Death of a Glutton

∨ Death of a Glutton ∧

2

The best laid schemes o’ mice and men

Gang aft a-gley.

—Robert Burns

To Maria’s relief, the little knot of men around Crystal began to break up and she was able to seize arms and introduce the various clients to their proper partners. Crystal pouted slightly and swayed over to join her aunt.

The fact was, thought the ambitious Matthew Cowper shrewdly, that Crystal Debenham was the kind of girl one took to the pub to impress the other fellows. She was not the kind one married. She was extremely dull and had no talent for conversation whatsoever, the narcissistic Crystal considering looks enough.

Maria made it firmly obvious who was meant for whom, and Matthew was not sure that Jenny Trask was at all suitable. She was painfully shy and he wanted a firm, confident woman to help him in his career. The blonde beauty he had seen on his arrival, the one he had been so sure was meant for him, had turned out to be nothing more than an hotel waitress. He glanced at Priscilla and now saw only the uniform and not the beauty.

Jenny, ever polite, was struggling to make conversation by telling him about her job. He barely listened, his eyes roving over the rest of the females and coming to rest on Mary French, the schoolteacher, she of the sticking-out ears and buckteeth. Now there was class, from her pale, arrogant, self-satisfied look to her pearls and expensively dowdy dress. She had a hectoring carrying voice. He waited until Jenny had paused for breath, said, “Excuse me,” and slid off.

John Taylor was relieved to see him. Although he was well aware that he, John, was old and could not expect a young beauty to be put his way, Mary appalled him. When Matthew came up, John crossed the room and joined Jenny, found out she was a legal secretary in Lincoln’s Inn Fields in an office near his own, and happily began to talk shop.

Sir Bernard Grant barely saw the grey Jessica Fitt. He could not believe this was to be his partner. So he looked beyond Jessica’s dull face, looking for another candidate, and fell on Deborah Freemantle, who was bouncing and wriggling in front of Peter Trumpington. He heard her loud laugh and decided she looked like more fun than anyone else there. So he joined her, and Peter Trumpington, who for all his shallow-mindedness was nonetheless kind, went to speak to Jessica Fitt.

Maria took a deep breath of relief. They were not pairing off the way she had intended, but at least they were all talking to each other and the beautiful Crystal was ignored. Besides, once they found their place cards at the dinner table, they would once more be with their rightful partners.

But when she led the way into the dining room, it was to find that Peta had already taken the chair at the head of the table, with Crystal next to her. Then the others just ignored the place cards and sat down and talked to the person they had been talking to before.

The first course was cock-a-leekie soup, Tommel Castle priding itself on its traditional Scottish dishes. Peta rolled up her sleeves and got to work. She gurgled, she slurped, she inhaled soup like a human vacuum cleaner, first breaking great clumps of bread into it and mashing them up with her spoon.

“Who on earth is that great fat woman?” muttered Sir Bernard to Deborah. Deborah laughed wildly and said, “Gosh! I don’t know. Sickening, isn’t she?” and Sir Bernard began to think more and more that Deborah was his kind of girl.

The soup was followed by dishes of prawns in a delicate sauce. Peta wolfed hers down and turned to John Taylor, who was on her other side and looking at her in horrified amazement, and said, “I see you’re not eating yours,” and before he could protest, snatched his dish and ate those too.

The next course was unfortunately a rich venison casserole with a wine sauce and the casserole was placed at the head of the table in front of Peta. Peta waved Priscilla away and said she would serve. So the others soon found themselves looking down at small portions and then at the heaped mound of meat and sauce on Peta’s plate. She bent down and snuffled at it appreciatively before diving in. She also ate great piles of vegetables and three large baked potatoes with a whole dairy of butter. She then called for more bread and, pulling the casserole close to her ballooning bosom, she began to mop up the gravy, making appreciative smacking sounds with her lips.

Priscilla was sorry for Maria. She wanted to tell her that her party was going to be a success, not despite Peta, but because of Peta. They were all being drawn together by a communal resentment. And Crystal, because of being the horror’s niece, had rapidly lost any charms she might have had in the eyes of the assembled men.

The dessert was unfortunately meringues with cream and chocolate sauce. Powdered meringue soon dusted the glutton’s face, almost covering up the gravy stains. When the petits fours came along, Peta upended the plate of them into her capacious handbag. “I’ll keep these for later,” she said, beaming all around.

Maria turned to the hovering Priscilla and said in a thin voice, “Coffee in the lounge, I think, and some more petits fours, please. Peta, darling, you have had an exhausting journey. Why don’t you go and lie down?”

