M.C. Beaton - Death of a Macho Man

“Oh, no, I was there at some of them, and believe me, if it had not been for Hamish’s brains and Highland intuition, some criminals would still be at large.”

“Willie says there’s another reason.”

“That being?”

“That if it’s Strathbane that’s not convinced that Beck did the murder, then it stands to reason that Hamish should go around accusing one of us.”

“I don’t follow your reasoning.”

“Don’t you see, Hamish is the one who is the most likely suspect. He was the one who was saved from being beaten by Randy because of his death.”

“I know Hamish Macbeth very well,” said Priscilla severely, “and he would never harm anyone, let alone kill him.”

Lucia dropped her long eyelashes and looked thoughtfully at her coffee cup. “I sometimes wonder if any of us really knows Hamish. I mean, I was shocked when I heard he had been found in bed with that Betty woman, and her someone else’s fiancée, too.”

Priscilla reached across the counter and firmly took Lucia’s coffee-cup from her. “I can’t spend any more time gossiping,” she said. “I have work to do.” Lucia picked up her rain hat and put it on. She walked to the door. With her hand on the doorknob she looked over her shoulder. “Poor Priscilla,” she murmured, and then she left.

Priscilla grimly went back to stacking the shelves. Damn the philandering Hamish Macbeth. Because of Lucia’s last remarks about Hamish and Betty, she had forgotten the earlier ones about Hamish’s not believing Beck was the murderer. John and Betty were still at the hotel. They were not due to leave until the end of the following week. She would be glad to see them go.

♦

Towards evening, the rain eased off and a watery sun turned the sea loch to gold. Hamish, who had completed some long neglected paperwork, stretched and yawned. He went outside and leaned on the garden gate.

He saw the Currie sisters approaching and wished he could turn and run indoors, but that would show guilt over having been found in bed with Betty, and what he did in his own bed in his own home was his business. Or so he told himself as both approached, with identical shopping baskets over their arms and the pale sun glinting on their glasses.

“You should be ashamed of yourself, ashamed of yourself,” said Jessie, who had an irritating habit of repeating everything.

“What I do in my own bedroom is nothing to do with you.”

“We’re talking about you going round the village throwing suspicion on everyone so you don’t get suspected of murdering that Duggan yourself,” said Nessie.

“What!” Hamish looked every bit as bewildered as he felt.

“Accusing folks, accusing folks,” snapped Jessie.

“You’re the only one that has to worry,” said Nessie. “Weren’t you the one that stood to get a pounding from Randy Duggan and weren’t you the one who was saved by his murder?”

“His convenient murder, his convenient murder,” said Jessie.

“That’s daft,” said Hamish. “And who’s been saying such a thing?”

“It’s self-evident,” said Nessie smugly.

Both sisters moved on.

Hamish stared after them and scratched his head. Now who had been putting that idea into their heads?

He had a sudden sharp longing to see Priscilla, not, he told himself severely, for any romantic reasons, but simply to toss around a few ideas.

He changed out of his uniform into a shirt, sweater and jeans, and drove up to the Tommel Castle Hotel. He parked the Land Rover, and as he was walking across the gravel of the forecourt, Betty came out.

Hamish blushed. “I’m sorry I haven’t called you, Betty,” he said awkwardly, vivid memories of what they had done together rushing into his head. “I did try once, but you were out.”

“That’s all right.” She reached up and kissed him on the cheek. Hamish drew back hurriedly. “Where’s John?”

“Around,” she said carelessly. “Let’s go up to my room and have a…chat.” She wet her lips.

“No, no,” babbled Hamish, backing towards the castle and stumbling as he went. “I’m on business.”

He mopped his brow as soon as he was indoors. He went through to the hotel office where Priscilla was working at a computer. She gave him a closed look but said, “Take a chair and help yourself to coffee. I’ll be through with this in a minute.”

He poured coffee, sat down and watched as she competently typed out hotel accounts. The bell of her fair hair shone golden in a shaft of sunlight. He thought briefly of the dark swarthiness of Betty with a sudden stab of revulsion.

At last, she switched off the computer and said quietly, “Well, Hamish?”

“Well, Priscilla, I’m not going to chew over why I was in bed with Betty. I want to talk about the case.”

“What case?”

“The murder of Randy Duggan, lassie.”

Priscilla’s face cleared. She suddenly remembered all that Lucia had said. “Oh, I heard you didn’t believe Beck did it. It was Lucia who told me.”

Hamish’s features sharpened. “Since when have you been on gossiping terms with Lucia?”

“Since never. She dropped by for a chat, Hamish. She said you were going around saying you didn’t believe Beck had done it, and she said as you were the prime suspect, you were trying to throw suspicion on everyone else, and probably the idea that Beck hadn’t really done it would have come from Strathbane.”

“If it had come from Strathbane, this village would still be crawling wi’ policemen.”

“Of course! Why didn’t I think of that? I’ll put that about and that will scotch that story.”

“Will you?” Hamish looked at her gratefully.

Then he frowned down into his coffee-cup. “I think Willie’s behind this. He probably sent Lucia around to spread the gossip. But why is Willie scared? It wouldn’t surprise me if Lucia fears that Willie might have done it and Willie thinks she might be the guilty party.”

“Do you think that’s possible? I find it hard to believe. Can’t they find out anything about Randy Duggan? If we knew who he was, we would then have a better idea as to why he was murdered and by whom.”

“Nothing that I’ve heard,” said Hamish gloomily. “If it was because he was a criminal and a Scottish criminal, Glasgow would be the place to start. But I’d need to go at my own expense, and money’s a bit low at the moment.”

Priscilla hesitated and then said, “I could lend you the money, Hamish.”

“It’s kind of you, but I’ll manage somehow.”

“What about the bank? You’ve a regular salary. Wouldn’t they advance you something?”

He shook his head. “I’ve an overdraft as it is.”

“Are you fit?”

“Why?”

“There’s a prize for a thousand pounds over at Cnothan games. For hill-running. You used to be champion at that.”

“A thousand pounds! When is it?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Och, all the entries are in.”

“You can still register. Colonel Daicy was telling Daddy that a lot of people were dropping out because of the bad weather.”

Hamish brightened. “I’ll go over to Cnothan and see what I can do. Care for a drive?”

Betty’s coarse laugh sounded from the hall. Priscilla’s face took on a closed look. “I’m too busy.” She switched on the computer again. Hamish left, walking quickly through the reception area. He heard Betty call to him but he rushed out of the castle and leaped into the Land Rover, driving off at such speed that he sent a burst of gravel up against the windows of Priscilla’s office. He found, on reaching Cnothan, that he could still enter, and scraped together the necessary five-pound fee for doing so out of loose change in his pockets. Then he studied the course on a map. It looked gruelling and he wondered dismally whether he would be up to it or not. It ran across boggy tracts of moorland and then straight up the side of towering Ben Loss to the summit, down the other side, back round the flanks, and across the moorland again to the finishing line. But he had a purpose to drive him on. Without that thousand pounds, there would be no money to go to Glasgow, and perhaps the real identity of Randy would remain lost forever along with that of his murderer.