Death of a Charming Man

∨ Death of a Charming Man ∧

7

Even if we take matrimony at its lowest, even if we regard it as no more than a sort of friendship recognised by the police.

—Robert Louis Stevenson

Hamish left the bank feeling puzzled. Peter Hynd certainly had an account with them but no money had been drawn by him anywhere in the last few weeks. But he had a London address in the Vale of Health, Hampstead. He went into Fenwick’s, the Bond Street department store, and up to the coffee shop and examined the tube map at the back of his diary while he drank coffee, the only man in a roomful of women.

He made his way out into a street, which looked strangely thin of people compared to the bustling main street of Inverness, say, walked to Bond Street Tube and took the Central Line to Tottenham Court Road, and changed to the Northern Edgware Line. It took him an hour to reach Hampstead. He was always amazed at the vastness of London, although the infrequent trains on the Northern Line always served to slow up any journey. Thriftily not wanting to spend any more money than he had to, he walked into a Hampstead newsagent’s, took down a London A-Z, located the Vale of Health, and returned the book to the shelf.

The Vale of Health, originally called Hackett’s Bottom, nestled in a hollow of the Heath beside a pond. As he walked down the twisting road, he saw a small fairground in front of the houses and beyond that the trees and grass and walks of Hampstead Heath.

Peter Hynd’s house was a trim villa in a terrace of villas, painted ice-cream pink. Much as he disliked Peter Hynd, as Hamish pressed the bell, he wished with all his heart and soul that the man himself would answer the door. But it was a rather bizarre young woman who looked up at him, her dusty hair backcombed and left that way, making her look like some cartoon about electric-shock therapy. Her skin was sallow and she wore old–fashioned purple lipstick and her tired eyes were rimmed with kohl.

“Mr. Hynd?” asked Hamish. “I am from the Sutherland police,” he added, thinking that sounded grander than Lochdubh.

“What’s it about?”

“Is he here?”

“No, he’s somewhere up your part of the world. Oh, I suppose you know that. He’s our landlord.”

“And when did you see him last?”

She crinkled her brow and then shouted over her shoulder, “Cove!”

A squat bald man, or, as Hamish supposed one would have to say these days, one of the follicly disadvantaged, hove into view.

“This man’s from the police,” she said. “He’s asking about Peter.”

“Good God, woman. When will you ever learn? Some fellow turns up on the doorstep and claims to be a policeman and you don’t even ask to see any identification.”

“Well, I did, so get stuffed,” she said, throwing Hamish a conspiratorial wink. Clive made a disgusted sound and walked away.

“Brownie points to me,” she said cheerfully. “Never let the bastards get the upper hand, husbands, I mean.” She cocked her head to one side. “He’s gone upstairs. Come down to the kitchen and have a cup of coffee. You’ve come a long way, so it must be important. Although I didn’t ask you for any identification, I trust you not to be the rapist of Hampstead Heath, although,” her eyes slanted mockingly at him, “on the other hand, this might be my lucky day.”

Hamish followed her downstairs to a cheerful kitchen hung with a couple of braces of pheasant and a hare. “Early for the pheasant, not October yet,” said Hamish.

“Oh, them? They’re stuffed. Got a tot of twee friends who go in for exotic cooking. When they see the game hanging up, they never guess what I’m serving them came from the restaurant up the road. Got to keep one’s end up. Clive is with the Beeb.”

“The Beeb?”

“The BBC.”

“What does he do?”

“He produces a programme called ‘Culture For Everyman.’ He loves it. He gets to patronize the great British public once a week. How do you like your coffee?”

“Just black with a spoon of sugar.”

“Right you are. I’m Jill Cadden. I’m in films.”

“I didn’t think there was a film industry left in Britain,” commented Hamish.

“Well, it’s a small experimental company. We’re politically motivated.”

“Tell me about Peter,” said Hamish. “I mean, don’t you see him to give him the rent?”

“No, we pay him by standing order. Goes from our bank to his every month.”

“How much does he charge?”

“Thirteen hundred a month.”

“Pounds!”

“Hardly be dollars or Deutschmarks, would it? And that’s pretty reasonable for this size of house and garden in this neck of the woods.”

“Wouldn’t it be cheaper to buy a wee place and pay the mortgage?” asked Hamish curiously.

“You see, it…” Jill looked at him with amusement. “How do you ever get to the point, copper? Or does life move slower in Sutherland? What’s Peter been up to?”