“You know, I think I might,” said Peta and yawned, a cavernous yawn, showing a coated tongue and bad teeth. She winked at Sir Bernard, “I’ll see you in the morning, sweetie.”

Crystal floated off in the wake of her aunt. Maria arranged her guests in a corner of the lounge, glad no other hotel guests were present.

John Taylor rose to his feet and hooked his thumbs into his waistcoat and faced the group with that steely look in his eye and commanding appearance which had made him a highly paid prosecuting counsel. He began his cross-examination. “Now, Miss Worth, tell us (“in your own words,” thought Jenny) about this Peta woman. Who is she?” He stabbed a finger at Maria. “Why is she here? Is she one of your clients? Tell us.”

“If you will allow me to speak, I will,” said Maria, who had already made up her mind what she had to do. “Mrs Peta Gore is my partner. She put up half the money to help me get started. I tried to buy her out last year, but she would not go. I tried to keep this excursion to the Scottish Highlands a secret from her and I thought she was in Hungary. But she found out where I was. This has happened before, but not at anything so ambitious as this. So I am going to make you an offer. Each of you. Anyone here who has not found a marriage partner by the end of the week will have the cost of the hotel bill and travel refunded.”

There was a long silence. Then Deborah spoke up. “I think that’s jolly fair,” she cried. Sir Bernard said, “I’ll accept that,” and the others nodded agreement. John sat down feeling rather sulky. He had expected Maria to excuse and protest like a criminal in the dock. But she had behaved handsomely and spoilt his fun.

Priscilla bent over the table and arranged the coffee-pots. John said suddenly, “You know, my memory’s going. I feel I’ve seen someone in this group before, but in court.”

There were startled gasps. “Who?” cried Deborah, bouncing up and down on her large bottom. “You mean we might have a chain-saw murderer amongst us?”

John shook his head. “I’m probably wrong. The trouble is, I see so many criminals that everyone begins to look like one.”

Jenny Trask said, “I remember that famous case where you were the prosecutor for the Crown, that triple murderer, Jackson.”

“Tell us about it,” suggested Maria, accepting a cup of coffee from Priscilla.

He began to talk. Priscilla, standing on duty in the corner with the other waitress, remembered reading about the case in the newspapers. She felt uneasy. There never had been, surely, any really concrete evidence, and yet John Taylor had done a brilliant job and the man had gone to prison for life. Even talking about the case, John ceased to be a tired-looking man in his sixties and became enlivened with fire and venom. A columnist had once written that his success was due to the fact that he appeared to have a genuine hatred of the people he was prosecuting. The legal department of the newspaper must have had too liquid a lunch that day, for the column was printed and John Taylor had sued the newspaper for some reportedly vast sum, although the whole thing was settled out of court. And the female columnist came out of it unscathed because she was having an affair with the newspaper proprietor.

Then Priscilla saw her father coming into the room. The colonel had learned that there was an eminent Queen’s Counsel among the guests and so had decided to favour them with his presence. When the barrister had finished speaking, he asked them grandly if they were comfortable and then his choleric eye fell on his daughter in cap and apron.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing dressed up as a waitress?” he roared.

“Sheena and Heather are off sick,” said Priscilla calmly. “I had to help out.”

“Consult me next time you think of slumming,” raged the colonel. “My own daughter!”

Mr Johnson, the manager, used to averting scenes, came quickly into the room and muttered something in the colonel’s ear and drew him out.

Matthew Cowper had just learned from Mary French that she was the Earl of Derwent’s third cousin, but the news that the blonde beauty was the daughter of the house made him look at Priscilla speculatively and he hardly heard what Mary was saying. He glanced round the lounge, formerly the drawing room, of the well-appointed hotel. Must be a mint of money here, not that it was money he was after, but it all helped. This Priscilla was a stunner, and classy, too. She did not have the vulgar sultry beauty of Crystal, and any girl who mucked in and acted as a waitress wouldn’t be too snobby.

Maria was just announcing that she had arranged a trip out on a fishing boat the following morning, urging them to be ready early, for Peta slept late. Matthew wondered whether to skip that trip and try his luck with the fair Priscilla.

But when they all finally rose to go to bed, he volunteered to help Priscilla clear away the coffee-things. She gave him a cool smile and said firmly, “That won’t be necessary.”

He thought that after all she might be a sheer waste of time and went upstairs to set his alarm.

Jenny Trask lay awake a long time. No knight on a white charger had come along. She was bitterly disappointed in Checkmate. Matthew Cowper was the sort of young man she would normally have gone out of her way to avoid, that was, if such a young man had ever shown an interest in her. Nothing was as she had expected it to be. And that dreadful Peta! Someone should put that woman out of everyone else’s misery.

