Death of a Charming Man

∨ Death of a Charming Man ∧

5

No, no, he as dead;

Go to thy death-bed,

He will never come again.

—William Shakespeare

“Come in,” said Hamish quietly. He took Heather’s cold, damp hand and led her through to the kitchen. “Hot, sweet tea,” he said to Priscilla.

He pushed Heather into a chair and crouched down in front of her. “Who’s been murdered?”

“Thon Sassenach, Peter Hynd.”

“How wass he killed?”

She shook her head dumbly.

“Where wass the body found?”

“It has not been found.”

Hamish straightened up and sat down next to her. “Then how do you know he has been murdered?”

She looked at him with those odd grey eyes and then she pointed to her head. “I saw it in here,” she whispered. “They all say he’s gone. He left a note. His things are gone. But I know he’s been murdered. I feel him around the village.”

Hamish took a mug of tea from Priscilla and handed it to Heather. “Drink this,” he urged. “How did you get here?”

“I drove in my faither’s truck. I tied blocks on my feet and drove. He’s drunk asleep. He did not go to the fishing.”

“You’ve had a hard time at home recently, Heather,” said Hamish, “and maybe that’s what’s been putting these thoughts in your head.” She shook that head stubbornly. “This is what we’ll do. I won’t be booking you for driving without a licence. That will be our secret. But neffer do such a thing again. Then I will drive you back in the truck and Priscilla here will follow us. She’ll bring me back and then I’ll return in the morning and start asking questions.”

Heather looked up at Priscilla and a strangely feminine look for one of her tender years crossed her face. Her grey eyes slanted at Hamish. “I don’t want her.”

“Then how am I to get back?”

“I’ll drive myself,” said Heather. “I’ve already broken the law driving here. One more time won’t matter.”

Hamish sighed. “I’d better get her back, Priscilla.”

“That’s all right, Hamish,” said Priscilla, making for the door. “See you tomorrow.”

“I won’t be long,” said Hamish defiantly, “Won’t you wait?”

“Tomorrow,” said Priscilla firmly.

Hamish felt a sudden flash of murderous anger. She was going to be a policeman’s wife. This was a fine start! But he waited patiently until Heather had finished her tea. “Where’s the truck?” he asked.

“It is outside at the side of the station.”

“Come along then. I’ll follow you.”

She went outside and Hamish waited while she put on a man’s overcoat and cap and then strapped wooden blocks onto her feet so that she could reach the pedals. He waited until she had reversed out into the road, climbed into the Land Rover and followed her. In his lights, with her cap pulled down, she looked like a man. To his relief she drove quickly and competently over the roads and down into Drim. She parked outside, untied the blocks from her feet and climbed down from the truck. “They sleep like the dead,” she whispered. “I’ll creep in. Don’t tell anyone. Chust come tomorrow.”

Hamish nodded and waited. She opened the house door gently and slipped inside.

He drove off, his thoughts grim. He hoped to God that Heather was mistaken, that Peter Hynd had simply taken himself off.

♦

A sunny morning restored his spirits and banished most of the ghosts of the night before, although he was still furious with Priscilla.

He went straight to the general stores in Drim. “I heard that Peter Hynd had left,” he said to Jock Kennedy. “When was that?”

“Two weeks ago,” said Jock. “Found a note from him pushed in the shop letter-box along with the key. Said he’d gone off south and left the sale of the cottage in the hands o’ Cummings and Bane, the estate agents in Strathbane.”

“Still got the note?”

“Yes, I hae it here.” He ferreted around under the counter and came up with a folded piece of paper. Hamish opened it and read it. It was type-written and unsigned. “Got bored,” it said, “and am putting the cottage up for sale. Could you give the key to any prospective buyer, Jock? The agents are Cummings and Bane, Strathbane. My solicitors are Brand and MacDougal, Castle Wynd, Inverness. Peter Hynd.” But the ‘Peter Hynd’ was type-written.

Hamish frowned down at the letter. “Any takers?” he said at last.

“Aye, there was a big fellow, a builder from Newcastle, up the other day. Hynd’s only asking fifteen thousand.”

