Death of a Cad

∨ Death of a Cad ∧

10

A crofter’s son once defined a croft as a small area of land entirely surrounded by regulations.

—katharine stewart.

Summer returned for the day of the crofters’ fair. Hamish rose early and unstopped Mrs Cunningham’s drainpipe. He was interrupted by the superintendent, demanding to know why PC Macbeth had been sounding his police siren. Hamish said he had been testing it out, as he did periodically, because you never knew when it would come in handy, to which Chalmers replied, “Well, go easy on the booze, son.”

As all the members of the house party were to attend the crofters’ fair, Chalmers said he had got Colonel Halburton-Smythe to agree to a further search of all the rooms in the castle. He ordered Hamish to attend the fair and to see if he could elicit any further information from the guests.

Hamish tactfully did not point out that he had promised to attend anyway and that the police car was being used to transport cakes and scones to the fair.

The school kitchens were being used for last–minute baking. When Hamish arrived there shortly after nine o’clock, it was to find all the members of the house party helping out. Even old Sir Humphrey Throgmorton appeared to be completely recovered and was beating batter in a bowl with a gingham apron tied round his waist.

Lady Helmsdale advanced on Hamish with a bowlful of raisin-spotted batter. “Be a good man,” she boomed, “and give that a stir while I get on with something else.”

“I’m surprised to see you all here so early,” said Hamish. “I thought you wouldn’t turn up until this afternoon.”

“Got to keep these people on the move,” said Lady Helmsdale. “Can’t have them moping around the castle being badgered by those scribe-chappies and nosy coppers and dosing themselves with tranquillizers. Tranquillizers, pah! Lot of muck, if you ask me. In my mother’s day, a good dose of castor oil put an end to stupid fancies. People are getting murdered every day. Can’t take this one too seriously. Fact is, the world’s a better place without that cad.”

“You cannae expect me to approve of people taking the law into their own hands,” said Hamish.

“Why not?”

“That’s anarchy.”

“Nonsense, Bartlett was a cockroach. Someone stepped on him. Jolly good for someone, is all I can say.”

She moved off to make sure everyone was working.

Hamish noticed Priscilla and Henry were working together at a table over in the corner. They seemed to be enjoying themselves. Hamish thought they might have had some sort of reconciliation after a quarrel. They were being playful and giggling a lot, rather like a couple trying to show the world how really happy they were, reflected Hamish, feeling sour with jealousy.

Carrying the bowl, he moved over to join Diana and Jessica.

“Can’t we ever get away from the police?” said Diana nastily.

“I’m not policing at the moment,” said Hamish mildly. “I’m beating cake mixture.”

“I don’t mind you joining us,” said Jessica. “Unlike Diana, I don’t have a guilty conscience.”

“I’m tired of your bitching, Jessica,” said Diana. “Some friend you’ve turned out to be. You’re so jealous of me, you can’t resist making a crack at every opportunity.”

“Why on earth should I be jealous of you?” demanded Jessica.

Diana ticked off the items on her fingers. “I have looks, and you don’t. I attract men, and you don’t. Peter was wild about me and he thought you were a joke. He said it was rather like screwing the old grey mare who ain’t what she used to be.”

Jessica picked up a bowl of batter and slammed it full into Diana’s face.

“Now, now,” bleated the Reverend Tobias Wellington, bustling forward. “Christian charity, girls! Christian charity!”

“Oh, piss off, you old fruit,” said Diana, clawing batter from her face.

Mrs Wellington brushed her husband aside and strong-armed both the girls out of the kitchen into the school-yard where her voice could subsequently be heard berating both with magnificent force and energy.

“I do wish she wouldn’t go on and on,” said Pruney Smythe, appearing at Hamish’s elbow. “It reminds me of my school-days.”

“Serves them both right,” said Vera Forbes-Grant, with her mouth full of freshly baked cake. “This stuff’s delicious.”

“Leave some of it for the fair,” said Lady Helms-dale. “You’ve eaten half a chocolate sponge cake already.”

Diana and Jessica came back, looking chastened. Now that they were both under attack, their odd friendship had resurfaced.

“Ghastly old trout,” muttered Diana. “I bet she wears tweed knickers.”

