M.C. Beaton - Death of a Dreamer

“I don’t know. You should still have been on the case. Went right out of my head.”

“All you need to do is get the number and ring it. The battery might still be working.”

“I may do. But what’s the point? Betty will never go to trial now.”

“Why?”

“She hanged herself with her tights in her cell.”

“Saves a trial.”

They finished their meal. Robin said, “If you’re ever down in Inverness, give me a call.” She took a card out of her handbag. “That’s my new number.”

“Thanks. I will.”

♦

Hamish stopped off at the Tommel Castle Hotel on the road back.

“I’m right sorry, Hamish,” said Mr. Johnson. “How was I to guess that a woman like Betty Barnard was a murderess?”

“It’s over now. How’s business?”

“Not very good. Cancellations coming in every day.”

“Let me think.”

Hamish slumped down in an armchair on the other side of the managers desk and closed his eyes. He was silent so long that Mr. Johnson finally asked, “Have you fallen asleep, Hamish?”

Hamish opened his eyes. “This is a fake castle, right? Built in Victorian times, but it looks spooky. You need a ghost. People love ghosts.”

“Now, how do we get a ghost?”

“We need someone who was killed here in the nineteenth century or someone who committed suicide. You tell the staff the plan. They won’t want to be laid off because of lack of customers, so they’ll play along. I’ll see Matthew Campbell when you’re ready and start the ball rolling. Then what about murder weekends?”

“Hamish, what are you talking about?”

“Some hotels have murder weekends. You get a sort of Agatha Christie script. Everyone dresses up in twenties or thirties clothes and takes a part. They’ve all got to guess who the murderer is.”

“Could be an idea.”

“Get on the Internet and find out where they do it and what they charge.”

“I don’t know if Colonel Halburton-Smythe will agree to the idea.”

“He may not, but Priscilla will. She’s coming back to live here.” Hamish’s hazel eyes glowed.

And you’ll get hurt all over again, thought the manager. Aloud, he said, “That’s good. She’s a grand worker. What are you going to do now? Take a holiday?”

Hamish opened his mouth to say he was going to New York and closed it again. Priscilla was coming home, and he wanted to be in Lochdubh when she arrived. But that’s not for a month, said a voice in his head. Plenty of time to go to New York.

I can’t leave my animals, he thought, relieved to find a genuine excuse. No one in the village would look after Sonsie.

“Hamish, your lips are moving, but no sound is coming out.”

Hamish blushed. “Sorry, I was thinking. I’ll take some time off just to potter around and relax.”

♦

Back at the police station, there was an urgent message from the minister, Mr. Wellington, asking Hamish to call at the manse.

He went round to the kitchen door at the back, knowing the front door was hardly ever used.

Mr. Wellington let him in. “I have a problem of conscience,” began the minister.

“I’m surprised you can’t cope with it yourself.”

“Sit down.”

Hamish sat at the kitchen table. The manse kitchen was a large gloomy room dating from the days when there would be at least six servants living in at the manse.

“It’s like this,” said Mr. Wellington. “Jock Fleming called on me. He wants me to remarry him to his ex-wife. I do not wish to do it.”

“Why?”

“Because his presence in this village brought murder with it. I feel it should have been my Christian duty to marry him, and yet I could not. I asked him if he believed in God and Jesus Christ, and he laughed and said, “No more than you do. I’m like the rest of Scotland. Church is for births, marriages, and deaths.””

“You did the right thing. I want the man out of here as well. Tell you what. I’ll go and see them and speed them on their way.”

Hamish drove to Cnothan, taking his pets with him. At the caravan park, he was told that Mrs. Fleming had left but that Mr. Fleming was staying on.

Hamish drove into the village of Cnothan. He braked to a halt when he saw Jock. The artist was talking to one of the local girls, Fiona Crumley. As Hamish watched, Jock bent forward and whispered something in Fionas ear, and she blushed and giggled.

He got out of the Land Rover. “A word with you, Jock.”

“See you later,” said Fiona.

Hamish watched her go and then said, “I want you out of here, Jock. I warned you.”

“I like it here. You can’t force me to go.”

“Shouldn’t you be back with Dora? I hear you wanted to marry her.”

“Och, that was just to keep her quiet. I got rid of her by telling her to go to Glasgow and find a minister.”

“Why the church? Why not a registry office?”

“Dora wants a white wedding.”

“I’m warning you for the last time. Get the hell off my beat.”

Jock laughed and walked away. Hamish set off down the main street in pursuit of Fiona. He caught up with her at the loch side – that grim black loch man-made by the Hydro Electric Board.

“A word of warning for you,” said Hamish. She looked at him round-eyed. “Keep clear of Jock Fleming. I think you should know he’s got syphilis. Oh, he’ll swear he hasn’t, but I’d hate to see a lassie like you catching a nasty sexual disease.”

“Thanks, Hamish. He seemed so nice.”

“And warn your friends.”

The news of Jock’s fictional syphilis spread like fire in the heather out from Cnothan and across to Lochdubh. Hamish was lucky that no one actually confronted Jock with the fact that he had the disease. They simply shunned him. He was told his caravan was needed for a pre-booking and no other van was available. Shops refused to serve him. Hamish was relieved when he finally got the news that Jock had left.

♦

Hamish thought several times about phoning Elspeth but each time couldn’t muster up the courage. After all, what could he say? He had no right to string her along. But wasn’t he as bad as Effie, getting excited about Priscilla coming back? Wasn’t he a fantasist as well?

His spirits were dampened somewhat by an unexpected visit from Colonel Halburton-Smythe. The fussy little colonel walked into the kitchen one morning when Hamish was washing up dirty dishes. He sat down at the table unasked and looked around him.

“To think my daughter might have been living here,” he said.

Hamish stacked the last clean dish on the rack and leaned against the counter. He wondered if all retired military men who insisted on being addressed by their army rank were as infuriating and pompous as Priscilla’s father.

“Did you come to criticise my home?” he asked.

“I came about this idea you put up to Johnson. It’s mad.”

“What’s mad about it?”

“Ghosts and murder. Haven’t we had enough real murder in Lochdubh already without manufacturing fictional ones?”

“So don’t do it. Lose customers. What do I care?”

“Don’t be so hasty. Tell me about it.”

So Hamish patiently described his ideas. The colonel studied him after he had finished with shrewd little eyes. “Wouldn’t such an idea bring in the riffraff?”

“Not if you charge enough. Tell me, at country house parties, don’t they still dress up and play charades?”

“Yes.”

“Well, there you are. People love dressing up. If you ferret around in the trunks in the storage room, you’ll probably find enough thirties and twenties clothes to save you buying any.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“What about the ghost? Any murdered people in the castle’s past?”