Death of a Charming Man

∨ Death of a Charming Man ∧

3

A man that studieth revenge keeps his own wounds green.

—Francis Bacon

Had Hamish been a Lowland Scot, he would have confronted Priscilla and Peter, or, at least, have phoned her later to tell her what he thought of her. But he was Highland, and his vanity was deeply wounded. So, maliciously hell-bent on mischief, he drove up to the Tommel Castle Hotel.

The first welcome sight that met his eyes was a new receptionist, a small, pretty girl with a cheeky face and a mop of auburn curls.

He had seen her before. She had, he judged, started work at the hotel about a fortnight ago. He smiled at her and said, “Where’s Priscilla?”

“She’s gone out,” said the receptionist. “Can I help? Och, I’m being silly. You’re Hamish.”

“You’re Scottish,” exclaimed Hamish. “I thought only the English took jobs as receptionists in Highland hotels. Are you from these parts?”

“No, from Perth.” She held out a small hand. “Sophy Bisset.”

“Well, Sophy Bisset, are you on duty for long tonight?” She glanced at the clock. “Harry, the night porter, should be here any moment to relieve me.”

“Fancy a bite of dinner?”

Her bright grey eyes twinkled at him. “I thought you lot had your dinner in the middle of the day and your tea by five.”

“I’ve been working hard.”

“As a matter of fact, I’ve only had a sandwich since lunchtime. Oh, here’s Harry.”

“Come along and I’ll stand ye dinner at that Italian place.”

She looked amused, as if at some private joke, but she picked up her handbag and said cheerfully, “All right. Let’s go.”

Seated in the Land Rover, she said, “This is very kind of you, Hamish. Safe in the arms of the law.”

“Chust so,” said Hamish, throwing her a slanting look. Had there been a mocking edge to her voice?

Wishing he were not wearing his uniform, Hamish ushered her into the restaurant. “Oh, there’s Priscilla. Surprise, surprise,” said Sophy, and Hamish at once knew that Sophy had been perfectly aware that they would meet Priscilla and her date. Willie Lamont, Hamish’s ex-policeman, came bustling up in his waiter’s uniform of striped sweater and indecently tight trousers. “Tch, Willie,” admonished Hamish. “If you go around in breeks like that, someone will be pinching your bum.”

“Lucia made me wear them,” said Willie sulkily. Lucia was his Italian wife. “Are you going to join Priscilla?”

“We’ll chust sit at this wee table in the corner.”

Willie handed them menus and sailed off.

Hamish looked at Sophy over the top of his menu. “You knew Priscilla was here,” he accused.

Sophy nodded, her eyes dancing. “The only reason a man like you would ask me out, Hamish Macbeth, would be to get revenge on Priscilla. I mean, just look at her. She could have stepped out of the pages of Vogue.”

There was simple admiration in her voice. Hamish reluctantly lowered the menu and looked at his beloved. She was wearing a white frilly blouse with a plunging neckline and a short, tight black skirt. The bell of her golden hair shone in, the candle-light She threw back her head and laughed at something Peter was saying.

“Look at me instead,” ordered Sophy. “She’s not enjoying herself one bit.”

“Could’ve have fooled me,” grumbled-Hamish. Willie came back and took their orders.

Priscilla was not enjoying herself. Before Hamish had come in, she had been about to leave. At first it had been nice to be out with such an attractive and charming man, bat Priscilla was conscious of Willie the waiter’s disapproving stares and of the cold looks she was getting from several of the villagers at the other tables, who obviously felt that she should not be out with another man. Then there was something about Peter that repelled her. She sensed in him a calculating hardness, and when he talked about meeting Hamish that afternoon, Priscilla became perfectly sure Peter had asked her out just to spite Hamish, although Peter did not tell her what Hamish had said. At last she gathered up her handbag and said, “Thank you for a lovely evening. I’ll have a word with Hamish before I go.”

Before Peter could say anything, she sailed over to Hamish’s table. “Good evening,” said Priscilla sweetly. “Finished your work, Sophy?”

“Yes, Harry’s on duty.”

“Did you give the Dunsters in room twenty-five their bill?”

“Yes, they paid and will leave in the morning.”

“And did the Trents arrive?”

“Just after you left. They’re in room fourteen.”

“And did you – ”

“For heffen’s sake,” said Hamish Macbeth loudly and crossly. “Leave the girl be, Priscilla. She’s not on duty now.”