“He was living in the village of Drim up on the northwest coast. He left and put his cottage up for sale. But no one saw him leave. Then a woman’s been found dead. It’s been said it wass the accident,” said Hamish, becoming worried again as in his mind’s eye he saw Betty Baxter’s ungainly dead body sprawled on the cruel rocks, “but I am not so sure.”

“You’re thorough, I’ll say that,” said Jill, handing him a cup of coffee. “It seems you think that Peter had something to do with this woman’s death or that he has been killed himself.”

“Something like that,” said Hamish. “What did you think of Peter?”

A shuttered look came down over her eyes. “All right. Bit lightweight. Not much there. What you see is what you get.”

“Would you say he was manipulative?”

“We only rented the house from him. We didn’t go into any deep psychoanalysis.” Her voice was tetchy.

“Any family? This is his house, not a family home?”

“Yes, it’s his house. He has a sister somewhere, I believe.”

“He never said anything about his family? Where they lived, where he went to school?”

She yawned. “We weren’t buddies. He’s just a landlord, that’s all.”

Hamish could get little out of her but he left with a feeling that Jill had been subject to Peter’s philandering tactics, he would need to wait and see if Rory had found anything on the newspaper files.

As he walked up and away from the Vale of Health, he began to worry whether he had merely used this investigation I as an excuse to run away from Priscilla. He sometimes wondered which one of them was really at fault. He debated whether to call in at New Scotland Yard and ask if they had anything on Peter Hynd on their files. But Scotland Yard would phone Strathbane to check his credentials and then he would be on the carpet for trying to play the part of private detective in London.

♦

Priscilla drove down to the police station. This quarrel was silly. Sophy Bisset was a very pushy sort of girl and Hamish was putty in the hands of pushy girls. She must put the treacherous thought that Hamish Macbeth was putty in the hands of any female out of her mind. The police station was locked up and a notice on the door referred all inquiries to Sergeant Macgregor at Cnothan for the next three weeks. Where had Hamish gone? She had never known him to take a real holiday, apart from that free one at the health farm, which had ended up in a murder inquiry anyway.

His parents! He was bound to have gone to Rogart to spend some time with his family. She drove to Rogart and received a noisy welcome from Towser. Mrs. Macbeth shook her head and said Hamish was off investigating something, that was all she knew.

So Priscilla stayed for tea and left saddened by the fact that Hamish’s name and her marriage prospects were not mentioned, although the air had been thick with unasked questions.

As she drove home, she began to become angry with him. How dare he go off like that without even calling on her? Yes, they had had a row. All couples had rows. But he should have understood that she could not just pack up, just like that, and go with him on holiday. Wherever he was, she sincerely hoped, and from the bottom of her heart, that he was missing her like hell and having a dreadful time.

♦

Hamish made his way along to Bernie’s Bistro. He was wearing his civilian outfit of sports jacket, corduroy trousers, checked shirt, and tie. He wondered uneasily whether he should have put on a dark suit, the one he kept for church services, funerals, and weddings. He pushed open the door of the restaurant and went in. He saw Rory right away. He was sitting at a corner table wearing jeans and a pullover over a T–shirt, so formal dress did not seem to be the order of the day. “I’m waiting for Mandy,” said Rory. “The girl from the Sun. She’s late, but then she always is.”

Hamish sat down and looked eagerly at his cousin. “Find out anything?”

“Nothing much. One little snippet. There’s a fashionable London night-club called Tarts. Heard of it?”

“No.”

“Never mind. Home to the glitterati. There was a scene there two years ago. A young starlet got drunk and tried to set the place on fire. Police called. Her escort was one Peter Hynd, described as an Old Westminster and socialite. Might be your man. No photo.”

“What’s an Old Westminster?”

“Former pupil of Westminster School, down by the Abbey. Expensive fees. Brightest and best. Highest academic rating in the country. Goes back to the time of the founder, Queen Elizabeth the First. Former pupils, Christopher Wren, Philby, and Peter Ustinov. You got a photo of this Peter Hynd?” Hamish shook his head.

“Well, trot down there tomorrow and ask the registrar. The office is in Little Dean’s, off Dean’s Yard. Find the Abbey and you can’t miss it. Oh, here’s Mandy.” A phimpish girl in a short leather skirt and suede jacket bad just come in. She had short spiky hair, a turned-up nose, and a wide mouth.

She kissed Rory on the cheek and then sat down and looked at Hamish. “Screw all news editors,” she said. “Who’s this?”