“I doubt if he’ll get that. Did he finish the drainage?”

“No.”

“Well…”

“But the field at the back goes wi’ the house. This chap from Newcastle, he wass talking about maybe getting building permission. Wants it for a holiday cottage.” And with a fine disregard for any European Market directives on hygiene, Jock spat contemptuously on the shop floor.

“I’ve no doubt you’ll give him a right Highland welcome,” said Hamish drily. “Let me have the key, Jock. I’ll take a look around.”

For one brief moment Hamish thought he was going to refuse, but after a short hesitation the big man took down a key from a nail behind the counter and handed it over.

Hamish left the Land Rover where it was and walked up to Peter’s cottage. He let himself in and stood sniffing the air.

Towser, who had followed him in, sniffed the air as well. “Nobody been in here for a while,” said Hamish. “Let’s look about.”

Peter had left the pots and pans and dishes behind but the camping stove had gone. There were half-empty packets of grocery goods in the cupboards. A small fridge was switched off and proved empty. At the back of the house were piles of wood and bricks, showing that Peter had meant to start on the extension. Tools were lying on the floor and a couple of trestles held planks waiting to be sawn. Hamish shook his head. Surely Peter would have wanted to finish the work and, therefore, get a better price. There were also piles of slates showing where he had meant to take off the iron roof and replace it with a proper one.

Hamish went through to the parlour, which Peter had used as a dining-room-cum-sitting-room. There was nothing of value left, no television, no radio, and no books, just some pieces of furniture. Hamish went back to the living-room, which Peter had used as a kitchen. He picked up the ladder lying against the wall and climbed up to the trapdoor in the ceiling, and pushed it open and climbed through. He found himself in the bedroom. There was a low double bed against one wall, with a low table beside it. There were no sheets or blankets on the bed. He searched around the corners of the room, but all he could find was one hairpin. He held it up to the light coming through the skylight. It was a blonde-coloured pin. He put it in his pocket and climbed down the stairs again.

He scratched his head. Why would Peter leave a note with Jock Kennedy, of all people? He locked up and put the key in his pocket.

As he strolled back down, he could hear the beat of music coming from the community hall. He went up to it and pushed open the door. Only four women were gyrating to the music. He waited patiently until the tape finished and then approached Edie Aubrey. She pushed back her lank hair and blinked at him through her thick glasses.

“Not many women,” commented Hamish.

“No,” agreed Edie sadly, “things are not the same.”

“Since Hynd left?”

“Why did he go just like that?” muttered Edie. She picked a towel up from a chair and wiped her forehead. “He might at least have called to say goodbye.”

“Did anyone see him go?” asked Hamish.

“Nobody’s really spoken to me about it.” Hamish turned and surveyed the women. Nancy Macleod was there, grey roots now showing in the black dye of her hair. She looked much smaller and older. Ailsa, Jock’s wife, was sipping coffee and talking to Betty Baxter. The other woman he did not know. They were all suddenly older, thought Hamish, as if the life had gone out of them. He approached Betty Baxter. “Is Harry at home?”

“Aye, the silly fool got drunk and couldnae go to the fishing.”

“I’ll maybe drop by for a word.”

“Why?” asked Betty sharply.

“I’m trying to find out why Peter Hynd left, or if anyone saw him leave.”

“And what’s that got to do with Harry?”

“He may have heard or seen something, that’s all.”

“There’s no crime,” said Betty with a shrill laugh. “For heffen’s sake, the man’s gone, put his house up for sale, and that’s that.”

“Nevertheless, I’ll be having a word with Harry.” Hamish touched his cap and left.

Harry Baxter was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at nothing in particular.

“Rough night?” asked Hamish sympathetically.

Harry stared at him moodily but did not reply.

“Any reason why Hynd left?” pursued Hamish.

Harry made an obvious effort to gather his wits together. “Och, he wass jist playing himself at being a Highlander. Gone back south, I believe.”

“Did anyone see him go?”

“Folks reckon he left during the night.”

