Death of a Cad

∨ Death of a Cad ∧

8

Boundless intemperance,

In nature is a tyranny, it hath been,

The untimely emptying of the happy throne,

And the fall of many kings.

—shakespeare.

Superintendent John Chalmers looked like an ageing bank clerk. He was tall and thin, with grey hair and watery blue eyes that peered warily out at the world as if expecting another onslaught of the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. He had a small black moustache like a postage stamp above a rabbity mouth. His ears stuck out like jug handles, as if God had specially made them that way to support his bowler hat.

He had been out in the grounds somewhere and was returning to the castle when Hamish and the detective arrived.

He greeted Hamish courteously and asked him to accompany him into the castle.

The colonel had given up his study to the police. It was a dim little room filled with the clutter of a man who had lost interest in field sports some years ago. Dusty game bags were thrown in one corner under shelves of Badminton Library books on hunting, shooting, and fishing. A pair of green Wellington boots held a selection of fishing rods.

There was an unusual stuffed fox in a glass case. It was lying down on its side, looking as if it had been sleeping peacefully at the time it was shot. The superintendent looked down at it sadly for several moments before taking off his bowler hat, polishing it with his sleeve and hanging it on one of the fishing rods.

He sat down behind a battered wooden desk, waved Hamish into a chair opposite, and said to Anderson, who was hovering in the doorway, “Go down to the kitchens and question the servants again. See if you can get them to like you. People will not talk if you put their backs up.”

When Anderson had gone, he turned to Macbeth. “Now, Constable,” he said, “it looks as if we’ll need to start over from the beginning. The people at this house party are very upset and claim they have been treated badly. I do not know if that is true or not, but we’ll soon find out. I gather from Anderson that you know a little about the guests?”

“I know quite a lot more now,” said Hamish. “I made various phone calls to find out about their backgrounds.”

“We now have several reports coming in from different police stations. Ah, here is PC Mac-pherson, who will take the shorthand notes. Now, the first one who’s agreed to be interviewed all over again is Colonel Halburton-Smythe. Having dragged me into the case, he is naturally now anxious to be as helpful as possible. You listen closely to my line of questioning, and if there’s something you know that we don’t know, I shall expect you to step in and put in your own questions. Take that chair over by the window and look as unobtrusive as possible.”

Macpherson went to fetch the colonel, who soon came bustling in. He looked taken aback to see Hamish there, but after a little hesitation he sat down and faced the superintendent.

The colonel appeared pleased to answer the series of polite and simple questions. He said the party had gone on much later than they had expected – until two in the morning. No-one had therefore been up and about around the time the captain was supposed to have gone out on the moors. Yes, he had known about the bet with Pomfret, but not about Bartlett’s deal with the Arabs. The guns in the gun room had not been used since last season. This August, Bartlett and Pomfret had brought their own guns.

Hamish remained quietly in his chair, looking out of the window, which faced on to the front of the castle.

The colonel ended by saying that Henry Withering and his daughter wanted to be interviewed next, as they were going out for the day.

The colonel went out and Henry Withering came in. He was wearing a lovat green sweater over a checked shirt and cavalry-twill trousers. He seemed composed and anxious to be helpful.

No, he said, he hadn’t a clue who would want to bump off poor Peter. Mind you, he went on, there was no denying Peter was a terror with the ladies and had a way of putting people’s backs up.

“And do you have a gun yourself, Mr Withering?” asked Chalmers.

There was a slight pause while Henry studied his nails. “I’ve got one somewhere,” he said eventually. “Probably at home at my parents’ place in Sussex.”

“Are you a good shot?”

“Never was much good,” said Henry. “Can I go now?”

“Just a little longer,” said Chalmers soothingly. “How well did you know Captain Bartlett?”

“Well, I used to run into him a lot. He spent a little time in London before he rejoined his regiment. One meets the same people at parties and that sort of thing.”

“By parties, I assume you mean social parties?”

“Yes.”

“But it appears that, until recently, you did not go to social events. You are on record as saying you despised them.”

Henry laughed. “Very possibly,” he said. “I usually tell the press what they want to hear. But one went just the same.”

“I don’t know,” said Chalmers cautiously, “that I would say it was the press exactly, meaning the mass media. No-one had heard of you until recently. But I believe you wrote an article once for The Liberated Workers’ World?”

