Death of an Outsider (13 page)

‘Hello! Hamish Macbeth! Are you there?’ called a voice from the other side of the snow wall. Jamie Ross.

‘What is it?’ called Hamish.

‘Just want a wee word,’ called Jamie. ‘I’ll shovel my end and you shovel yours and we might meet in the middle.’

Hamish sighed and picked up the shovel and dug until he had made a gap. He found Jamie and Helen Ross on the other side. ‘Come in,’ said Hamish reluctantly.

He led the way up the path and into the kitchen. Helen Ross looked more beautiful than ever in a white parka over a scarlet wool jump suit and white high boots.

‘No more trouble, I hope?’ asked Hamish.

‘We felt we’d better give you an explanation,’ said Jamie awkwardly. ‘I told Helen to flirt with Mainwaring and find out if he knew about the plans for the railway.’

‘So you knew about the plans?’ asked Hamish.

‘Yes. But not that they’d been cancelled.’

‘It wasn’t a very secret meeting,’ said Hamish. ‘I’m beginning to wonder if the whole of Sutherland knew about it.’

‘Well, it turned out Mainwaring didn’t have a clue about the railway, but he wasn’t going to sell either.’

‘Oh, well,’ sighed Hamish. ‘It’s all over now. Why are you telling me this?’

‘Helen didn’t want you to think badly of her. That’s why she spun you that tale about being bored and all.’

‘I wish you had told me about the railway first thing,’ said Hamish sharply. ‘It would have saved a lot of time.’

He looked curiously at Helen as he spoke. She smiled at him and lit a cigarette. Hamish had a feeling that she had been telling the truth to a certain extent, that she had found Mainwaring’s company a pleasure and had been disappointed with him in Inverness.

‘And didn’t you think you were doing anything wrong by risking your wife’s reputation?’ asked Hamish.

‘Well, no,’ said Jamie awkwardly. The fact that the whole thing had been Helen’s idea hung in the air. ‘But I tell you this, Hamish: I’ll never do it again. I’ve been pushing and pushing to get money and more money, but I think greed and ambition are beginning to make me do things against my conscience. I’ll need to start another business now, for when it comes out at the trial about those cannibalistic lobsters of mine, I’ll be ruined.’

‘It won’t come out,’ said Hamish. ‘Mackay hanged himself last night.’

‘Clever man,’ said Helen Ross, and blew a smoke ring.

Jamie ignored her. ‘Here!’ he said. ‘I hope it was suicide.’

‘Yes, no doubt about it.’

Jamie looked dazed. ‘I’ve been up all night, plotting and planning what to do. Now I don’t need to bother. But, you know, I can’t help feeling heart-sorry for Mackay. I would have liked to murder Mainwaring myself. Well, we’d better be on our way.’

Hamish watched them as they picked their way down the path, Jamie holding his wife’s arm so that she would not slip.

‘It’s a miracle he didn’t murder Main-waring,’ said Hamish to Towser, ‘for that man is married to a Lady Macbeth and disnae know it.’

Despite all his good intentions, Hamish found himself that evening in Jenny’s cosy kitchen. She was flushed and excited and strangely guilty about something. He asked her what was wrong, but she blushed and said, ‘Nothing.’

They had a pleasant dinner together and then went to bed for a more energetic night than they had had before.

Hamish awoke at dawn and propped himself up on one elbow and looked down at Jenny’s flushed and sleeping face and at her black curls. He decided to ask her to marry him. The sick, unnatural yearning for Priscilla would soon go away. He lay back on the pillows and clasped his hands behind his head and wondered what Priscilla would think when she learned of his marriage. She would do the right thing, of course; she always did. She would congratulate him warmly and send him a suitable present. But when she came calling at his kitchen door in Lochdubh, she would be an intruder, no longer a friend. Perhaps he and Jenny would have children and he could buy them train sets and teach them how to fish. He drifted off to sleep again, and in his dream it was the day of his wedding to Jenny, and Priscilla was telling him she had always loved him.

He awoke with a groan. Jenny stirred and put an arm across his naked chest.

‘Are you awake, Hamish?’ she whispered.

‘Yes,’ said Hamish gloomily. He had to propose – now or never.

‘There’s something I’ve got to tell you.’

Both twisted round and stared at each other, for they had said the same thing at the same time.

‘You first,’ said Hamish.

‘This is going to be difficult,’ said Jenny. ‘I love you, Hamish, but I’m going back to my husband.’

‘I thought you were divorced?’