♦

Hamish Macbeth was roused from gentle dreams about nothing very much by a hammering at the door. He crawled out of bed and went to answer it. “Why, Archie,” he said, recognizing the fisherman, “what’s wrong?”

“Naething’s wrong,” said Archie with a grin. “I forgot to tell you that I’m taking a party frae the castle out on the boat the day and I wunnered if you would like to come along and gie me a bit o’ a hand. Grand day and free food.”

Hamish thought quickly. Blair was away in Spain. Nothing had happened recently. “Is herself coming?” he asked hopefully.

“Aye, I think I heard Miss Halburton-Smythe wass coming along,” lied Archie.

“Yes, I’ll join you. What time?”

“Eight o’clock. They are haffing their breakfast on the boat.”

Hamish said goodbye to him and began to wash and dress quickly. He checked his sheep had water and fed his hens, and then ambled along the waterfront in the direction of the harbour. The day was as perfect as all the previous days.

Jessie and Nessie Currie were standing by their garden gate. Hamish tried to walk past quickly, but Jessie said severely, “And where are you going, young man? Where are you going?”

“Just along to the harbour,” said Hamish evasively.

“I noticed you haven’t your uniform on, you haven’t your uniform on,” remarked Jessie, who had an irritating habit of saying things twice over.

“Undercover work,” said Hamish desperately. “Drug smugglers.”

“My, my!” marvelled Nessie. “They get everywhere, don’t they. It was saying on the telly…”

But Hamish had moved on. He felt it was odd to be walking through this Mediterranean landscape. No clouds marred the sky. A normal Scottish Highland day would either be weeping misty drizzle, or high winds with cloud shadows chasing each other down the flanks of the mountains and fitful gleams of sunlight. Archie’s fishing boat, the Jaunty Lass, lay still at anchor.

Hamish climbed on board. “I thought ye would have found more help, Archie,” he said. “Where’s your crew?”

“Say to a man they willnae stir frae their beds for a lot of rich English parasols.”

“Parasites?” suggested Hamish.

“Aye, them. Anyways, all you’ve got to do is help me cast off and then take a wee turn at the wheel. Sean Gallagher, the cook frae the castle, is cooking the breakfast in the galley. All we really have tae do is sharpen up the old knife and fork and dig in wi’ the rest o’ them.”

♦

“What?” Priscilla stared sleepily at the hotel manager, who had come to rouse her. “ What do you mean, Sean is refusing to go?”

“Just that, the wee scunner,” said Mr Johnson with feeling. “He says he gets seasick. He says nobody told him he had to cook on a boat. He says it’s beneath him.”

“What’s he gone temperamental for?” said Priscilla crossly. “He’s from Glasgow, not Paris. Did you threaten to fire him?”

“I wouldnae dare. He might go, and then where would we get another cook to match him? So I thought…you see, it’s not really cooking. Jist a kedgeree for breakfast and a cold lunch, and the lunch is all packed up.”

Priscilla groaned. “Meaning you want me to go?”

“Well, it’s a grand day out for ye.”

“All right. All right. But I know why Sean isn’t going, and it’s nothing to do with seasickness. He was raving on about that glutton, Peta, last night. Said she was an insult to his art. The idiot came up to the doorway of the dining room during the serving of the main course and he saw that big woman guzzling most of it. He went off and got drunk. I’ll handle it, but don’t tell Daddy.”

♦

Ian Chisholm, the local garage owner, had renovated an old Volkswagen minibus, after he had learned that a party at the castle would be needing transport. He had sprayed the front of it bright red and then run out of that particular colour of paint, and so he had sprayed the rest primrose yellow. It had an odd carnival appearance, but at least the new coat of paint hid all the rust. The seats were badly damaged, as the previous owner had used it as a hen coop, but his wife had made some nice chintz loose covers to hide the defects.

Jenny, first to climb on board, felt her spirits lift. The ridiculous bus, combined with another beautiful day, made her feel she was indeed on foreign territory, with the pollution and bustle of London so far away. Matthew Cowper was next. He saw her, backed off the bus, waited until Mary French had taken a seat, and then got back on and sat down next to her. “Social-climbing little runt,” thought Jenny bitterly and then reminded herself that she did not want him anyway, and as she was bound to be partnerless at the end of the week, she would get a refund, and so she should make the best of this free holiday. The next to arrive was John Taylor in an old blazer, white panama hat and white trousers, looking as if he were going to Henley Regatta rather than on a West Highland fishing boat. He raised his hat to Jenny and then sat down next to her. Outside the bus stood Maria Worth holding a clipboard which she felt made her look efficient. She was praying they would all get off before Peta rose and decided to join them. She did not relax until they were all on the bus, Deborah shrieking with delight at the chintz seat covers.