“I’ve a good mind to put a dose of rat poison in her bloody cake,” said Jessica. “Let’s clear off and find a pub. Thank God, they don’t have licensing hours in Scotland.”

“Exit Goneril and Regan,” murmured Sir Humphrey.

“Goodness, did someone say something about gonorrhoea?” asked Lady Helmsdale.

Sir Humphrey flushed. “No, no, dear lady. I was referring to the daughters in King Lear. Shakespeare, you know.”

“Oh, him.” sniffed Lady Helmsdale. “Can’t stand the man. Awful bore.”

With the absence of Diana and Jessica, the cooking party became very merry. Even Freddy Forbes-Grant, who had been mooning around his wife, suddenly brightened up and began to help with the preparations. Jeremy Pomfret, who had been in the grip of an almost perpetual hangover since the murder, drank a glass of Alka Seltzer and began to look almost human again.

Hamish waited around even after the first batch of cakes was ready, hoping Priscilla would look at him or smile at him, or show in some way she had not forgotten their dinner date. But Mrs Wellington sharply ordered him to get a move on, and so he set out with the police car loaded up with boxes of cakes, pies, and scones for the fair, which was to be held on a sloping field at the back of the village.

Colonel Halburton-Smythe and his wife had gone on ahead and were already there, loading up a mass of junk on to a table that constituted the White Elephant stand. It was a sort of recycling of junk. People bought it one year and then handed it back the next. Fat little ponies cropped the grass, their tiny owners strutting about, brandishing large riding crops.

Some gypsies were setting up side-shows. Hamish wandered over. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you lot,” he said. “No bent rifle sights this year, no glued-down coconuts, and no brick-hard dart-boards which no dart could possibly stick in.”

“We’ve got to make a living,” whined one.

“But you’ve begun to cheat all the time,” complained Hamish. “It fair breaks my heart to see the children wasting their pocket money and not even winning a goldfish for their pains.” He picked up a rifle from the rifle range and held it up to his eye. “Deary me,” he said mildly. “Bent again. Fix those sights, or get out.”

He wandered off, followed by a volley of Romany curses.

On the other side of the field, Mrs Mackay was setting up her spinning wheel, preparatory to giving her annual demonstration. “This is the last time ever, Hamish,” she said. “I feel such an old phoney, me that buys all my clothes from Marks and Spencer.”

“Aye, well, the tourists like it,” said Hamish. “How’s your leg?”

“Better. As long as I don’t walk about too much, I’ll be all right.”

“I hear you had the royal visit?”

“Oh, Miss Halburton-Smythe and her fellow. Aye. Talk the hind leg off a donkey, he would.”

“I’d better be getting back for the next load,” said Hamish. “There’s the stuff to collect from St Mary’s after I’ve done with the Church of Scotland.”

Like most Highland fairs, the crofters’ one ditjiered along in a chaotic mess until two in the afternoon, when everything suddenly took shape. Henry Withering was right there in the swing of things, buying a sheepskin rug, a Fair Isle sweater, and a bottle opener with a deer-horn handle.

The sun was high in a cloudless sky, and the field where the fair was being held commanded a good view of the loch. The village of Lochdubh looked down at its mirrored reflection. Surprised and delighted children were winning prizes at the fairground stands. The cakes, scones, and home-made jam were disappearing fast.

Priscilla had spoken courteously to the press about the murder, about her forthcoming marriage, about her ideas on modern womanhood.

Hamish thought she was doing very well. She was wearing a simple blue cotton shirtwaister and she looked cool and fresh.

Hamish did not know that Priscilla was hating every moment of it. The morning had started well with all the fun in the school kitchen. She had promised to be nice to the press for Henry’s sake, but after she had given serveral very lengthy interviews, she told Henry she had talked enough. Taking her arm, he silently piloted her straight into another press interview, this time with a raddled female columnist who smelled of whisky and whose perpetually angry eyes were always on the lookout for another victim to tear to pieces. Normally, she specialized in savagely criticizing Princess Diana’s clothes or Prince Charles’s speeches, that ruse of the inferior woman journalist who tries to put herself on a par with the famous by putting them down.

