Death of a Glutton (3 page)

Ian Chisholm, the local garage owner, had renovated an old Volkswagen minibus, after he had learned that a party at the castle would be needing transport. He had sprayed the front of it bright red and then run out of that particular colour of paint, and so he had sprayed the rest primrose yellow. It had an odd carnival appearance, but at least the new coat of paint hid all the rust. The seats were badly damaged, as the previous owner had used it as a hen coop, but his wife had made some nice chintz loose covers to hide the defects.

Jenny, first to climb on board, felt her spirits lift. The ridiculous bus, combined with another beautiful day, made her feel she was indeed on foreign territory, with the pollution and bustle of London so far away. Matthew Cowper was next. He saw her, backed off the bus, waited until Mary French had taken a seat, and then got back on and sat down next to her. ‘Social-climbing little runt,’ thought Jenny bitterly and then reminded herself that she did not want him anyway, and as she was bound to be partnerless at the end of the week, she would get a refund, and so she should make the best of this free holiday. The next to arrive was John Taylor in an old blazer, white panama hat and white trousers, looking as if he were going to Henley Regatta rather than on a West Highland fishing boat. He raised his hat to Jenny and then sat down next to her. Outside the bus stood Maria Worth holding a clipboard which she felt made her look efficient. She was praying they would all get off before Peta rose and decided to join them. She did not relax until they were all on the bus, Deborah shrieking with delight at the chintz seat covers.

Jenny noticed Priscilla had joined the party, after overseeing the packing of cartons into the back of the bus.

The engine rattled and coughed and then finally roared into life. Off they went down the drive and out on to the single-track road which led down into the village of Lochdubh. Purple heather was blazing in all its glory, and far above two buzzards sailed lazily in the clear sky.

Priscilla stood up and faced the passengers. She was wearing a white blouse and a short denim skirt. She balanced easily in the swaying bus and her clear voice rose above the noise of the engine. ‘I have brought along some bottles of sun-barrier cream,’ she said. ‘The air up here is very clear and you can get very badly burned indeed unless you take the necessary precautions.’

I would like to be like that, thought Jenny. Cool and competent.

Lochdubh was calm and quiet under its Sunday torpor: rows of little white cottages, a few shops, and then the harbour.

A tall, red-haired man with hazel eyes and an engagingly shy smile welcomed them on board the
Jaunty Lass
. He was wearing a faded blue shirt and faded blue jeans. Jenny smiled shyly back at him, her interest quickened. Here was the sort of man she could go for. Not some pushy lout of a yuppie like Matthew Cowper. She wondered what it would be like to be a fisherman’s wife in this remote spot. Her romantic soul visualized living in one of those little cottages, waiting at dawn with a ragged tartan shawl about her shoulders and her hair streaming in the wind for the fishing boats to come home.

Then the dream was rudely shattered as she heard Priscilla hail the red-haired man with, ‘Hello, copper. Why aren’t you on your beat, Hamish?’

‘Archie asked me to help out,’ rejoined Hamish. ‘And what is yourself doing here?’ he added, not wanting her to know that the reason for his own presence was because Archie had told him she would be with the party.

‘Sean Gallagher’s got the sulks, so I’ve to do the cooking, Hamish. So you can start by helping me load these boxes.’

‘Can I help?’ asked Jenny eagerly.

Priscilla smiled. ‘You’re on holiday. Go and find a nice seat in the sun.’

Jenny watched as Hamish and Priscilla, with the help of the driver and Archie Maclean, carried the boxes on board. She noticed that Hamish and Priscilla had the ease and familiarity of old friends. But they were not engaged. Priscilla wore no ring. There was hope yet.

‘Is that everything?’ asked Maria.

‘Yes, all set,’ said Hamish. ‘I’ll just cast off. Wait a bit. Are you expecting anyone else? That’s the castle Range Rover coming down the hill at a fair pace.’

‘No,’ screamed Maria in sudden panic. ‘Get going, man, for God’s sake.’

Hamish quickly loosened the ropes from the capstans, shouted to Archie they were all set, and sprang on board. The short gangplank had already been pulled up. But Archie was fumbling about in the wheel-house as the Range Rover roared nearer, the horns going and the lights flashing. It screeched to a halt on the harbour and Peta lumbered down.

‘Wait!’ she called.

‘Can’t!’ shouted Maria cheerfully. ‘Too late!’

