Death of a Cad

∨ Death of a Cad ∧

5

Nothing in his life became him like the leaving of it…

—shakespeare.

Detective Chief Inspector Blair was not a Highlander. He had been brought up in Glasgow, that city which produces some of the brightest brains in the world, along with some of the biggest chips on the shoulder. Blair, as Hamish often remarked, had a chip on his shoulder so big, it was a wonder his arm didn’t fall off.

Blair detested the upper classes because they made him feel inferior, and the Highlanders because they lacked any inferiority complex whatsoever.

But as he stood in front of the fireplace in the drawing room of Tommel Castle late that afternoon, he was enjoying himself. The Halburton-Smythes and their guests were grouped around him. On either side of Blair stood detectives Anderson and MacNab – like a couple of wally dugs, thought Hamish, who was standing by the window, meaning like those pairs of china dogs that not so long ago ornamented many mantelpieces in Scotland and have now become collector’s items.

Strained faces, white in the gloom of the drawing room, which had been built facing north so that the sun should not fade the carpet, turned towards Blair.

“It was a straightforward accident,” he said. Someone let out a sharp sigh of relief. There was a palpable air of slackening tension in the room.

“So,” went on Blair, enjoying their relief and glad he had kept these toffee-nosed creeps waiting so long for his verdict, “there’ll be no need for me to take any more statements from you.” He had been unable to interview the helicopter pilot, for while he was examining the scene of the crime, Hamish had returned to the helicopter, taken the pilot’s statement, and had told him he could return to Inverness, a piece of high-handedness that had driven Blair wild with rage.

He cast a venomous look in Hamish’s direction before going on with his lecture.

“It appears that Captain Bartlett went out very early so as to cheat on his bet and have first chance at thae birdies.” Jeremy Pomfret winced. “But before he could use his gun to shoot them, he used it to help himself get over the wire fence. The gorse bush caught the double trigger, and boom, boom, goodbye world.”

“For heaven’s sake, man, show a bit of respect for the dead,” snapped Colonel Halburton-Smythe.

Blair rounded on him. “You should be grateful tae me for finding out so quickly it was an accident instead of suspecting you all of murder.”

“Any fool could see it was an accident,” boomed Lady Helmsdale.

“Anyway,” went on Blair in a loud, hectoring voice, “his gun was loaded with number six shot. It went off and blew a hole through his chest. The pathologist has already confirmed that the shot found in the remains of his chest was number six. The colonel of his regiment has been informed of his death. As far as the colonel knows, Bartlett had no close relatives still alive. He’ll be sending someone over this week to pick up the captain’s effects just in case a relative turns up.”

“He had an aunt in London, I think,” said Diana, and then turned pink.

“Anyway,” said Blair, “the procedure is this. In cases of fatal accident, the procurator fiscal studies the pathologist’s report and the police reports. Then an inquiry is held – in camera, so you won’t have to worry about the press. It may be in a week’s time or a month’s time, so remember, even if you’ve gone back home, you must be ready to go to Strathbarie when you’re summoned.”

The door of the drawing room opened and Jenkins came in, followed by two maids carrying tea, cakes, and scones.

Blair licked his lips and looked longingly at the teapot.

“Thank you, Mr Blair,” said Mrs Halburton-Smythe. “If you have nothing further to add, I see no reason for you to stay.”

Blair flushed angrily. The least they could have done was to have offered him a cup of tea. He wanted to vent his anger on someone and looked about for Hamish Macbeth. But the Highland constable appeared to have vanished.

Blair crammed on his soft felt hat and signalled to Anderson and McNab and strutted from the room.

Hamish had not left. He had had no lunch and wanted to see if he could manage to get some tea and scones. He had slid quietly down behind a large sofa by the window and was sitting on a small footstool.

Jessie, the maid, had a soft spot for Hamish. She quietly handed him down a plate of scones and a cup of tea when Jenkins wasn’t looking.

Hamish drank his tea and listened to the conversation.

“Poor Peter,” came Vera’s choked voice. “What an awful death.”

“As if you cared,” said Jessica, suddenly and loudly. “It’s a good thing it wasn’t murder, considering we all saw you throwing a glass of gin over him.”

“You leave my wife alone, young lady,” said Freddy. “Captain Bartlett was a rotter and a cad, and I’m not going to pretend he was otherwise just because he’s dead.”

“I thought he…he was rather nice,” ventured Pruney Smythe timidly.

“Oh, he could charm anything in skirts and he didn’t give a damn about age or appearance,” said Jessica with a nasty laugh. She had meant to hurt Vera, but the shaft struck home in Pruney’s spinster bosom and she burst into tears.

“Now look what you’ve done, you horrible thing, you,” said Priscilla. “Come with me, Pruney. You’ll feel better after you’ve had a lie-down.”

