M.C. Beaton: Death of a Poison Pen

She let in the clutch. “I can see that he’s back now. See you tomorrow.”

Priscilla moved off but only got a few yards before she had to slam on the brakes again. The Currie sisters were standing in the middle of the road.

Priscilla hooted angrily.

The twin sisters came round to the driver’s side of the car and rapped on the window.

“What is it?” asked Priscilla, rolling down the window again. Rain was dripping from the plastic covering on their heads and onto their thick glasses.

“We were so delighted to hear you were back,” said Jessie. “I said to Nessie, we must ask her in for tea, for tea.”

“I’m on my way to see Hamish.”

“Oh, I wouldnae be disturbing him this time of night.”

“The kitchen light is still on,” said Priscilla patiently, “which means he’s awake.”

“I wouldn’t be going by that, by that,” said Jessie. “He aye forgets to put it out, put it out.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, ladies,” said Priscilla firmly.

She drove to the police station and parked her car and got out. She was just about to walk up to the kitchen door when a voice hailed her. “Miss Halburton-Smythe!”

Priscilla turned round. Archie Macleod, the fisherman, was standing there. “I haff had a fine catch o’ the fish. If you would be stepping over to my cottage, I’ll let you have some.”

“What is up with everyone this evening?” asked Priscilla, bewildered. “I’m just going to say hullo to Hamish and then I’m going to bed.”

“I wouldnae be doing that.”

“Why?”

“I chust wouldnae,” muttered Archie, backing away.

Priscilla shrugged and went up to the kitchen door. It was unlocked. She pushed it open and went in. Lugs waddled towards her, his ridiculous plume of a tail waving a welcome.

She bent down to pat him and that’s when she saw a shirt lying on the floor, and next to it a blouse and jacket.

Priscilla straightened up slowly and stared. A line of discarded clothing was leading to the bedroom.

She suddenly felt sad and silly. The phone in the police office was ringing and then the answering machine clicked on. “Hamish Macbeth,” boomed Mrs. Wellington’s voice, “if you’re up to what I think you’re up to, you’d best lock your doors. Miss Halburton-Smythe is on your doorstep.” The phone rang again. Priscilla waited, frozen. The answering machine clicked on again. “Och, Hamish,” came Archie’s voice. “I’m probably too late but your Priscilla’s at the police station.”

Priscilla turned on her heel and left the police station, closing the door quietly behind her.

Feeling stiff, almost as if she had rheumatism, she got into her car. She drove slowly back along the waterfront while the hidden eyes of the villagers sadly watched her from behind their curtains.