Jenny noticed Priscilla had joined the party, after overseeing the packing of cartons into the back of the bus.

The engine rattled and coughed and then finally roared into life. Off they went down the drive and out on to the single-track road which led down into the village of Lochdubh. Purple heather was blazing in all its glory, and far above two buzzards sailed lazily in the clear sky.

Priscilla stood up and faced the passengers. She was wearing a white blouse and a short denim skirt. She balanced easily in the swaying bus and her clear voice rose above the noise of the engine. “I have brought along some bottles of sun-barrier cream,” she said. “The air up here is very clear and you can get very badly burned indeed unless you take the necessary precautions.”

I would like to be like that, thought Jenny. Cool and competent.

Lochdubh was calm and quiet under its Sunday torpor: rows of little white cottages, a few shops, and then the harbour.

A tall, red-haired man with hazel eyes and an engagingly shy smile welcomed them on board the Jaunty Lass. He was wearing a faded blue shirt and faded blue jeans. Jenny smiled shyly back at him, her interest quickened. Here was the sort of man she could go for. Not some pushy lout of a yuppie like Matthew Cowper. She wondered what it would be like to be a fisherman’s wife in this remote spot. Her romantic soul visualized living in one of those little cottages, waiting at dawn with a ragged tartan shawl about her shoulders and her hair streaming in the wind for the fishing boats to come home.

Then the dream was rudely shattered as she heard Priscilla hail the red-haired man with, “Hello, copper. Why aren’t you on your beat, Hamish?”

“Archie asked me to help out,” rejoined Hamish. “And what is yourself doing here?” he added, not wanting her to know that the reason for his own presence was because Archie had told him she would be with the party.

“Sean Gallagher’s got the sulks, so I’ve to do the cooking, Hamish. So you can start by helping me load these boxes.”

“Can I help?” asked Jenny eagerly.

Priscilla smiled. “You’re on holiday. Go and find a nice seat in the sun.”

Jenny watched as Hamish and Priscilla, with the help of the driver and Archie Maclean, carried the boxes on board. She noticed that Hamish and Priscilla had the ease and familiarity of old friends. But they were not engaged. Priscilla wore no ring. There was hope yet.

“Is that everything?” asked Maria.

“Yes, all set,” said Hamish. “I’ll just cast off. Wait a bit. Are you expecting anyone else? That’s the castle Range Rover coming down the hill at a fair pace.”

“No,” screamed Maria in sudden panic. “Get going, man, for God’s sake.”

Hamish quickly loosened the ropes from the capstans, shouted to Archie they were all set, and sprang on board. The short gangplank had already been pulled up. But Archie was fumbling about in the wheel-house as the Range Rover roared nearer, the horns going and the lights flashing. It screeched to a halt on the harbour and Peta lumbered down.

“Wait!” she called.

“Can’t!” shouted Maria cheerfully. “Too late!”

But Archie had nipped down from the wheel-house and was looking at her in surprise. He was hoping for tips, and as far as he was concerned, the more the merrier. “Och, it won’t take a minute to get her on board,” he said. “Hamish, jump down and tie her up again.”

The passengers watched gloomily as Hamish sprang on to the harbour. As he busied himself with the ropes he said to Mr Johnson, who had brought Peta, “Couldn’t you have driven a bit slower? Nobody seems to want her.”

“Are you kidding?” demanded the manager. “She was screaming at me the whole way. If she’d had a whip, she’d have lashed at me to make me go faster.”

The gangplank was lowered. Peta waddled on board wearing a huge loose flowered dress like a tent. “Gosh, I’m starving,” she cried. “When’s breakfast?”

“Any minute now,” said Priscilla. “Archie, Hamish will need to help me in the galley.”

“What’s for breakfast?” asked Hamish. “Bacon and eggs?”

“No, kedgeree. I’ve a big pot of it. Sean keeps a ton of the stuff in the freezer and I defrosted it before I left. Heat up the rolls, Hamish, and put out the butter. Give them all a plate, cup, knife and fork – you’ll find them in that box over there – and then the coffee and tea’s in those giant flasks. They’re the kind with spouts, so all you’ve got to do is twist and pour. Serve Peta first and that’ll keep her quiet.”

Jenny came down into the galley. “I’m sure you need help,” she said, but she looked at Hamish and not Priscilla.

To Priscilla’s annoyance, Hamish promptly relayed the orders she had just given him to Jenny. “Now what are you going to do?” asked Priscilla, half exasperated, half amused as Jenny bustled off.