“Then the pair of you should get on very well,” snapped Priscilla. “When were you last on duty, Hamish? And don’t give me that crap about investigating in Drim. You just wanted to get out of house-hunting.”

Peter fidgeted behind Priscilla. Things were not working out as he had planned. He was on the outside while, it appeared, two attractive women were competing for the attentions of Hamish.

“Priscilla, we’ll talk about this later,” said Hamish. “Now can I get on wi’ my dinner?”

Priscilla turned on her heel and marched out. She suddenly remembered the seer’s prediction, turned firmly to Peter and shook his hand heartily. “All the very best in Drim,” said Priscilla briskly and walked away quickly to her own car, which was parked on the waterfront.

Despite his uneasiness that he had gone too far, Hamish enjoyed Sophy’s company and her amusing tales of working in hotels in Glasgow and Perth. When he ran her back to the hotel and said good night to her, he debated with himself whether to call on Priscilla and then decided against it. He was the injured party.

♦

Morning brought regret. Panic began to set in. He forgot bossy and managing Priscilla and only remembered his dear Watson of previous cases. There was a knock at the kitchen door. He opened it and saw Priscilla standing there. She smiled. She held out her hand. She said, “Truce?” He gathered her in his arms and kissed her until his toes curled.

She finally released herself. “You’re not getting off that easily, Hamish Macbeth. Come along. We’re going to look at that house.”

And at that moment, Hamish would have agreed to anything. They drove off in Priscilla’s car, Towser in the back seat, fitful sunlight chasing across the moors, and the wind heavy with the sweet scent of heather. Hamish did not speak about Sophy, and Priscilla did not mention Peter.

His sunny mood lasted until they turned in at the short drive leading to the house. It was a Victorian villa, neat and compact It looked down on the bleak high-rises of Strathbane.

“I kept the key,” said Priscilla gaily. “Just wait until you see this.”

Hamish followed her in, with Towser at his heels. He stood in the hall and looked around. On one side lay a living-room, on the other a dining-room. “Come in here and look at the view,” carolled Priscilla from the living-room.

He went in and stood with his hands in his pockets. He gave a little shiver. “This is an evil house.”

Priscilla swung round from the window and stared. “Stop fooling about, Hamish.”

“I am not being funny, Priscilla. This is a sad house. Something bad happened here.”

“You mean someone died here?” Priscilla looked at him scornfully, her hands on her hips. “Of course they did. The place is at least a hundred years old. Come and see the kitchen.”

“I’ll wait for you outside,” said Hamish.

She darted to the doorway and blocked his exit.

“Listen to me, I am not falling for that bad-vibes Highland nonsense. This is a perfectly good house.”

“Who is the owner?”

“I don’t know. I don’t care either. Just look at the kitchen, Hamish. That’ll make you change your mind.”

He shrugged. “Okay.”

She walked through to the back, where a large square kitchen lay. It was airy and light, with a primrose-coloured Aga cooker and plenty of cupboards and shelves. Hamish looked about and then said, “I’ve had enough. I’ve got to get outside.”

Priscilla followed him out, her face tight with anger. “You are determined not to move to Strathbane. You are determined to stay in Lochdubh and rot.”

“Humour me,” he said. “You’ve got to take that key back to the estate agent, right? Just let me ask who lived here.”

She walked in silence to the car and he got in beside her. Towser, sensing the bad atmosphere, crouched down on the back seat.

“Why did you buy that cooker for the police station if you had no intention of living there?” asked Hamish at last.

The correct answer to that was that somewhere deep inside, Priscilla was perfectly sure she would never budge Hamish Macbeth, but she would not admit that even to herself.

“You need one,” she said curtly.

Strathbane swallowed them up with its mean streets and perpetual air of failure, a sort of inner city transferred to the north of Scotland. Oily water heaved in the harbour and the rusting hulk of a ship listed on its side. Sea-gulls screamed mournfully. Priscilla parked in a multi-storey and they walked down to Strathbane’s new shopping precinct called The Highlander’s Welcome. It was cobbled in round fake cobbles of an orange colour and set about with plastic palms whose leaves clattered mournfully in the damp breeze from the sea. Small round women in the Strathbane uniform of track suit and jogging trousers struggled with plastic bags of shopping.

Men stood in groups, smoking moodily and occasionally spitting viciously at nothing in particular.

Priscilla led the way into the estate agent’s. A young man rushed forward. “Everything satisfactory?” he asked, taking the key from Priscilla.

“We’re still making up our minds,” said Priscilla.

“Who owns it?” asked Hamish.

