M.C. Beaton - Death of a Travelling Man

Mrs Wellington briskly and efficiently took a golden-crusted steak-and-kidney pie out of the oven.

Mr Wellington clasped his hands and bowed his head. “Thank you, God,” he said.

“Why, you’re praying,” cried Mrs Wellington.

“Why, so I am,” said the minister.

♦

Dr Brodie could not quite put his finger on it but he knew that things had changed the minute he opened the door and walked into his house. He went into the kitchen. His wife was sitting behind a pile of textbooks as usual, but there seemed to be a lightness in the very air.

“I feel a bit daft,” he said, sitting down. “I was checking the drugs cabinet and I found those missing packets of morphine. They’d got stuck inside a packet of something else. I should call Hamish.”

Angela smiled at him. “Leave it till tomorrow. I thought we would eat out tonight. I’ve booked a table at the Napoli.”

“Great idea. Why don’t you wear one of your new dresses?”

“I haven’t got them.”

“What!”

“I sold them down in Inverness. That’s where I’ve been today,” lied Angela. “I got most of the money back.”

“Well, good for you. I didn’t know you could get any money at all for secondhand clothes.”

“These were models.”

“I don’t know anything about women’s clothes, but if it means dinner at the Napoli, then that’s grand.”

♦

Hamish woke early in the evening and stretched out and felt around for Priscilla. But she had gone. He groaned and sat up and went through to the police office. There was a long string of messages and demands to call back. He began to work his way through them, starting with his mother, and so down to Jimmy Anderson.

“Thought you’d like to know,” said Anderson, “that we got that pop band to crack and they admitted covering up for Cheryl.”

“That’s grand.”

“The bad news is that I visited Blair in hospital. He’s made a complete recovery, but he’s been told to stay off the booze and go to Alcoholics Anonymous.”

“God grant them the serenity when Blair turns up, cursing and blinding, at one o’ their meetings,” said Hamish with feeling.

“Can you imagine what he’ll be like sober?” demanded Anderson peevishly. “The only time that man’s human is when he’s drunk. Talking about getting drunk, are you celebrating your engagement?”

“I plan to. I’ve lost her for the moment.”

“Good luck tae ye. Her father’s probably taking a horsewhip to her right now. What d’ye think o’ Willie leaving the force?”

“I didn’t know. He didn’t tell me.”

“He’s going into the restaurant business. The trouble is we cannae find a copper at the moment to replace him, so you’re on your own again.”

Bliss, thought Hamish, after he had rung off. Sheer bliss.

He picked up the phone again and rang the castle and with bad luck got Priscilla’s father on the other end. In a mild voice, he asked to speak to Priscilla.

“Before I get my daughter,” said the colonel in a low, quiet voice, quite unlike his usual blustering tones, “if you think you are going to marry her, you’ve got another think coming. She will never marry you, Hamish Macbeth, and I will do my best to stop you. I am warning you.”

“So I’m warned,” snapped Hamish. “Just get her.”

When Priscilla answered, she said hurriedly, “Meet me at the Napoli in about ten minutes. I’ve got to get out of here.”

“That bad?”

“Worse. He’s gone all quiet and sinister and Mummy keeps crying and saying I’m ruining my life.”

“They’ll get used to it,” said Hamish heartlessly.

♦

The Napoli was crowded. Willie and Lucia were seated at the best table with Mr Ferrari, all toasting each other with Asti Spumanti. Before Hamish could join Priscilla, Mr Ferrari waved him over. “So what do you think about Willie managing this business for me?”

“Grand,” said Hamish, shaking Willie’s hand. “Just grand. All the best.”

Mr Ferrari gave him a baffled look. “You are pleased to be losing such a good officer?”

“I’m pleased because he’s happy,” said Hamish.

Mr Ferrari gave a sudden amused shrug. “You are a man of many surprises, Hamish.”

Hamish threaded his way through the tables towards Priscilla, accepting the congratulations of the locals.

She was wearing a slim low-cut silk dress with a delicate necklace of small emeralds set in gold. Her face was calm and beautiful.

He felt a momentary pang of unease. This was the beauty he was going to share his policestation life with! It seemed incredible.

“I know,” said Priscilla sympathetically, although he had not spoken, “it takes some getting used to.”

“It’s been quite a day,” said Hamish awkwardly. He felt desperately shy of her for the first time.

He fought to find a topic of conversation and then remembered that Sean’s mother was due to arrive on the following day and that Ian Chisholm at the garage had promised to make her an offer for the bus. When he had exhausted that topic of conversation and ordered the meal, he sat in a miserable silence.

Priscilla stood up with one graceful fluid movement, came round the table and kissed him full on the mouth.

“Better?” she asked as she sat down again.

Hamish’s face suddenly lit up with sheer happiness.

“Better? I’m in heaven!”

♦

The next day dawned fine and warm. Hamish dealt with the painful business of Mrs Gourlay, who turned out to be a small, quiet, faded lady, not in the least like her flamboyant son.

When it was all over, he went to the henhouse and dragged an old deck-chair out, cleaned it and put it on the patch of grass in front of the police station and stretched out on it.

“Quite like old times. I say quite like old times,” came a familiar voice from the hedge.

Hamish straightened up and found the Currie sisters looking at him. But suddenly, as he looked at Jessie, he had an embarrassing picture of how she had looked naked on that video and somehow that picture seemed to have transferred itself in that moment from his mind to Jessie’s.

She blushed deep red, gave a strangled squawk, and sped off, dragging her sister after her.

Hamish lay back in his deck-chair and grinned.