Mrs Halburton-Smythe raised her voice. It held a note of steel. Afternoon tea in the drawing room was the one social event over which she was allowed complete control without interference from her domineering and fussy husband. “These remarks are all in bad form,” she said. “The man is dead and the least we can do is show some respect. We have all had a harrowing day, a lot of it unnecessarily harrowing. That man Blair is an uncouth pig. Hamish Macbeth may be a useless scrounger, but at least he’s not abrasive. Now, the crofters’ fair is to be held in Lochdubh in five days’ time and the Mod wants us to help raise funds. And, Henry dear, it quite slipped my mind. The Crofters Commission has asked me if you will be good enough to present the prizes.”

“I’d love to,” said Henry, looking gratified. “What on earth is the Mod?”

“It’s a Gaelic festival of song,” said Priscilla, coming back into the room. “We usually run the White Elephant stand. The crofters’ sale is good fun and you can pick up some great bargains in hand-knitted woollies and thingies made out of deer horn. Oh, and the sheepskin rugs they sell are very cheap.”

Jenkins came in, looking hot and annoyed. “It is the gentlemen of the press,” he said. “They are all outside the front door talking to that man Blair.”

“Then clear them off the estate,” snapped the colonel. “If that idiot Macbeth would only do his job. Phone him at the police station, Jenkins, and tell him to come here immediately. Once Blair starts pontificating to the press, he’ll be here all night.”

Hamish felt himself going hot with embarrassment and wished he had not stayed to scrounge tea. He knew Jessie Would not betray him, but if anyone in the room walked over to the window, they would find him.

He slid to the floor and rolled his thin, lanky body under the sofa.

The voices rose and fell, becoming more animated as the shadow of sudden death rolled away. Jenkins came back to say that there was no reply from the police station, only a rude recording of a voice singing in Gaelic. Hamish groaned to himself. He never checked his answering machine, for the simple reason that since he had had a second-hand one installed two months ago, he had forgotten to play it back. The previous owner had obviously used the tape for recording his favorite Gaelic tunes.

Hamish shared the Highlander’s weakness for secondhand gadgets and machinery of all kinds and, like his peers, was apt promptly to lose interest in the new toy immediately after he had got it.

The guests began to leave to spend the time before dinner in their rooms.

Hamish was about to crawl out from under the sofa and make his escape when a weight on his side told him that two people had sat down on it.

“It’s been a violent introduction to the Highlands, I’m afraid,” came Priscilla’s voice.

“Poor Peter,” replied Henry Withering. “I’d hate to pop off and then sit up there hearing everyone down here being so glad I’d gone. Don’t worry, Priscilla darling. I think I’m getting to like this place, despite all the dramatics. Would you like to live up here once we’re married?”

“I never thought of it,” said Priscilla. “I always assumed you’d want to be in London. But if you think you can bear being somewhere so remote…well, I would love to live here. Not in the castle, I mean. Somewhere of our own.”

“We’ll build our own castle,” said Henry. “Come here. I’ve been longing to kiss you all day.”

Hamish sweated with embarrassment.

Henry put his arm about Priscilla’s shoulders. She felt suddenly shy and looked down. Her gaze sharpened. A long bony hand crept out from under the sofa and tapped her foot. She stilled a scream.

“What’s the matter?” demanded Henry.

But Priscilla had recognized that edge of navy sweater above the hand. “I’m still shaky,” she said with a laugh. “Come and walk with me in the garden. I’ve got to get some fresh air. It’s stifling in here.”

Hamish waited until the sound of their voices had died away. Then he rolled out from under the sofa, opened the drawing room window, and climbed out. He made his way cautiously round the castle to the front without meeting anyone. The press had gone. His car was hidden behind the vast bulk of the Helmsdales’ antique Rolls-Royce. Towser gave him a sad, reproachful look.

“Aye, it’s like an oven in here,” said Hamish. “I’ll just take you home and give you a drink of water.”

The sunlight was now soft and golden as Hamish drove along the waterfront. Fishing boats were lined up at the pier, bobbing gently in a slow oily swell that was rolling in from the Atlantic. I hope it disnae rain, thought Hamish. I still have things to look for.

When he had fed and watered Towser and turned the dog loose in the garden, he poked around his small kitchen looking for something to eat. There was nothing in his refrigerator but an old piece of haggis and some black pudding. He opened the food cupboard and found a can of beans. Then he went out to the hen-house and collected five eggs.

He was settling down to a dinner of fried egg and beans and strong tea when he heard Towser yipping an ecstatic welcome.

“Come in,” he shouted, “the door’s open.”

Thinking it would be one of the villagers, he got to his feet to look for another cup.

“And what were you doing, hiding under the sofa, Hamish?” said a cool, amused voice.