But Archie had nipped down from the wheel-house and was looking at her in surprise. He was hoping for tips, and as far as he was concerned, the more the merrier. ‘Och, it won’t take a minute to get her on board,’ he said. ‘Hamish, jump down and tie her up again.’

The passengers watched gloomily as Hamish sprang on to the harbour. As he busied himself with the ropes he said to Mr Johnson, who had brought Peta, ‘Couldn’t you have driven a bit slower? Nobody seems to want her.’

‘Are you kidding?’ demanded the manager. ‘She was screaming at me the whole way. If she’d had a whip, she’d have lashed at me to make me go faster.’

The gangplank was lowered. Peta waddled on board wearing a huge loose flowered dress like a tent. ‘Gosh, I’m starving,’ she cried. ‘When’s breakfast?’

‘Any minute now,’ said Priscilla. ‘Archie, Hamish will need to help me in the galley.’

‘What’s for breakfast?’ asked Hamish. ‘Bacon and eggs?’

‘No, kedgeree. I’ve a big pot of it. Sean keeps a ton of the stuff in the freezer and I defrosted it before I left. Heat up the rolls, Hamish, and put out the butter. Give them all a plate, cup, knife and fork – you’ll find them in that box over there – and then the coffee and tea’s in those giant flasks. They’re the kind with spouts, so all you’ve got to do is twist and pour. Serve Peta first and that’ll keep her quiet.’

Jenny came down into the galley. ‘I’m sure you need help,’ she said, but she looked at Hamish and not Priscilla.

To Priscilla’s annoyance, Hamish promptly relayed the orders she had just given him to Jenny. ‘Now what are you going to do?’ asked Priscilla, half exasperated, half amused as Jenny bustled off.

‘I’ll light the stove for you. It’s tricky,’ said Hamish, ‘and then when you’ve got the kedgeree heated, I’ll hold the casserole while you dish it out.’

‘I hope you won’t faint from exhaustion before the day is over,’ said Priscilla sarcastically.

‘I’ll do just fine.’

When the kedgeree was heated, Priscilla piled a plate high and handed it to Jenny, who was now waiting behind her. ‘Take that to Peta,’ said Priscilla. ‘There’s loads here. Tell her to leave room for lunch.’

The members of Checkmate were sitting on the small deck. Peta broke off flirting with Sir Bernard when she saw the food arrive. Her eyes gleamed. Jenny cast one horrified look at Peta shovelling kedgeree into her mouth and darted off down the companionway to get the food for the others. She felt brisk and efficient and quite confident now that she had something to do. She hoped that attractive policeman noticed just how brisk and efficient she was.

A policeman’s wife might be no bad thing. He was, she judged, in his thirties and should surely have been promoted to a higher rank by now if he were any good. But with a wife behind him, he might do wonders. He looked clever. She could see him now, solving cases in a sort of Lord Peter Wimsey way, throwing in the occasional apt quotation.

But that dream dissolved when she got downstairs again. Hamish was lying on one of the bunks, reading a newspaper. He did not look the least like an ambitious man.

Feeling slightly flat, she served the others before taking her own plate and sitting down to join them. The kedgeree was excellent, but they were all picking at their food and it was obvious they were trying to look anywhere and everywhere but at the glutton. Priscilla had made the mistake of bringing the remains of the casserole up, which Peta seized with both hands. She not only ate that but cleared up everyone else’s leftovers. She was a mess of crumbs and rice and fish. This mess, once temporarily sated, began to flirt again with Sir Bernard, who edged away from her and asked Deborah if she would like to go to the side and see if there were any seals.

‘Probably basking on rocks in this weather,’ said Deborah, but she joined him at the side. And then Sir Bernard felt a pudgy arm steal about his neck and Peta’s cooing voice saying, ‘You know, you’re my sort of man.’

Her fishy breath fanned his cheek. He could feel her blubbery body pressed against his side and wondered desperately why it was that men were always being accused of sexual harassment and never women. He had never before felt at such a loss, he, the business tycoon, who was used to handling all sorts of situations. He remembered visiting one of his stores to talk to the manager. He was leaving by walking through the shop after closing time when he had seen a light on in one of the fitting rooms. He had pulled back the curtain to switch the light off and had been confronted by a shop girl clad only in bra and pants, who had wet her lips and smiled at him seductively and he had immediately known she had staged the whole thing, had known he would leave by the shop floor and would see the light. He had jerked the curtain closed and had gone to fetch the manager, knowing the girl would be dressed by the time he returned. He therefore did not mention how he had found her but demanded the manager interrogate her as to why she was still on the premises after closing time. She made some lame excuse about getting ready to go to a party. He had drawn the manager aside afterwards and told him to wait three months, then find fault with the girl and sack her, and in the intervening period, he never went near the store. He had handled that properly. But there was something so repulsive, so frightening about Peta. She caused emotional claustrophobia. There was something almost cannibalistic about her. He jerked away from her and said desperately, ‘Now, now, Mrs Gore, you will be making my fiancée jealous.’

