Hamish MacBeth 06 (1991) - Death of a Snob (7 page)

“Good idea. But I’ll bet she won’t do it.”

“She already has,” said his mother triumphantly.

“My! Can. I speak to her?”

“No, son, she’s out sledging with the children.”

They talked for a little and then Hamish rang off, trying to imagine Priscilla sledging with his brothers and sisters. Hamish had been an only child for many years, and then, when his mother was in her forties, she had begun to produce brothers and sisters for him, three boys and three girls. This largely explained Hamish’s unmarried state, for it was a Highland tradition that the eldest should stay unmarried and help to support the family. He sent everything he could home and had learned to be thrifty, as well as expert at cadging free meals.

Lunch was an edgy affair. He wondered what on earth was up when he entered the dining-room and felt the weight of the silence. Harriet told him afterwards, as they all set out for the afternoon walk with Jane, that Sheila had decided to carry her lunch into the television room in order to watch the midday showing of the Australian soaps. Heather had lectured her on the stupidity of this pastime and had even gone in and switched off the television. Shelia had burst into tears and thrown her first course of vegetable soup at Heather’s head.

They marched inland, Jane striding out in front, the rest trailing behind. The sky was darkening above and the sun was sinking low on the horizon and then, just before darkness fell, Jane stopped and pointed to the west. It was an awesome sight. They were almost at the centre of the island. It was below sea-level. Out to the west, it looked as if the whole of the Atlantic were about to come charging down on them. “How terrifying to look up at the sea,” said Harriet. She moved closer to Hamish and he put an arm around her shoulders and she leaned against him briefly, then straightened up and disengaged herself, her cheeks pink.

The exercise had revived everyone’s spirits and there was a sort of silent agreement not to quarrel. John Wetherby caught up with Jane and they headed back to the hotel. Hamish noticed that John and Jane were talking like old friends.

Dinner was pleasant. Then television destroyed everything. Heather wanted to watch a production of King Lear in modern dress; the rest wanted to watch ‘Cheers’ and ‘The Golden Girls.” Heather lectured them bitterly on the folly of watching rubbish produced by American imperialists. Jane put it to a vote and the American imperialists won. Heather stalked off to bed.

Immediately the atmosphere lightened. Diarmuid stayed to watch the comedies and laughed as hard as the rest. But when it was over, John Wetherby suddenly glared at his ex-wife, who was sharing a sofa with Diarmuid. Jane had changed into a short miniskirt and blouse. “Pull your skirt down, for God’s sake,” he snapped. “You’re showing everything.”

Jane blushed furiously. It was the first time Hamish had seen her really put out. Then she gave that merry laugh and suggested they all move through to the lounge for drinks.

Hamish retired to bed early. Once, more he felt gloomy. Once more he wished he had never come.

♦

The next day was a hell of low cloud and driving rain. House-bound, the guests idled about. Hamish began to read some of Jane’s magazines to pass the time. He found a serial in
Women’s Home Journal
that was extremely good and rifled through the back numbers until he had got the whole book and settled down comfortably to read.

“I’m going out for a walk,” called Jane. “Anyone coming?”

Diarmuid half-started to his feet but bis wife pulled him back down. No one else moved.

“Then I’ll go myself,” said Jane. She was wearing a bright-yellow oilskin. She hesitated at the door and looked at John Wetherby. He grunted and picked up his newspaper and hid behind it.

Jane walked out.

The day dragged past. But at four in the afternoon, Hamish realised it was pitch-black outside and Jane had not returned.

“Where’s Jane?” he asked suddenly.

“Probably in the kitchen,” said John. He was now playing chess with Diarmuid.

“I’ll look,” said Harriet quickly.

She came back after about ten minutes. “She’s not in her room, and not in the kitchen, not anywhere. Her oilskin’s missing.”

Hamish got his own coat and made for the door. “Wait a bit,” called Harriet. “I’m coming with you.”

They collected torches from a ledge beside the door and made their way out into the howling gale. “Where would she go?” shouted Hamish.

“The beach,” said Harriet. “She usually walks on the beach when she’s on her own.”

They walked rapidly along the beach. The tide was coming in and great waves fanned out at their feet. Hamish was cursing himself. He had taken his duties too lightly. He should never have let her go off on her own. “You’d better take my hand,” he shouted at Harriet. “I don’t want you getting lost as well.”

