M.C. Beaton - Death of a Charming Man

And then he would set out to find Peter Hynd.

♦

He went down to Strathbane the next day and obtained permission to take leave. Sergeant Macgregor over at Cnothan would cover Hamish’s beat as well as his own. That finished, Hamish returned to Lochdubh, collected Towser and took the dog over to his parents’ home in Rogart, where he shrugged off questions about his wedding date with, he thought, very clever answers. His mother sadly watched him driving off and said to her husband, “I don’t think our Hamish is going to marry Priscilla or anyone. He always was a picky boy.”

Hamish then returned to Lochdubh and arranged with a neighbour to take care of his hens and sheep. He had already made up his mind to go to London and see if he could trace the origins of Peter Hynd. First he would need some money. As he walked to the bank, he suddenly realized that Peter Hynd must have had some local bank he drew money from. There was no bank in Drim.

He walked in and asked to see the bank manager, a new man called Ian Donaldson. He had to wait twenty minutes.

The recession had reached the north of Scotland in that the banks were calling in loans and managers were besieged by furious customers.

The bank manager rose to meet him. “Well, Macbeth, I hope you havenae come for a loan, for I amn’t giving any.”

“Nothing like that,” said Hamish, “That young chap, Peter Hynd, him that was over at Drim. Did he use this bank?”

“Aye, from time to time.”

“Had an arrangement with you?”

“Nothing like that. Just cashed the odd cheque for fifty pounds and paid the fee. So much plastic around these days, people don’t need cash in hand like they used to.”

“Got any of those cheques?”

“No, he hasn’t been in here for a few weeks, so the cheques will have already been sent on to his own bank in New Bond Street. Why? He isn’t a criminal, is he?”

“Just following tip some inquiries,” said Hamish.

He drew out money and then hesitated outside the bank. It was a glorious early-autumn day. The heather had settled down to a rusty colour and the rowan-trees were heavy with scarlet berries. The fishing boats were mirrored in the loch. Smoke rose in straight lines from chimneys. The air was full of homely noises: women calling to each other as they hung out the washing, snatches of radio, the grinding of a rusty winch down at the harbour, the chanting voices of the children in the schoolroom reciting the multiplication table.

As he surveyed the scene, he had a longing to forget about useless Peter Hynd and stay in Lochdubh and laze the days away, get in a bit of fishing, read, and watch television. But as he viewed the loch, a pleasure launch came into view, the Tommel Castle Hotel’s latest acquisition. It was full of guests and he could make out Priscilla’s blonde hair.

With a little sigh, he went back to the police station and began to pack.

♦

His cousin, Rory Grant, a reporter on a national daily newspaper, was not amused to find Hamish complete with suitcase on his doorstep. “This isn’t a hotel, Hamish,” he said. “I could have had a woman here.”

“But you haven’t,” said the unrepentant Hamish, walking in and putting his suitcase in the middle of the floor. “I’m only here for a wee bit, and if you’re any help to me, I’ll let you in on a good story.”

“Like what?”

Hamish told him about Peter Hynd.

“Sounds a bit far-fetched to me,” said Rory. “If you want free board, just say so.”

“No, I mean it. I really want to find him.”

“Okay, your room’s through here. Look, I think I’m on to a sure thing tonight, Hamish. There’s this woman reporter on the Sun …well, you know how it is. I’m taking her out for dinner and I think I might score. We’re going to a restaurant in South Ken, Bernie’s Bistro. I’ve got to go into the office, so I’ll see if there’s anything on Peter Hynd on file. If you drop in at the restaurant at eight, say, I’ll give you anything I’ve got, but don’t stay, for heaven’s sake. Take yourself off and get some fish and chips or something.”

“I’ll do that,” said Hamish, suddenly feeling more cheerful. “I’ll start off at his bank in New Bond Street.”

“How’s Priscilla?”

“Chust fine.”

“Did well for yourself, Hamish. Wish I could marry into a rich family.”

Hamish paused in the act of opening his suitcase. “I haff no intention of using my wife’s money or her family’s money.”

“Ballocks. Get real, as our American cousins say. Wake up and smell the coffee. Victorian values don’t apply in a recession. I’m telling you, if I get a rich wife, I’ll chuck reporting and sit on my bum pretending to write the great novel while wifie pays the bills without one qualm of conscience.”

“Aye, well, London’s corrupted you. I will do fine if you want to get off.”

“I’ll get your door keys first,” said Rory. “You know where everything is. Don’t forget, Bernie’s Bistro. Come out of South Ken tube, turn right, and it’s a few yards along once you cross the intersection.”

“I’ll find it. And thanks, Rory.”

Rory grinned and with his lanky figure and red hair suddenly looked very much like Hamish. He waved and went out. Hamish hung away his clothes and, still feeling stiff and groggy after a night on the train, went out into the streets of Kensington. Rory’s flat was in a converted building right on the Gloucester Road. The day was crisp and fine and he decided to walk to Bond Street through Kensington Gardens, then Hyde Park, and so along Piccadilly and down Bond Street.

He felt more relaxed than he had for some time.

The hunt for Peter Hynd Bad begun in earnest.

∨ Death of a Charming Man ∧

7

Even if we take matrimony at its lowest, even if we regard it as no more than a sort of friendship recognised by the police.

—Robert Louis Stevenson

Hamish left the bank feeling puzzled. Peter Hynd certainly had an account with them but no money had been drawn by him anywhere in the last few weeks. But he had a London address in the Vale of Health, Hampstead. He went into Fenwick’s, the Bond Street department store, and up to the coffee shop and examined the tube map at the back of his diary while he drank coffee, the only man in a roomful of women.

He made his way out into a street, which looked strangely thin of people compared to the bustling main street of Inverness, say, walked to Bond Street Tube and took the Central Line to Tottenham Court Road, and changed to the Northern Edgware Line. It took him an hour to reach Hampstead. He was always amazed at the vastness of London, although the infrequent trains on the Northern Line always served to slow up any journey. Thriftily not wanting to spend any more money than he had to, he walked into a Hampstead newsagent’s, took down a London A-Z, located the Vale of Health, and returned the book to the shelf.

The Vale of Health, originally called Hackett’s Bottom, nestled in a hollow of the Heath beside a pond. As he walked down the twisting road, he saw a small fairground in front of the houses and beyond that the trees and grass and walks of Hampstead Heath.

Peter Hynd’s house was a trim villa in a terrace of villas, painted ice-cream pink. Much as he disliked Peter Hynd, as Hamish pressed the bell, he wished with all his heart and soul that the man himself would answer the door. But it was a rather bizarre young woman who looked up at him, her dusty hair backcombed and left that way, making her look like some cartoon about electric-shock therapy. Her skin was sallow and she wore old–fashioned purple lipstick and her tired eyes were rimmed with kohl.

“Mr. Hynd?” asked Hamish. “I am from the Sutherland police,” he added, thinking that sounded grander than Lochdubh.