M.C. Beaton - Death of a Maid

“Can we take your car?” asked Hamish. “I’m not really allowed to take civilians in the Land Rover unless I’m arresting them.”

As she drove off, he asked, “What’s it like to be so famous?”

“I take it as part of my job,” she said. “I’m used to it. I’m making the most of it while I’ve still got my looks.”

♦

After inspecting the waterfall, they sat on a flat rock in the sun a little away from the noise of the tumbling water.

“Why did you never marry?” she asked. “You haven’t been married, have you?”

Hamish found himself telling her all about Elspeth.

“But it seems to me,” said Tasman, “that you had plenty of opportunities to ask her in the past. You shouldn’t get married just for the sake of getting married.”

“What about you?” asked Hamish.

“Maybe I will eventually if I meet someone. A lot of men like me as arm candy. I get to a lot of first nights and good restaurants.” She put an arm round his shoulders. “Don’t worry, Hamish. There’s someone out there for both of us. Now, I’d better drop you back at the police station and then go to the hotel and pack.”

“You’re leaving! Why?”

“Because one of those photographs will appear in some newspaper. The local television stations will call on me, and then the nationals will chase me, hoping to catch me in an off moment.”

♦

Later that day, the photo editor on the Daily Bugle approached Elspeth. “Don’t you know that highland copper Hamish Macbeth?”

“Yes. Why?”

He slid a photo in front of her. “Good shot, eh?”

The photo showed Hamish in uniform, sitting on a rock with Tasman. She had her arm round his shoulders and was smiling into his eyes. “We thought we’d caption it, “In the Arms of the Law.””

“Very neat,” said Elspeth with pretended indifference.

After he had gone, Elspeth felt miserable as all the memories of the fiasco of her wedding came flooding back. Luke had never come back to the newspaper. Nor had he written one word of apology. And here was Hamish Macbeth consorting with one of the world’s most beautiful models. No one wanted her. She felt like crying.

♦

The next day, Hamish angrily confronted Matthew Campbell in the local newspaper office. “Was that you who followed me and took that photograph?”

“It was, Hamish. Come on. It was very flattering. Think of all the men in Britain who would like to be in your shoes.”

“She’s packed up and left because of it. I feel like punching you.”

“Don’t. Did you ever hear what happened to Elspeth?”

“No. What? Is she married?”

“I was talking to someone at the Bugle , and he gave me the whole story.”

Hamish listened to the humiliation of Elspeth. “Poor lassie,” he said. He thought of that sparkling ring locked in his safe. “Maybe I’ll phone her.”

But the days dragged on into high summer, and still he did not phone because he did not know quite what to say.

♦

At the end of June, Hamish was on duty at the Highland Games in Braikie. The weather was fine, a rare treat for Braikie, because usually it poured with rain.

He wandered about, watching the events – the tossing the caber and swinging the hammer.

He bought himself an ice cream and was just considering strolling over to where the ferret racing was about to take place when he had an odd feeling of danger. He looked right and left. Fiona Fleming was there, walking on the arm of a wealthy-looking businessman. Mrs. Styles was selling jams and cakes at a church stall.

There was a police mobile unit set up to advise people on security. Sitting on the step was Pat Constable. She brightened when she saw him. “I was getting bored,” she said. “No one seems to want to know about security.”

“Want to come and watch the ferret racing?”

“I can’t leave here. We never had that dinner. What about this evening?”

“There’s a good Italian restaurant in Lochdubh,” said Hamish. “I’ll meet you there at eight. This event starts to close down at five o’clock. Have you seen anyone suspicious around? I keep getting a bad feeling.”

“You’re surely better at recognising strangers than me. This is your beat.”

“I’ll see you later.”

Hamish walked off, trying to shake off the strange feeling of foreboding. He stopped at a stall set up by a gun shop in Dingwall. He recognised the owner, John Morrison. “Looking for a gun, Hamish?”

“Maybe. I wass thinking of a deer rifle.” Hamish looked uneasily over his shoulder.

“What about this one?” John put a deer rifle on the counter. “This is a beauty. It’s the Remington 700CDL. This is the newest, best-looking remodelling of the old standby Model 700. It’s got a straight-comb American walnut stock with a satin finish, cut checkering, a right-hand cheekpiece, and a black fore-end tip and grip cap.”

“Got any ammo?” asked Hamish.

“Of course.”

“Load it up.”

“Hamish, I just can’t let you walk off with a loaded deer rifle.”

“Chust for a wee minute,” said Hamish. “I’ll take it ower to that mobile unit. I want to show that policewoman.”

“I suppose it’s all right, you being the law and all.” John deftly loaded it. “You shouldn’t be carrying a loaded gun. Now, just over there and right back.”

Hamish slung the gun over his shoulder, and then to John’s horror, he ran off, zigzagging through the crowds. On and on pounded Hamish, up into the hills to where there was a ring of standing stones. He moved behind one of the stones and looked down the brae.

Three men came panting up through the heather. He saw the sun glinting off their weapons.

Borne on the wind came the tinny sounds of a carousel at the games.

Hamish raised the rifle to his shoulder and focussed. He took aim and fired. One man screamed, clutched his leg, and fell down. Bullets cracked against the standing stones. Hamish fired again and got another of the men in the arm. The third turned to flee. Hamish ran out from his hiding place and shouted, “Stop right there or you’re dead.”

The man stopped and dropped his gun. Hamish ran down to him and handcuffed him. He took out his phone and called for reinforcements. He cautioned the man he had handcuffed and then walked to each of the fallen men and cautioned them as well.

Three police officers who had been working at the games along with Pat Constable soon came running up the brae to join Hamish. He told them shortly that there had been an attempt on his life.

There was a long wait while ambulance men arrived with stretchers to take the two wounded men away. Then the one he had handcuffed was led off down to the road, where he was put into a police car.

Hamish’s mobile rang. It was Jimmy Anderson. “I just heard the shout,” he said. “What’s been going on?”

“Three men came to kill me,” said Hamish. “I think you’ll find they had something to do with Freddie Ionedes. I’ve got something to wrap up here. I’ll be over to Strathbane as soon as I can.”

Hamish made his way quickly back to the games, fending off the excited questions from Pat Constable.

John Morrison came running to meet him. “Have you gone mad?”

“Look, John, I’ve got gun permits up to my ears. I felt I wass in danger. But I can hardly tell them I had a sixth sense that I was in danger.”

John broke open the rifle, sniffed the barrel, and unloaded it. “You’ve fired it.”

“Do this for me and I’ll buy it,” said Hamish, thinking miserably of his dwindling bank balance. “I’ll come over to Dingwall soon and pick it up.”

“They’ll come down on me like a ton of bricks for having let you run off with a loaded rifle.”