Harriet had a warm, dry hand. Despite his anxiety, Hamish enjoyed the feel of it.

And then the wind dropped, just like that, as it sometimes does on the islands, with dramatic suddenness. There was no sound but the crashing of the waves.

They stopped and listened hard.

Harriet squeezed his hand urgently. “Listen! I heard something. A faint cry.”

“Probably a sheep.”

“Shhh!”

In the pause between one wave and the next, Hamish heard a faint call. It was coming from someplace in front of them. It could be a nocturnal seabird, but it had to be investigated. They walked slowly on, stopping and listening.

And then they heard it, a cry for help. Hamish swung the torch around and its powerful beam picked out a pillbox on a bluff above the beach, one of those pillboxes built out of concrete during the Second World War. Dragging Harriet after him, he ran towards it. “Jane!” he called.

“Here!” came the faint reply.

A door had been put on the pillbox, quite a modern door with a shining new bolt. Hamish jerked back the bolt and Jane Wetherby tumbled out. As Harriet comforted her, he shone the torch inside. It was full of old barrels and fishing nets and bits of machinery. Someone was using it as a storehouse.

He went back to Jane. “What happened?” he asked.

“I was walking along the beach and I saw the pillbox door open. It was the first time I had seen it open. It was a bit nosy of me, but I went to have a look inside. Nothing but nets and things. And then someone pushed me and I went flying inside and the door was slammed and bolted behind me. Those village children, no doubt.”

“Are you all right?” asked Harriet anxiously.

“Yes, fine. I wasn’t scared. I just didn’t want to spend the night in there. It was getting so cold.”

The night was bitter cold. Hamish walked back, worried. A less healthy and robust woman than Jane, locked up there and left for, say, twenty-four hours before she was found, might have died of exposure. “Who owns that pillbox, or rather, who uses it?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said Jane.

Back at the health farm, and after Jane had answered all the guests’ questions, Hamish took her aside and said it was time he had a quiet talk with her, perhaps when the others had retired for the night…

“Come to my room,” said Jane.

Hamish eyed her nervously and scratched his red hair. “What about the kitchen?” he suggested, and Jane agreed. Twelve o’clock was decided on.

The guests retired early. Hamish lay reading more magazines until midnight. Then he left his room and went through to the kitchen. He pushed open the door.

Jane was standing by the table in the centre of the room. She was wearing a black, transparent nightie over a suspender belt and black stockings and very high-heeled black shoes. “Good evening, copper,” she said.

And sadly reflecting,

That a lover forsaken.

A new love may get,

But a neck when once broken

Can never be set.

—WILLIAM WALSH

H
amish stood in the doorway, his eyes averted. “I’ll chust wait here, Jane, while you go and put something on.”

“Oh, come on, Hamish,” she said breathily, and moved towards him.

“I’ll wait for you in the lounge,” said Hamish crossly. “Don’t you dare come near me until you make yourself decent.” And he stalked off, as stiffly as a cat.

Jane appeared in the lounge five minutes later. She had put on a housecoat that covered her from throat to heel. “Better?” she queried, tossing her hair.

“Much better,” said Hamish. “Now, lassie, chust you sit yerself down and tell me what on earth you were playing at.”

“Hamish Macbeth, I shouldn’t need to spell it out for you. A bit of fun.”

He shook his head in amazement. “That’s hardly the way to go about it. What would you have felt like in the morning?”

“Much better,” said Jane earnestly. “Sexual intercourse is a very healthy exercise and good for the skin.”

“So’s jogging. Jane, Jane, have you no feelings at all? Do you never feel rejection when a pass is turned down, shame when it isn’t?”

Jane looked at him in a puzzled way, one finger to her brow. Then her fece cleared. “Calvinism. That’s it!” she cried. “You have been brought up to have your mind warped by repressive religion.”

“And you haff been brought up to have your mind warped by women’s magazines. I thought all this free love was out of fashion anyway,” said Hamish wearily. “We’re not getting anywhere. I must tell you flat that when John told me about your affairs, I felt sick.”

“Which one in particular?” asked Jane curiously.

“Some truck-driver.”