Between interviews, Henry had found time to tell Priscilla of his dream of buying a castle and entertaining all the trendy Chelsea set, along with magazine writers and journalists from the Sunday colour supplements. Priscilla felt a lump rising in her throat. Life was beginning to stretch out in front of her in a series of exhausting press interviews. Henry found the Lochdubh community funny and quaint, something to exhibit to his London friends. Priscilla looked around the pleasant, old–fashioned scene, the purple mountains, the tranquil loch, the friendly, innocent faces of the crofters and felt Henry was turning her into a stranger in her own community.

But when it came to the prize-giving, Henry was superb. He made a warm, funny, amusing speech. He presented the first prize – pony racing – to a small child in jodhpurs. He picked her up in his arms and beamed at the cameras. “He’s going to kiss her,” thought Priscilla wildly, and Henry did.

He presented the prize for the best home-made jam and insisted on tasting it, rolling his eyes ecstatically. The crofters were delighted with him. They appreciated hard work, and Henry was working hard to make every prize recipient feel special.

“I suppose our date is off,” said a gloomy voice in Priscilla’s ear.

She swung about and looked up into the hazel eyes of PC Macbeth.

“Why?”

Hamish shuffled his feet. “Well, the pair of you seem to be doing just grand. And it now seems odd to have asked out another man’s girl.”

“Yes,” said Priscilla bleakly.

“I thought you would be up there with him.”

“I felt I’d had enough exposure to the press for one day,” said Priscilla. “And it’s Henry’s show.”

“It is that,” said Hamish admiringly. “If his plays ever flop again, he’d make his fortune as an actor.”

“I doubt it,” said Priscilla. “Ham actors are out of fashion.” She blushed hotly. “I didn’t mean that. It’s the heat.”

“So we are not going out for dinner?”

“I think I could still manage to go,” said Priscilla, not looking at him. “I mean, it’s not as if I can drop in on you any more once I am married. I’ll make some excuse and meet you at the police station at seven.”

Hamish looked over her head, his eyes sharpening. The crowd were laughing at one of Henry’s jokes. At the back of the crowd loomed the bowler-hatted head of Detective Chief Superintendent Chalmers. Behind him came Blair, Anderson, MacNab, and six uniformed officers.

“Something’s up,” said Hamish.

Chalmers and the rest shouldered their way through the crowd to where Freddy Forbes-Grant was standing.

“Excuse me,” muttered Hamish, making off in the same direction. He arrived in time to hear Chalmers saying softly, “We would like you to come with us, Mr Forbes-Grant.”

“What?” demanded Freddy, turning red with anger. “Push off. You’re spoiling the fun.”

“We do not want to make a public scene,” said Chalmers. “Think of your wife.”

“What is all this?” demanded Vera.

A silence had fallen on the crowd. Henry’s voice from the platform tailed off. Old Mr Lewis, who had won the prize for the best marrow, stood with the huge vegetable in his arms and stared open-mouthed.

“Come along,” said Chalmers, taking Freddy by the arm.

“Keep your hands to yourself,” shouted Freddy, jerking his arm free.

Chalmers sighed. “You leave me no alternative. Frederick Forbes-Grant, I hereby charge you with the wilful murder of Captain Peter Bartlett and would like to caution you that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence against you.”

“You’re mad,” said Freddy, tugging at his handlebar moustache.

A great silence had fallen on the crowd.

Then Vera whispered, “Oh, no. Look, there’s something I’ve got to tell you…”

“Oh, what’s the use. I did it,” said Freddy loudly. “Put on the manacles.”

“Just come along quietly,” said Chalmers.

The police crowded around Freddy and they all began to move away towards the cars.

Hamish caught up with Chalmers. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“Pretty sure. A pair of thick gloves was found stuffed down the side of a chair in his bedroom. We can’t say anything definite until the lab has a look at them, but it certainly appears as if they’ve been used in the murder. There’s a smear of oil on them.”

“But the rooms were searched thoroughly by Blair!”

“Oh, Blair.” The superintendent shrugged.

“He may not be all that bright,” said Hamish, “but I’m sure when it comes to routine police work, he’s pretty thorough.”