“My cousin Hamish, down from the Highlands. He’s just leaving.”

“Why?”

“Because this is our date.”

“You can’t send your cousin away,” said Mandy, delighted at the prospect of having two men beside her for dinner. “Let’s all eat together.”

“I really must be going,” said Hamish, receiving the full blast of a fulminating glare from Rory.

Mandy smiled into his eyes. “My treat.”

Hamish was very hungry. There were delicious smells of food all about him. Avoiding Rory’s eyes, he said, “Maybe I’ll just stay for a little.”

Rory tried to talk newspaper shop and so exclude Hamish from the conversation, but Mandy plied Hamish with questions about his work in Scotland. It was only half-way through the meal that he realized she had the newspaper reporter’s off-duty trick of asking a lot of questions and not really listening to the answers. “Look, I am a reporter and I ask incisive questions,” she seemed to be saying. Whatever Hamish replied to those questions was of little interest compared to Mandy’s interest in her own personality – or rather the one she had knitted for herself. His appetite satisfied, he wished he had not stayed. Mandy’s main intention was to make Rory jealous and she had initially succeeded in doing just that. But by the time the pudding was served, Hamish could see Rory was growing bored.

He glanced at his watch and manufactured a look of shock. “I’d quite forgotten, I’ve got to meet a fellow,” he said, pushing his plate away and getting to his feet. Rory followed him to the restaurant door. “Look, you great pillock,” he said. “Don’t balls up any more of this evening. Wander the streets, do anything, but don’t turn up at the flat until I’ve got this one safely into bed.”

“I’m sorry, Rory, but I was hungry.”

“Make up for it. Don’t come home until the small hours.”

Hamish left the restaurant and set out towards the West End. He went to the late show of a movie and then went to an all-night café and drank coffee and watched the clock until he thought it was safe to return.

He crept into the flat and made his way to his room. He undressed and washed and climbed into bed. Sounds of noisy activity were coming from the next room. He pulled the blankets over his head and wished he were back in the police station in Lochdubh.

♦

In the morning he went down to Westminster School. He marvelled that such a quiet backwater could exist in the heart of London. The various school houses were grouped around a quadrangle, Little Dean’s. Virginia creeper flamed on the old walls of Ashburnham House. Boys in the school uniform of charcoal-grey suit and plain blue tie crossed and recrossed Little Dean’s on their way to and from classes. One of them directed him to the registrar’s office.

He patiently explained to the registrar his name, profession, and interest in Peter Hynd. Files were checked and then the registrar said, “The best thing you can do is to pay a visit on Peter’s old housemaster. He left two years ago and is living in Madingley Road in Cambridge. Here’s the address. His name is Mr. James Heath.”

Cambridge! Hamish was tempted to forget about the whole thing and return to Lochdubh. Still…

“How do I get there?” he asked.

Armed with instructions, he took the tube from St. James’s to Liverpool Street Station and caught the Cambridge train. With the aid of a map drawn for him by the registrar, he walked from the station at Cambridge to Madingley Road. He began to worry that he should have phoned first. In fact, he could probably just have interviewed this Mr. Heath on the phone. He found the address, a big Victorian building divided into flats, and pressed the bell over a neat card marked J. Heath.

To his relief, a buzzer sounded and he went into a large dark hall checkered with coloured light from the stained-glass panel on the door. An authoritative voice called, “Up here. First landing.”

Hamish went up the stairs. Mr. Heath was waiting for him. He was a thin, spare man with a clever, humorous face. Hamish rapidly explained he was from the Sutherland police and wanted to make certain inquiries about Peter Hynd. Mr. Heath threw him a quizzical look but said, “Come in. Sit yourself down. Tea or coffee?”

“Tea,” said Hamish, thinking he had drunk enough coffee the night before to last him a lifetime.

While the ex-housemaster made tea, Hamish crossed the book-lined room and stood by the window and looked across to the spires of Cambridge. The rattling of teacups made him turn round as Mr. Heath came in, carrying a loaded tray which contained not only teapot and cups but fruit-cake and sandwiches.

“Now,” said Mr. Heath when they were comfortably settled by the fire, “what’s all this about Peter?”

Hamish said briefly that Peter had been resident in the village of Drim and had left, he felt, under suspicious circumstances. “I mean, it’s the Highlands of Scotland,” said Hamish. “You would think someone would have seen him leave. What did you make of his character?”

A slightly guarded took came into the housemaster’s eyes. “He was a boarder. Westminster takes day boys as well. I always thought he had been sent to the wrong school.”