Hamish put the heavy pottery cup he had just lifted out back in the cupboard and brought down a delicate china cup and saucer instead.

“It’s yourself, Priscilla,” he said. “Sit down and have a cup of tea.”

“Is that your dinner?” asked Priscilla.

Hamish looked thoughtfully at his half-eaten eggs and beans.

“Well, to my way of thinking, it is more like the high tea,” he said eventually. “I would not be distinguishing it with the title of dinner. Do you want some?”

“No, I have to get home soon. Dinner is at eight and I’ve got to change. But I’ll have a cup of tea. Now, Hamish…”

“I was searching for clues,” said Hamish, looking at her hopefully.

Priscilla slowly shook her head. “The truth, Hamish.”

Hamish gave a sigh. “I was that thirsty and I wanted some tea. Jessie saw me sitting down behind the sofa and gave me some when no-one was looking. Then I felt guilty and I thought your father would have a fit if he saw me, so I slid under the sofa. I couldnae bear the idea of you courting and me listening,” said Hamish, blushing and averting his eyes, “so I had to attract your attention.”

“You are the most terrible scrounger I have ever met,” giggled Priscilla. “Still, it can’t have been nice for you having to deal with Blair again. What a brute of a man! Thank goodness it was an accident. Can you imagine if someone had bumped off the terrible captain what it would be like? All our faces splashed over the tabloids.”

Hamish buried his nose in his cup. “Does it no’ surprise you,” he said at last, “that it wasn’t a murder?”

“Not really,” said Priscilla, after a pause. “The world’s full of hateful people, but no-one bumps them off. Too often the people murdered are innocent kids going home from school or old-age pensioners. Things are getting worse in the South, you know. Sutherland must be the last place on God’s earth where you don’t have to lock your door at night.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure o’ that,” said Hamish. “I’m troubled in my mind. I keep seeing him with his chest shot to hell, hanging over that wire fence like a bunch o’ rags. I knew of him afore this – the wild Captain Bartlett. Never to speak to, mind. I mean, I knew him by sight. He was full of life and not so bad when he hadn’t the drink taken. The fence wasn’t all that high. He had long legs on him. The way I see it, he would normally have pushed the wire down and stepped over.”

“It’s an accident that’s happened before, even to good marksmen, Hamish.”

“Aye, maybe.”

“You’re not eating your food.”

“I hate baked beans,” said Hamish, loudly and forcibly. What he really meant was that he hated Priscilla’s being engaged to Henry Withering, and felt he must vent his feelings somehow.

“Oh, wait a minute. I’ll be back soon,” said Priscilla, exasperated.

She returned five minutes later carrying a small parcel. “I knocked at the back door of the butcher’s. Mr MacPherson was still there and I got you two lamb chops. Go and get some potatoes out of the garden and I’ll fix you dinner.”

Soon Hamish was sitting down to a meal of grilled lamb chops, fried potatoes, and lettuce from the garden.

“It’s very kind of you, Priscilla,” he said. “I don’t want to keep you. I thought you would be wanting to run back to Henry.”

“I’ll see him at dinner,” said Priscilla vaguely.

Priscilla was filled with a sudden reluctance to leave the narrow, cluttered kitchen at the back of the police station. The back door was open, and homely smells of wood-smoke, kippers, and strong tea drifted in as the villagers of Lochdubh settled down for the evening. It was six-thirty, but very few people, apart from the Halburton-Smythes, ate as late as eight in the evening.

Henry had kissed her very passionately and said he would join her in her bed that night. At the time,

Priscilla had said nothing to put him off, feeling it ridiculous in this modern day and age to hang on to a virginity she was soon to lose anyway. But Hamish emitted an aura of an old–fashioned world of courting, walking home in the evening, and holding hands; a world where it was all right to remain a virgin until your wedding night.

What would it be like, mused Priscilla, to be a policeman’s wife? Perhaps the sheer boredom of living in a tiny remote place like Lochdubh would make her nervous and restless. And yet she had said she would live there with Henry.

“I had better go home,” she said, collecting her handbag.

“Aye,” said Hamish sadly.

They stood looking at each other for a long moment and then Priscilla gave an odd, jerky nod of her head and turned and left.

Hamish sat for a long time staring into space. Then he got out the car, called Towser, and drove off in the direction of the Halburton-Smythes’ estate. He had driven halfway there when he saw the poacher, Angus MacGregor, walking along. He was not carrying his gun and had the dazed look of a man who has been asleep all day long.

Stopping the car, Hamish called him over. “I should book you, Angus,” he said.

“Whit fur?” demanded the poacher, his bloodshot eyes raised to the sky as if calling on heaven to witness this persecution at the hands of the law.