“Meaning someone else put them there? But Mr Forbes-Grant has just admitted to the murder.”

“Aye.” Hamish pushed back his cap and scratched his head. “Do you want me to come along?”

“I don’t think there’s any need. You stick to your duties here. I’ll telephone you when we get a statement and let you know what he said.”

Vera Forbes-Grant was being ushered into a car behind the one that was taking her husband to Strathbane. She looked shocked and excited at the same time.

A buzz of voices rose as the police cars drove away. The press were tumbling out of the beer tent, the less experienced rushing for their cars, the older hacks staying to collect eyewitness accounts of the arrest.

Henry’s voice, coming over the loudspeaker system, startled them all. “I think, for the sake of all the people of Lochdubh who have worked to make this fair a success,” he said, “we should go on and not let this terrible murder spoil our day. There is nothing we can do. If Mr Lewis will bring that splendid marrow of his back up to the platform, he will receive his prize. Now, Mr Lewis, tell the folks how you managed to achieve this giant.”

“What happened?” Priscilla found Jessica and Diana standing beside her. “We’ve just arrived,” said Jessica, “and someone said someone has been arrested.”

“Freddy,” said Priscilla. “They’ve arrested Freddy for the murder.”

Both girls exchanged startled glances. Then Jessica let out a slow breath of relief. “Of course, it must have been him,” she said. “He must have found out about Vera and Peter. That old bag, Vera, will be swanning all over the place now, saying Freddy killed for her sake.”

“I am very sorry for Vera,” said Priscilla. “It came as a terrible shock.”

“She’ll get over it.” Diana shrugged. “She’ll be drooping around the castle by tonight, trying to queen it over the rest of us as if she’s some sort of femme fatale, instead of the worn-out old trollop she really is.”

“The pair of you make me sick,” said Priscilla, shaken out of her normal calm. “If Mummy doesn’t tell you to pack and leave, then I shall.”

“Don’t get so uppity,” said Diana, with a drunken giggle. “We weren’t going to stay anyway. That dump of a castle is enough to make anyone commit murder. Come on, Jessica. Let’s have a beer.”

They ambled off, arm in arm.

Priscilla began to feel the beginnings of a headache behind her eyes. The whole scene took on an air of unreality. Flags and striped awnings fluttered in the bright sunshine, the music from the carousel blared out, almost drowning Henry’s voice. Henry. That was the only bright spot in this horrible day, thought Priscilla, with a sudden rush of affection for her fiancé. Although he looked as shocked and strained as the rest of them, he was manfully standing out in the glare of the sun, taking time over each presentation, compering the Highland dancing, accepting the judges’ reports for the piping competition, and making the children laugh by pretending a set of bagpipes had come to life and was trying to strangle him.

“I’ll tell Hamish I can’t make it tonight,” thought Priscilla, and looked about for the tall figure of the policeman. But there was no sign of Hamish Macbeth.

Hamish was sitting in the beer tent with Diana and Jessica. They had already told him that they had both known all along it was Freddy, although, said Diana, “At one time I thought it might be Priscilla.”

“Now why on earth would Miss Halburton-Smythe want to murder Captain Bartlett?” asked Hamish.

“There’s always been something creepy about Priscilla,” said Diana. “These repressed virgins can be dangerous.”

“How do you know she’s a virgin?” asked Hamish curiously.

“You can always tell,” hiccupped Jessica. “That frozen touch-me-not look always gives them away.”

“And is there something so terrible in being a virgin in your early twenties?”

“It’s weird, that’s what it is,” said Diana. “I think Henry’s waking up to the fact she’s a cold fish. Anytime he calls at her bedroom door, she keeps him standing outside.”

“You’re getting away from the murder,” said Hamish.

“No, I’m not. I’ve seen Priscilla out on the moors with a gun and she handles it like a man.”

“She’s all right,” said Hamish, “but by no means an expert.”

“Known her a long time?” asked Diana slyly.

“Yes.”

“And you’re sweet on her,” teased Jessica.