“Oh, that. The fellow was as queer as a coot. I only brought him around to annoy John.”

“Why?”

“He kept accusing me of having loose morals and he hurt me by his constant criticism of what he called my dizzy mind, so I decided to get my revenge. The laugh is that I was faithful to him right up till the divorce.”

“Then why try to get me into bed?”

“Oh, well, I thought if I did that, there would be a certain something between us and John would notice…”

Her voice trailed away.

“I’m not going to discuss this any further,” said Hamish. “I am here to do a job and I didn’t do it very well by letting you wander off on your own. I’ll go into the village tomorrow and report it to the local policeman. I couldn’t phone tonight. The man would be drunk as usual. Have you any idea if it was a man or a woman who pushed you?”

Jane shook her head.

“The pillbox is quite near the hotel. Haven’t you seen anyone coming and going—using it?”

“Oh, yes,” said Jane, “some little man.”

“Description?”

Jane shrugged. “They all look the same to me, small and bitter and prematurely old.”

“So you do know there’s a lot of hostility against you on this island? Why on earth do you stay amidst such hatred?”

“Hamish, I barely see them, and they’re cheerful enough when the health farm opens up to visitors because it means cleaning and serving jobs for the local women. They never did like me. There’s been a sort of intense hatred started up just recently.”

“The Bannerman woman?”

“I can’t see how she can have anything to do with it. She’s always been one of the women who’ve actually talked to me when I’ve gone into the village. Look, Hamish, I’ve made a success of this place. People who wouldn’t dream of going to a health farm in the home counties come up here. It has a romantic interest and I attract walkers and outdoor types as well as those who want to lose weight. I showed that ex-husband of mine I could do it and made him eat his words.”

“I’ll let you know how I get on with my investigations tomorrow,” said Hamish. “Goodnight.”

She threw him a look, half-mocking and half-appealing. One hand toyed with the long zip at the top of her housecoat and Hamish was frightened she meant to pull it down and fairly scampered from the room.

♦

The next day, he made his way towards the village. He had hoped Harriet might have wanted to accompany him, but that lady had gone out walking with Heather, of all people.

Once again, he came across Geordie and his truck stuck on the road, Geordie, Hamish had decided, staged these breakdowns for some mad reason of his own, and so he ignored Geordie’s meanings and waitings and offered to drive him: He had been unable to borrow Jane’s jeep because it was insured to cover only her driving.

The truck started amiably enough. “He likes you,” said Geordie, shaking his head. “An odd beast.”

“Forget about the truck,” said Hamish. “Who uses that pillbox on the beach?”

“Angus Macleod. Him and his son have a fishing boat. It wass the wan that brought yourselfs over.”

“Well, last night, someone pushed Mrs. Wetherby into that pillbox and bolted the door. She could have died of exposure.”

“Och, it’s all right,” said Geordie. “Angus wass in the bar last night and he wass saying he would let herself out at midnight when he had given her a rare fright.”

“I’ll be seeing Angus, then,” said Hamish grimly.

“Ye won’t be able to dae that. Himself took the boat out this morn.”

Hamish stopped the truck. Geordie screeched, “He dis-nae like tae be stopped fur no reason at all.”

“Forget the truck. Listen. Do you hate Mrs. Wetherby?”

“Naw, I hivnae the time to hate anybody what with bringing the lobsters over frae the west and collecting the goods for people to deliver when the ferry comes in.”

“Well, she’s hated nonetheless. When did it start?”

“Och, nobody likes incomers, and the wimmen are fair scandalized with the leg show she puts on, but it must hae been recently they all started cursing and blinding. Don’t know what started it.”

“Well, I’ll find out.” Hamish turned the key in the ignition. Nothing happened, not even a choke. “I telt you he didnae liked to be stopped fur no reason,” said Geordie patiently.

“I’m fed up wi’ your nonsense.” Hamish opened the door. “I’m walking.”

He slammed the door behind him and strode off down the road. “Comeback!” screeched Geordie’s voice. “He’s following you!”

Hamish turned around, and with a feeling of superstitious dread, he saw the truck rolling silently towards him. He stopped and the truck stopped beside him. He climbed in, checked the brakes, turned the key in the ignition, and the engine roared to life.