“That’s confidential,” said the young man quickly, fearing that Hamish meant to go behind his back and make some sort of private deal. “I have another property here, Miss Halburton-Smythe.” The young man pulled out a folder. While Priscilla bent her head over it, Hamish’s eyes ranged around the office and fell on a typist at a desk by the window. She looked up and Hamish winked at her. She grinned and patted her hair.

“Maybe another day,” said Priscilla, straightening up.

Once outside, Hamish said, “I’ll stay on in Strathbane for a bit.”

“What? How are you going to get home?”

“I’ll hitch a lift.”

“You’re determined to stay here and ferret about looking for non-existent criminals who once lived in that house.” Priscilla was becoming angry. “Suit yourself. You should wake up to the fact that you are hell-bent on refusing promotion.”

“Maybe it iss you yourself who should wake up to that fact.”

Priscilla strode off without a backward look and Hamish looked after her miserably. He then remembered Towser was still in the car. But Priscilla would take Towser home.

He hung about the estate agent’s, discreetly hidden by a plastic palm until he saw the typist emerging for her lunch. He hurried overand bumped into her as if by accident. “Sorry,” said Hamish, and then affected surprise. “Aren’t you that pretty girl I saw in the estate agent’s a while ago?”

Her pasty face turned up to his and she giggled. “That’s me.”

“I’m Hamish Macbeth.”

“Tracey McWhirter,” she said.

“Tell you what, Tracey, I wass chust on my way to that coffee shop for a sandwich or something. Care to join me?”

She giggled again but nodded and fell into step beside him, tottering on her high heels. After he had bought her a coffee and a Highlandman’s Lunch, a wad of dry French bread with limp lettuce and smoked mackerel, Hamish said, “I was up at that house this morning.” He hoped she had not heard him asking the young man for the name of the owner. “That was George Emming’s place, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, no,” said Tracey guilelessly. She paused to brush crumbs from her T–shirt, which was surprisingly sophisticated in that it bore no legend at all. “That’s Mr. Hendry, the teacher’s, place.”

“Oh, him that teaches English at Strathbane High?”

“Chemistry.”

“Ah.”

“And what do you do yourself, Mr. Macbeth?”

“Hamish, I’m a civil servant.” Hamish was not in uniform.

“On the council?”

“Something like that.”

“Do you work for Miss Halburton-Smythe?”

Hamish winced slightly at the innocent assumption that he could not be on any social level with Priscilla. But he did not want Tracey to think he had taken her for coffee merely to get information from her, so he said vaguely, “We both live in Lochdubh.”

“I’m glad I don’t live in a place like that,” said Tracey. “I mean, what is there to do?”

“We have fun,” said Hamish defensively. “We have the ceilidhs.”

“Oh, them,” Tracey snorted dismissively. “Big fat woman thumping around in the eightsome reel and wee men outside passing half-bottles o’ whisky to each other. We have discos in Strathbane.”

“How can you bear all that thumping music and those strobe lights giving folks epileptic fits?” demanded Hamish.

“Oh, well, someone of your age wouldn’t understand,” said Tracey with all the tolerance of eighteen looking at thirty-something.

Feeling a hundred-year-old peasant, Hamish left Tracey and made his way on foot to Strathbane High School. It was a huge barracks of a place, built of red brick in the thirties, set among rain-washed playing fields where seagulls squatted on the grass. Children were returning to their classes after lunch. He stopped one boy and asked for the headmaster’s office, was corrected and told it was the head teacher and pointed in the right direction. The head teacher was a woman who introduced herself as Beth Dublin. She was a small, mousy creature who looked about the same age as Tracey but must have been a good bit older. To Hamish’s request to see the chemistry teacher, Mr. Hendry, she said that he had a free period and could be found in the staff common-room and she would take him there. On the way along a gloomy corridor smelling of stale cigarette smoke and disinfectant, Beth said, “His kids aren’t in trouble again, are they?”

Startled, Hamish wondered at first if she had guessed he was a policeman and then decided she probably thought he might be an irate parent. “Not that I know of,” he said cautiously. “Are they often in trouble?”

She primmed her lips and then said, “That’s not for me to say.”

She opened the door of the staff common-room and a fog of cigarette smoke rolled out. They may dash the weed from your lips in New York and frown on you in London, but the north of Scotland is the last hope of the tobacco companies outside the Third World. “Mr. Hendry?” called Beth. A small man with a large head and a scrubbing-brush hair-style appeared in the gloom. “Visitor,” said Beth and left Hamish to it.

