M.C. Beaton - A Highland Christmas

“Oh, yes.”

“There you are,” said Mr. Anderson. “You’re a good girl, Morag. You can go to your room.” He turned to Maisie. “You may think we’re a bit hard about Christmas but we have our religion and we live by it. Morag gets plenty of presents on her birthday.”

Maisie looked helplessly at Hamish. He indicated to her that they should leave. But as Mrs. Anderson was showing them out, he turned and looked down at her. “Did you never think it might not be a good idea to let Morag make up her own mind about what she wants to believe in when she’s older?”

“No, children need to be guided young. As you can see, she is not troubled at all. She has everything a little girl could desire. She has her own room and bathroom and a little sitting room at the top of the house where she can entertain her friends.”

“Does she bring friends home?”

A shadow crossed Mrs. Anderson’s face. “Not yet, but she will when she is older. She is a very happy, self-sufficient girl. She does all the housekeeping for her part of the house herself. She volunteered. And she even asked if she could cook some meals for herself.”

They thanked her and left. As they drove towards the Tommel Castle Hotel, Hamish said, “That was one very frightened little girl.”

“People are always frightened by the sight of a policeman.”

“Not of me. She saw me in the classroom and I was with you. I thought for a minute she was going to faint.”

“I tell you what it could be. Mr. Patel? He sometimes catches little kids stealing sweets from his store. He doesn’t call you, he calls me. I see the parents and the matter’s settled. Maybe Morag took something and thought the forces of law and order had descended on her. I mean, imagine her parents’ reaction if they found their precious child was a thief.”

“Could be. There’s such a thing as a child being too good. But her strict upbringing doesn’t seem to have affected her studies.”

“No, she’s bright and she likes learning. She has a terrific imagination. She writes very colorful essays.”

“I’d like to see some of them.”

“You’re worrying too much, Hamish. How did you ever get time to catch all those murderers I’ve heard you arrested if you fret so much over a wee schoolgirl?”

“I’m curious,” was all Hamish would say.

♦

When they entered the dining room of the hotel, the maître d‘, Mr. Jenkins, who had once been butler to the Halburton-Smythes, ushered them to a table. “You’re to have the cock a leekie soup, followed by the venison,” he said. He flicked a napkin open and spread it on Maisie’s lap and departed.

“How odd,” said Maisie. “Don’t they give you a menu here?”

“It must be a set meal for lunch.”

Maisie glanced around. Some diners were holding large leather-bound menus. She decided not to comment on it. Perhaps the maître d‘ knew that Hamish liked the set menu.

“Would you like some wine?” asked Hamish.

“That would be nice. Can you drink and drive?”

“Not really and I shouldn’t be driving you around in the police vehicle, either. But I’ll get us a couple of glasses. Excuse me a minute.”

Hamish went through to the hotel office and said to Mr. Johnston, “It’s kind of you to give me lunch. I want to order wine but that snobby scunner Jenkins’ll make a fuss.”

Mr. Johnson laughed. “You don’t want your date to know you aren’t paying for it. Okay, I’ll bring you something.”

Hamish returned and sat down. Soon Mr. Johnston arrived, bearing a bottle of claret which he deftly opened. Hamish introduced him to Maisie. “We keep a special claret just for Hamish,” said Mr. Johnston.

“I hope you’re not going to live on baked beans for a month after paying for this,” said Maisie.

“Och, no. I’ve got a bit saved up.” Hamish thought about his bank account, which was sinking rapidly into the red after his Christmas shopping. Maisie was just gathering courage after they had finished their soup to invite Hamish out for a meal, when he said suddenly, “Are you doing anything on Christmas day? I mean, are you going to be with your family?”

“No, my parents are dead and my sister’s in Australia. I was going to cook a small turkey and toast myself. Would you like to join me?”

“If you’ll join me in something first.” He told her about the old folks home in Inverness and ended by saying, “I thought of dropping down there on Christmas day to hear the concert.”

“Of course I’ll come,” said Maisie delightedly, “and then when we get back you can join me for Christmas dinner.”

Hamish beamed at her. It looked as if it was going to be a good Christmas after all.

♦

In the hotel office, the phone rang. Mr. Johnston picked it up. “It’s me, Priscilla,” came Priscilla Halburton-Smythe’s voice. “How are things?”

“We’re fully booked. Do you want me to get your father or mother for you?”

“No, I spoke to them yesterday.” There was a pause and then Priscilla said, “I’ve just phoned the police station. Hamish isn’t there. I didn’t bother leaving a message, but you haven’t seen him, have you?”

“Yes, he’s right here in the dining room.”

“Well, if I could…”

“He’s having lunch with his lady friend.”

“Oh, who’s she?”

“Maisie Pease, a right pretty lass, the new schoolteacher. I think there’ll be wedding bells soon. Do you want me to get Hamish to the phone?”

“No,” said Priscilla quickly. “Don’t bother.” She asked some more questions about the hotel and then rang off.

The manager looked at the now silent phone. He felt guilty but, on the other hand, he told himself, how was Hamish ever going to get over Priscilla if she kept jerking his chain?

♦

Hamish drove Maisie back to her cottage and then made his way back to the police station. He switched on the answering machine. The first was only a silence and then a click as someone rang off. The second was from Strathclyde Police from the policewoman who had been searching the records for Mrs. Gallagher’s husband. “I’ve got something,” she said. “Ring me.”

Hamish phoned up Glasgow and was put through to her. “I don’t know if this is good news or bad, Hamish,” she said, “but he’s dead.”

“That’s good news. When and how?”

“He got knifed in a drunken brawl in the Govan area two years ago.”

“Thanks,” said Hamish. “That wraps that up.”

He set off once more, heading towards Mrs. Gallagher’s croft. No more lame ducks, Hamish Macbeth, he told himself severely. Give her the good news and then leave her alone, apart from still trying to find out if her cat’s about.

“Macbeth!” he called loudly as he knocked on the door.

She opened the door on the chain. “Have you found Smoky?”

“No, but I’ve got some news for you about your husband. Can I come in?”

She dropped the chain and held open the door.

In the kitchen she turned to face him. “He’s dead,” said Hamish.

She sat down abruptly as if her legs had given way. Hamish took off his cap and placed it on the table and sat down opposite her.

“How? When did he die?”

“Two years ago. A drunken fight in Govan. He got knifed.”

“Thank you,” she said faintly. Then she said, “I’m a silly old woman. If only I’d asked for help before.”

“He probably terrorized you. What were you about to get involved with a man like that?”

“I didn’t know he was a man like that,” she snapped, all her old crustiness returning.

“Like I said, I lived on a farm near Oban with my parents, well, just outside Oban that is. He stopped by one day on his motorcycle. He wanted to know if we did bed-and-breakfast. My mother said, yes, even though we didn’t have a sign on the road. She usually only catered for a few regulars who came year after year. He said he would book in for two nights.” Her silver eyes grew dreamy as she seemed to look down some long tunnel into a bright past where life had still been innocent.