“Any trouble with the villagers before he left?”

“Why should there be?”

“Don’t be daft,” said Hamish crossly. “All you men hated him and with good reason.”

“He’s jist gone, that’s all. Haven’t ye mair to do than look for a murder that doesn’t exist?”

“I didn’t say anything about murder. Where’s Heather?”

“At school. School’s started.”

“Keep an eye on that lassie o’ yours, Harry. I think those rows you’ve been having with Betty are upsetting her.”

“Mind your ain business,” snapped Harry.

Hamish decided to try Jimmy Macleod but when he went out to the Land Rover, his radio crackled into life. He looked at it in mild surprise. He hardly ever got a call on it. It was Detective Jimmy Anderson, asking him to report immediately to Strathbane, to the chief superintendent’s office.

Hamish’s gloomy thought was that his boss had finally got into the act and that promotion and Strathbane were an inevitability. He had a shrewd idea that hitherto the chief superintendent had kept apart from his wife’s ambitious plans.

But whatever had happened to Peter Hynd would have to wait for another day.

As he walked into police headquarters he was met by his bête noire, Detective Chief Inspector Blair. Blair’s fat features creased into a smile. “On yer way upstairs,” he said. “My, my. Have fun.”

Hamish frowned. If Blair had got wind of any possible promotion for Hamish Macbeth, he would have been in a foul mood. With a sulking feeling he took the lift up to the sixth floor. The chief superintendent’s secretary, Helen Jessop, was typing efficiently. She looked up when he entered. “You’ll need to wait,” she said, “he’s busy,” and went on typing.

“Any idea what it’s about?” asked Hamish.

“You’ll just need to find out,” said Helen, ripping out one sheet and screwing in another.

“Why don’t you have a word processor instead of that old fashioned thing?” asked Hamish.

“This machine has served me very well. I don’t hold with computers,” said Helen.

“Meaning you don’t know anything about them and are too frightened to find out,” said Hamish maliciously. “It’s known as technofear. The plague of the middle-aged.”

Helen snorted by way of reply.

“Any chance of a cup of tea?” asked Hamish;

“No.”

Hamish sat and fidgeted. He could hear the hum of voices from inside Peter Daviot’s office. The shelf behind Helen’s desk was a jungle of depressing greenhouse plants. Secretaries with house-plants were a threatening breed, thought Hamish. As time dragged by, he grew more uneasy. It was like waiting outside the headmaster’s office. At last the door opened and five men in business suits came out.

“I am about to interview the officer in question,” said Mr. Daviot, “and I will give you my full report.”

The suits turned as one man and looked Hamish up and down before filing out. One of the men’s voices floated back to Hamish’s sharp ears. “Doesn’t look violent, but you never can tell.”

“Come in, Macbeth,” said Mr. Daviot. No ‘Hamish.’ A warning sign like a stormcone hoisted over Hamish’s head. He tucked his cap under his arm and stood meekly in front of the super’s desk.

“Sit down,” said Mr. Daviot. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Helen been looking after you?”

“She refused to get me a cup of tea,” said Hamish, hoping he was sliding the knife into Helen’s corseted ribs.

“Come into the twentieth century, Macbeth. You don’t go around ordering tea from secretaries or they’ll report you to the Equal Opportunities Board or something.”

“Why, sir?”

“Making and fetching tea is demeaning.”

“I don’t get it,” said Hamish puzzled. “Isn’t it the same as ‘Type this letter’, ‘Make this phone call’, ‘Order flowers for my wife’?”

“It implies you are treating a business woman like a housewife.”

“I don’t get it. A housewife can say, ‘Get the damn thing yourself.’ A secretary can’t.”

“Because…Look, I did not bring you here to talk about Women’s Lib. There has been a serious charge laid against you.”

“By whom?”

“By Sammy Dolan.”

“That toe-rag! What’s he saying?”

“He’s filed a complaint of police brutality. He’s got a lawyer. He says you hit him with a frying-pan and he’s got a lump on his head to prove it.”