“Aye, I am that, me and the rest of the folk in Lochdubh. We haff always known Miss Halburton-Smythe to be decent and kind, qualities that are as admired in the Highlands as they are anywhere else. It makes a nice change when you think of the silly bitches you sometimes find yourself stuck with. Good day to you, ladies.”

“What’s got into him?” asked Jessica, staring after his retreating back.

“Who cares? We’d better put our heads together and find some way to bring Vera down a peg. It’s not as if she ever cared a rap for old Freddy.”

Hamish walked out of the beer tent. He had a sudden feeling as he made his way through the crowd that Priscilla was looking for him to cancel their dinner date. He did not look round but hurried as fast as he could to his car. Perhaps if he avoided her, she might change her mind.

Jeremy Pomfret was leaning up against his Volvo in the car-park. He was smoking a cigarette and beaming drunkenly about him. He hailed Hamish like an old friend.

“Tremendous news about Freddy, hey?”

“I seem to be the only person who’s sorry for the man,” said Hamish. “Why are you so delighted, Mr Pomfret?”

“It’s all been hanging over us. I mean, I always knew it must have been one of us. Blair thought I was the prime suspect because of the bet. It’s great to know we can all go home now and forget about it.”

“I don’t think he did it,” said Hamish abruptly.

“Here, you can’t go around saying things like that!” exclaimed Jeremy, turning pale. “The police said he did it, Freddy said he did it, so it’s all wrapped up nice and tight.”

“In my opinion,” said Hamish, “the murderer’s still on the loose.”

“You’d better be careful,” said Jeremy. “You’d better be very careful, Macbeth. Halburton-Smythe don’t like you. He’s already had Blair in trouble with the Chief Constable. Blair’s a detective. He can stand a bit of aggro. But you’re nothing but the village bobby.” Jeremy’s normally pleasant expression had changed to one of dislike and suspicion.

Hamish touched his cap and turned away.

“Keep out of it,” Jeremy shouted after him. “Just keep out of it! D’you hear?”

Hamish got in his car and drove down to the police station. Priscilla’s car was still parked outside. Her parents must have run her down to the village in the morning.

He went into his office, sat down at his desk, and called police headquarters at Strathbane. He was told Chalmers was busy and could not come to the phone.

Hamish sighed and took out his notebook, where he had jotted down odd fragments of information about the house guests. He read them over and over again, and then put his large regulation boots up on the desk and thought hard.

The sharp ringing of the phone a half hour later startled him. He snatched it, expecting the call to be from Chalmers, but it was only Mrs Wellington, the minister’s wife, demanding his help in carrying tables and chairs back to the church hall.

Hamish was just leaving when the phone rang again. But before he picked it up, he had a feeling that the caller was Priscilla, still trying to cancel the dinner date.

He put on his cap and left the police station, leaving the phone ringing.

“Where have you been?” asked Henry Withering as Priscilla walked up to him.

“I’ve just been to the phone box down the road to call someone in the village,” said Priscilla. “It’s someone I promised to visit this evening and I wanted to tell…her I couldn’t make it.”

“I should think not,” said Henry with a grin. “You’ve got me to look after.”

“You don’t seem to need much looking after.” said Priscilla. “You’ve been marvellous today, Henry. The fair would have been a disaster without you.”

“I think I’ve done enough,” said Henry. “Let’s get back to the castle and have a nice cool drink. Where’s your car?”

“It’s down in the village, but anyone in the car-park will give us a lift.”

“OK, I’ll just say my goodbyes to the Crofters Commission people and join you in a minute.”

Priscilla waited until he had gone and then took a notebook out of her handbag and scribbled a message to Hamish on a sheet of paper. She could pop it through the letter-box of the police station when she got there. She finished the note and looked for Henry. He was talking earnestly to her father about something. Colonel Halburton-Smythe laughed and clapped him on the shoulder.

Daddy’s so pleased with him, thought Priscilla. I have done the right thing.

Henry and Priscilla were dropped outside the police station by Mrs Wellington. They had passed Hamish on the road. Mrs Wellington had signalled to him to stop, but the policeman had either not seen her, or had pretended not to.

“What on earth is your car doing at the police station?” demanded Henry.

“Didn’t I tell you?” said Priscilla. “Daddy phoned when I was calling on Mrs Wellington last night and told me to get Hamish to run me home.”