“One says silly things in one’s youth.”

“This was three years ago.”

“Look,” said Henry with an engaging smile, “I’m afraid I’m a bit of a fraud. I had to go along with all that left-wing stuff simply because you have to be left-whig to get your plays put on. The big theatres only take trash. You’ve no idea what it’s like to sweat your guts out on a play and then find no-one wants to put it on.”

“So you only knew Captain Bartlett as someone you bumped into at parties?”

“Absolutely.”

“You must, on the other hand,” said Hamish Macbeth softly, “haff seen a good bit of the captain when you were both sharing that flat off Sloane Square. That would be two years ago.”

“Not really,” said Henry, not looking at Hamish, but continuing to smile at the superintendent. “I said he could share my digs when he was up in London, that sort of thing. I was away in the provinces most of the time. I came back to find the place a mess and that he’d been using my phone to call someone in the States. I left his suitcase with the porter at the block of flats and changed the locks.”

“Nonetheless, Mr Withering,” said the superintendent severely, “you said nothing in your earlier statement about having known Captain Bartlett particularly well.”

“I didn’t,” said Henry. “Casual acquaintance, that’s all.”

Chalmers took him slowly and carefully over all the things Henry had said in his earlier statement, congratulated him politely on his forthcoming marriage, and told him to tell Miss Halburton-Smythe to step along.

“You’ve been busy, Constable,” said Chalmers when Henry had left the room. “How did you find out Bartlett had been staying with him?”

“I have a relative who works for the Daily Chronicle.” said Hamish. “He asked the man whoruns the social column about Bartlett Seems this social editor has a memory like an elephant and he had written an article on Captain Bartlett, calling him the everlasting debs’ delight. It appears that part of doing the Season was to have an affair with Peter Bartlett. He had been an indefatigable, deb-chaser since he was a young man. A merry life o’ broken hearts and paternity suits.”

“Was he attractive?”

“Aye, he was a fine-looking man, a bit like a fillum star. I suppose you’ve had the forensic results of the swabs taken from everyone’s hands?”

“Yes, they’re all as clean as a whistle. We had a bit of excitement over the results of Pomfret’s swabs, but he turns out to be a heavy smoker and it can often turn up almost the same results. I understand it was you who discovered it was murder, not accident.”

“Did Mr Blair tell you that?”

“No, it was Colonel Halburton-Smythe. Much as he dislikes Blair, he is confident that an expert like myself will soon prove Blair was right and you were wrong.”

Hamish grinned. “And if it hadnae been for my interference, they could all have been feeling comfy?”

“Something like that.”

Priscilla Halburton-Smythe walked into the room. She was wearing a dark red silk blouse with a cream pleated skirt. Her smooth blonde hair was curled in at the ends.

Superintendent John Chalmers looked at her with approval.

He took her through her statement, ticking off each point. Then he half-turned and looked expectantly at Hamish.

And for the first time, the superintendent began to have serious doubts about Hamish’s intelligence. The constable was sitting staring vacantly into space, a half-smile curling his lips.

Chalmers frowned. The minute he had heard of this village constable and of how competently he had outlined how the murder had been done, he had lost no time in sending Anderson to fetch him. Unlike Blair, Chalmers was only interested in results. The fact that this trait had elevated him to the rank of superintendent should have told Blair something.

Hamish was in the grip of a powerful fantasy. He could see it all as clear as day. He was accusing Henry Withering of the murder, and Priscilla was throwing herself into Hamish’s arms for protection. Henry’s face was distorted in a villainous sneer.

“Macbeth!”

Hamish came back to reality with a bump.

“Have you any questions to ask?”

Hamish shifted uncomfortably. “Well, Miss Halburton-Smythe,” he said, not meeting Priscilla’s clear gaze, “I wass, as you know, at the party afore the morning the murder took place. I am surprised you have not mentioned in your statement that Mrs Forbes-Grant threw her drink at the captain.”

Priscilla flushed and looked uncomfortable. “You must admit, when it came to women Peter was enough to try the patience of a saint,” she said. “I assumed at the time he had made one of his off remarks. Earlier in the day, he told me my home was the most pretentious, uncomfortable slum he had ever had the ill luck to be billeted in. I nearly slapped his face. I suppose you could describe him, on the face of it, as a man who could hold his drink in that he never fell over or was sick over your shoes or anything like that. But when he’d had a couple, he would turn immediately from being a very charming and attractive man to a downright nasty one.”