‘I am. But this awful murder and Main-waring insulting my painting suddenly made me realize I’ve never stopped loving Andrew. He phoned from Canada yesterday evening. He still loves me, Hamish, and wants me back.’

Hamish at first felt a burst of sheer masculine fury, followed immediately by an odd floating feeling of relief.

‘We’re very good in bed together,’ said Jenny in a small voice. ‘But it’s not enough, is it, Hamish?’

‘No, I suppose not. When are you leaving?’

‘Not for a few months. I’ve got to sell up here and start shipping my paintings and belongings to Canada. Hamish, are you mad at me? I shouldn’t have gone to bed with you. But it just sort of happened.’

Jenny got out of bed and went to the window and drew the curtains. She scrubbed at the steamed-up glass with her fist and peered out. She shivered and crossed her arms over her naked breasts. ‘It’s snowing again, Hamish. What do you want to do?’

‘Come back to bed and I’ll show you,’ said Hamish Macbeth.

The rest of Hamish’s stay at Cnothan was quiet and dull. The snow changed to weeks of driving rain. He no longer made love to Jenny as lust on both sides disappeared, to be replaced by a comfortable friendship.

The first sunny morning in ages heralded his last day in Cnothan. He wanted to be out of the police station before MacGregor ’s return. He whistled as he cleaned the rooms and then he cleared all the groceries out of the kitchen cupboards and took them over to Jenny.

‘MacGregor left me nothing,’ said Hamish, ‘so he can find things exactly the same on his return. There’s three funny bottles of liqueur missing from his nasty bar, so I’ve left him a note, telling him to bill Blair.’

‘I’ve made you some sandwiches and a Thermos of coffee for the bus,’ said Jenny.

Hamish drew her into his arms and kissed her gently. ‘I’ll miss you, Jenny.’

She gave a little sniff and buried her head against his tunic. ‘You can come and stay with us in Canada’

‘No, Jenny. That would not be at all the thing. I’ll drop you a line from time to time.’

‘Here, I’ve a present for you.’ Jenny went to the corner and picked up a large square parcel.

‘What is it?’ asked Hamish.

‘It’s that painting of Clachan Mohr I did when I was angry.’

‘You could get a lot of money for that, Jenny,’ said Hamish awkwardly. ‘Or you could take it to your husband. He’d never call you a chocolate-box painter again.’

‘He’s admitted he was jealous,’ said Jenny cheerfully. ‘He really knows my paintings are good. I really don’t like that one, Hamish.’

‘Well, I’ll take it,’ said Hamish. But he privately thought it was a pity that Jenny did not realize her ex-soon-to-be non-ex husband had been right in the first place and was probably only being tactful now.

The small Lochdubh bus came screeching to a halt outside the post office as he stood there an hour later with his bags, his painting, and his dog.

The driver threw him an evil look and went off to buy cigarettes.

Hamish climbed on the bus, put his luggage on one seat and sat on the other with Towser beside him. The whole town was swimming in lazy golden light and people walked up and down aimlessly, looking drugged in the unfamiliar warmth.

A car drew to a halt beside the bus. Hamish looked idly down at the driver who was climbing out and his heart gave a painful lurch. Priscilla Halburton-Smythe. He stared straight ahead, his heart racing.

She poked her head in the door of the bus. ‘Want a lift to Lochdubh, copper?’ she called. Towser threw himself on Priscilla, uttering ecstatic yips of welcome.

‘Aye, that’ll be grand, Priscilla,’ said Hamish, his eyes wary.

He tried not to look at her, but was painfully aware of slim, stylish elegance and golden hair.

He wrestled with his bags and painting and climbed down from the bus. Priscilla opened the boot. ‘Put your bags in there, Hamish,’ she said. ‘What’s that parcel? It looks like a painting.’

‘It is,’ said Hamish. ‘I’d better put it in the back seat so it disnae get damaged.’

‘Won’t Towser sit on it?’

‘No, he’ll sleep on the floor. You know that, Priscilla.’

‘Yes, I know that.’ She straightened up after arranging his bags in the boot and slammed down the lid. Her eyes were clear and untroubled but slightly questioning.

‘You haven’t given me much of a welcome,’ she said.

‘I’m glad to see you,’ said Hamish formally. Then he went and climbed into the passenger seat, after putting Towser and the painting in the back of the car.

Priscilla was about to drive off when she suddenly switched off the engine and said, ‘There’s some woman running towards us. Do you know her?’

‘It’s Jenny,’ said Hamish. He rolled down the window.

‘I’m glad I caught you,’ panted Jenny. ‘You forgot your sandwiches and Thermos.’ She peered across Hamish at Priscilla.