“I thought he didn’t like him.”

“He doesn’t. But Daddy was concerned about my safety. I just have to leave a note for Hamish about some church arrangements.” She pushed open the garden gate of the police station and Towser treated her to a slavering welcome.

“Don’t be long, darling,” called Henry. “I need that drink before the press conference.”

Priscilla turned back and leaned on the garden gate. “What press conference?”

“This is big news. They’ll all be back at the castle tonight. I’ve got your father to agree to let me hold a press conference and deal with the media for him.”

“But Daddy’s way of dealing with the media is to lock them outside the estate,” said Priscilla, “and a bloody good idea, too. I’ve talked and talked and talked today on your behalf, Henry. I’ve had cameras poked in my face and I’ve had to parry some pretty personal questions. There’s been an arrest. Vera’s going to be in need of some looking after.”

“Oh, Vera.” Henry shrugged. “That one will be enjoying every minute of the drama.”

“Vera’s all right,” said Priscilla. “For all her nonsense, she really does care for Freddy. Can’t you keep the press away?”

“Until I see a contract for the film rights and make sure a secondary company has taken Duchess Darling on the road, I won’t feel secure,” said Henry. “OK, I know this murder’s dreadful. But it’s a windfall for me. No publicity is bad publicity, and you’d better get used to that. So just deliver that note and let’s get going.”

Priscilla looked at the note in her hand. She walked up to the front of the police station. She stared at the letter-box. Then she raised the flap and let it bang and walked back to the car with the note still crumpled up in her hand.

“Ready to go?” said Henry.

“Yes, ready,” said Priscilla evenly.

Hamish returned to the police station at six. He switched on his answering machine. A Gaelic voice wailed out the beauties of Lochnagar. He switched it off. He must really find out how it worked one day.

He phoned Strathbane again and this time got through to Chalmers.

“He’s given us a full confession,” said Chalmers. “Seems quite cocky about it all now. Says he knew Bartlett had had an affair with Vera and so bumped him off. The lab’s still working on the gloves. They were the ones used in the murder, all right.”

“But can’t they tell from the swabs they originally took from Freddy’s hands and the inside of the gloves whether he actually wore them?”

“Don’t know. One of the boffins has come up with a theory that Freddy actually used fine surgical gloves under the heavy leather ones.”

“And what does Mr Forbes-Grant say to that?”

“Says he can’t remember. Says we’ve got our murderer, so why are we wasting time with a lot of damn-fool questions.”

“And Vera Forbes-Grant – she was about to tell you something at the fair. What was it?” asked Hamish.

“She says she just wanted to tell us that her husband couldn’t have harmed anyone. But she seems to have changed her tune. She’s actually proud of him. Can you credit that?”

“Aye, in a way,” said Hamish cautiously. “I’m no’ easy in my mind about this. I cannae think Freddy would have been cold-blooded enough. The murder may have been done on the spur of the moment, but it was done by someone who didn’t lose his head and thought of everything. I don’t like those gloves turning up conveniently like that.”

“I’m under a lot of pressure,” said Chalmers. “I want the murderer to be Forbes-Grant. I want the Chief Constable off my back. I want the press off my back. What’s up with the news these days? Why don’t the Libyans bomb Harrods or something? Why doesn’t another Russian reactor blow up?”

“Now, now,” said Hamish soothingly. “It is of no use wishing a section of the population to die a terrible death just to get the press off your back.”

“Everyone will be on my back tomorrow,” sighed Chalmers. “I’m going back to that castle and I’m going to take them all through their statements again, and I’m going to have as many men as can be spared combing the moors for more clues.”

“Have you told the colonel yet?”

“That’s my next call,” said Chalmers gloomily. “I’ll expect you at Tommel Castle at nine in the morning. Where will you be if anything crops up?”

“The Laughing Trout.”

“Dear God.”

“It’s a new restaurant, up on the Crask road.”

165

“Personally, I wouldn’t go near any place with a twee name like that. Enjoy yourself.”

Chalmers rang off.

Hamish rushed to wash and change. It looked as if Priscilla was going to keep the date after all.