“I’ll light the stove for you. It’s tricky,” said Hamish, “and then when you’ve got the kedgeree heated, I’ll hold the casserole while you dish it out.”

“I hope you won’t faint from exhaustion before the day is over,” said Priscilla sarcastically.

“I’ll do just fine.”

When the kedgeree was heated, Priscilla piled a plate high and handed it to Jenny, who was now waiting behind her. “Take that to Peta,” said Priscilla. “There’s loads here. Tell her to leave room for lunch.”

The members of Checkmate were sitting on the small deck. Peta broke off flirting with Sir Bernard when she saw the food arrive. Her eyes gleamed. Jenny cast one horrified look at Peta shovelling kedgeree into her mouth and darted off down the companion-way to get the food for the others. She felt brisk and efficient and quite confident now that she had something to do. She hoped that attractive policeman noticed just how brisk and efficient she was.

A policeman’s wife might be no bad thing. He was, she judged, in his thirties and should surely have been promoted to a higher rank by now if he were any good. But with a wife behind him, he might do wonders. He looked clever. She could see him now, solving cases in a sort of Lord Peter Wimsey way, throwing in the occasional apt quotation.

But that dream dissolved when she got downstairs again. Hamish was lying on one of the bunks, reading a newspaper. He did not look the least like an ambitious man.

Feeling slightly flat, she served the others before taking her own plate and sitting down to join them. The kedgeree was excellent, but they were all picking at their food and it was obvious they were trying to look anywhere and everywhere but at the glutton. Priscilla had made the mistake of bringing the remains of the casserole up, which Peta seized with both hands. She not only ate that but cleared up everyone else’s leftovers. She was a mess of crumbs and rice and fish. This mess, once temporarily sated, began to flirt again with Sir Bernard, who edged away from her and asked Deborah if she would like to go to the side and see if there were any seals.

“Probably basking on rocks in this weather,” said Deborah, but she joined him at the side. And then Sir Bernard felt a pudgy arm steal about his neck and Peta’s cooing voice saying, “You know, you’re my sort of man.”

Her fishy breath fanned his cheek. He could feel her blubbery body pressed against his side and wondered desperately why it was that men were always being accused of sexual harassment and never women. He had never before felt at such a loss, he, the business tycoon, who was used to handling all sorts of situations. He remembered visiting one of his stores to talk to the manager. He was leaving by walking through the shop after closing time when he had seen a light on in one of the fitting rooms. He had pulled back the curtain to switch the light off and had been confronted by a shop girl clad only in bra and pants, who had wet her lips and smiled at him seductively and he had immediately known she had staged the whole thing, had known he would leave by the shop floor and would see the light. He had jerked the curtain closed and had gone to fetch the manager, knowing the girl would be dressed by the time he returned. He therefore did not mention how he had found her but demanded the manager interrogate her as to why she was still on the premises after closing time. She made some lame excuse about getting ready to go to a party. He had drawn the manager aside afterwards and told him to wait three months, then find fault with the girl and sack her, and in the intervening period, he never went near the store. He had handled that properly. But there was something so repulsive, so frightening about Peta. She caused emotional claustrophobia. There was something almost cannibalistic about her. He jerked away from her and said desperately, “Now, now, Mrs Gore, you will be making my fiancée jealous.”

Peta looked at him sulkily. “Fiancée? What fiancée?”

“Deborah,” said Sir Bernard.

“Oh, well…” Peta rolled off in the direction of John Taylor to try her luck there.

“Sorry about that,” said Sir Bernard awkwardly. “I shouldn’t have said that. You must be very embarrassed.”

“Gosh, no,” said Deborah. “I was awfly flattered. For a moment I thought you meant it. Never mind. Look at that rock over there. What an odd shape.”

Sir Bernard looked at her fondly. She was far from pretty with her heavy face and limp brown hair, not to mention the backside, which was shown in all its glory in a brief pair of striped shorts, but she was clean and healthy and a good sort. Nothing messy or clingy about her.

“I don’t know that I didn’t mean it,” he said, taking her hand. “But it doesn’t do to rush things.”

“Gosh, no,” said Deborah. “I mean, we hardly know each other. I feel like one of those Victorian heroines. “This is so sudden.” Chin up! I’m not going to sue you for breach of promise.” But she left her hand in his and the pair suddenly beamed at each other.

Thank God, thought Maria, covertly watching them. Not what I had intended, but who cares? Oh, if only Peta would fall overboard.

The headland fell away and the boat chugged on into the oily swell of the Atlantic. Down in the galley, Priscilla said to Hamish, “Get up and help me start preparing the lunch. I’m beginning to feel seasick.”