“Had you known him particularly well before this visit?” asked the superintendent.

“If you mean, was I ever one of his victims, the answer is no. As I said in my earlier statement, I had met him from time to time during the shooting season at other people’s houses.”

“And do you know how to handle a gun?”

“A shotgun? Yes.”

“And would you describe yourself as a good shot, Miss Halburton-Smythe?”

“Oh, no, Superintendent.” Priscilla suddenly smiled at Hamish. “I’m certainly not in Hamish’s class.”

“Hamish being…?”.

“Police Constable Macbeth.”

One watery blue eye swivelled curiously in Hamish’s direction. Hamish folded his arms and looked at the ceiling.

“That will be all for the moment,” said Chalmers, turning back to Priscilla. “Do you know who’s volunteered to be next?”

“Pruney…I mean Miss Prunella Smythe. She wants to get it over with so that she can go down to the village and buy some things.”

“Very well. Send her in.”

“I suppose you’re looking for a pair of gloves?” asked Hamish.

“Yes, we can’t eliminate the guests simply because they passed the forensic test. There is evidence that our murderer was wearing gloves,” said Chalmers.

Pruney fluttered in and sat down, crouched in the chair in front of the superintendent, and stared at her shoes – which were of the Minnie Mouse variety – as if she had never really seen them before.

“Miss Smythe,” began the superintendent.

Pruney started violently, her handbag slid off her lap, she bent to retrieve it, and her thick glasses fell off her nose and landed with a clatter on the floor.

Hamish went to help her, but she brushed him away. She snatched at her handbag, which was upended on the floor, and all the contents spilled out. There were a small medicine bottle, a bunch of keys, eight hairpins, an old–fashioned powder compact, a romance entitled Desert Passion, and a tube of wine gums.

“Now, now,” said Hamish, gently taking hold of her frantically scrabbling hands, “this is not the Gestapo. Chust sit yourself down and let me get these things.” Pruney retreated to the chair while Hamish carefully replaced all the items in her handbag and then popped her glasses back on her nose. “Now, what about a cup of tea?” he asked.

Pruney gave him a watery smile. “So kind,” she said. “Really, it has all been too much for me. Poor Captain Bartlett. Such a fine man. Such a loss. No, I shall do very well now, thank you, Officer. Tea will not be necessary.”

Hamish retreated to his post by the window.

“I’ve been reading over your statement, Miss Smythe,” said Chalmers, “and it is very clear and straightforward. I see no reason to keep you very long.”

He took her carefully back over her first meeting with the captain at the regimental rifle shoot, and then asked her gently if she had specifically come to the house party to meet him again.

“Oh, no,” exclaimed Pruney. “It was Mr Withering I wanted to meet. I had seen his play in London, you know, and adored every word. The minute I heard Mary – that’s Mrs Halburton-Smythe – was having him as a guest, I simply pleaded with her to ask me.”

“You appear to be the only person who has a good word to say for Captain Bartlett,” observed the superintendent.

“Indeed?” Pruney’s round, ingenuous eyes looked at the superintendent and then at Hamish. “I found him such a kind man. Mr Withering was unnecessarily sharp with me when I was only trying to be pleasant, and Captain Bartlett was most comforting. That horrible man, Blair, accused me of having an affair with him. Me!” exclaimed Pruney, although she looked highly gratified.

“You strike me, Miss Smythe,” came Hamish’s soft voice, “as being the kind of lady who sees only the best in people.”

“I think that is surely a better attitude to life than always finding fault,” said Pruney, who was beginning to evince signs of enjoying herself.

“Aye, but that may mean you might have noticed a lot of useful clues without knowing they were useful,” said Hamish. “What did you think, for example, of that incident at the party when Mrs Forbes-Grant threw her drink at the captain?”

“I thought she must be drunk,” said Pruney. “Mrs Forbes-Grant loves sweet things. She is always eating cakes and chocolates, and when she drinks alcohol, she drinks awful things like rum and Coke or creme de menthe or sweet champagne, and I read a most fascinating article the other day which said that all that sugar puts the alcohol into the bloodstream quicker. It is not like the old days, you know. Ladies do drink an awful lot at house parties. I was at a party on the borders last year and a lady of my age lifted up her skirt and snapped her garter.”