“I found you dead-drunk down at the harbour this morning,” said Hamish, “and in your back pocket was a brace o’ grouse. You’d been poaching on the Halburton-Smythes’ estate again, ye daft auld fool.”

“Me!” screeched Angus, beating his breast. He began to rock to and fro, keening in Gaelic, “Ochone, ochone.”

“Shut up and listen to me. I’ll not be taking you down to the police station. I hae something in mind for you,” said Hamish, staring ahead, drumming his long fingers on the steering wheel.

Then he said, “I want to see you the morn’s morn with that dog o’ yours, Angus. I’ve a bit o’ work for you.”

“And what iss a man to get paid?”

“A man gets nothing. A man does not get his fat head punched. Be at the police station at six, or I’ll come looking for you.”

Hamish drove off. He drew to a halt again where he had seen the helicopter and got out with Towser at his heels.

He walked until he had reached the scene of the captain’s death and then he said to Towser, “Fetch!”

Towser was an indiscriminate fetcher. He brought everything he could find if asked. Hamish sat down on a clump of heather to wait.

He looked up at the sky. Little feathery clouds, gold and tinged with pink, spread a broad band of beauty over the westerning sun. The colour of the heather deepened to dark purple. The fantastic mountains stood out sharply against the sky. As every Highlander knows, the ghosts and fairies come out at dusk. The huge boulders scattered over the moorland took on weird, dark, hunched shapes, like an army of trolls on the march.

Hamish lay back in the heather, his hands behind his head, as Towser fetched and fetched. At last he sat up.

There was a small stack of items at his feet. Five old rusty tin cans, a sock, an old boot, one of those cheap digital watches people throw away when the battery runs out, the charred remains of a travelling blanket, an old thermos, and a broken piece of fishing rod.

Towser emerged, panting through the heather, dragging a piece of old tyre.

“Enough, boy,” said Hamish. “We’ll be back tomorrow. Maybe we’re searching too near.”

“Not tonight, Henry,” said Priscilla Halburton-Smythe. “It’s this terrible death. I think I’m feeling shocked. I simply don’t feel romantic. I’m awfully sorry.”

“All right,” said Henry sulkily. “If that’s the way you feel…Where did you vanish to early this evening?”

“Just out. I felt I had to get out Good night, darling. I’ll be back to normal tomorrow.”

She gently closed her bedroom door in his face.

Jenkins marched into the breakfast room in the morning and stood to attention before his master. “Sinclair has just been to report that Hamish Macbeth, that poacher MacGregor, and their dogs are out on our moors, sir.”

“The devil they are,” said the colonel, turning red. “Didn’t he tell them to hop it?”

“Sinclair did, sir, but Macbeth said he was within his rights. He said he was looking for clues.”

“The insolence of that man is beyond anything,” said the colonel. “Phone Strathbane and tell Blair to come over here and give Macbeth the dressing down of his life, and if he doesn’t get over here sharpish, I shall report him to his superiors.”

“Certainly, sir,” said Jenkins with a satisfied smile.

The guests looked at each other uneasily.

“What is he doing?” asked Diana. “I mean, it was an accident.”

“He’s probably poaching,” said Colonel Halburton-Smythe. “I know that man poaches. He’s only using this looking-for-clues nonsense to cover up the fact he’s a poacher himself. And what is he doing with that rascal MacGregor, if he’s not poaching?”

Jenkins came back into the room. “Strathbane says that Mr Blair is already on his way here. He wanted to assure you personally that the procurator fiscal’s report tallied with his own. In fact, he should be here now.”

“Good,” said the colonel. There was the sound of an arriving car scrunching on the gravel outside. “That’ll be him,” said the colonel. “Show him in.”

Blair could easily have phoned in the news, but he was still smarting over what he considered the Halburton-Smythes’ rudeness in not offering him tea and, like most thin-skinned people who have been snubbed, he could not leave the snubbers alone.

His fury on learning that Hamish was supposedly looking for clues was tinged with satisfaction. He was in a vile temper and giving Hamish a bawling out appealed to him immensely.

“I’ll go out and see him now,” said Blair.

Priscilla looked up and saw Hamish, with Angus MacGregor behind him, standing at the entrance to the breakfast room. She signalled wildly to him to escape, but Hamish stayed where he was, his face unusually set and grim.

“Good morning, Chief Inspector,” said Hamish.

Blair swung about, his piggy eyes gleaming. He opened his mouth to yell.

“It was murder,” said Hamish Macbeth. “Captain Peter Bartlett was murdered. And I hae the proof o’ it right here.”

Blair’s mouth dropped open and he stared stupidly. A heavy shocked silence fell on the room.

Into that silence came again the soft Highland voice of PC Macbeth.

“Och, aye,” he said. “It was nearly the perfect murder.”