‘Priscilla, this is Jenny Lovelace. Jenny, Priscilla Halburton-Smythe.’

Priscilla reached across Hamish and shook hands. Then Jenny blushed furiously. ‘Oh, I’ve put oil paint on your hand. I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s all right,’ said Priscilla, opening her handbag and taking out a packet of tissues and a bottle. ‘I have some nail varnish remover that will take it off.’

She would, thought Hamish glumly.

‘Can … can I have a word in private with you, Hamish?’ asked Jenny.

Hamish slid out of the car. Priscilla watched as Jenny said something and then threw her arms around Hamish’s tall figure and hugged him fiercely. Priscilla felt silly and miserable and wished she had not come. She had phoned Cnothan and had learned Hamish was leaving that day. A woman had answered the phone in the police station. Probably Jenny.

‘That must have been who phoned yesterday when you were out,’ whispered Jenny. ‘I forgot to tell you. Sorry.’

‘It’s all right, Jenny. Goodbye. Write to me.’

Hamish climbed back in the car. Jenny’s eyes filled with tears, and she turned and ran away up the main street.

Priscilla let in the clutch, and the Volvo moved off smoothly. She was wearing a tailored tweed jacket, worn open over a white shirt, with a slim heather wool skirt and sheer tights ending in sensible brogues. The bell of her fair hair fell smoothly on either side of the classic oval of her face.

‘I came because I was feeling sorry for you,’ said Priscilla. ‘Cnothan is not my favourite place. But you appear to have been happy here.’

Hamish grunted and folded his arms.

‘Who is she?’

‘Local artist.’

‘That her painting you’ve got in the back?’

‘Yes.’

Priscilla drew to a stop outside Cnothan Game. ‘I’d like to see it,’ she said.

‘Go ahead,’ said Hamish. At that moment, he didn’t care what she did. She had no right to barge coolly back into his life and open up all the old wounds.

Priscilla opened the parcel carefully and then studied the painting for a long time.

‘Poor Jenny,’ she said. ‘The murder must have been an awful experience.’

Hamish felt a sudden rush of affection for Priscilla, for that quick sensitivity of hers that was so often masked by the sophisticated outward appearance.

‘She’s all right now,’ he said, as Priscilla replaced the painting and climbed back into the driver’s seat. ‘She’s going back to Canada to remarry her husband.’

Priscilla shot him a look. She felt lighthearted and happy.

At that moment, Helen Ross came strolling out into the yard of Cnothan Game. She was wearing a leaf-green wool mini that exposed miles of sheer-stockinged leg. She swayed towards them.

‘Drive on,’ said Hamish urgently.

‘Looks like the local siren,’ said Priscilla, speeding off.

‘More like the local Lady Macbeth.’

‘Lady … Oh, I see. For a moment I thought … Never mind. Look, let’s go up on the moors and eat some of Jenny’s sandwiches. I’m starving.’

Soon they were sitting on top of a rise overlooking Cnothan.

‘Out of the Valley of the Shadow of Death,’ said Hamish.

‘You had a nightmare of a time, didn’t you, Hamish?’ said Priscilla, pouring coffee and opening up packets of sandwiches. ‘Tell me about it.’

Hamish talked and talked while Priscilla listened. He found himself telling her about the strange atmosphere of Cnothan, about how he kept losing his temper, about the murder, but not about the lobsters. The more he talked, the lighter and happier he felt. He could feel his old lazy, easygoing self returning.

When they drove off, the bond of friendship was restored, and along with it the old seductive feeling of not being alone in the world any longer, the relief of being able to communicate to someone who knew exactly what you were thinking and feeling.

But as they neared Lochdubh, Priscilla broke off from a long description of the irritations and boredoms of the hat shop to say crossly, ‘What are you thinking of, Hamish Macbeth? You stopped listening to me exactly five minutes ago.’

‘I was wondering, Priscilla … did you eat any lobster when you were in London?’

‘Did I …? Sometimes I think you are just plain mad, Hamish Macbeth. Oh, I know what it is, you’re scrounging again. Very well, you win. Priscilla shall cook Hamish a lobster for his dinner.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Hamish with a shudder. ‘I cannae thole the beasts.’

Priscilla slowed the car to a halt and looked at Hamish. She remembered seeing Hamish eat lobster thermidor at the Lochdubh Hotel with great relish. There was a blackness emanating from Hamish. Skeleton, she thought suddenly. Mainwaring was killed at Cnothan Game and Fish Company. Jamie Ross was famous for his lobsters. Scratches on the skeleton.