“I hit him with the frying-pan because he was resisting arrest, or, to put it more bluntly, had I not hit him, he would have knifed me. I filed a full report.”

“Just tell me again, in your own words.”

Hamish felt a stab of irritation. He suddenly wanted to say, “No, I’ll tell you in someone else’s words,” and imitate Blair’s, thick Glasgow accent and boorish manner. “I had reason to believe that Dolan meant to break into the schoolteacher’s house,” he said patiently. “Just after two in the morning, I heard the sound of breaking glass in the kitchen, and went through. Dolan had smashed the glass. He opened the catch and climbed into the kitchen. I switched on the light. He took a hunting-knife out of his boot and came at me. I reached behind me and picked up the frying-pan. Before he could knife me, I hit him on the head. He fell to the floor, stunned but still conscious. I handcuffed him to the cooker. I read the charge, phoned Strathbane, and waited until the van arrived. That’s all.”

“Miss Tabbet, who is claiming for a new frying-pan, says you had an insolent manner. You approached her in her bedroom, you made yourself coffee without her permission, and you went off leaving everything unlocked and your dirty cup on the living-room table. She, too, has lodged a complaint.” Hamish could feel himself already being enmeshed in a nightmarish web of red tape. He carefully explained in detail what had happened when he had awoken the schoolteacher and why he had gone without waking her again. Mr. Daviot sighed. “You make it all sound very reasonable and I must admit that Miss Tabbet is a tiresome female. But to return to Dolan. We are very anxious to avoid charges of brutality. Think what the press will make of this.”

“I’ll bet you Dolan’s got previous,” said Hamish.

“Well, he has. Quite a lot.”

“Grievous bodily harm, actual bodily harm, that sort of thing?”

“Yes, and armed robbery.”

“Well, there you – ”

“Macbeth, you have always had an unorthodox way of going about things. The sensible course, the minute you suspected Dolan was going to break into that house, would have been to have ordered back-up from Strathbane. Two of you could have overpowered the man without resorting to violence.”

“There’s little even several men can do against a hunting-knife in the hands of a man like Dolan without using violence.”

“My other officers don’t get themselves into situations like this,” said Mr. Daviot, with a trace of pettishness creeping into his voice.

“I made an arrest, sir. I stopped the burglaries. And instead of getting thanks, all I get is carpeted because a dangerous criminal takes it into his thick head to have a go at me.”

“We’re all very grateful to you. But this complaint has been made and you will need to go before the inquiry board. I suggest you curb that insolent manner of yours, Macbeth. Now, are you engaged in anything else at the moment?”

“Just one little thing. There was a newcomer over at Drim, an Englishman. He left the village but no one saw him go. He left a note to say his house was on the market.”

“So?”

“He had caused a lot of trouble in the village by flirting with the women. The men hated him. There’s something about it all I don’t like.”

“If he has put his house on the market, it seems to me as if he is very much all right. Did he leave everything behind?”

“No.”

“There you are. I know crime has been thin on the ground on your patch, but there is no need to go around inventing any. I want you to go downstairs and find a desk and type up a full report on the arrest of Dolan for me.”

“Very good, sir.”

Hamish went out. Helen was not there but there was a full cup of hot tea on her desk. He picked it up and took it with him. He went in search of Jimmy Anderson and found him in the canteen.

“You’re in favour,” said Jimmy.

“Makes a nice change,” rejoined Hamish.

“Aye, it’s not often the steely Helen lets anyone have a cup of tea, let alone in her favourite cup.” Startled, Hamish looked at the cup in his hand, which was decorated with roses. He had a sudden feeling that taking Helen’s teacup was going to land him in worse disgrace than anything Dolan could throw at him. “Back in a moment,” he said.

He went straight to Chief Detective Inspector Blair’s room and popped his head round the door. It was empty. He darted in and put Helen’s cup on the desk and then returned to the canteen.

He got himself a cup of tea and a plate of egg and chips I and rejoined Jimmy.

“So Dolan’s got it in for you,” said Jimmy. “You know I what’s odd about that?”

“Apart from damned cheek, no.”

