M.C. Beaton: Death of a Nag

He excused himself and went upstairs and had a bath and changed. He took himself off to Dungarton for dinner, not wanting to go to the dining room and sit opposite Miss Gunnery’s empty chair.

He noticed when he drove back that it was once more dark at night in the north of Scotland. As he approached Skag, he saw a couple with their arms wrapped about each other walking by the side of the road. His headlamps picked them out – Deacon and Maggie, walking as close as lovers. Well, I never! he thought crossly. That one’s determined to get promotion any way she can!

He parked the police Land Rover outside. He wondered if the others had left. He himself would have one more night’s sleep at The Friendly House. He switched off the engine and climbed out.

And then he heard barking from the beach. His heart gave a jolt. The barking sounded like Towser’s. He turned and ran towards the beach, stumbling over the dunes towards the sound of that joyful barking.

He could make out the dim shape of a large mongrel running along by the edge of the curling waves.

“Towser!” he shouted.

And then there was nothing there, nothing at all but the waves curling in the moonlight, the hissing sand, and the empty beach.

He walked slowly back, realizing he was so very tired, he must have been hallucinating.

On the other hand, it would be comfortable to think that somewhere there was another world for dead pets where they were happy and that he had briefly had a glimpse of it.

He let himself in and went up the stairs, undressed and plunged gratefully into bed, without even bothering to wash or clean his teeth.

♦

He awoke in the morning to a sunny day, washed and dressed and went down to the dining room.

To his surprise they were all still there. “We all decided it would be best to set off after breakfast,” said Andrew. “Have you got everything packed in the cars, Doris?”

“Yes, dear.”

“So I’ll take Tracey and you follow us.”

“I hope I’ll be all right,” said Doris timidly. “I’ve never driven such a long way on my own before.”

“You’ll be all right,” said Andrew.

After breakfast, they all shook hands and exchanged addresses, just like any normal holiday-makers. Hamish was the first to leave. They stood in a little group outside, waving goodbye to him.

He wondered if he would ever see any of them again.

♦

The hills were ablaze with purple heather as he drove down the heathery track into Lochdubh. Willie, polishing the brass doorknob outside the restaurant, turned and waved. The sun sparkled on the sea loch, the fishing boats rode at anchor, and seagulls sailed overhead against the bluest of skies.

He was home at last and felt he had been away from Lochdubh for years.

He opened up the police station, took the sign off the door which referred all inquiries to Sergeant Macgregor at Cnothan, lit the stove, and began to go about the pressing duties of gardening and tending to his livestock. During the day, villagers called round to stand and chat.

It was only as evening approached that he realized he had not inquired after Priscilla. He was free of that at last and yet he did not know whether to be glad or sorry.

No Towser, no Priscilla, the start of a new chapter in his life.

Dr Brodie and Angela called and took him out for dinner at the Italian restaurant where the servings were back to their normal generous size, the owner having returned from Italy and put an end to Willie Lamont’s parsimony. As Hamish told them about the case, the more faraway and unreal it seemed in his head.

“You’re usually so sharp about people,” said Angela. “I’m surprised you didn’t think there might be something badly wrong in the character of this Miss Gunnery.”

“I’ve often thought about it,” said Hamish. “She seemed that kind, and I was thrown by Towser’s death. She must have been quite mad. I tell you, there’s something weird about Skag – so flat, all those singing sands.” He fell silent. He had been so anxious to leave that he had not even called on old Miss Blane again, as he had promised he would.

“Do you think this Tracey will really reform? What was left to her by Miss Gunnery?”

“I don’t really know,” said Hamish. “Andrew Biggar was going to look into it. A tidy bit, I should guess. Then there would be the flat in Cheltenham. Perhaps, once the euphoria of being home is over, Andrew and Doris will drop her.”

“And do you think Andrew and Doris will live happily ever after?” asked Angela.

“That I don’t know. Doris is one o’ those women who can make men into bullies, not that I’m saying that Harris wasn’t a rat. And how will Doris cope with Andrew’s mother? She’s a big, bossy sort of woman. As long as they don’t live wi’ her, it’ll probably muddle along all right.”

At the end of the meal, he thanked them and walked home. Great stars were burning overhead and there was a cold nip in the air.

He would put the whole Skag experience behind him. He would probably never hear anything about any of them again.

♦

The following February, Hamish came indoors from shovelling snow away from the police station path to hear the phone in the office ringing.

Hoping he would not have to go out in such filthy weather to deal with some crime, he answered it. To his surprise, it was the editor of the Worcester newspaper he had phoned the summer before for information about Andrew.

“I wondered whether you were still working on that case,” said the editor.

“Och, no, that was solved and over last summer,” said Hamish, thinking not for the first time that it always came as a bit of a jolt to realize that what appeared world-shattering in the far north of Scotland did not even cause a ripple in the south of England.

“Oh, well, it was just that a bit of news about that Andrew Biggar arrived on my desk.”

“What’s that?”

“He’s getting married.”

“Oh, well, that was on the cards…to Doris Harris.”

“You know? Wait a bit. That wasn’t the name. Where is the damn thing?” There was the sound of an impatient rustling of papers.

“Here it is. No, he’s marrying someone called Tracey Fink. Still, it’s no use to you now.”

“No, no use now,” said Hamish slowly. He thanked the editor and replaced the phone.

It had all been for nothing. Two murders committed so that Romeo and Juliet in the form of Andrew and Doris could enjoy the great love they had for each other. Gentleman Andrew and slaggy Tracey. They would need a board with subtitles at the wedding so that the English guests could make out what she was saying, he thought cynically. What on earth had happened?

Probably the middle-aged Andrew had found it delightful to act as Pygmalion to the coarse Tracey, the young Tracey, while timid Doris became a bore.

Perhaps what had sparked the love between Doris and Andrew had been the secrecy of their meetings. The minute the way lay clear to marriage, he might have begun to find her irritating.

What a waste of life, and all in the name of love!

I hope there is an afterlife, thought Hamish savagely, and I hope, Miss Gunnery, you’re seeing and hearing everything.

He poured himself a glass of whisky from a drawer in his desk. This year, he should go on holiday somewhere or another. But he would probably stay in Lochdubh and go fishing.

The world outside was a wicked place.