Hamish amiably swung his long legs down from the bunk. “Show me where the stuff is and then take yourself up on deck for a breath of fresh air.”

“It’s cold salmon for lunch. The hollandaise is in that plastic container and the other container holds the salad-dressing. You’ve got to tear up the lettuce and stuff in that box and make a big bowl of salad. Then there’s quails’ eggs to be shelled and salted. Lots of French bread. The wine’s still cold and it’s in that crate over there, along with some beer in case anyone wants that. Oh, Jenny, what is it?”

“The skipper’s complaining that he wants some real food. He couldn’t eat the kedgeree. He says it’s foreign muck.”

“He’s got some bacon and eggs here,” said Hamish, stooping down and looking in a small cupboard. “Fry him up some and add a couple of slices of fried bread and then give him a cup of strong black tea and he’ll be happy. You are looking a bit green, Priscilla. Off with you. We’ll manage.”

Priscilla took in great gulps of fresh air and then went into the wheel-house. “Can you find us somewhere on dry land for lunch, Archie?” she yelled above the noise of the engine.

“There’s Seal Bay if I turn down the coast,” said Archie, swinging the wheel. “Usually too rough to get near it, but it should be chust fine the day.”

Priscilla went back out and joined Maria. “How’s it going?” she asked.

“No one seems interested in the ones I chose for them,” mourned Maria. “I must be losing my touch. And Petal What a disaster. Look, she’s oiling around John Taylor and he’s walked away from her several times.”

“The others seem all right,” said Priscilla. Sir Bernard and Deborah were holding hands, Peter Trumpington was being charming to Jessica Fitt – Jessica, who had actually managed to find a grey ensemble even for holiday wear; grey blouse with a thin white stripe and grey trousers. Matthew Cowper was showing off to Mary French, who was looking as smug as any woman who thinks she is a combination of Cleopatra and Princess Di usually looks.

And then Peta abandoned John and lumbered towards Matthew Cowper. “Oh, dear,” said Maria. “Now would you look at her! She thinks she’s irresistible to men, no matter what age. I sometimes think all that food has lodged somewhere in Peta’s brain. She’s barmy.”

Matthew was backing towards the side of the boat away from Peta, who was flirting and ogling. And then Priscilla saw the sudden naked hatred in Mary French’s eyes as she looked at Peta and shivered despite the heat.

“You must send her away,” said Priscilla urgently.

“Peta? My dear girl, I would if I could. We’ll all just need to survive the week.”

“But she’s repulsive. There’s something awful about her,” said Priscilla. “She’s the sort of woman who gets killed.”

“No hope of that,” said Maria.

The boat had swung in towards the shore, bucking up and down in the landswell.

Soon Priscilla recognized the sandy cove which was Seal Bay. It was a beautiful spot, almost inaccessible from the land and barely accessible from the sea except on rare summer days like this.

The Jaunty Lass chugged into calm water and then the engines died. Hamish appeared from below and helped Archie to drop anchor and then they lowered the boat’s dinghy, Hamish going first to row the lunch ashore. He had had to do very little preparation. Jenny had fixed everything, even Archie’s breakfast, and Archie, feeling he had had ‘proper’ food, was joining in the holiday atmosphere.

Peta demanded to go ashore before the rest. By common consent, she was allowed the dinghy to herself. Hamish, rowing her ashore, hoped she would not sink the dinghy, for she was so heavy that the stern was dangerously low in the water.

She climbed out, wading through the shallows, and then flopping on the sand like a beached whale.

Soon they were all on shore and Jenny was spreading a white table-cloth on the sand. Peta sat at the edge of the cloth with a fork in one hand and a knife in the other, her piggy eyes gleaming. Priscilla was glad of Jenny’s efficient help, although she knew Jenny was doing it all for Hamish. But then Hamish always attracted that limpet type of female, thought Priscilla sourly.

John Taylor moved around to the far side of the cloth to put a distance between himself and the glutton. But when Peta began to eat, he realized his mistake. He had a perfect view of all that gorging and stuffing. If she would only eat silently, he thought, it would not be so bad. But she snorted and chomped and breathed heavily through her nose.

“Where’s Crystal?” asked Priscilla, wondering if she could slow Peta down by engaging her in conversation.

“Asleep, probably,” said Peta through a spray of breadcrumbs. “Very fond of me, she is. Doesn’t like her parents much and I can’t say I blame her. Pair of old bores.”

“That does not say very much for her,” snapped John. “Children should honour and obey their parents.”

“You must have come out of the ark, sweetie,” said Peta and then roared with laughter. “You should be a judge. You know, one of those ones who live in the Dark Ages and says things like, ‘What does the witness mean by heavy metal music?’”

