Death of a Cad

∨ Death of a Cad ∧

3

Keep your place and silent be,

Game can hear and game can see.

—mark beaufoy.

The members of the house party, with the exception of the guest of honour, Henry Withering, and his fiancée, Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, looked rather jaded when they gathered in the dining room of the castle on the following evening for the buffet supper.

Jeremy Pomfret appeared looking like a dissipated cherub, with blue circles under his eyes. His room and Peter’s had originally been one triangular-shaped room. It had been converted into two by a wall of thin plasterboard, and the bathroom had been installed to cut across the point of the triangle. Jeremy’s sleep had been disturbed by sounds of noisy love-making coming from Peter’s room all night long. There had also been a lot of toing and froing, and it had sounded as if the gallant captain had been entertaining more than one lady during the night.

The beginnings of a very deep hatred for Peter Bartlett had begun to burn in Jeremy’s old–fashioned, fastidious soul. That hatred had leaped into a flame that very evening, when Jeremy had gone into the bathroom to wash and shave before dinner. There were sopping-wet towels lying all over the floor, and there was a stomach-churning ring of hair round the bathtub, showing that Captain Peter Bartlett had shaved while he was having his bath.

“Filthy beast,” raged Jeremy, glowering at Peter across the room. The captain, lean, handsome, beautifully tailored, was being fawned on by Vera, Jessica, and Diana. How can any woman even tolerate being near the man? thought Jeremy. Tomorrow was the Glorious Twelfth, and Peter had still not yet said at what time he would be going out. It was not as if Jeremy could ask the servants; since it was only the pair of them, there were to be no loaders or beaters or even dogs.

Also looking the worse for wear were Lord and Lady Helmsdale. Both wore men’s pyjamas in bed, and they had discovered last night that someone had poured glue into the crotch of each pair. They had spent hours trying to get the offending mess off the embarrassing places it had stuck to. They both blamed the captain.

Sir Humphrey Throgmorton sat listlessly in a corner. He never slept very well anyway. Prunella Smythe had stayed awake most of the night in a stagestruck fever of excitement. Freddy Forbes-Grant had been awakened by his wife’s getting out of bed at two in the morning, saying she was going down to the kitchens to get a glass of milk. When she had not returned by three, he became anxious and went in search of her. When he had given up the search and returned to the bedroom, it was to find Vera once more in bed and fast asleep. He wondered what she had been up to, and that wonder had kept him awake and in a nasty temper until dawn.

Colonel and Mrs Halburton-Smythe had sat up very late debating whether their daughter actually meant to marry this splendid catch or whether she would change her mind. She had resisted their best efforts and had turned down so many eligibles that they found it hard to believe she meant to meet this one at the altar. They also planned to tell the captain to leave immediately after he had bagged his brace, but as they were both frightened of Peter Bartlett’s erratic bouts of vicious temper, each wanted the other to give the captain his marching orders. They had never entertained him as a house guest before and had not realized until now the full horror of the captain’s behaviour. They at last settled on that well-worn ruse employed by the landed gentry for speeding the unwelcome guest on his way – placing a railway timetable beside his bed with the soonest, fastest train underlined in red, and instructing the housekeeper to pack his case and leave it in the hall.

Whatever had put the shadows under the eyes of both Diana and Jessica, they were hugging to themselves, occasionally casting triumphant looks at each other, and then turning away puzzled, each obviously wondering what the other had to look triumphant about.

As well as the members of the house party, there was a sprinkling of local notables, now clustered about Henry, asking for his autograph and laughing at his slightest joke.

Priscilla was proud of Henry. He was so good-natured, so likeable, and so much at ease that all her doubts about their engagement had been laid to rest.

He had appeared during the day in respectably worn casual clothes and was now dressed in a beautifully tailored dinner jacket, the only relic of his past reputation for bohemianism being a pink-striped frilled shirt.

And then she looked across the dining room – it was the only large room in the castle, which was why it was being used for the party – and witnessed the full glory of the arrival of PC Macbeth.

Priscilla stifled a sharp exclamation of dismay and crossed the room to join him.