“In what way?”

“The boys who come to us are usually very bright. The fees are high and people who do not know Westminster assume it is a school like Eton, for the privileged, but a lot of our pupils are very gifted and there is not much emphasis on sport. I think Peter felt out of place.”

“Was he very manipulative?” asked Hamish.

“An odd question.”

“Well, was he?” There was a long silence and then Mr. Heath said, “It’s not as if you are from the newspapers. Yes, he was. At first he seemed quite bright, but I found he had got a hold of some kind over some of the boys and was making them do his homework for him. He craved attention and admiration. One teacher who gave him a hard time immediately became the butt of scurrilous gossip. I thought Peter was behind it but could prove nothing. The worst thing he did was with the girls.”

“How? This is important.”

“We have girls in the final years. He was a remarkably beautiful boy. He enjoyed setting one girl against the other. One of our most brilliant girls failed her exams because she was so besotted with him.”

Hamish drew a long breath. “Peter Hynd moved into the village of Drim,” he said. “The young people have mostly left for the cities, but the middle-aged women fell hook, line, and sinker for Peter. He made sure that’s exactly what they would do. The atmosphere in the village was terrible, full of hate and menace. Recently, one of the women, Betty Baxter, was found dead on the beach, her neck broken, diagnosed as accident, but I’m not so sure. Now, would you say he could engender enough hate for someone to murder him?”

“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Heath calmly. “I felt like murdering him myself.”

“Does he have a family? Where does the money come from?”

“The parents are both dead. The fees were paid by a family trust. He has a sister, an elder sister. She used to come on parents’ day. Now what was her name? Beth, that was it, Beth Hynd. She may have married by now. Lived in Richmond. Peter spent his school holidays with her. I am afraid I cannot remember the address.”

As he left, Hamish groaned inwardly. Back to London and then Richmond. He had meant to stay and look around Cambridge, but the desire to prove to himself that he was not on a wild-goose chase, that he had not wasted his holidays, drove him on. He was fortunate in catching a fast train and an hour later was back in London and on the tube to Richmond.

Richmond, which he had not visited before, was much larger and sprawling than he had expected. He did not want to enlist the help of the local police and so draw attention to himself. But where to start? He went into the nearest post office and asked for the telephone directory. Women no longer prefixed their names in the phone books with ‘Miss’ or ‘Mrs.’ for fear of getting obscene calls. Her first name would be Elizabeth, he thought, turning the pages, so it would probably be under E. Hynd. There were several E. Hynds in the Richmond area, so he bought a phone card and went out to the box and began to phone each one.

At the third call, just when he was beginning to think she might have an ex-directory number, Beth Hynd answered the phone. She listened to him carefully and then said cautiously that he could call on her but to have his identification ready and to tell her before he arrived a number in Sutherland she could call to confirm he was who he said he was. Hamish gave her Jimmy Anderson’s name and the Strathbane number. He rang off, put the card back in the slot, and dialled Strathbane police headquarters. To his infinite relief, Jimmy Anderson was there. The detective listened while Hamish briefly outlined the reason for his visit south. “Nobody’s going to love ye if this turns out tae be murder,” said Anderson. “Daviot’ll consider you’ve made a fool o’ the lot of us.”

“Don’t care,” said Hamish. “Chust tell this woman I am who I am.”

“Right you are, Popeye.”

Hamish left the box, realizing he had not asked Beth for directions. He went into a newsagent’s and consulted a street directory and found that the street in which she lived was not very far away.

Although Beth Hynd was in her late thirties – Hamish judged her to be about ten years older than her brother – mere was a strong family likeness. She also reminded him forcibly of someone he had met recently. She invited him into the living-room of her home. It was a pleasant-enough room, well-ordered, but lit with a 40-watt bulb behind one of those old–fashioned glass shades, which gave the place the air of the type of waiting-room one waits in before some humiliation – dentist, gynaecologist, headmaster – or the lounge of an old folks’ home where the elderly sit and play Scrabble and wait for death’s bright angel to pop his head round the door and say, “Come in, Number Six, your time’s up.” An old–fashioned gas fire hissed and popped.

“I trust Peter has come to no harm,” she said.

Hamish had no intention of scaring her with a belief that Peter Hynd might have been murdered. “I am investigating a death in the village of Drim,” he said, “where your brother lived.”

“Lived? You mean he is not still there?”

“No, he left a few weeks ago. I judged him to be a clever young man who might have seen something that the locals missed. Do you know where he is?”