“Our beloved leader, Blair, paid a visit on Dolan. Not his case really. All sewn up tidy. Dolan admitted to the other burglaries in Carrask. Quiet as a lamb. So Blair comes out wi’ a fat grin on his unlovely face and the next thing Dolan’s ringing his bell and calling fur a lawyer and filing a complaint against one Hamish Macbeth.”

“That bastard!”

“Aye, well, there you are.”

“And where’s Dolan now?”

“In the remand wing o’ Strathbane pokey awaiting trial.”

Hamish gloomily ate his egg and chips and then went down and borrowed Jimmy’s desk and filed his second report on the arrest of Dolan. His thoughts turned to Priscilla. He felt alone with his problems and wanted to unburden himself. But before he returned to Lochdubh, he might as well check the estate agent’s.

Cummings and Bane was the same estate agent as the one he had visited with Priscilla. This time he told the young man who he was officially and asked about the sale of Peter’s house.

“Yes, that’s all in order,” said the young man, “Mr. Hynd called on us personally. We think we may have a sale already. We have the name of the lawyers in Inverness.”

“I have that,” said Hamish moodily. That was that. No mystery.

He drove back to Lochdubh and went straight to Tommel Castle. He had forgotten about his anger at Priscilla but experienced it again when he saw her looking cool and remote. But he needed to unburden himself. He told her first about how his investigations in Drim had been cut short. She listened carefully to his tale of Dolan and Miss Tabbet. When he had finished, she said, “Would you like me to have a word with Susan Daviot?”

“That wouldn’t help. There’s nothing she can do. Dolan’s made the complaint, got a lawyer, and the whole thing will grind on to an inquiry and then I will probably be suspended. I’ve put up too many backs in Strathbane.”

“Nonetheless, I’ll see what I can do.”

“Och, what the hell can you do,” snapped Hamish, suddenly disgusted by what he saw as her cool detachment from him.

Priscilla sadly watched him go. It was all such a mess. Why hadn’t she waited for him at the police station? But she did not want to answer her own question, so she turned her mind to Hamish’s story.

She went through to the office and phoned Susan Daviot.

“Hamish is in trouble and all because of this fool Dolan,” said Priscilla.

Mrs. Daviot’s voice lacked its usual ingratiating warmth. “It seems to me, Priscilla, as if Hamish went over the top. Now Dolan’s sister is making trouble and threatening to talk to the newspapers before the inquiry.”

“What’s her name?”

“Bridget Dolan.”

“And where does she live?”

“That’s clessified information.”

“Dear me, aren’t we being a trifle stupid, Susan?” Priscilla was at her haughtiest.

“But I cannot tell you secret information. Never mind. When are we meeting for a little chat?”

“I am going to be much too busy in the future, Susan.”

Susan Daviot saw her social ambitions biting the dust. “Come to think of it, I did hear that the Dolan woman was living at number forty, Winnie Mandela Court.”

“Thank you, Susan. I’ve just remembered, next Tuesday is a quiet day if you would care to come for tea.”

Mrs. Daviot sent up a heartfelt prayer of thanks to the god who looks after social climbers. “Thank you, Priscilla, dear.”

Priscilla grinned and put down the phone. She went out and drove off to Carrask and parked in front of the schoolteacher’s house and waited patiently while the afternoon wore on. At last she saw a figure who could only be the schoolteacher returning and climbed out of the car. “Miss Tabbet?”

Miss Tabbet swung round and looked favourably at the elegant creature in front of her. “What can I do for you, Miss…?”

“Miss Churchill. I represent the Daily Bugle.”

The smile faded on Miss Tabbet’s face. The Daily Bugle was one of Britain’s sleaziest tabloids.

“And what do you want with me?” asked Miss Tabbet.

“You made a report to Strathbane police which contained complaints against a certain police sergeant, Hamish Macbeth. In it, you said he had come into your bedroom.”

“Yes, but – ”

“Good stuff, that,” said Priscilla cheerfully.

“Schoolmarm lures copper into her bedroom.”

“But he burst into my room when I was asleep.”