“That’s verra curious,” said Hamish with great interest, while the superintendent glared at him impatiently. “I was not aware that ladies wore garters any more.”

“That’s what I thought!” cried Pruney. “But a most obliging gentleman at the party told me they sold them in naughty shops.” Her eyes gleamed behind her thick spectacles. “I find gentlemen’s attitudes to the changing fashions in ladies’ underwear most interesting. Only the other week – ”

“Quite,” said the superintendent repressively. “To get back to that point the constable was making, can you tell us anything you might have overheard that struck you as curious?”

Pruney giggled and put her hands to her face. “It’s rather like gossiping in the dorm,” she said. “Still, it is a murder investigation. There was just one little thing. I could not sleep and I went downstairs to look for a copy of The Times to do the crossword. I find The Times crossword quite soporific. As I was passing Captain Bartlett’s room, I saw a light under the door.” Pruney blushed. “I was about to knock, thinking he could not sleep either and might be glad of company, when I heard Mrs Forbes-Grant’s voice very clearly. She said, “You can’t have. Not you of all people. I don’t believe a word of it.” ”

“And what did the captain reply to that?” asked Hamish.

“I could not hear. The doors are very thick,” said Pruney regretfully. “He said something because there was a sort of masculine rumble. Then I saw Miss Bryce walking along the passage towards me. She gave me a nasty look, as if I had been eavesdropping, which of course I hadn’t, so I went on downstairs. When I came back up about ten minutes later, the light under the captain’s door was out.”

“Did you hear anything else?” asked the superintendent. Pruney wrinkled her brow. “No,” she said at last.

“Perhaps you might remember something more,” said Hamish. “You strike me as a highly observant lady.” Pruney preened. “If anything comes to mind, tell me or the superintendent here.”

“I most certainly shall,” said Pruney, gathering up her handbag. “I wouldn’t tell that nasty man, Blair, anything. He is not a silly man, but overambitious. I am glad he has been toppled.” She smiled at them warmly and scurried out.

“We had better have Mrs Forbes-Grant in,” said the superintendent. “See if you can find her, Macpherson. The minute that woman comes in here, I shall accuse her of having an affair with Captain Bartlett.”

“Do you think that’s a good idea?” asked Hamish cautiously. “People are no’ ashamed o’ infidelity these days. If you’re kind and sympathetic, she may tell you herself.”

The superintendent shuffled his papers. Then he said mildly, “You may be right.”

Hamish let out a slow sigh of relief. He sometimes wondered how many murderers escaped justice because of power struggles in the police department.

There was an altercation outside the door. It appeared that Freddy Forbes-Grant was insisting on being present while his wife was interviewed, and PC Macpherson was firmly refusing permission.

The superintendent was just rising from his seat to go to his constable’s aid when Macpherson ushered Vera in.

She was the only member of the house party to have donned mourning. She was wearing a plain black suit with a necklace of seed pearls. Her thick dyed-blonde hair was simply styled and the severe cut of the suit flattered her figure.

There was a loose pouch of flesh under her chin, and a disappointed droop to her full mouth, but she was still, thought Hamish, a very sexy woman. Her large blue eyes looked pleadingly at the superintendent.

“I don’t think I can take much more of this,” she said in her husky voice. “The murder’s bad enough without having to be dragged over and over every little bit of it.”

“We won’t keep you long,” said Chalmers soothingly. He took her through her statement, and then said mildly he was surprised she had not told Mr Blair about throwing her drink at the captain.

“I lied to him,” said Vera defiantly. “He kept shouting and shouting at me, so I thought it better to say nothing.”

“I apologize on behalf of the Strathbane police,” said Chalmers. “No-one is going to shout at you. You are a valuable witness. Now, what caused that scene?”

“Where I threw the drink at him?”

“Yes.”

Vera bit her full bottom lip. “Look,” she said, “he made a nasty remark about my hair. He said my roots were black. I was feeling tired and overwrought. My nerves are not very strong. The minute I had tossed the drink at him, I was so ashamed of having made a scene that I burst into tears and left the room.”

“And did he also make a remark about Miss Bryce and Miss Villiers?” asked Hamish.

“What?”