And John, who did not know what heavy metal was but had no intention of betraying the fact, said instead, “You have not been very well brought up, Mrs Gore, or rather, that is my impression.”

“Wine, anyone?” said Priscilla desperately.

“Oh, what makes you think that?” Peta batted her eyelashes at him. “I know. You think I am a terrible flirt.”

“You are indeed a terrible flirt,” he said in his dry, precise voice, “in that you have no delicacy of manner. Your eating habits are disgusting.”

They all held their breath. But Peta had noticed a spare salmon steak and that was enough to make her temporarily deaf. She reached out and picked it up with her fingers. It began to disintegrate, but she hurriedly crammed it into her mouth. Then she seized the tablecloth to wipe her hands and everyone’s glasses of wine went flying.

Jessica Fitt found that the very sight of Peta made her feel physically ill. She liked her life to be well ordered. She liked beautiful flowers and beautiful paintings. She did not bother much about the sort of clothes she put on because, like most women of low self-esteem, she did not consider herself worth embellishing.

“Are you all right?” she heard Peter Trumpington ask.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t let her get to me. But this – ” she waved a hand around the white sandy beach to the clear blue sea “ – it’s so perfect, so beautiful, and there she sits in the middle of it like a great pile of excrement.”

“You mean the Peta woman?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like to know what to do about her?”

“There’s nothing up with her that a well-thrown hand-grenade wouldn’t cure.”

“Come on, Jessica. Spare me. Look at the size of her. There’d be bits of her splattered from here to America. Can you imagine bits of Peta raining down on New York City?”

Jessica stifled a sudden giggle. “What would you do, Peter?”

He leaned behind him and pulled a bottle of white wine out of the crate and then picked up a corkscrew. “I’d get drunk,” he said. “Let’s get through this bottle before she gets to it.”

Something sad and repressed and rigid inside Jessica seemed to melt. She laughed and held out her glass. “Here’s to sanity,” she said.

“Have you ever thought of committing a crime?” John asked Jenny. His panama hat was pulled down over his face so she could not see the expression in his eyes.

“Well, no, I don’t think so. I feel like killing her.” She waved a hand in Peta’s direction. “But I mean, it’s just a thought. But you don’t mean murder, do you? Do you mean theft or arson or shop-lifting?”

“I have dealt with so many criminals,” he said in a tired voice. “Very few of them show any remorse. They are angry at getting caught out, that’s all. They go to prison and the taxpayer has to pay for their keep.”

“You don’t mean you want to see hanging brought back?”

“Why, not? Why should we work and slave all our lives to keep them cosseted in jails, to keep them fed, to pay for prisoners’ rehabilitation, to pay for therapists?”

“I suppose you have a point,” said Jenny diplomatically. She looked longingly in the direction of Hamish Macbeth, but he had gone to sleep.

“Priscilla’s about to dish out the fresh fruit salad,” she said. “I must help her.”

“Go ahead,” he said wearily. “I’m going for a walk.”

“But you’ll miss dessert!”

“I’ll miss the sight of that swine eating it!”

He turned and strode off.

The castle cook, perhaps to ease his conscience, as he had probably decided before preparing the lunch not to go, had made enough fruit salad for twenty, and Peta ate most of it. No one else was hungry. Jessica Fitt and Peter Trumpington were drinking steadily and whispering to each other, snorting with laughter and then looking furtively around like bad children. They were vying with each other over the best way to kill Peta.

At last, gorged with food, Peta fell asleep. She lay on her back with her mouth open, snoring. Maria thought, she’s going to get a horrendous sunburn, but she did not move. Let her get burnt, and with luck burnt so badly that it puts her out of commission for the rest of the week.

With Peta asleep, a relaxed air took hold of the party. John returned from his walk in time to join in the general, lazy conversation. Seagulls swooped and dived for scraps of food.

“Do you remember that film, I forget the one, but where they killed this chap by tying him into a rowing boat and then tied a fish on his head? The cormorants dived for the fish and split his skull open.”

“What made you think of a gruesome thing like that?” asked Priscilla.

“Oh, nothing,” said Peter and nudged Jessica, who laughed immoderately and then held out her glass for more wine.

Priscilla applied sun-barrier lotion to her face and arms and then, with a casual familiarity which grated on Jenny, she walked over to the sleeping Hamish Macbeth and started gently putting lotion on his face and arms. Hamish stirred in his sleep and smiled.

When she had finished, Priscilla said, “Well, we should think about getting back. Want to help me put the stuff away, Jenny?”

“Do it yourself,” said Jenny. “That’s your job,” and then blushed scarlet and got up and walked away.