She shook her head.

“He usually turns up here sooner or later. I will tell him to phone you immediately when he arrives.”

“Does he work at anything?”

“He took various jobs, but as he has a private income he does not need to work and so he never really stuck at anything for very long.”

“Any romantic entanglements?”

Her eyes were suddenly sharp. “Why? Why do you ask? What has that got to do with anything?”

Hamish’s voice was soothing. “Och, I just thought that if he had a lassie, then she might know where he is.”

Her face cleared. “Of course. But I am afraid I know nothing of Peter’s love life.”

“Where does he live when he’s in the south? His house is let.”

“Here. He stays here.”

“Are you very close?”

A guarded look and then: “Of course. He is my brother.”

Hamish stared at her in frustration but he realized there was nothing further to be got out of her. And the room was depressing him. It must be awful, he thought, to have enough private income to knock any idea of getting a job out of one’s head.

“What do you do?” he asked.

“Do? I am on the board of a couple of charities. Then there are people to visit. Believe me, there are not enough hours in the day.” The sudden loneliness looking out of her eyes belied the statement Hamish glanced around the room. Books in serried ranks, dark-green house plants, but not even a cat for company.

He found it a relief to be back out in the streets of Richmond, where the air smelled of crisp autumn. He found a cheap restaurant and ate a hamburger and drank Coke with a pleased feeling that Priscilla would disapprove of such junk food.

He would need to get back to the source, he thought, and I that was Drim. He felt in his bones that young Heather was right. Peter Hynd was as dead as a doornail, and instead of wasting time in the south, he should be back in the north, asking question after question until a clearer picture appeared. He looked at his watch. If he hurried, he could get back to Rory’s, pack up, and catch the night train to Inverness. He always felt like a fish out of water investigating things on foreign territory anyway.

As it was, he only managed to leap on the train as it was pulling out. Most of the train consisted of sleeping cars, so he was lucky to find an empty seat in the few carriages allotted to upright passengers.

As he fell asleep, the faces of the women of Drim danced before his eyes. And yet, would it not be more likely that one of the men was the murderer? Murder, murder, murder, sang the wheels as the train ploughed north through the darkness, leaving London and the south behind.

♦

“You want what?!” Jock Kennedy leaned on the counter of his shop and looked in amazement at Hamish Macbeth. “I want a room,” said Hamish patiently.

“Why? You live ower at Lochdubh.”

“I’m on my holidays.”

“Seems daft tae me. Try Edie Aubrey. She lets out a room tae the tourists.”

“Fine.”

As Hamish walked to Edie Aubrey’s home, he noticed that the community hall now stood silent. He glanced in the window of the hairdresser’s as he passed. Alice MacQueen was sitting in a chair by the window, doing her nails. Not a customer in sight. Two women passed him on their way to the store wearing the inevitable uniform of anorak and ski trousers stretched over massive thighs, lank hair, and no make-up.

Nothing anymore to dress up for.

Edie Aubrey looked flustered when he asked for a room.

“The season’s over,” she said nervously. “I haven’t aired the room.”

“I’m sure it’ll do fine,” said Hamish.

“Well, it’s just bed and breakfast. I don’t do any other meals.”

“I’ll manage.”

“Oh, I suppose. You’re not here officially then?”

“No, chust wanted to get out of Lochdubh. A policeman’s neffer off duty so long as Strathbane knows where he is. Want to get a bit of fishing.”

“Follow me,” said Edie, apparently making up her mind. The house was one of those many Victorian villas which were built for holidaying English families after Queen Victoria had made the Highlands fashionable. It was small but well-carpeted and well-fired. The bedroom allotted to him contained a large double bed covered in a shiny pink satin quilt. There was one of those old–fashioned basket chairs in a corner, green shot with gold, which held a doll in a frilly dress. Its eyes stared at Hamish as empty of expression as the dead eyes of Betty Baxter. A large wardrobe dominated one wall, built for the heavier, larger clothes of Victorians. He opened it up. There were shelves on one side for shirts and little drawers for collar studs and dress studs. Over the bed was a picture of two Edwardian girls chasing a small white dog across a field of poppies.

“If you’d like to unpack and come downstairs, I’ll make you a cup of tea,” said Edie. He smiled at her and she patted her hair and blinked at him through her glasses.

