M.C. Beaton - Death of a Charming Man

♦

Hamish experienced a feeling of mounting excitement as he drove to Inverness, propelled southward by the Sutherland gale. One way or another, the investigation would now be over. With any luck he would find that Peter Hynd was alive and well. To think that any man in Drim was not only capable of impersonating a good-looking Englishman but also of forging his signature was ridiculous. And with any luck, Betty would turn out to have died from a heavy fall.

To his disappointment, the genial Mr. Brand was on holiday and he had to deal with his older, crusty partner, Mr. MacDougal. Mr. MacDougal listened impatiently to Hamish’s request and then said, “I dealt with Mr. Hynd myself.”

“That’s great,” said Hamish. “Did he tell you where he was staying?”

“Yes, he had come up from London. Jenny!” The pallid girl slouched in. “Bring Mr. Hynd’s address.”

Hamish waited. A seagull perched on the window-ledge outside and looked in curiously through the grimy panes. Jenny came in and put a slip of paper in front of Hamish and he found himself looking down at the Vale of Health address. “This won’t do,” he said sharply. “That’s the house he rents out.”

“That’s all we’ve got,” said Mr. MacDougal. “Now, I’m very busy and I’m expecting a client.” He stood up.

“One moment,” said Hamish. “What did Peter Hynd look lie?”

“Pleasant, upper class, fair hair, only stayed for as long as it took to sign the papers.”

“May I take a copy of the papers? I would like to have the signature checked.”

“Mr. Brand, who is a good fellow but too easygoing, told me he had faxed signatures to the bank in London already. Are you here on official business?”

“I’m just following up inquiries of my own.”

“If you return with an official request from headquarters, then we will let you have the papers. Until then…”

When Hamish went into the outer office he asked Jenny, “Was the Peter Hynd who came to sign the final papers the one you had met before?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” she said rudely. “But I wouldn’t be knowing. I got a ladder in my tights and ran out to get a new pair, and when I got back I heard he’d been in.”

Hamish left the lawyers’ in a bad mood. Surely it was silly to go on following this ridiculous hunch that Peter Hynd was dead. Still, to wrap it up neatly, it might be a good idea to go to Strathbane and get an official request to take those papers and have a handwriting expert check the signature. He decided to go over Blair’s head. Blair would hate him for it, but then Blair hated him anyway.

To his surprise he was ushered into Mr. Daviot’s office without having to wait, but the minute Mr. Daviot said solemnly, “Sit down, Macbeth,” his heart sank. No ‘Hamish.’

“I find to my surprise,” said Mr. Daviot, “that you have chosen to take your holidays in Drim, of all places. My wife called on Priscilla with details of a house for sale and Priscilla told her that you appeared to have no interest in settling down.”

Although Hamish was used to the Highland bush telegraph, he was always amazed at its speed. Harry Baxter, he thought, Harry would tell the other fishermen in Lochdubh and the word would speed up to Tommel Castle Hotel.

“If we could put my personal life on one side,” said Hamish. He explained his reasons for staying in Drim, his reasons for suspecting both the absence of Peter Hynd and the death of Betty Baxter. He ended up with his request to get the papers from the lawyers in Inverness.

The superintendent leaned back in his chair and surveyed the tall, gangling sergeant. He had tolerated his wife’s social ambitions while privately thinking Priscilla much too good for Macbeth. Hamish had proved a clever if unorthodox policeman in the past, but Mr. Daviot thought he was hellbent on this wild-goose chase in order to stay away from Priscilla. What man in his right mind with a gorgeous fiancée like Priscilla Halburton-Smythe would choose to spend his holidays in a place like Drim? It showed a dangerous instability. Mr. Daviot preferred the plodding, obsequious type of policeman, which was why Blair, despite all his gaffes, had never been reduced to the ranks. Also, Mr. Daviot was a proud member of the Freemasons, as was Blair, and he remembered that Hamish had refused an invitation to join. “I cannot control what you choose to do on your holidays, Macbeth,” he said, “except to point out to you that you will get no help from me in this non-case. Peter Hynd, wherever he is, has sold his house and signed the papers. Betty Baxter had an unfortunate accident. That is that. I would like to suggest to you that you return to Lochdubh and pay more attention to Priscilla, but your private life is no concern of mine.”

“Exactly,” put in Hamish, turning red with annoyance.

“Do not waste valuable police time again, Macbeth. You may go.”

Hamish left the room, walking as stiffly as an outraged cat. As he drove out of Strathbane, he felt miserable and guilty about Priscilla. And yet he had no reason to feel guilty. She had brought it on herself.

But instead of turning off on the road that led to Drim, he went on to Lochdubh. As he drove along the waterfront he could feel curious eyes following his progress. “There goes the mad and fickle Hamish Macbeth, who prefers to spend his holidays in a place like Drim,” they seemed to be saying. There was a new receptionist at the Tommel Castle Hotel, a plain, middle-aged woman. “Where’s Sophy?” he asked.

“If you mean Miss Bisset, she just walked out. I was working over at Cnothan and Mr. Johnston offered me the job if I could come immediately, so I did.”

“Where is Miss Halburton-Smythe?”

“In the gift shop.”

Hamish walked over to the gift shop. Priscilla was kneeling? on the floor, unpacking a box of china. She looked up and saw him and her face hardened. “How are the sunny shores of Drim?” she asked. “You wouldn’t come on holiday with me,” said Hamish.

“I chust have to make my own amusement and that’s trying to find out what happened to Peter Hynd.” She stood up and smoothed down her skirt. “While making a fool of me in the process?”

“What do you mean?”

“Everyone in the village now knows that the oh-so loving Hamish prefers to spend his holidays in a village a mere stone’s throw away rather than be near me.”

“And did you tell all these nosy folk you preferred to work rather than spend any time with me? Don’t blame me for your fear o’ intimacy, Priscilla.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“Then come to bed wi’ me…now.”

“I happen to be very busy.”

“Spoken like a woman in love. Och, this is hopeless…absolutely hopeless.” Hamish stormed out. He hurt so badly, he wondered bleakly if he was going to have ulcers.

All he had left in life was this mad case. And he would solve it even if it meant taking the whole village of Drim apart!

He stopped off at the police station to get extra clothes and I make sure he really had switched everything off. The new cooker gleamed in the dark corner. He gave it a savage kick. And then the bell at the front door sounded. He had an impulse to let it go on ringing. After all, there was that notice on the door telling people that all inquiries were being handled from Cnothan. But curiosity beat sloth and he went and opened the door.

Mrs. Hendry, the schoolteacher’s wife, stood there, her face blotched with tears.

“I saw the police car,” she said in a choked voice. “I’ve got to speak to you, Mr. Macbeth.”

∨ Death of a Charming Man ∧

8

Good Lord, what is man! for as simple he looks,

Do but try to develop his hooks and his crooks,