“Just before you threw your drink at him,” said Hamish, “you were looking up at him and your lips were framing a kiss. He said something. You looked horrified. He turned and looked pointedly at Miss Bryce and Miss Villiers, then he turned back and gave you a knowing look, and he winked. That was when you threw your drink at him.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” cried Vera, an ugly tide of red beginning to crawl up her neck.

“Mrs Forbes-Grant,” said Hamish in a soft voice.

“We are from the police department and not the Moral Rearmament. It would be quite easy, I think, to prove that you had an affair with Captain Bartlett. Now, that is your own business. You are a very beautiful woman and must often be plagued with men chasing you.”

Vera gulped and looked at Hamish, who gave her a charming smile.

“Freddy doesn’t know,” she said. “Freddy mustn’t ever know.”

“And he won’t,” said Hamish, “unless it has a direct bearing on the murder. But it would be nice to get it out of the way. The only thing that’s suspicious about it is your refusal to talk. You must see that.”

There was a long silence while Vera looked down at her plump hands on her lap.

“All right,” she said at last. “I did have an affair with him a few years ago. I didn’t know he was going to be here. He made me think he still loved me. I visited his room, the night before the party. He said…he said I couldn’t stay the rest of the night or Freddy would find out. I thought he loved me. I was prepared to run away with him. He said…at the party…I hadn’t been the only woman who had been in his room. I told him he was lying. And then he turned and looked at Diana and Jessica, and turned back to me and winked. I knew all in that moment – he’d used me as he’d used me before. I saw red. I must have been mad, because I can’t afford to leave Freddy anyway.”

There was a long silence.

Chalmers said, “How long have you been married to Mr Forbes-Grant?”

“Twenty years.”

“And he knew nothing of your affair with Captain Bartlett?”

“Oh, no. Freddy’s quite stupid. But he can make money. That merchant bank of his is one of the most powerful in the country. He’s more or less retired. He wanted to come and live up here and start afresh. The simple life,” said Vera with a harsh laugh. “But he runs the bank by phone.”

“Where did your affair with Captain Bartlett take place?” asked Hamish.

“In London. Freddy was abroad. We keep a flat in Knightsbridge.”

“And did Captain Bartlett at any time suggest you leave your husband?”

“No. We were two of a kind. I used to give him money out of my allowance. It sounds awful now. Peter used to say I loved money more than men.”

“And is that true?” asked Hamish, genuinely curious.

“It’s all men are good for in the long run,” said Vera. “Oh, you occasionally meet some fellow and think it’s springtime all over again. But nothing lasts…except money.”

Chalmers cleared his throat. “Can you use a shotgun, Mrs Forbes-Grant?”

Vera laughed. Hamish thought she looked like someone leaving the confessional. She had told the worst and now she could relax.

“No, I can’t,” she said. “But it doesn’t take any expertise to blow a hole in someone at point-blank range. I could have done that.”

Chalmers patiently took her over the rest of her statement.

“You’d better see Freddy now,” said Vera, rising and smoothing down her skirt. “You won’t tell him…?”

Chalmers shook his head. “Not unless it becomes necessary.”

“You mean, not unless one of us did the murder? Don’t worry, Freddy couldn’t kill a fly.”

She drifted out, leaving a heavy aroma of Arpege in the room behind her.

Freddy Forbes-Grant entered the room about a minute later.

It took ages to calm him down in order to get him to say anything coherent at all. But when he finally decided to talk reasonably, his statement had very little to add to what he had already said. Captain Bartlett had insulted his wife on the evening before the murder and had upset her terribly. She was not the only one Bartlett had upset. No, said Freddy, he did not believe in blood sports and never used a gun. They had more or less invited themselves to the Halburton-Smythes when they heard about Henry Withering. Both he and his wife had seen the play in London and thought it a rattling good show. He had written personally to the Secretary of State for Scotland to complain about Blair’s harassment, and would complain again if Chalmers wasn’t more careful and courteous. He, Freddy Forbes-Grant, considered all policemen some lower form of life anyway.

“He knows about his wife’s affair,” said Hamish, after Freddy had crashed out.

“How do you make that out?” asked Chalmers.

“Thon is one very frightened man,” said Hamish.

“Something’s terrifying him. I could smell him from here – fear-sweat. Angry, blustering, ranting people are usually frightened.”

“Like Colonel Halburton-Smythe?”