When she had left, Hamish looked out of the window and down to the black expanse of the sea loch. At the far-inland end of the loch, the river Drim fell in peaty brown cascades over jagged rocks. Farther up the river he could see the glint of a pool. He had collected his fishing-rods from the police station before coming to Drim. Perhaps he might go up to that pool and try to get some trout and leave investigations until the morrow. He was supposed to be on holiday, and if the locals really believed that, he might pick up more gossip man he would do if they thought he was in the village on business.

He unpacked and went downstairs. Edie placed a pot of tea and a plate of scones on the table. “You are a widow, aren’t you?” asked Hamish.

She poured tea into thick mugs. “Yes, my Jamie passed on ten years ago. He was a fine man.”

“You’re not from the Highlands?”

“No, from down south. Moffat.”

“So what brought you here? These scones are grand.”

“Have another. Jamie was ill, cancer. He always thought the Highland air would cure him, thought it right to the last, poor man.”

“Didn’t you ever want to move back south?” Edie put down her cup and her eyes strayed to the kitchen window as if seeking the answer among the laurels in the garden. “Oh, I thought of it often. But I didn’t have many I friends in Moffat, I was too busy looking after Jamie. Somehow I just stayed on here.” Her voice was sad. “I’ve tried to brighten up the place. It was the high moment in my life when they all started coming to the exercise classes. But then Peter left…”

Her voice trailed away. “And darkness fell on the land,” added Hamish silently.

He finished his tea. Plenty of time for more questions. “I’m just going to take my rod up the Drim and see if I can get any trout.”

“I don’t usually cook meals, but I’d like a fresh trout for tea. If you catch any, I’ll cook them.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Hamish almost but not quite forgot the reason for his stay in Drim as he angled in the pool; expertly flicking the fly so that it skimmed on the peaty gold of the water. He had just reeled in his second trout when he had a feeling of being watched. He tipped the trout into the old–fashioned fishing basket he used and turned slowly about. There was a stand of silver birch behind him.

“Come out,” he called.

There was a rustling and then the slight figure of Heather Baxter appeared. “You’re staying at Mrs. Aubrey’s,” she said.

“News travels fast,” said Hamish. “How are you?”

“Fine, chust fine. Da and I get along well.” Hamish looked at the composed little figure. Would this child kill her own mother so as to have a quiet home and her father to herself? The thought was a repugnant one. It was the fault of the atmosphere of Drim, which easily conjured up Gothic fantasies in the mind.

“Catch anything?” Heather asked.

“Twoirout.”

“Da would like a trout for his tea, and so would I.”

“And so would I,” said Hamish. “Sit down over there and I’ll see what I can do.”

She sat down and clasped her hands over her knees and closed her eyes. Hamish threw her an amused look. “Praying?” She nodded fiercely and he wondered if she was praying to the Christian God or one of the Celtic pagan ones. To his amazement, he caught his next trout almost immediately.

Heather opened her eyes. “And another,” she said solemnly and fell to praying again. He cast again but without much success. The day began to grow darker. And then the hair began to rise on his neck, for Heather’s voice was rising in a keening sound. He knew she was chanting in Gaelic but he could not make out the exact words. He was about to call to her to stop her nonsense when he felt a tug on the line.

Some minutes later, Heather’s voice died away and she looked in satisfaction at the large trout he was landing.

“Come home with me,” she said after she had wrapped the present of two trout up in docken leaves. “Mrs. Aubrey’s a dreadful cook.”

“Off with you,” said Hamish, “and don’t put your faith in the old gods, Heather. That sort of thing’ll turn you potty.”

“It got me the trout for Da’s tea,” said Heather practically, and off she went.

Hamish headed back to the village, carrying his catch. He nodded and said, ‘Good evening’ and ‘Grand night’ to passing villagers, who stopped and stared at him but did not return his greeting.

Edie received the trout with enthusiasm. “I have a new French cookery book,” she said, “and there is a very interesting way of baking trout with cheese, so…”

“My treat, my cooking,” said Hamish firmly. “I’m a dab hand wi’ the trout.”

He gutted the fish and grilled them and served them with boiled potatoes and peas.

He felt a sudden wave of fatigue. He had not had much sleep on the train north. He cocked his head. A gale was beginning to blow up outside. “I thought you were too sheltered here in Drim to get much wind,” he said. “Oh, we get it all right when it’s blowing in from the west,” said Edie. “I hate the wind.”

The noise outside rose. The wind, channelled down the loch between the tall walls of the mountains, screamed and howled.

It was cosy in the kitchen. The fish were excellent and the potatoes, which turned out to have come from Edie’s garden, floury, and almost sweet.