“‘The Sexy Copper’? Even better.”

“This is dreadful,” said Miss Tabbet. “I do not want my name in the papers. I have always been a respectable body. You ruin people. Look what you did to dear Prince Charles! I will have you stopped.”

“As long as you’ve made an official complaint. Come on. Let’s go indoors. My photographer will be along in a minute and I want to be ahead of the pack.”

“THE PACK!”

“Yes, they’ll all be along. Maybe you’d like to fix your hair and put on a shorter skirt.”

“I’m withdrawing any complaint,” screamed Miss Tabbet.

“But that means there’ll be no story!” cried Priscflla.

“That’s it men. I’m doing it now. Get out of my way.”

Priscilla watched with amusement as the terrified teacher scampered to a garage at the side of the bungalow. Moments later an old Rover was backed out, with Miss Tabbet crouched over the wheel. She turned and drove off down the road in the direction of Strathbane.

Waiting until she was out of sight, Priscilla followed along the Strathbane road at a leisurely speed.

When she arrived in Strathbane, she took out a folder of maps and selected a street map of Strathbane and located Winnie Mandela Court and drove there. It turned out to be one of those depressing Stalinist tower blocks boasting a broken urine-smelling elevator and acres of graffiti. Priscilla trudged up the stairs. A group of skinheads barred her way on the first landing. “I am from the Social Security Department,” said Priscilla frostily, “investigating dole claims.”

They shrank back and let her past. Priscilla reflected that if she had said she was a policewoman, they would probably have beaten her up.

Finally she reached number 40 along a rubbish-littered balcony which afforded a view of the grim harbour. The door was answered by a massive woman with dyed-blonde hair and a face so covered with broken veins that it looked like an ordnance-survey map. “What d’ye want?” she asked, the watery eyes of the habitual drinker raking Priscilla up and down.

“I am from the Daily Bugle,” said Priscilla. “We are interested in buying your brother’s story about police brutality.”

“Come in,” said Bridget eagerly. “I phoned youse lot up but you says you weren’t interested.”

“Some amateur took the call.” Priscilla was ushered into a living-room which was awful in its filth and dreariness. She sat down on a hard chair after looking suspiciously at the greasy stains on the upholstered ones.

“I’ll tell you all I know,” said Bridget.

“My newspaper is prepared to pay a large sum, but I need to see your brother in person. Do you by any chance have a visitor’s pass?”

Her eyes gleamed. “I have one for tomorrow morning – ten o’clock.”

Priscilla opened her handbag and took out her wallet. She extracted two twenties. “Just something on account.” Bridget snatched up the notes and tucked them down somewhere near her heavy bosom. She went over to a battered handbag on an equally battered sideboard and took put a pass. “How much will the Bugle pay?” she asked. “Thousands?”

“It’s up to the editor.”

Refusing all invitations of tea, stout, and gin, Priscilla took her leave. She-drove off and parked in the multi-storey in the centre and decided to call at the estate agent’s, Cummings and Bane, just to see if there were any more properties on the market. She would not nag Hamish into staying in Strathbane, but there might be something between Lochdubh and Strathbane.

The young man leaped up to greet her, as hopeful as ever. He produced folders of houses and Priscilla sat down and went through them. She came to Peter Hynd’s cottage and looked at it curiously. She tapped it with her fingernail. “I knew Mr. Hynd,” she said. “Any idea why he left?”

“Och, I don’t think I thought to ask,” said the young man. “You know how it is, the English come and go. Are you interested, Miss Halburton-Smythe?”

“Not in Drim, no. Exceptionally beautiful young man, Mr. Hynd.” Priscilla opened another folder.

“I couldn’t say,” said the estate agent.

Priscilla looked up quickly. “But you saw him!”

“Aye, but be had such a bad cold, poor man. His voice was rasping and he had a scarf up round his face. He said he was protecting us from his germs.”

“What colour of hair?”

“I can’t say as I can remember. Tracey, do you call to mind that young Mr. Hynd, the one with the property over in Drim?”

“The one with the cold?”

“Aye, him. What colour was his hair?”