“Hamish,” she hissed, “where on earth did you get that frightful dinner jacket from?”

“It’s a wee bit on the short side,” admitted Hamish ruefully, looking down at his long, lanky figure. “But wee Archie was the only waiter at the Loch-dubh Hotel who was off duty tonight.”

The dinner jacket hung loosely on him and the sleeves only came three-quarters of the way down his arms, and his trousers were exposing a long length of woolly plaid sock.

“Come with me quickly,” urged Priscilla. “Uncle Harry often leaves some of his gear here, and he’s tall and thin. Mummy’s glaring already.”

Uncle Harry was Mr Paul Halburton, Mary Halburton-Smythe’s brother, an archaeologist who travelled far and wide with the minimum of baggage and who always left most of his wardrobe behind at Tommel Castle after one of his flying visits. The Halburton-Smythes had double-barrelled their name after their marriage.

Priscilla led Hamish quickly from the room before her mother could reach her.

Upstairs, in a cell-like room at the top of the castle, Priscilla rummaged through her Uncle Harry’s wardrobe until she found a respectable dinner jacket and trousers. “Put these on immediately, Hamish,” she said. “You can hand them back tomorrow. I’ll parcel up Archie’s clothes and put the parcel in the hall and you can pick it up when you leave. Didn’t you get my parents’ message telling you not to come?”

“No,” said Hamish, removing the waiter’s dinner jacket and then the abbreviated trousers. “I would hae been most offended. I think, as it is, I should go home.”

Priscilla wrestled with her conscience. Her parents would be furious. But Hamish looked so miserable, and he did not seem to have much fun – except with some of the local ladies, Priscilla reminded herself sharply. But he saved every penny to send back to his mother and father and large brood of brothers and sisters over on the east and she was sure he never ate enough.

The door opened, and Jenkins, the Halburton-Smythe’s English butler, walked in. Hamish was just about to put on Uncle Harry’s trousers.

“Don’t you ever knock?” snapped Priscilla.

“A good servant never knocks,” said Jenkins, his gooseberry eyes bulging with outrage. “And what, may I ask, are you doing with this constable, and him without his trousers?”

“Don’t be a silly twit, Jenkins,” said Priscilla. “You saw Mr Macbeth arrive. He could not possibly put in an appearance in that awful dinner jacket, so I am lending him one of Uncle Harry’s. What are you doing here anyway?”

“Mrs Halburton-Smythe sent me to look for you. One of the maids said she had seen you coming up here.”

Priscilla bit her lip. Somehow it had never crossed her mind even to turn her back while Hamish was changing his trousers. She had become used to the fact that the Highlander, though quite prudish and shy in some respects, was never self-conscious about appearing undressed. But Jenkins was not a Highlander. And if she pleaded with Jenkins not to tell her mother what he had seen, that might make the whole innocent business seem sinister.

“Very well, Jenkins,” said Priscilla. “You may go.”

“And what shall I tell Mrs Halburton-Smythe?” asked Jenkins, his eyes gleaming with malice. It was not that he disliked Priscilla in any way; it was just that he was a terrible snob and he thought Hamish Macbeth had no right to be attending Tommel Castle as one of the guests.

“Chust say,” said Hamish, whose Highland accent became more marked and sibilant when he was annoyed or upset, “that Miss Halburton-Smythe will be doon the stairs shortly, and if you add anything to that statement, ye great pudding, I’ll hear o’ it and I’ll take ye apart bit by bit.”

Jenkins glared awfully and then he wheeled about, his arms held out as if carrying a tray, and made a ponderous, stiff-legged exit.

“He’s like a butler in a fillum,” said Hamish. “I think when he feels his act or accent is slipping, he takes the bus down tae Strathbane and sees another old movie.”

“Don’t blame old Jenkins too much,” said Priscilla ruefully. “We must have looked like a bedroom farce.”

“How do I look now?” asked Hamish anxiously, straightening down the lapels of Uncle Harry’s dinner jacket.

“Splendid,” said Priscilla, thinking privately what a difference good clothes made to Hamish’s appearance. He was really quite a good-looking man with his red hair and clear hazel eyes, particularly when he was out of that joke of a uniform. It would be fun to take Hamish in hand. She gave herself a mental shake.