“Strange the way Peter Hynd left,” said Hamish, pushing away his empty plate. He groped in his pocket for a packet of cigarettes and then realized with a start that he had given up smoking some time ago.

“Cigarette?” asked Edie, holding out a packet.

For one awful moment he nearly took one. “Given up,” he said curtly.

“You don’t mind if I…?”

“Go ahead.”

Edie lit her cigarette and then said, “The men here were very nasty to Peter. I think that’s why he left. You know shortly before he went, someone threw a brick through his window.”

“I didn’t hear about that!”

“No, well, you wouldn’t. You know how they all stick together in these villages.”

Hamish looked at her. “Peter Hynd liked to flirt. Was there anyone in particular? Was it just flirting?”

“Ailsa Kennedy was hinting that he had gone further than that with her, but no one really believed her. Then there was Jimmy Macleod’s wife, Nancy. Alice MacQueen said she saw her leaving Peter’s cottage in the middle of the night, but she would hardly leave her husband’s bed to go out in the night without him knowing. Still, it’s all over now. The house has been sold.”

“What? So soon?”

“Yes, the man from Newcastle and his wife were here early today. A Mr. Apple. He’s got the grand plans for building that extension. He’s going to move the builders in right away.”

“Like all incomers, he might find it hard to get help.”

“He’s importing his own. Got caravans for them and a mobile home for himself and his wife coming up by road tomorrow.”

Hamish felt his fatigue leaving him. In order to finalize the deal, Peter would need to have signed the papers at the lawyers’.

“I’ll be off in the morning early,” he said. “I’ve got to see someone in Inverness.”

“I’ll put an alarm beside your bed,” said Edie. “What time do you want breakfast?”

“About seven. I can make my own.”

“Och, no, I’ll be up and about. I’ve little else to do now the exercise classes have finished.”

Hamish looked at her curiously. “Did Peter Hynd flirt with you?”

Her eyes grew dreamy. “Yes, he did. I felt young again, excited, happy. And when he went away, I looked in the mirror and there again was just me, Edie Aubrey, middle-aged and plain. He had a knack of making every woman feel she was the one who was special to him. I thought I was his favourite, but now I’ve got over the madness I realize he was only playing around.”

♦

Hamish experienced a feeling of mounting excitement as he drove to Inverness, propelled southward by the Sutherland gale. One way or another, the investigation would now be over. With any luck he would find that Peter Hynd was alive and well. To think that any man in Drim was not only capable of impersonating a good-looking Englishman but also of forging his signature was ridiculous. And with any luck, Betty would turn out to have died from a heavy fall.

To his disappointment, the genial Mr. Brand was on holiday and he had to deal with his older, crusty partner, Mr. MacDougal. Mr. MacDougal listened impatiently to Hamish’s request and then said, “I dealt with Mr. Hynd myself.”

“That’s great,” said Hamish. “Did he tell you where he was staying?”

“Yes, he had come up from London. Jenny!” The pallid girl slouched in. “Bring Mr. Hynd’s address.”

Hamish waited. A seagull perched on the window-ledge outside and looked in curiously through the grimy panes. Jenny came in and put a slip of paper in front of Hamish and he found himself looking down at the Vale of Health address. “This won’t do,” he said sharply. “That’s the house he rents out.”

“That’s all we’ve got,” said Mr. MacDougal. “Now, I’m very busy and I’m expecting a client.” He stood up.

“One moment,” said Hamish. “What did Peter Hynd look lie?”

“Pleasant, upper class, fair hair, only stayed for as long as it took to sign the papers.”

“May I take a copy of the papers? I would like to have the signature checked.”

“Mr. Brand, who is a good fellow but too easygoing, told me he had faxed signatures to the bank in London already. Are you here on official business?”

“I’m just following up inquiries of my own.”

“If you return with an official request from headquarters, then we will let you have the papers. Until then…”

When Hamish went into the outer office he asked Jenny, “Was the Peter Hynd who came to sign the final papers the one you had met before?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” she said rudely. “But I wouldn’t be knowing. I got a ladder in my tights and ran out to get a new pair, and when I got back I heard he’d been in.”

Hamish left the lawyers’ in a bad mood. Surely it was silly to go on following this ridiculous hunch that Peter Hynd was dead. Still, to wrap it up neatly, it might be a good idea to go to Strathbane and get an official request to take those papers and have a handwriting expert check the signature. He decided to go over Blair’s head. Blair would hate him for it, but then Blair hated him anyway.