“I am Hamish Macbeth, Mr. Hendry,” said Hamish. “My fiancée and I have just been to see your house, the one for sale.”

“Come over to the window where we can talk,” said Mr. Hendry eagerly. “It’s a grand house and you’re getting a good offer. It would have been snapped up long ago if it weren’t for this damn recession.”

They sat down in chairs by the window. The other teachers were leaving for their classes and soon Mr. Hendry and Hamish were alone.

“My fiancée,” lied Hamish, “is a verra superstitious lady and she would not like to be staying anywhere there’s been a violent death or murder.”

“Nothing like that,” he said quickly. “We bought it fifteen years ago from a couple who emigrated to Australia, and what happened to the people before that I don’t know, but if there had been a murder or anything like that, I would have heard of it.”

“My fiancée said she felt bad vibes in the house.”

“Och, you Highlanders,” said Mr. Hendry, who was a Lowland Scot, “you’re always thinking you’ve got the second sight and you’re psychic. All havers.”

“I wouldna’ say it’s all havers,” said Hamish crossly. “We haven’t made up our minds.”

“If you want my wife to take you around and show your lady where everything is in the kitchen,” he said, “she’d be glad to do it.”

“Well, my fiancée’s gone back home. But if Mrs. Hendry could spare the time…”

“Wait there. Got your car with you?”

“No, I’m on foot.”

“I’ll get her to pick you up.”

Mrs. Hendry turned out to be a sedate middle-aged woman with pepper-and-salt hair, a tweed suit, a thick energetic body, and tiny plump feet encased in brogues. Hamish was beginning to feel very silly indeed as she drove him competently back out to the house. He noticed this time that it was called Craigallen. He listened patiently as she opened cupboards and pointed to electric points. She then took him round the garden. “It was a happy house for us,” she said, “and I hope you’ll be happy as well. Oh, would you look at those weeds!”

She crouched down over a flower-bed and stretched out a plump, beringed hand to pluck a weed. As she did so, her sleeve fell back. Hamish stared down at a vicious purple bruise on her wrist As if aware of his gaze, she tugged down her sleeve.

He promised to return and asked her to drop him in the centre of Strathbane. He ambled into the police headquarters and made his way to the records room, where he asked if the police had ever been called out to a house called Craigallen on the Lochdubh Road. After the dragon in charge had made him sign multiple bureaucratic forms, she produced a slim file.

The police had been called out two years ago. Craigallen was pretty isolated, but a man walking his dog had reported screams and shouts. The police had called but the Hendrys said they had been watching a noisy video.

Hamish scowled down at it. What if Hendry was a wife-beater? And why had the head teacher assumed that something had been wrong with his children? He gave a little sigh. It was really none of his business. Probably Priscilla was right and he had only done it to get out of moving to Strathbane. And it was a long road home without transport and he had missed the one daily bus to Lochdubh.

He left the police headquarters and saw a familiar figure across the road…Edie Aubrey. He walked over to her and introduced himself. “I was hoping to get a lift back or part of the way,” said Hamish.

“I can take you as far as Drim,” said Edie, blinking up at him through her thick spectacles. “Maybe one of the locals will be going to Lochdubh. Harry Baxter should be setting out for the night’s fishing.”

“Grand,” said Hamish. “Finished your messages?”

She nodded. She was carrying a plastic shopping bag labelled “Naughties,” which Hamish knew was Strathbane’s newest lingerie shop, having previously studied the delicate items in the window and wondered who bought them, as the washing-lines from Strathbane to Lochdubh were hung with sturdier and more serviceable items.

When they were driving out of Strathbane, Hamish said, “Peter Hynd seems to have caused quite a flutter.”

“Such a charming boy,” enthused Edie. “Before he came, I kept telling them they ought to exercise, but nothing would get them started. Now they’re all at my classes every day.”

“Good for you,” said Hamish. He added maliciously, “It’s a pity there are no young lassies in Drim for him to marry.”

There was a startled silence and then Edie said, “Och, well, he says to me the other day, he says, ‘I can’t be doing with these young women, Edie,’ he says. ‘Give me a mature woman every time.’”

“And has he any particular mature woman in mind?”

Edie giggled and batted her sparse eyelashes. “That would be telling.”

Hamish guessed that the perfidious Peter had somehow led every woman in Drim to think she was the favoured one. He shivered. It was all an amusing game to Peter, but a dangerous one to play in a shut-off village in the Highlands of Scotland.