“Fairish, I think. Had one of those deerstalkers on, like Sherlock Holmes.”

Priscilla stored up this information to tell Hamish. She looked through some more folders but with the feeling that Hamish Macbeth would not like any of them. She thanked the young man and left. She was reluctant to return to Lochdubh. She decided to buy herself a tooth-brush, a change of clothes, and check into The Highlander, Strathbane’s main hotel, and stay the night. It would be pleasant to be in someone else’s hotel for a change.

♦

Just before ten in the morning she joined the queue of depressed and depressing women waiting to get into the prison. Some of the women tried to engage her in conversation but she snubbed them, being tired of making up stories about herself and so, to a sort of Greek chorus of “Stuck-up bitch,” she finally-made her way into the prison.

Dolan appeared on the other side of the glass and stared at the vision that was Priscilla in amazement. “They said it was my sister,” he exclaimed.

“Listen very hard to me,” said Priscilla, leaning forward.

“I am Hamish Macbeth’s fiancée, and I am here to tell you that if you do not withdraw your complaint of police brutality, I will have a word with the sheriff, who is a personal friend, and make sure you are put away for a long stretch in Inverness prison, where Hamish has many friends among the warders. Not only that, I have many connections and I will hound you, both inside prison or out, even if it means sending one of the gamekeepers after you with a gun.”

“Wait till I tell the polis about you,” jeered Dolan. “More threats.”

“And who will they believe?” she mocked. “Me or you? Go ahead. I will prove you are a liar. I’m out for your blood, Dolan.”

Dolan looked at her beautiful and implacable face and cringed. He believed every word she said. Like quite a lot of criminals, he thought he was often in prison because society was unfair, because ‘They’ had had it in for him since the day of his birth, ‘They’ being the establishment.

He was sure this beautiful bitch would poison the sheriff’s mind.

“And if I withdraw the complaint, will ye have a word in my favour with the sheriff?” said Dolan.

“Of course.”

“Oh, well, I suppose,” he grumbled.

“Do it,” hissed Priscilla.

Later that day, a surprised Hamish Macbeth received a call from Jimmy Anderson to tell him that not only had Miss Tabbet withdrawn her complaint against him – not to mention her claim for a new frying-pan – but that Dolan had withdrawn his complaint as well.

“Thank heavens,” said Hamish. “I wonder what came over them.”

“Aye, it’s the grand day for you, Hamish, because when Dolan was pressed to say why he had made the complaint in the first place, he said Blair had talked him into it. So Blair’s on the carpet.”

Hamish decided to drive up to Tommel Castle and tell Priscilla about it and found her just arriving as he drove up.

After he had told her his news, he listened in amazement as she told him her part in it and then said in admiration, “Ye get more like me every day.”

“Yes, I’m turning out to be a good liar,” agreed Priscilla. “I’ll be poaching my father’s salmon next. But there’s something else.” She told him about the mysterious Peter Hynd who had appeared at the estate agent’s muffled up to the eyebrows.

His hazel eyes gleamed. “I’d better get down to Inverness and see those lawyers. What was the name again? Ah, Brand and MacDougal in Castle Wynd. I’ll drive down tomorrow.” They had walked into the hotel reception as they were speaking. “Would you care to come with me?”

“I’d love to, but there’s a new party of guests arriving tomorrow.”

“I’ll let you know how I get on. Free for dinner tonight?”

Her face took on a guarded look. “I’ve got to check the accounts with Mr. Johnston, but if I get through it quickly enough, I’ll drive down and see you.”

He masked his disappointment and irritation with an effort. She had done sterling work in getting him off the hook with those complaints, and he fought down a feeling that he would gladly have faced any inquiry board in return for a warmer and less efficient fiancée.

Sophy’s cheek swelled up alarmingly that day. By evening she was complaining loudly about the pain and Priscilla reluctantly agreed that Sophy should have the following day off to visit the dentist.

So a happy Sophy drove off in the direction of Inverness in the morning, only stopping to take the lump of candle wax out of her cheek and toss it into the heather.