Hamish Macbeth 02 (1987) - Death of a Cad (17 page)

“Evening,” said Mrs Wellington, her eyes bulging with curiosity.

Hamish slammed the car door before Priscilla could say anything, jumped into the driving seat and drove off with a roar.

“That’s torn it,” said Priscilla. “She’ll tell Daddy.”

“He would be bound to hear sooner or later,” said Hamish. “You cannae keep anything quiet around here.”

“I know that,” said Priscilla. “I was just hoping it would be later rather than sooner.”

The Laughing Trout, previously called The Caledonian Arms, had reopened under the new name only recently. The first sinister sign of a possibly indifferent kitchen to meet Hamish’s eye was a row of painted cart-wheels against the fence of the parking area. People who went in for painted cart-wheels, reflected Hamish gloomily, often had peculiar ideas about food.

A harassed woman answered the bell in the small reception and told them they were lucky there was a table free, and to go and wait in the bar.

Hamish ushered Priscilla into the bar and they sat down in two mock leather armchairs in front of an electric log fire.

The harassed woman handed them enormous menus and rushed off.

“What would you like to drink?” asked Hamish.

“Campari and soda.”

“I’ll have the same.”

“I’ve never seen you drink Campari and soda before,” said Priscilla.

“And never will again,” said Hamish. “But I’ve a feeling that this is the sort of place where they’ll be better able to cope with two of the same kind of drinks.”

“Do you think they come and serve you, or do you have to go to the bar?”

“I think I’ll need to go and get them,” said Hamish.

The bearded barman was demonstrating back casts to a balding gentleman who was wearing a double-breasted blazer with an improbable crest.

He ignored Hamish and continued talking.

“I’m telling you, that was a twenty-pounder at the end of my line, and I knew it,” he was saying.

An unhealthy-looking girl came into the bar behind the counter, fiddled with the till, and went out again.

Hamish sighed. He had come across this sort of situation before. In some mysterious way, various cockney families seemed able to find out when a new hotel was about to open up and they descended on it en masse, offering their services -uncle behind the bar, mother at reception, daughter and auntie in the kitchen. They ruined the trade with bad manners and worse food before flying off, like locusts, to descend on yet another Highland hotel.

Hamish took a step back. Then, with a flying leap, he vaulted the bar and, ignoring the barman’s cries of outrage, proceeded to pour two campari and sodas.

“I’ll call the police,” shrieked the barman.

“I am the police,” said Hamish. “If you do not behave yourself, I shall take time off and check that gantry to make sure all your measures comply with government regulations.”

“No need for that,” said the barman. “I didn’t see you waiting. You only had to ask.”

“And a fat lot of good that would have done me,” said Hamish. “Lift the flap, put these on my bill, and shut up.”

He carried the drinks back to Priscilla.

“I’ve a feeling we should leave,” she said.

“Oh, let’s stick it out,” said Hamish. “Cheers. What’s on the menu?”

“Very little, especially when you consider the enormous size of the thing. I’ll read it out. First course is a choice of Rabbie Burns Broth, Mary, Queen of Scots Sizzling Scallops, and the Laughing Trout’s Pheasant Pate.”

“I’ll try the broth.”

“So will I. Next comes Truite a la Flora Macdonald, Poulet ficossais, and Gaelic Steak. What on earth is a Gaelic Steak?”

“A herring.”

“Seriously.”

“I havenae the faintest idea.”

“The menu,” said Priscilla, “has been approved by The Wee Touch O’ Scotia Society. Never heard of them.”

A pallid-faced waiter drifted up to them. “Are yiz ready?” he said.

“What’s a Gaelic steak?” asked Hamish.

“It’s fillet steak flambeed in whisky.”

Hamish looked across at Priscilla, who nodded. “Well done,” she said. “Mine’ll be the same,” said Hamish, “and we’ll have two broths to start. Where’s the wine list?”

“Back o’ the menu,” said the waiter.

Hamish turned over the menu. All the wines were from a place called the Clachan Winery. “Have you not got any French wine?” asked Hamish.

“No,” said the waiter.

“ ‘S all Sco’ish.”

“You from Glasgow?”

“Aye, ah’m working in ma holidays. Ah’m at the Polytechnic.”

“Well, here goes. We’ll try a bottle of the fine fruity burgundy of Cromarty.”