Edie chattered on about the improvements that Peter was making to the croft house all the long road to Drim until Hamish was glad to be dropped outside Harry Baxter’s cottage and escape from her.

A waif-like child was sitting outside, staring at nothing with those light-grey Highland eyes. Hamish held out his hand and introduced himself. She gave it a shake. “I’m Heather,” she said solemnly. Hamish judged her to be about twelve years old. “Are your ma and da at home?” asked Hamish.

“Ma’s at home. Da’s sleeping.”

“I’ll chust see your ma.” Hamish edged past the little girl whose steady stare unnerved him. Betty Baxter was in the kitchen, her coarse, dyed-blonde hair piled up on her head, her normally swarthy gypsy features covered in thick white foundation cream. “I came to see if your man could give me a lift to Lochdubh when he’s going to the fishing,” said Hamish.

“Aye. I’m sure he could,” said Betty. “Like some tea? I’m about to get Harry up fur his.”

“That’s verra kind of you.”

“Sit yourself doon.” She crossed to the doorway and shouted up the stairs. “Harry! Tea!”

After a few moments, Harry shuffled in, unwashed, unshaved, and with his braces hanging down over his baggy trousers. Hamish felt a stab of irritation. What did the men of Drim expect if they went around looking like this?

Tea was “high tea,” consisting of fish and chips, strong tea and a pile of bread and butter. After Hamish had repeated his request for a lift and had been told he could get one, the three ate in silence.

“Doesn’t your daughter eat with you?” asked Hamish.

“Oh, her,” said Betty with a massive shrug. “She’ll come in when she’s hungry.”

When they had finished, Harry hitched up his braces, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and pulled on his boots and put on his oilskins. “Wait ootside in the truck, Hamish,” he said. “Won’t be long.”

Hamish went out and sat in the passenger seat and rolled down the window. The voices came clearly from the house.

“You are not to go doon tae the ceilidh tonight,” came Harry’s voice.

“Til go anywhere I like!” Betty’s, shrill and contemptuous.

“Ach, you’re all making a damn fool o’ yourselves over a bit o’ a lad who’s laughing up his sleeve at the lot o’ ye. Anyway, ye havenae a hope in hell. Ailsa Kennedy, Jock’s wife, was seen leaving his cottage last night at two in the morning.”

“That’s a lie!” Betty, panting with outrage.

Hamish turned his head slightly and saw young Heather. She was sitting on the grass, with her slight figure pressed against the walls of the cottage. Hamish climbed down from the truck.

“Are you coming, Harry?” he shouted loudly and angrily. “And wee Heather’s out here and could do with a bite to eat.”

There was a sudden silence, and men Harry came out at a rush, his face red.

He climbed in the truck and Hamish hurriedly jumped into the passenger seat.

It was a silent journey to Lochdubh, Harry hurtling round the bends at ferocious speed as if trying to put as much distance between himself and his wife as quickly as possible. Hamish thought gloomily that, for his own peace of mind, he should leave the village of Drim alone. But there was the question of the illegal ‘pub’ that Jock Kennedy was running. Conscience and duty told him he would have to do something about it. But not now.

After Harry dropped him off, he took his own transport and went to the Tommel Castle Hotel. Towser was there in Sophy’s care because, he learned, Priscilla had driven down to Inverness to visit friends. What friends? he wondered, feeling depressed. He imagined a large house outside Inverness containing some wealthy and eligible son, some successfull eligible son.

Sophy, regarded his downcast face with bright amusement. “Do you know,” she said, “I think this might be a good evening to take you for dinner. What about that Italian restaurant again?”

“Why not?” said Hamish ungraciously. “See you there at eight. I’ve got things to do.”

He returned to the police station and fed a delighted Towser, who was a greedy dog and had already been generously fed by Priscilla before she left for Inverness. With reluctance, he washed and changed and set out for the Italian restaurant. “Getting to be a regular,” commented Willie Lament. “Miss Halburton-Smythe likes the window table.”

“I am not dining with Priscilla.”

“Then sit anywhere,” said Willie sourly.

Hamish sighed. No one in Lochdubh was going to like his having dinner with Sophy twice, and by tomorrow the whole of Lochdubh would know about it and that included Priscilla.

Sophy came in. She was wearing a pink sweater and a tweed skirt She looked fresh and wholesome and uncomplicated.

Hamish was glad she had not dressed up. Priscilla, he thought disloyally, always dressed up when she was out for dinner, even at this local restaurant. But his real reason for being glad was a cowardly one. A dressed-up Sophy would have made it look more like a date.