“Well, if you’re ready, let’s go,” she added.

“Are you sure it is all right?” asked Hamish, hesitating.

“You shall go to the ball,” said Priscilla with a grin.

Hamish moved closer to her and looked down at her shyly. “You’re looking awf’y pretty tonight, Priscilla.”

Priscilla always dressed in what pleased her and never bothered about the dictates of fashion. She was wearing a leaf-green chiffon blouse with a V-necked frilled collar and a black evening skirt. Her fair hair fell in a smooth line to her shoulders. Her only jewellery was the emerald-and-diamond engagement ring Henry had bought her at Asprey’s. She looked up into Hamish’s eyes and felt strangely awkward and uncomfortable. Up until that precise moment, Priscilla had always been at ease in the policeman’s company. With Hamish, she felt obscurely that she could be herself and that Hamish would always like her no matter what she did. It was that old feeling of undemanding intimacy that had made her stay in the room while he changed his trousers. For the moment that easiness had fled, and Priscilla felt herself beginning to blush.

She took a step backwards and mumbled, “Let’s go.” Aware of Hamish’s curious eyes on her, she scooped up the waiter’s clothes, draped them over her arm, and hurried from the room without looking back to see if he was following her.

When she reached the dining room, she abandoned Hamish to his fate and went to join Henry. He was happily talking to his admirers and, to her relief, had not noticed her absence from the room.

At last she looked over to see how Hamish was faring. The policeman was engaged in conversation with Jeremy Pomfret and the Helmsdales. Priscilla’s parents had been thwarted in their intention of throwing Hamish out by the Helmsdales’ welcome of him. For Hamish took many prizes at shooting contests and Lord Helmsdale was one of his admirers, as was Jeremy Pomfret. Lady Helmsdale did not know Hamish, but she found him a nice, pleasant man with a refreshing air of shyness – unlike that horrible Peter Bartlett, that cad, who had now drunk enough to turn nasty.

Lady Helmsdale was further pleased when Hamish turned out to have intelligent views on the decline of the grouse population. “If the decline continues,” said Hamish, “most of Scotland’s moor owners will hae no alternative but to opt for intensive sheep farming or forestry planting, and that would mean the loss of the heather and the heather accounts for ninety per cent of the grouse. It would also lead to a verra serious loss of sporting income, rural employment, not to mention the tourist revenue.”

Jeremy, encouraged by Hamish’s shy, respectful manner, found courage to air his own views. Hamish listened with half an ear, while he picked up snippets of conversation from other parts of the room. While appearing to attend closely to Jeremy and the Helmsdales, he was indulging that intense Highland curiosity of his to the hilt.

There wasn’t a woman as well-dressed as Priscilla in the room, he thought. Vera was wearing last year’s fashion of slim sheath with three belts. But Vera was plump, and all she had achieved was three spare tyres instead of one. Hamish knew Vera by sight. He did not know Diana, but he thought it was a pity that such a beautiful girl should be dressed in funereal black that was bunched up, Japanese-style, about her middle. The horsy girl beside her, mused Hamish, turning his gaze on Jessica, should surely never have gone in for an orange strapless gown. Every time she moved her shoulders, her bones stuck out in all sorts of odd places.

Jessica and Diana had drawn a little aside from Vera and Peter.

“I wish you would stop staring at me in that smug way and saying how tired you are,” whispered Diana. “If you’ve got one of the gamekeepers into your bed, you should keep quiet about it.”

41

“I would hardly call Peter a gamekeeper,” giggled Jessica.

“What!” Diana almost spluttered with rage. “He was with me!”

“He couldn’t have been,” said Jessica. “He was with me.”

Both girls glared at each other and then gradually the anger died out of their eyes to be replaced by a look of mutual consternation.

“He couldn’t be such a bastard. Even Peter couldn’t do that,” whispered Diana. “What time did he call on you?”

“Four in the morning,” said Jessica in a small voice. “He didn’t call on me. I went to him.”

“He told me to visit him at midnight,” said Diana miserably.

