M.C. Beaton: Death of a Nag

They made their way with their packets past the other side of the harbour, where yachts were moored in a small basin, the rising wind humming and thrumming in the shrouds. There was a sleazy café overlooking the yacht basin, still open but empty of customers, the lights of a fruit machine winking in the gloom inside.

A path led round the back of the café, past rusting abandoned cars and fridges, old sofas and broken tables, to a rise of shingle and then down to where the shingle ended and the long white beach began.

“You spoil that dog,” said Miss Gunnery as Hamish placed a fish supper on its cardboard tray down in front of Towser. Hamish did not reply. He knew he spoilt Towser but did not like anyone to comment on the fact.

“Why does a woman like Doris marry a pillock like that?” asked Andrew Biggar.

June Brett nudged her chubby husband playfully in the ribs. “They’re all saints before you marry them and then the beast comes out.”

Dermott Brett snarled at her and his wife shrieked with delight. Faces could be misleading, thought Hamish. June looked rather petty and mean when she was not speaking, but when she did, she became transformed into a good-natured woman. The Brett children were making sandcastles down by the water. They were remarkably well-behaved. Heather, the seven-year-old, was looking after her young brother and toddling sister, making sure that little Fiona did not wander into the water. Long ribbons of white sand snaked along the harder damp surface of the sand underneath and then there came a haunting humming sound, “Whit’s that?” cried Cheryl, clutching Tracey.

“Singing sands,” said Hamish. “I remember hearing there were singing sands here but I forgot about it.”

“It’s eerie,” said Miss Gunnery. “In fact, the whole place is a bit odd. It never gets dark this time of year, does it, Hamish?”

He shook his head, thinking that the place was indeed eerie. Because of the bank of shingle behind the beach and the flatness of the land behind, there was a feeling of being cut off from the rest of the world. He remembered the seer’s prediction with a shudder and then his common sense took over. Angus had heard the gossip about his holiday and had invented death and trouble to pay Hamish back for having called him a fraud.

Miss Gunnery was carefully collecting everyone’s fish-and-chip papers when Hamish heard Dermott Brett say, “He’s got worse.”

“Who?” asked Andrew, lazily scraping in the sand for shells.

“Bob Harris.”

“You know him?” Asked Hamish.

“Yes, he was here last year.”

Miss Gunnery paused in her paper-gathering. “You mean you stayed here and came back! ”

“New management,” said Dermott Brett. “It was owned by a couple of old biddies. They did a good tea, but their prices were quite high for a boarding-house. We weren’t going to come back, because with the three kids it was coming to quite a bit. Then June saw the ad with the new cheap prices, but it said nothing about new management.”

“What happened to the old women who owned it?” asked Hamish, ever curious.

“They were the Blane sisters, the Misses Blane. Rogers said they took a small house for themselves in Skag. Might call on them, if I can find them.”

“So Harris is worse now?” pursued Hamish.

“He was bad enough last year, but in fits and starts. Didn’t go on like he does now the whole time. Maybe he’ll have settled down by tomorrow. Doris Harris wanted to come with us, but he ranted on at her when you were upstairs getting your dog about wasting good money on fish and chips when she had already eaten.”

There was a scream of delight from the Brett children. Heather had placed the three-year-old Fiona on Towser’s back. Towser was standing patiently, looking puzzled, his eyes rolling in Hamish’s direction for help.

“Leave him be,” shouted Hamish. Heather obediently lifted Fiona off Towser’s back and Towser lolloped up the beach and lay panting at Hamish’s feet.

“Time I got those kids in bed,” said June. “They’ve been on the train all day.”

“Come far?” asked Hamish.

“From London.”

Dermott got to his feet and brushed sand from his trousers. He walked up to the children and swung the toddler on to his shoulders. June joined him, and the family set off together in the direction of the boarding-house.

“That’s a nice family,” said Miss Gunnery, returning from a rubbish bin on the other side of the shingle, where she had put the papers. “Perhaps we should be getting back as well.”

“Whit aboot the night-life o’ Skag?” sniggered Cheryl. “Me and Tracey’d like a drink.”

“How old are you?” demanded Miss Gunnery severely.

Cheryl tossed her long blonde hair. “Old enough,” she said. Her heavily made-up eyes flirted at Hamish. “Aye, old enough fur anything, isn’t that right, Tracey?”

“Sure is,” said Tracey in a dreadful imitation American accent. “So let’s just mosey along to the pub.”

“Bound to be bottled beer up here,” said Andrew, “but I’m willing to try it. What about you, Hamish?”

“As long as they’ll let Towser in.”

“He’s married tae his dug!” shrieked Cheryl.

Hamish’s thin, sensitive face flushed angrily. He was ashamed of his affection for his dog, ashamed sometimes of Towser’s yellowish mongrel appearance.

“I think a drink’s just what we all need,” said Andrew quickly. “Come along, Hamish.”

Hamish had a sudden desire to sulk. But Miss Gunnery said, “I saw the pub near the harbour. It looked quite pretty. I think I’ll go after all.” She linked a bony arm in Hamish’s as he stood up and the small party set off.

It was a pretty thatched pub with tubs of flowers at the door, more like an English inn than a Scottish one. But inside it was as plastic and dreary as the worst of Scottish pubs. A jukebox blared in the corner and a spotty moron was operating the fruit machine with monotonous regularity, his mouth hanging open as he fed in the coins. Hamish had noticed a table and chairs outside and suggested they take their drinks there: Cheryl and Tracey had rums and Coke, Miss Gunnery, a gin and tonic, Andrew, a bottle of beer, and Hamish, a whisky and a bag of potato crisps for Towser.

“There’s a carnival here tomorrow,” said Hamish. “Sideshows and everything. I saw a poster about it on the pub wall.”

“I didn’t see a fairground,” said Andrew.

“It’ll be here tomorrow all right,” said Hamish, wise in the ways of Highland gypsies. “They come in the night like a medieval army and the next day, there they all are.”

They finished their drinks and walked slowly back to the boarding-house. Cheryl and Tracey had decided to compete for the attention of Hamish Macbeth and so they walked arm in arm with him while Miss Gunnery and Andrew followed behind.

When they went into the boarding-house, Hamish collected a couple of paperbacks from the bookshelves in the lounge and went up the stairs to his room.

It was then that he found out that the Harrises had the room next door. Bob Harris’s voice rose and fell, going on and on and on, punctuated by an occasional whimper from his wife.

Hamish wondered whether to go next door and tell the man to shut up, but as a policeman he had found out the folly of interfering in marital problems. Doris would probably round on him and tell him to leave her husband alone.

Or rather, that’s what the lazy Hamish Macbeth told himself.

∨ Death of a Nag ∧

2

A tart temper never mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edged tool that grows keener with constant use.

—Washington Irving

Hamish rose early and took Towser for a walk along the deserted dunes outside the hotel. The day was grey and warm and misty. Somewhere a foghorn sounded like some lost sea creature. The midges, those pestilent Scottish mosquitoes which he had naively thought he had left behind him on the west coast, were out in force. He automatically felt in his shirt pocket for a stick of repellent and found he had none and remembered there was one in his suitcase.