Damn Hamish, thought Priscilla. She poked him in the ribs. “Wake up. Help me with this stuff.”

Hamish sleepily struggled up. “Where’s my helper?”

“If you mean Jenny, she’s gone off after reminding me sharply that packing up is my job. The shy clinging kind certainly go for you, Hamish, and you do nothing to discourage it.”

“Why should I?” he said maliciously. “She’s a fine-looking girl. Talent’s a bit thin on the ground in Lochdubh.”

“You having already run through most of it!” Priscilla began to rattle dishes with unnecessary force. Jenny came back, muttered “Sorry,” and began to help.

Once back on board, Mary French decided to show off her organizing skills by getting them to sing a round song. “You first,” she ordered, as if dealing with a class of backward children. “Then you.”

“Just like Joyce Grenfell,” said Peter and Jessica shrieked with laughter, then found she couldn’t stop laughing and ended by bursting into tears.

The boat began to bucket up and down again as it approached the point of land which sheltered the sea loch of Lochdubh.

Priscilla had just produced afternoon tea – hot scones with Cornish cream and strawberry jam – and spread it on the deck when Peta was suddenly and violently sick over it. Horrified, the rest backed off to the sides while Peta vomited and vomited. A normal person would soon have been reduced to dry heaving, but Peta had a capacious and overloaded stomach. The clients of Checkmate fled to the bow and huddled together, even Jenny, until they were joined by Priscilla and Maria.

“I can’t take it,” said Maria with her handkerchief to her mouth. “Hamish’ll need to cope.”

They all stayed there until the Jaunty Lass edged into Lochdubh harbour.

Still they stayed until they saw Peta being helped ashore. With a sigh of relief, they saw Hamish talking to one of the locals, who had a small pick-up truck, and then he helped Peta into the back of it.

They edged round to get off the boat. The decks were clean, glistening with water.

Hamish appeared on board again.

“Brave man,” said Priscilla. “Did you stack the stuff downstairs?”

“No,” said Hamish. “I just tied the lot up in the table-cloth and threw it over the side.”

♦

Hamish thought he never wanted to see anyone being sick again, but he found a couple of fishermen outside the local bar that evening being violently ill. It turned out that Archie was regaling the locals inside with such a colourful story of his day out that Peta’s sickness was more horrible in the telling than the actuality.

He walked on. A new restaurant, run by a Scottish-Italian family, had just opened on the waterfront. He heard the hum of voices from inside and was glad to see it was doing a good trade. He looked in the window and grinned.

The members of Checkmate had escaped and were enjoying dinner on their own. They were seated round a large table, talking and laughing. He felt sorry for Maria. But surely Peta would not be up to eating any more that day.

♦

But Peta was working her way steadily through the dinner that had been meant for the whole party while Maria looked on with horrified loathing. She wondered why Crystal, who was lazily picking at her own food, was unaffected by her aunt’s behaviour. Once the horrible meal was over, Maria plucked up her courage and followed Peta up to her room.

“Let’s get down to business,” said Maria firmly, “or what’s left of it. Peta, you have succeeded in driving our clients away. They approached me and said they could not sit through another meal with you and I had to arrange dinner for them at a restaurant in the village.”

“Any good?”

“What?”

“The restaurant?”

“Never mind that! Listen to me. I want to buy you out.”

“No need for that. I’m an asset, Maria. And don’t give me that rubbish about them dining elsewhere because of me. You arranged it. And do you know why?”

“No, do tell me, Peta, darling.”

“It’s because you’re jealous of me. You know I’ve got a way with the fellows and you’re jealous.”

“And you’re mad!” shouted Maria, her temper snapping. “And hear this! If I’ve got to kill you to get rid of you, then by God I’ll do it!”

Jenkins, the maìtre d’hotel, who had been walking along the corridor outside, stopped and listened to this with interest before going on downstairs to irritate Mr Johnson by telling him that if one allowed common-type people into the hotel, then murder would be done, and mark his words!

♦

Jenny Trask woke with a cry during the night and sat up in bed, her heart palpitating. She had just had a terrible dream in which Peta’s dead body had been carried into the hotel dining room by Hamish Macbeth, who smiled at her and said, “Roasted to a turn,” and then he had stuffed an orange in Peta’s mouth before picking up the carving knife.

The room was stuffy. She got up and opened the window wide and leaned out. Then she gasped, staring at the mountains beyond. A great dark shadow was creeping down the mountains and sliding towards the castle, blotting out everything in its path. Then she realized it was only the shadow of a cloud crossing the moon and drew back with a nervous laugh. But the fear caused by that shadow would not go away. There was something sinister and evil approaching the castle, and no amount of logical thought would seem to make the fear go away.