“You will make some lady a good husband, Weellie,” teased Lucia.
He turned and looked at her. The wind of the night before had calmed down to a light breeze. Tendrils of hair were blowing about her pretty face. He heaved a great sigh.
“Hamish Macbeth has the right of it,” he said sadly. “I’m an auld woman, always fussing ower the housework. What woman would want a man like that?”
Lucia looked at him, wide-eyed. “Do you mean, if you were married, you would still be doing the housework?”
“Aye, that’s a fact, Lucia. I’d always be there, fussing and cleaning.”
Her eyes began to glow. She thought back on her young life in the village in Italy with her seven little brothers and sisters, a life of perpetual cleaning and drudgery. She raised her red hands and looked at them, turning them this way and that, and then she put them gently on Willie’s shoulders.
“You have never tried to kiss me, Weellie.”
He looked at her in surprise and then his eyes fell to that deliriously pouting mouth. He had dreamt of kissing Lucia, but always in some romantic setting, up on the heathery moors or out on a boat in the loch, but never had he imagined it as he was doing now, kissing her while the seagulls swooped and dived about the restaurant rubbish. He had never experienced anything like it. When he at last freed his mouth, he was trembling and tears were running down his cheeks.
“Don’t make fun o’ me,” he said hoarsely.
“I’ll never make fun of you,” said Lucia, kissing the end of his pointed nose. “Not even after we’re married.”
“Married! You’d marry me? Oh, my heavens!”
“But you’d better go and see Mr Ferrari and get his permission. Will we live in the police station?”
“Will we, hell!” cried Willie. “I’ve got a tidy bit put by and we’ll get a nice house all to ourselves.”
They went in to see Mr Ferrari, who listened to them impassively and then said, “Lucia, there are vegetables to prepare in the kitchen.”
Then he sat down at a restaurant table and waved a hand to indicate that Willie should sit opposite.
“Lucia is a good Catholic,” began Mr Ferrari.
“I’m a Roman Catholic myself,” said Willie.
“But I haven’t seen you at mass.”
“A lapsed Catholic, but I can take it up agin,” said Willie eagerly.
“And will you be able to support her on a policeman’s pay?”
“Aye, I can that. I’ve got a good bit in the bank.”
“How much?”
“About fifty thousand pounds.”
“What! How did you get that?”
“I won one o’ thae competitions in the newspapers.”
Mr Ferrari leaned back in his chair. “I hear the murder has been solved by Hamish.”
“Aye,” said Willie bitterly, “and he did his best tae keep me out of it. Wanted all the glory for hisself.”
“Do you like police work?”
Willie looked puzzled. “I never really thought about it, to tell you the truth. Everyone says it’s a good job and you get respect.”
“But not from Hamish Macbeth. Would you expect Lucia to work once she was married?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Willie.
The lizard eyes looked at him with calculation. “You would be a boon to this restaurant of mine, Willie. Girls like Lucia I can get, but I am old and need someone to manage the place. Luigi and Giovanni would not mind. They are no good with orders and bookkeeping and know it. What would you say if I asked you to leave your job and come into business with me?”
Willie saw stretching out before him a life of endless cooking and cleaning and thought he might faint from excitement.
“Oh, that would be grand.”
“Then I suggest you tell that lanky drip of nothing called Hamish Macbeth the good news as soon as possible. He has done better for himself than he deserves.” Mr Ferrari leaned over and picked up a copy of the local newspaper. “He is, I see, engaged to Priscilla Halburton-Smythe.”
“Oh, aye,” said Willie, “I knew that was on the cards.”
¦
Priscilla had arrived back at the police station with bottles of champagne which she had bought at Patel’s. “I thought we would all celebrate the end of the nightmare,” she said, popping a cork. “Hamish, are you sure you didn’t let slip about any of this to anyone other than us?”
“Of course not. Why?”
“Mr Patel kept shaking my hand and saying, “Congratulations.””
“He probably knows you were there with me when we caught Cheryl,” said Hamish.
“That must be it,” said Priscilla doubtfully.
Nessie Currie erupted into the room and glared at her sister. “So this is where ye are!” she cried. “And drinking champagne like the veriest whore. Shame on ye. Are ye not in enough trouble as it is? Are ye…?”
Jessie smiled mistily at her sister over the rim of her champagne glass as Mrs Wellington interrupted Nessie’s tirade with a booming cry of “Hamish has burnt the video and you’ve got most of your money back.”
Nessie sank down slowly into a chair and heard the whole story. “Oh, my,” she said weakly, “and here’s me ranting and raving. And of course there’s every reason why we should be drinking champagne on this happy day, Miss Halburton-Smythe. Yes, I’ll hae a glass and drink to your health.”
“Thank you,” said Priscilla in surprise.
Angela smiled teasingly at Hamish. She already looked years younger. “John always said you’d never do it, Hamish, but I was sure you would.”
“I’m surprised at Dr Brodie,” said Hamish. “I haff solved the murders afore.”
“Oh, not
“When’s what?”
“Why, your wedding!”
“What wedding?” howled Hamish.
“It’s in the
“Oh, my poor father,” said Priscilla weakly. “He’ll have a stroke.”
“You mean,” said Angela, her face falling, “that you haven’t…that you didn’t know anything about it?”
“Not a thing.”
The phone rang in the police station office. Hamish went to answer it. It was Superintendent Peter Daviot from Strathbane. “Well done, Hamish,” he cried.
“Thank you,” said Hamish modestly. “I was just doing my job.”
“Not your job, man, your engagement. Terrific news. My wife’s going out to look for an engagement present for you.”
“But – ”
“Not another word, you sly dog!”
And the superintendent rang off.
“Don’t worry, Hamish,” came Priscilla’s voice from next to him. “We’ll get the paper to print an apology.”
He twisted his head and looked up at her. She looked amused, cool and beautiful…and distant.
With one abrupt movement, he pushed back his chair, and reaching up an arm, jerked her down on to his knees and began to kiss her, dizzy with emotion, fatigue, whisky and champagne.
The phone began to ring again but both ignored it. Willie walked in and picked it up. “Oh, it’s yerself, Mrs Macbeth,” he said to Hamish’s mother. “Yes, that’s right. Well, himself is tied up at the moment. I’ll get him to ring back.”
He shook his head over the entwined couple and went out.
“Who was that?” murmured Priscilla against Hamish’s lips.
“Don’t know and don’t care. Kiss me again.”