Both girls held hands like children and turned and looked at Peter Bartlett. His back was to them and Vera was facing him. They saw her full, pouting lips framing a kiss.

“And guess who was with him in-between-times.” said Jessica. Her eyes filled with tears. She took a step towards the captain.

“Don’t,” said Diana. “Don’t let him know we’ve found him out. Let’s get him for this. I could kill him.”

“I wouldn’t flirt so blatantly if I were you,” Peter Bartlett was saying to Vera. “Freddy might notice.”

Vera’s eyes were soft. “After last night, Peter darling,” she said, “he can notice what he likes. We’re made for each other.”

Peter never knew quite how it happened. A few drinks and he loved the world. A few more and his life seemed full of dead bores. He turned a jaundiced eye on Vera.

“I must say,” he said, “you were certainly the best of last night’s bunch. Lots to be said for middle-aged women with insatiable appetites.”

The smile slowly left Vera’s face as the full implication of what he had said sank in.

“Who else was with you last night?” she demanded. “Oh, darling, you must be joking. There can’t have been anyone else.”

The captain’s black eyes swivelled round to Jessica and Diana and then back to Vera. One eyelid drooped in a mocking wink.

Vera threw the contents of her glass in his face, burst into tears and ran from the room. Her husband saw her stumbling departure and ran after her.

Everyone began to talk very loudly as if nothing had happened.

Hamish had been studying the scene thoughtfully. He saw Priscilla waving to him and excused himself from the Helmsdales and Jeremy and went to join her.

“Henry’s dying to speak to you again,” said Priscilla brightly. She had once more had to reassure Henry that she had no interest whatsoever in the village constable. Henry had finally noticed Hamish’s presence in the room and had accused Priscilla of countermanding her parents’ orders by re-inviting the constable herself. Priscilla had explained the reason for Hamish’s presence, but Henry was still suspicious, although he covered his suspicions very well, and asked her to call Hamish over. He wanted to see the pair of them together again, just to put his mind at rest.

Right behind Hamish came the adoring Prunella Smythe. She was a middle-aged lady wearing a great many bits and pieces. Her hemline drooped. Bits of scarf and thin tatty necklaces hung around her neck. She had a scrappy stole around her thin shoulders with a moth-eaten fringe that had wound itself into the ends of her long dangling earrings.

Called by one and all ‘Pruney’, Miss Smythe’s pale eyes behind her thick glasses looked out on the world with myopic wonder.

Before Henry could speak to Hamish, Pruney launched into full gush. “I cannot tell you enough, Mr Withering, how much I adored your play.”

Peter Bartlett, who had been standing behind them mopping his face with a napkin, turned around. “I never read anything but the Racing Times, Henry, but I did hear you’d got your smash hit at last. What’s it about? The evil capitalists?”

“Oh, no,” said Pruney in a rush. “Nothing like that at all. It’s the most glorious drawing-room comedy, quite like the old days. None of those nasty swear words or” – her voice dropped to a stage whisper “ – sex.”

“Sounds a bore,” said the captain.

Pruney giggled. “It’s actually quite naughty in bits. I love when the duchess says, “Marital fidelity is so yawn-making.” ”

Henry turned as red as fire. “Shut up!” he said rudely. “I hate it when people quote my play. Shut up, do you hear!”

Pruney’s short-sighted eyes filled with startled tears.

“Nasty Henry,” said Peter in high good humour.

“Come along, Miss Smythe. You shall tell me all about it. I could listen to you all night.”

He led the now gratified Pruney away.

“He can’t even leave Pruney alone,” said Priscilla. “That man’s a menace.”

“He minds me o’ Jimmy MacNeil down in the village,” said Hamish. “That man would lay the cat.”

Priscilla rounded on Henry. “What on earth came over you?” she asked. “There was no need to rip up poor old Pruney like that.”

“How would you feel if you had spent years writing good solid plays and then only been accepted and famous after you’d deliberately produced a piece of twaddle,” said Henry in a hard flat voice. “I can’t even bear a line of Duchess Darling.”