“How was the house?” asked Sophy, after they had placed their orders.

Hamish did not even bother to ask how she knew he had been house-hunting. Living in the Highlands meant getting used to everyone knowing what one did and where one went, “I didn’t like it,” he said. “No, Willie, I don’t need to taste the wine. It’ll be the same as last night.”

“Not much of a wine connoisseur, are you?” said Willie.

“Wine varies from bottle tae bottle.”

“But not in giant flagons of Bulgarian red, which is what you filled these decanters from. I’ve seen the kitchens.”

“Och, you’re a right downer,” said Willie unrepentantly.

“Why didn’t you like the house?” asked Sophy.

“You’ll think this silly…bad vibes.”

“No, I don’t think it silly at all, Hamish. Some houses have a bad atmosphere.”

“Aye, but I carried things a wee bit too far. I left Priscilla and went off to find the owners. It appears to me that the husband’s a bit of a wife-beater. Not verra dramatic.”

“Oh, but something should be done about it. Think of the children.”

“But I cannae do anything about it. Nothing can be done about it unless the wife puts in a complaint.”

“Then you should encourage her to make one!”

“I’ll see. But it’s difficult. Strathbane and what happens there is really nothing to do with me.”

“I suppose not,” said Sophy. “Oh, I gather that beautiful young man who was here last night with Priscilla is living over at Drim, of all places.”

“Yes,” said Hamish sourly, “and I wish to God he weren’t.”

“Jealous, Hamish?”

“Of him and Priscilla? No, Priscilla’s not daft. The situation is this. He’s been making passes at the middle-aged women of Drim and it’s fair turned their heads. They’re all titivating themselves – hair dye, exercise classes, fancy underwear…”

“How do you know about the underwear?” teased Sophy.

“I found one of them with a shopping bag from Naughties, that new lingerie shop.”

“Surely it’s all harmless. If he flirts with all of them, then no single one need feel dangerously jealous.”

“This is not Perth,” said Hamish haughtily, as if Perth lay in the south of England instead of just outside the Highland line in central Scotland. “The men are brooding and they’ll become violent.”

“Well, so one of them’ll give him a sock on the nose and he’ll take himself off.”

Hamish shook his head. “I smell trouble.”

“‘By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes’?”

“Something like that.”

♦

The ceilidh in the community hall was in full swing. Ailsa Kennedy was dancing the Dashing White Sergeant with Peter Hynd. She had fiery-red hair – undyed – and an aggressive bosom, thrusting breasts which seemed to point accusingly. Her waist was slim, and her hips, under her swinging skirts, broad. She had very piercing bright-blue eyes, which this evening were filled with laughter as Peter twirled her about. Jock Kennedy leaned against a pillar and watched moodily, his great arms crossed across his barrel of a chest. Then he suddenly detached himself from the pillar and went outside into the pearly-white light of the northern Scottish evening and joined a group of men who were passing around a bottle of whisky.

“We wass chust deciding what to do about him in there,” said the crofter Jimmy Macleod with a jerk of his head.

“The Sassenach?” said Jock: “I feel like bashing his head in.”

The men gathered around him, small men, angry men, crabbed and bitter men. “Aye, do it, Jock,” they said. And one voice, louder than the others, said, “I’ll call him out here for a dram and you let him have it.”

Jock began to smile. “Aye, get him out here. It’s time that yin had a taste o’ Highland hospitality.”

The women saw Peter being approached, saw him led to the door. “I’m goin’ too,” said Betty Baxter to Ailsa Kennedy. “They’re up to something out there.”

The two women went outside and then Betty began to scream, for Jock Kennedy was rolling up his sleeves and saying, “It’s time you had a thrashing.”

The dancers began to crowd out and soon a circle was formed around the two men, the women crying and screaming that Peter would be killed.

Jock moved in, his great fists swinging. Peter dodged every blow, moving like lightning, while Jock lumbered around, swinging punches. Then Peter’s foot shot out in a karate kick and the kick landed fairly and squarely and with great force on Jock Kennedy’s balls. He let out a groan and rolled over, retching, on the ground.

“You asked for it,” said Peter lightly, and surrounded by a coterie of admiring and excited women, he went back into the dance-hall.

Heather Baxter moved slowly out of the shadows, her little face white. Her best party dress fluttering in the paté light, she moved away from the community hall in the direction of home, as light and silent as a moth, her feet making no sound on the grass.