“Och, no. That one was born a scunner.” Macpherson, who had left to find another victim, returned to say that no-one else was available until the afternoon. They had either gone out or had sent messages via the servants to say they were not to be disturbed. Dr Brodie was with Sir Humphrey Throgmorton, who was in need of a sedative.

Chalmers turned to Hamish. “In that case, you may as well tell me what you’ve discovered about the others.”

Hamish prised a small notebook out of his tunic pocket.

“Captain Bartlett,” he said, “was having an affair with Jessica Villiers four years ago. He met her friend, Diana, and dropped Jessica. He actually became engaged to Diana Bryce for two whole weeks before jilting her. The Helmsdales have reason to hate the captain. He turned up at a ball they were giving in their home near Dornoch with some other army officers. They got drunk and took the place apart. He painted a moustache on a portrait of a Helmsdale ancestor. The portrait was by Joshua Reynolds. The captain refused to pay for any of the damages. He went to sleep drunk with a cigarette burning in his hand and set his bedroom on fire. With the luck of the drunk, he jumped from his window on to the lawn and fell asleep again without warning anyone. The fire spread and burnt down most of the guest wing. It did not become a police matter, because Helmsdale inexplicably refused to prosecute. It came out later in county gossip that Helmsdale had fired a shotgun at the captain and missed. Captain Bartlett said if Helmsdale sued him, then he would sue Helmsdale for attempted manslaughter. It was at that point that Lady Helmsdale, beside herself with rage, punched Captain Bartlett and broke his jaw.”

“Golly!” said Chalmers. “Don’t tell me old Sir Humphrey has a reason to kill the captain as well?”

“He might have. He’s a fanatical collector of rare china. He had some people to afternoon tea awhiles back and they brought along their houseguest, Captain Peter Bartlett. The poor old boy had the tea served in a very rare set. He went on bragging about the value and beauty of it. Captain Bartlett dropped his teacup and saucer on the hearth, smashing it and ruining the set.”

Chalmers sat for a long time deep in thought. Then he said, “It’s very curious that so many people with reason to hate Bartlett should be gathered together under one roof.”

“The British Isles is full of other people wi’ mair reason to bump Bartlett off than any of the folks here,” said Hamish. “I wass checking up all around. I am telling you this so’s you will not be surprised when you get my phone bill. If we begin to think the murder was committed by someone outside the castle, then we are going to have a terrible job. There was a wee lassie in London killed herself with an overdose of sleeping pills when the captain jilted her, and then there’s a lot of husbands as well who’ve threatened to kill him at one time or another.”

“Where did he get the stamina?” asked Chalmers in awe. “Look at the evidence we’ve got from old Vera – three women in the one night.”

“He was supposed to have been one of those people who only need about four hours sleep a night,” said Hamish. “And Captain Bartlett was always known as a Don Juan. Aye, it’s an unfair world when you think of it. If that man had been a woman, he’d have been called a harlot!”

“Let’s get back to Jeremy Pomfret,” said Chalmers, shuffling his papers. “Did you unearth anything about him?”

“Nothing sinister,” said Hamish. “He’s rich, got an estate in Perthshire, met Bartlett from time to time on various shoots. Never a friend of the captain’s. He was sure Bartlett was going to try to cheat over this bet they had. He was very hung over when I saw him on the morning of the murder, but he could have been putting that on for my benefit He had asked me to be at the castle to referee the shooting, but I refused and told him the colonel would probably take it as a personal insult. Still, his very asking me to be there could have been a smokescreen, for the murder, as we know, took place much earlier.”

“He appears to have told Blair he loathed Bartlett,” said Chalmers. “The reasons he gave were that Bartlett had pinched his toothbrush and used it to scrub his toes, and evidently the captain had a disgusting habit of shaving in the bath. Makes you wonder what the ladies saw in a man like that.”

“Och, women are funny,” said Hamish. “Take the case of Heather Macdonald, her that was married to a fisherman. She kept that cottage of theirs so clean, it wasnae human. You had to take off your boots and leave them outside when you went visiting. She wouldn’t allow him to smoke and she starched the poor man’s shirts so stiff, it was a wonder he could sit down in the boat. But she ups and offs last year wi’ a tinker from the side-shows at the Highland games, and he was a dirty gypsy who didn’t have a bath from the one year’s end to the other. I don’t think,” added Hamish sadly, thinking of Priscilla, “that the ladies are romantic at all.”