“S your funeral,” said the waiter, taking the menus and slouching off.

He poked his head back round the door a moment later to summon them to a dining room that smelled overwhelmingly of new paint. Various diners were sitting about talking about fishing in high, strangulated voices.

A grey mess of soup was put in front of each of them along with two half rolls.

“To take my mind off this,” said Hamish, “how’s Vera Forbes-Grant?”

“She came back just before I left and Mummy was looking after her. She’s awfully proud of Freddy. She even was prepared to see
the
press, but Henry…Henry thought it would be best if he saw them alone.”

“Chust so,” said Hamish, bending over his soup.

Priscilla flushed. “It’s not as if Henry’s
hogging
the press, it’s just he thought Vera might say something she shouldn’t and that wouldn’t help Freddy at his trial.”

“When are you thinking of getting married?”

“I don’t know,” said Priscilla miserably. “I suppose Mummy’11 organize all that.”

“Are yiz finished?” asked the waiter at Hamish’s elbow.

“Aye,” sighed Hamish, “you can take mine away.”

“And mine,” said Priscilla.

“Who’s going to be the first to taste the wine?” said Hamish.

“I notice he didn’t have the courage to let you try it first,” said Priscilla. “Let’s both drink at the same time. A toast! No more murder.”

“No more murder,” echoed Hamish, raising his glass.

Priscilla took a sip and wrinkled her nose. “Tastes a bit like turpentine.”

“I hope the steak’s all right. You can’t do much to ruin a fillet steak. I’m surprised you like yours well done as well. I thought everyone ate them rare these days.”

“Not any more.”

The waiter placed two plates of steak and vegetables down in front of them.

“Considering the prices they charge,” said Hamish, “you’ would think they’d put the vegetables on separate dishes.”

Priscilla sank her knife into her steak. Blood gushed out on to the plate.

“Here, laddie!” called Hamish. The waiter slouched up.

“We said well done,” protested Hamish. “These are raw.”

“Aye, weel, that’s the way a Gaelic steak’s cooked.”

“And what way is that supposed to be?”

The waiter drew himself up to his full height of five feet four inches, puffed out his chest, and declaimed, “It is put in the pan and the whisky is poured over it and then it is flambeed.”

“But it’s supposed to be cooked a bit before you set it on fire,” complained Hamish. “Take it away and cook it properly.”

“But you ordered a Gaelic steak and that’s what you got,” said the waiter.

“There is no such thing as a Gaelic steak,” said Hamish, exasperated. “It is a figment o’ your overheated brain.”

Hamish picked up both plates and stalked off to the kitchen.

“Won’t do him any good,” said the waiter gloomily.

The barman, the cook, the receptionist, the bookkeeper, and a maid were all sitting round a table in the kitchen eating fish and chips. They all shared a startling family likeness.

Hamish took one look at their pinched cockney faces and headed for the stove. “Don’t ask me what I’m doing,” he said, over his shoulder, “for if I hear one more word about Gaelic steaks, I might forget myself and tell ye what to do with them.”

“He’s the police,” said the barman gloomily. They all stared stolidly as Hamish melted butter in a pan and proceeded to fry the steaks.

“Just go on eating as if he wasn’t here,” said the barman.

“What’s this?” demanded Hamish suddenly, looking at a rack of good French claret.

“We keep that for special customers,” said the cook.

Hamish finished frying the steaks in grim silence. He put them back on the plates, tucked a bottle of claret under his arm, and made his way back to the dining room.

“I would hae been better to have cooked you a meal back at the police station,” he said to Priscilla. “It makes me sick the way the Scottish Tourist Board moans on and on about the decline o’ tourists. If they checked up on places like this, they might get them to come back.”

“Never mind, Hamish. It tastes lovely now and you’ve got us some decent wine.”

“I was silly to bring you here,” said Hamish. “We could have gone to the Lochdubh Hotel. The only reason I didn’t want to go there was because your father would have heard all about it before we’d even sat down. I thought if we came here, he might not find out until tomorrow.”

“As it is, it’s a wonder he hasn’t phoned already,” said Priscilla. “Mrs Wellington will surely have told him by now.”

“But not where we’ve gone,” pointed out Hamish.

The other guests had left. They were alone in the dining room.