“Oh, darling, I didn’t know you had written it like that deliberately,” said Priscilla with warm sympathy. “And I thought there was something up with me because I didn’t like it. Never mind. After this success you can write what you like. Don’t glower. Look! Food. I’m starving. Lead me to it.”

She slipped her arm through Henry’s and led him away. Hamish watched them go. Priscilla gave Henry’s arm a squeeze and then she bent and kissed his cheek.

Hamish trailed off to where Sir Humphrey Throgmorton was sitting alone. He introduced himself and asked Sir Humphrey if he could fetch him any food.

“Later, my boy. Later,” said Sir Humphrey. “Sit down and talk for a bit. I’m too old to circulate and the sight of that bounder Bartlett makes me ill.”

“Quite a character,” said Hamish.

“He’s rotten,” said old Sir Humphrey, his little grey beard waggling up and down. “I could tell you a thing or two about that cad. The wonder is that he’s never been in prison.”

Hamish looked down at him hopefully, waiting for more, but Sir Humphrey said, “I am hungry after all. Could you please get me a plate of something?”

Over at the buffet, Hamish arranged a selection of cold meat and salad on a plate and took it back to Sir Humphrey.

Realizing he was hungry himself, he went back to the buffet. By the time he had picked out what he wanted, Sir Humphrey was happily talking to Lady Helmsdale. Then Hamish saw Diana waving to him. She was seated at a table in the corner with Jessica. The girls introduced themselves and Hamish merely said he was Hamish Macbeth, without adding that he was a policeman.

“Do you live near here?” asked Diana, her wide, almost purple eyes roaming over Uncle Harry’s expensive suit.

“Down in the village,” said Hamish.

“Is your wife anywhere about?” asked Jessica.

“I am not married,” said Hamish.

Both girls brightened perceptibly.

“It’s so nice to meet an unmarried man,” drawled Diana. “These house parties can be a drag.”

“I’m not the only unmarried man here,” pointed out Hamish. “I know Mr Pomfret is not married, and Mr Bartlett, I believe, is – ”

“Forget about Peter,” said Jessica. “No girl in her right mind would have anything to do with him. And Jeremy’s a wet. Do eat your food…Hamish, is it?”

“Dangerous places, the Highlands, don’t you think?” said Diana with a sly look at Jessica. “All sorts of accidents can happen.”

“Like what?” asked Hamish.

“Oh, exposure, hypothermia, avalanches…things like that.”

“We had a murder here last year,” said Hamish.

“Yes, we all heard about that,” said Jessica. “The murdered woman was a horrible character anyway. Don’t you think it’s mean when some poor person rids the earth of some obnoxious toad and then has to pay the penalty?”

“You can hardly expect me to agree with you,” said Hamish.

“Oh, why?”

“Not in my official bible,” said Hamish with a grin. “Don’t you know I’m the local bobby?”

“Oh, really?” said Diana, as if Hamish had just confessed to being the local cockroach.

“You’re that Macbeth,” said Jessica in tones of loathing. “I read about you in the papers.”

Hamish realized the air about him was becoming glacial and murmured something about taking his leave.

He stood up and looked about for Priscilla. She was sitting next to Henry and did not notice him. But Henry did, and put a possessive hand on Priscilla’s knee.

He then thought he should grit his teeth and thank Mrs Halburton-Smythe for her hospitality, but as he approached her she gave him a horrified look and tried to hide behind a plant.

Hamish sighed and made his way to the door. Jeremy Pomfret seized his arm. “I say,” he said,

“have you heard about this bet I’ve got on with Bartlett?”

“Aye, everyone’s talking about it,” said Hamish. “I hear there are a few side bets on, too.”

“Well, it’s now been agreed that we go out at nine in the morning, each with a gun and cartridges, and go off in opposite directions. The first one back at the castle with a brace is the winner.”

“I wish you luck, Mr Pomfret,” said Hamish and turned to leave, but Jeremy clutched at his sleeve.

“I say, old chap,” he said urgently, “couldn’t you, well, sort of be around here at nine tomorrow morning, a sort of referee, you know?”

“What for, Mr Pomfret?”

Jeremy led Hamish into a corner.

