When lunch was over, they walked to Abercrombie Place. Hamish had brought an overnight bag just in case. David handed him the keys. “Let’s have a look at you again. Hamish, that’s a cheap watch.”
“So? I’m an eccentric billionaire.”
“Borrow my Rolex and don’t lose it. It’s an oyster and you could buy a wee house for the price o’ that. Good hunting and let me know how you get on.”
The day was fine. Hamish suddenly thought of Priscilla and wished they were walking together through this most beautiful of cities. Hard to imagine, here in the centre, that there were grim crime-ridden housing estates on the outside of the charmed Georgian New Town.
He found the clothing store. The prices were very high. The name BROMLEY was in thick gold letters above the door. He pushed open the door and walked in. A male assistant in a kilt of one of the gaudier tartans minced forward. “Can I help you, sir?”
“Just looking around,” said Hamish. Because of the pads in his cheeks, his voice did not sound like his own.
“Do look at our new suede jackets,” urged the assistant. “They’re to die for.”
“I hear you’ve just opened,” said Hamish. “I’m over from Canada and I’m looking for good investments. I heard Mr. Bromley was a shrewd businessman. I just had lunch at the Merlin Club and his name was mentioned.”
“As a matter of fact, Mr. Bromley is in his office. I’ll call him.”
After a few minutes, Thomas Bromley bustled in, as fat and cheerful as Hamish remembered him, the smile on his small mouth, however, never reaching his watchful, assessing eyes. Like his assistant, he was dressed in a kilt and ruffled shirt under a velvet jacket. The kilt, reflected Hamish, only looked good when worn by sturdy men with good legs. Chubby as he was, Bromley had stick-like legs.
He rubbed his hands. “I hear you are interested in investing. Why don’t we go over to the pub and have a chat.” His eyes swept over Hamish’s expensive suit and flicked a glance at the expensive Rolex on his wrist.
They walked to a pub and entered into the beer-smelling gloom. Hamish ordered whisky and Bromley said he would have the same.
“And who do I have the honour of addressing?” he asked.
“I’m Diarmuid Jenkins the Third,” said Hamish. “My mother was highland and my father was Canadian. I own several fish farms and other businesses. I always regard Scotland as my home country.”
“That’s fine. Are you interested in the clothing business?”
“Not really. I was thinking more of something like the restaurant business.”
“Now, there’s a thing. I happen to have an interest in restaurants. I am the main shareholder in a chain of restaurants.”
“In Scotland?”
“Not yet. But thinking of expanding. My company is called Britfood. My restaurants are very successful. Look, a friend of mine has a better head for business than I have. Why don’t we all meet up for dinner at the Merlin Club tonight and discuss things over a good bottle of wine? Say, eight o’clock?”
“I’d like that,” said Hamish. He gave a rather vacant laugh. “Back home I’ve a good manager although he annoys me by saying that if the running of things was left to me, we’d be broke tomorrow. I want to show him I can do things for myself.”
“That’s the ticket!” said Bromley, rubbing his chubby hands. “You’ll show him by the time I’m finished with you.”
As he got ready for the evening, Hamish thought he would be glad when the masquerade was over. The pads in his cheeks were uncomfortable and the glasses were pinching his nose. He put on Priscilla’s uncle’s evening suit and set out for the Merlin Club, phoning Willie Lamont before he left to say that he’d been delayed.
He had not been frightened before in his dealings with Bromley, but when he walked into the club and saw Charles Prosser sitting there he suddenly felt a frisson of fear. His highland sixth sense picked up danger. Prosser hailed him, all bluff and hearty and with a crushing handshake. Hamish proceeded to play the rather pompous idiot very well, carefully instilling into their brains that his excellent manager was the one with the business acumen. Then Prosser said, if “Diarmuid” didn’t mind, he had some papers to leave at his office. As they approached Prosser’s office, Hamish noticed a burglar alarm box over the door. Bromley poured Hamish a drink from a bar in the corner. At one point, Prosser excused himself and opened a safe in the wall. Hamish had turned on a little tape recorder in his pocket and recorded the clicks.
“The best idea is for you to come round to my office tomorrow at noon,” said Prosser, putting some papers in the safe and shutting it again, “and we can all go through the business then. Here’s my card. But tonight’s for fun.”
When they moved to a pub after dinner, Hamish insisted on buying the first round. He went up to the bar and ordered double whiskies for both men and then said to the barman, “How would you like to serve me cold tea and keep the price of my drinks for yourself?”
“Right, mac. You’re my man.”
Hamish then proceeded to pretend he was getting very drunk. He slurred that he was determined to return to Canada with a good portfolio and slam it down on the desk of his manager.
The evening finally broke up. Hamish insisted on walking and lurched off down the street.
Once back at the flat, he took the pads out of his cheeks, dressed in a black sweater and trousers, assembled a housebreaking tool kit, set the alarm for two in the morning, and fell asleep.
Tam Tamworth was trying to sleep in one of the spare bedrooms at Milly’s house. Three times the evening before he had tried to summon up courage to propose marriage to Milly, but each time the words just wouldn’t come.
Suddenly he sniffed the air. There was a smell of smoke. Maybe Milly had left a pot on the cooker. He wrapped himself in a voluminous dressing gown and made his way downstairs. The smell was coming from the drawing room. He flung open the door. Coals and wood were blazing on the floor in front of the fire. He rushed into the kitchen, ran a bucket of water, ran back to the drawing room, and threw the water over the fire. It took another bucket of water to put the fire out.
He stood looking down at the blackened mess, scratching his hair. It had been a warm evening, and they hadn’t lit the fire.
Tam went up the stairs and opened the door of Milly’s bedroom. He shook her awake. “Did you light the fire, Milly?”
“What fire?”
“The drawing room.”
She struggled up against the pillows. “No, Tam. What’s up?”
“I’m getting the police. Someone tried to burn the house down.”
Milly put on her dressing gown and followed him downstairs. She let out a shriek of alarm when she saw the burned mess in the drawing room. Tam phoned Hamish but only got the answering service. He then phoned Strathbane. He was told to contact Hamish Macbeth but replied that he was not getting any answer from the police station at Lochdubh. Police Inspector Mary Benson was roused and told of the fire. She telephoned Jimmy Anderson and asked sharply where Hamish was. When he said he did not know, she told him to get over to Drim immediately. The Scenes of Crimes Operatives were already on their way.
Milly sat in the kitchen waiting for them to arrive, her face white with shock. Tam went up to his room and collected the diamond engagement ring. He returned to the kitchen and knelt down in front of Milly and took her cold hands in his. He mutely held up the ring box and looked at her with pleading eyes.
Milly opened the box. “Will you marry me?” asked Tam in a hoarse voice.
A faint pink suffused her pale cheeks and she said shyly, “Oh, yes.”
He stood up and leaned forward to kiss her when there came a hammering at the door.
“Damn,” he muttered and went to answer it.
At first Hamish thought it was his alarm and then realised it was his mobile phone. Jimmy was at the other end. “Where the hell are you? Someone tried to set the captain’s house on fire.”
“Is Milly all right?”
“Yes, fortunately Tamworth was staying there and got the fire out in time. Why aren’t you at the station?”