“Who do you think murdered Bartlett?” asked Hamish after a brief silence. “You must have thought about it.”

“I didn’t really. I was pretty sure it must have been someone from outside. I know Mummy’s guests are pretty obnoxious, but…”

“Yes, why are they obnoxious? I mean, why ask those particular people?”

“A lot of people were pressing for invitations to meet Henry. Mummy just chose the first and most pressing requests. We owed the Helmsdales and Sir Humphrey hospitality. Pruney’s all right. Mummy thought, for some hare-brained reason, that Diana and Jessica were friends of mine. Jeremy had already been invited anyway. It just happened, that’s all.”

“What were the Helmsdales like when you stayed with them?”

“I never really thought about it. Their place is comfortable, the food is appalling, and the guests usually entertain themselves. We stayed there for a week last October. I travelled up from London. I’ve known both of them since I was a child. Lady Helmsdale is always so massive and booming that one never thinks of her as a woman with normal jealousies and weaknesses and that sort of thing. Helmsdale himself is a caricature of the Scottish landed aristocracy. I don’t really believe he thinks deeply on any subject.”

“Odd, when you think of it,” said Hamish. “They, the Helmsdales, I mean, must have been in love at one time.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t think so,” said Priscilla, surprised. “One always marries someone suitable, you know, if one is like them. She was a Tarrison, you know, the big flour company, and he had a title and needed money. That’s the way it’s done.”

“And what about your case? You wouldn’t marry someone just to please your parents?”

“It’s not so strange. I mean the whole idea of having a Season is to meet the right sort of bloke.”

“But the Season’s finished. You don’t get presented to the Queen any more or anything like that.”

“No, the court presentations went out a long time ago. They tried to replace the ritual by having the debs curtsy to a cake at the Grosvenor House Hotel, but that began to seem pretty damned silly after a bit. But it still goes on—quieter, maybe. One’s parents throw a cocktail party to tell people one’s Out, and then bung one into secretarial college while one lives in squalid digs with a lot of other debs. But one still goes to Ascot, Henley, and Goodwood and all that. The pas and mas are very much in the background but they ferret out who has money and who hasn’t, and who’s pretending to be one of the upper set, but isn’t.”

“Amazing,” said Hamish. “Here we are, rushing towards the end of the twentieth century, and here am I, a respectable bobby who has to take you out in secret, just as if I were the footman in Victorian times.”

“It’s all my fault,” said Priscilla miserably. “I should stand up for myself. I’m all Daddy and Mummy have got and I can’t bear to disappoint them.”

“By going about with someone like me? You’re awf’y young, Priscilla.”

“I’m old enough to know my own mind and to know that I should not be creeping around having dinner with you at some tatty restaurant when I’m newly engaged.”

“Yes, why
did
you come out this evening?”

“I forget,” said Priscilla, tears standing out in her eyes.

“I shouldnae be grilling you,” said Hamish gently. “It’s all none o’ my business, after all. Did you hear what happened to Peter Fisher, him that went down to Ullapool to see if he could defect to Russia?”

Priscilla shook her head and Hamish leaned back in his chair and proceeded to tell a long and extremely Highland story about the adventures of Peter Fisher until Priscilla began to laugh.

Then he got Priscilla to tell him some of her adventures as a fashion editor’s assistant.

It was beginning to get dark outside, and suddenly Hamish became aware that they had been sitting in the deserted dining room for some time.

“I’d better get the bill,” he said regretfully. He crossed to the wall and pressed a bell.

After some time, the waiter appeared, minus his white jacket.

“Ah thocht ye’d be awa’ name tae yer beds,” he said.

“I could hardly do that without paying the bill,” said Hamish.

The waiter jerked his thumb in the direction of the kitchen. “He says it’s on the house.”

“If by ‘he’ you mean the barman who’s probably the manager as well, go and tell him from me that I know this place is owned by the Belmont Catering Company, and there is no reason to cheat them further. Get my bill.”

The waiter went off and eventually slouched back with the bill. Hamish noticed he had not been charged for the bottle of claret, but felt he could not bear any more argument. He paid the bill, and when the waiter had left, he looked sadly at Priscilla.

“In a way, this is goodbye, Priscilla,” he said. “As you say, you will not be able to drop in at the police station when you’re a married woman.”