Peta looked at him sulkily. ‘Fiancée? What fiancée?’

‘Deborah,’ said Sir Bernard.

‘Oh, well …’ Peta rolled off in the direction of John Taylor to try her luck there.

‘Sorry about that,’ said Sir Bernard awkwardly. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. You must be very embarrassed.’

‘Gosh, no,’ said Deborah. ‘I was awf’ly flattered. For a moment I thought you meant it. Never mind. Look at that rock over there. What an odd shape.’

Sir Bernard looked at her fondly. She was far from pretty with her heavy face and limp brown hair, not to mention the backside, which was shown in all its glory in a brief pair of striped shorts, but she was clean and healthy and a good sort. Nothing messy or clingy about her.

‘I don’t know that I didn’t mean it,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘But it doesn’t do to rush things.’

‘Gosh, no,’ said Deborah. ‘I mean, we hardly know each other. I feel like one of those Victorian heroines. “This is so sudden.” Chin up! I’m not going to sue you for breach of promise.’ But she left her hand in his and the pair suddenly beamed at each other.

Thank God, thought Maria, covertly watching them. Not what I had intended, but who cares? Oh, if only Peta would fall overboard.

The headland fell away and the boat chugged on into the oily swell of the Atlantic. Down in the galley, Priscilla said to Hamish, ‘Get up and help me start preparing the lunch. I’m beginning to feel seasick.’

Hamish amiably swung his long legs down from the bunk. ‘Show me where the stuff is and then take yourself up on deck for a breath of fresh air.’

‘It’s cold salmon for lunch. The hollandaise is in that plastic container and the other container holds the salad-dressing. You’ve got to tear up the lettuce and stuff in that box and make a big bowl of salad. Then there’s quails’ eggs to be shelled and salted. Lots of French bread. The wine’s still cold and it’s in that crate over there, along with some beer in case anyone wants that. Oh, Jenny, what is it?’

‘The skipper’s complaining that he wants some real food. He couldn’t eat the kedgeree. He says it’s foreign muck.’

‘He’s got some bacon and eggs here,’ said Hamish, stooping down and looking in a small cupboard. ‘Fry him up some and add a couple of slices of fried bread and then give him a cup of strong black tea and he’ll be happy. You
are
looking a bit green, Priscilla. Off with you. We’ll manage.’

Priscilla took in great gulps of fresh air and then went into the wheel-house. ‘Can you find us somewhere on dry land for lunch, Archie?’ she yelled above the noise of the engine.

‘There’s Seal Bay if I turn down the coast,’ said Archie, swinging the wheel. ‘Usually too rough to get near it, but it should be chust fine the day.’

Priscilla went back out and joined Maria. ‘How’s it going?’ she asked.

‘No one seems interested in the ones I chose for them,’ mourned Maria. ‘I must be losing my touch. And Peta! What a disaster. Look, she’s oiling around John Taylor and he’s walked away from her several times.’

‘The others seem all right,’ said Priscilla. Sir Bernard and Deborah were holding hands, Peter Trumpington was being charming to Jessica Fitt – Jessica, who had actually managed to find a grey ensemble even for holiday wear; grey blouse with a thin white stripe and grey trousers. Matthew Cowper was showing off to Mary French, who was looking as smug as any woman who thinks she is a combination of Cleopatra and Princess Di usually looks.

And then Peta abandoned John and lumbered towards Matthew Cowper. ‘Oh, dear,’ said Maria. ‘Now would you look at her! She thinks she’s irresistible to men, no matter what age. I sometimes think all that food has lodged somewhere in Peta’s brain. She’s barmy.’

Matthew was backing towards the side of the boat away from Peta, who was flirting and ogling. And then Priscilla saw the sudden naked hatred in Mary French’s eyes as she looked at Peta and shivered despite the heat.

‘You must send her away,’ said Priscilla urgently.