity, you might get off your bum and write a sermon to change the horrible spite and gossip of your parishioners. If you want your faith to come back to you, then you might start by acting as if you’ve got a heart and soul!”
Mr Wellington’s head jerked round and he glared at Priscilla. “There has often been talk that you might marry Hamish Macbeth,” he said, “but now I think I know why the man is so reluctant to propose.”
“Why, you old horror!” said Priscilla, quite unruffled.
He rose to his feet. “How dare you attack a minister of the Church!”
“Take a look at yourself in the mirror,” said Priscilla. “Take a good hard look and then ask yourself if you are not looking at the most selfish man in the whole of Lochdubh. Forget about your lost faith. If it’s such a terrible thing, don’t you think you might try instilling some thoughts of faith, charity, and goodness into your flock? Why should they lose their faith, just because you’ve lost yours? I am going to hear your sermon on Sunday and I warn you, if you start reading out one of those old sermons, I will get to my feet and attack you in the middle of the church for being a fraud.”
She marched out. Hamish was strolling along the waterfront. He came up to her. “How did you get on?” he asked.
“All right. I think a few gentle words were all that was needed.”
¦
The church was crowded as usual on Sunday. Priscilla and Hamish managed to find space in a pew at the back. “Look,” said Priscilla, nudging Hamish. “There’s your devil.”
Sean Gourlay was standing beside a pillar at the side of the church but where he could command a good view