“I don’t trust the blighter,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “You see, the bet’s for five thousand pounds, and frankly, I don’t believe he’s got it. And he’s been making some side bets, too. Unless I’m very much mistaken, that means he’s certain he’s going to win.”

“Maybe he’s just full of confidence,” said Hamish cautiously. “The captain’s a verra good shot, I’m told. I’m sure you’ll both get your brace tomorrow. The grouse may be a lot scarcer these days, but there are still plenty out there.”

“Yes, but without beaters or even a dog, it could take ages to walk up to a covey. Either of us could win. What worries me is why Bartlett is so certain it will be him, unless he’s got some trick up his sleeve. Sure you won’t come here at nine to see everything is aboveboard?”

“I’d like to, Mr Pomfret,” said Hamish. “But it’s like this. Unless the colonel invites me, I chust cannot put my nose into this. And the colonel is not going to invite me. In fact, he sent word to stop me coming here tonight, but the message got lost on the way. Besides, any suggestion of a referee would mean the colonel would be made to look as if he thought one of his guests was about to cheat, and he wouldn’t stand for that.”

“Yes, I see what you mean,” said Jeremy, pouting like a disappointed baby. “Sorry to have troubled you.”

Hamish continued on his way out.

He picked up the parcel containing the waiter’s clothes from a chair in the hall and made his way out onto the drive.

Peter Bartlett, smoking a cigar, was pacing up and down.

“Sobering up for the big day,” he said when he saw Hamish.

“Good luck,” said Hamish politely, fishing for his car keys.

“You’ve heard about the bet?” asked Bartlett.

Hamish nodded. “I hear it’s for quite a bit of money,” he said.

“Yes, quite a stroke of luck that, finding old Pomfret here.” Bartlett’s white teeth gleamed in a broad smile. “And I thought I was going to have to be content with that Arab’s miserly two thousand pounds.”

Hamish, who had been about to open his car door, stopped and turned around. “And what Arab would that be, Captain?” he asked slowly.

“Just some old oil sheikh in London. He’s heard stories about the honour of dining on Scottish grouse on the day of the Glorious Twelfth itself, so I offered to get a brace for him – at a price, you understand.”

“And how will you get them to London in time for the sheikh’s dinner, Captain?”

“He’s paying for that. He’ll have a helicopter here before nine in the morning. That’ll take the birds to Inverness airport. The helicopter pilot will put them on the shuttle plane to London, and one of the sheikh’s flunkeys will pick them up at London airport.”

Hamish studied the captain thoughtfully. “And the sheikh will send you a cheque, I suppose?”

“Not likely. When I hand over the grouse, the helicopter pilot will hand me a packet – two thousand pounds in cash. I drive a hard bargain.”

“So,” said Hamish, “if you bag a brace by noon or so, you’re sure to get the two thousand?”

“Exactly,” said Peter Bartlett with a wolfish grin. “Just can’t lose.”

“So if you don’t get the first brace, you’ll only have to pay Mr Pomfret three thousand pounds. And, of course, those side bets you’ve been making.”

Peter Bartlett thrust his head forward, peering into Hamish’s face in the gathering gloom. Then he threw back his head and laughed.

“Don’t worry, my dear constable-chappie. I won’t lose.”

“In that case,” said Hamish, opening his car door, “I’ll say good night.”

“Look here,” said the Captain, putting a hand on Hamish’s shoulder, “do you believe in that thing, you know, where you can tell what’s about to happen? The second sight – that’s it.”

Hamish patiently turned around. He was accustomed to weeping drunks, fighting drunks, and psychic drunks.

“And just what do you think is going to happen?” he asked politely.

“I’ve got this feeling someone’s out to get me,” said the captain. “I feel a lot of menace about…oh, it’s hard to explain.”

“I think it iss very easy to explain, Captain Bartlett,” said Hamish. “If a man puts as many backs up as you have, then it iss almost a form of suicide. I haff met people before who could not bring themselves to put an end to their lives, and so they went around goading other people into doing it for them. Good night, Captain Bartlett.”

He drove off and left Peter Bartlett staring after him.