To his surprise he was ushered into Mr. Daviot’s office without having to wait, but the minute Mr. Daviot said solemnly, “Sit down, Macbeth,” his heart sank. No ‘Hamish.’

“I find to my surprise,” said Mr. Daviot, “that you have chosen to take your holidays in Drim, of all places. My wife called on Priscilla with details of a house for sale and Priscilla told her that you appeared to have no interest in settling down.”

Although Hamish was used to the Highland bush telegraph, he was always amazed at its speed. Harry Baxter, he thought, Harry would tell the other fishermen in Lochdubh and the word would speed up to Tommel Castle Hotel.

“If we could put my personal life on one side,” said Hamish. He explained his reasons for staying in Drim, his reasons for suspecting both the absence of Peter Hynd and the death of Betty Baxter. He ended up with his request to get the papers from the lawyers in Inverness.

The superintendent leaned back in his chair and surveyed the tall, gangling sergeant. He had tolerated his wife’s social ambitions while privately thinking Priscilla much too good for Macbeth. Hamish had proved a clever if unorthodox policeman in the past, but Mr. Daviot thought he was hellbent on this wild-goose chase in order to stay away from Priscilla. What man in his right mind with a gorgeous fiancée like Priscilla Halburton-Smythe would choose to spend his holidays in a place like Drim? It showed a dangerous instability. Mr. Daviot preferred the plodding, obsequious type of policeman, which was why Blair, despite all his gaffes, had never been reduced to the ranks. Also, Mr. Daviot was a proud member of the Freemasons, as was Blair, and he remembered that Hamish had refused an invitation to join. “I cannot control what you choose to do on your holidays, Macbeth,” he said, “except to point out to you that you will get no help from me in this non-case. Peter Hynd, wherever he is, has sold his house and signed the papers. Betty Baxter had an unfortunate accident. That is that. I would like to suggest to you that you return to Lochdubh and pay more attention to Priscilla, but your private life is no concern of mine.”

“Exactly,” put in Hamish, turning red with annoyance.

“Do not waste valuable police time again, Macbeth. You may go.”

Hamish left the room, walking as stiffly as an outraged cat. As he drove out of Strathbane, he felt miserable and guilty about Priscilla. And yet he had no reason to feel guilty. She had brought it on herself.

But instead of turning off on the road that led to Drim, he went on to Lochdubh. As he drove along the waterfront he could feel curious eyes following his progress. “There goes the mad and fickle Hamish Macbeth, who prefers to spend his holidays in a place like Drim,” they seemed to be saying. There was a new receptionist at the Tommel Castle Hotel, a plain, middle-aged woman. “Where’s Sophy?” he asked.

“If you mean Miss Bisset, she just walked out. I was working over at Cnothan and Mr. Johnston offered me the job if I could come immediately, so I did.”

“Where is Miss Halburton-Smythe?”

“In the gift shop.”

Hamish walked over to the gift shop. Priscilla was kneeling? on the floor, unpacking a box of china. She looked up and saw him and her face hardened. “How are the sunny shores of Drim?” she asked. “You wouldn’t come on holiday with me,” said Hamish.

“I chust have to make my own amusement and that’s trying to find out what happened to Peter Hynd.” She stood up and smoothed down her skirt. “While making a fool of me in the process?”

“What do you mean?”

“Everyone in the village now knows that the oh-so loving Hamish prefers to spend his holidays in a village a mere stone’s throw away rather than be near me.”

“And did you tell all these nosy folk you preferred to work rather than spend any time with me? Don’t blame me for your fear o’ intimacy, Priscilla.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“Then come to bed wi’ me…now.”

“I happen to be very busy.”

“Spoken like a woman in love. Och, this is hopeless…absolutely hopeless.” Hamish stormed out. He hurt so badly, he wondered bleakly if he was going to have ulcers.

All he had left in life was this mad case. And he would solve it even if it meant taking the whole village of Drim apart!

He stopped off at the police station to get extra clothes and I make sure he really had switched everything off. The new cooker gleamed in the dark corner. He gave it a savage kick. And then the bell at the front door sounded. He had an impulse to let it go on ringing. After all, there was that notice on the door telling people that all inquiries were being handled from Cnothan. But curiosity beat sloth and he went and opened the door.

Mrs. Hendry, the schoolteacher’s wife, stood there, her face blotched with tears.

“I saw the police car,” she said in a choked voice. “I’ve got to speak to you, Mr. Macbeth.”