M.C. Beaton - Death of a Glutton

She turned about and ran downstairs. Mr Johnson and Sean were still arguing. She interrupted them and asked Mr Johnson if she could take one of the castle cars.

“Let me see,” he said, “Priscilla’s got the Range Rover and Dougie borrowed the mini. The colonel’s got his car. The old Volvo should be out front. You can have that. The keys are in the ignition.”

“I forgot to ask you before. Am I expected to pay for petrol?”

“Not if it’s a short journey,” said Mr Johnson. “But never leave the tank dry, always put back in what you use if you’ve been driving for a good distance. Have we got your driving-licence number?”

“Priscilla took a note of it last time.”

“That’ll be all right then. But I wouldn’t go too far today, if I were you. The weather looks bad.”

“There isn’t a cloud in the sky!”

“The forecast’s bad and there’s a purple haze on the hills and that means thunder.”

Jenny got into the car and opened all the windows and the sun-roof. She drove quickly down to the police station, but there was no sign of Hamish. So he probably had gone off with Priscilla. She drove on to the harbour and parked the car against the wall.

She was feeling hot and thirsty, so she went into the Lochdubh bar and ordered a gin and tonic and then wished she had not for the bar was full of men, not a woman in sight. “How much is that?” she asked the barman.

“The chap down the end o’ the bar’s paid fur it.”

Jenny looked flustered. “Who? What? I can’t really…”

A tall young man in working clothes walked towards her. “Sure, you looked as if you needed a drink,” he said. He had an engaging smile and a mop of black curls and blue, blue eyes.

“Did you pay for this?” asked Jenny.

“Yes, I always like to buy a pretty girl a drink. I’m working with Baxter’s Forestry on the other side of the loch but we’ve packed it in for the day. One of the fellows dropped with heat exhaustion.”

Jenny felt herself relax. He seemed inoffensive and friendly. She finished her drink as they talked and then she bought the next round and somehow they found themselves sitting at one of the rickety bar tables telling each other their life stories. She forgot about Hamish Macbeth.

♦

Hamish and Priscilla were having a late lunch. Hamish belonged unexpectedly to that irritating breed who can never make up their minds where they want to choose to have a picnic, until Priscilla at last rebelled. She stopped after circling for quite some time round the narrow winding Highland roads at a spot on top of the moors where they could get a good view of both the castle and the surrounding countryside.

While they ate, Hamish went on and on about Peta’s leaving, turning over the whys and wherefores until Priscilla said sharply, “I’m bored with the very sound of that woman’s name. Leave the subject alone, Hamish.”

His eyes mocked her. “What would you like to talk about? Us?”

“Don’t be silly.”

“What’s so silly about it?” he asked, suddenly hell-bent on mischief. “Here we are, a man and a woman, in the romantic Highlands of Scotland.”

“The Highlands of Scotland are only romantic to people who don’t live in them,” said Priscilla, looking about for some way to change the subject. “Look at those buzzards.”

Hamish twisted his head and shaded his eyes as he looked up at the sky. A pair of buzzards were circling lazily overhead a little distance away.

“Buzzards have the right idea,” he said, “no marital agencies for them. Still thinking of joining Checkmate yourself, Priscilla?”

“Of course not. What’s got into you, Hamish? There’s something…uncomfortable about you.”

“If you want me to be comfortable, don’t go around agreeing to kisses.”

“I only meant it to be a kiss on the cheek!”

“Oh, Priscilla.” He edged near her on the heather. She looked wide-eyed at him, her hands clenched. He put an arm about her shoulders and turned her face up to his.

A scream tore across the silence of the still landscape, a loud, frightened scream.

He jumped to his feet and stared around wildly. The scream was coming closer, now a thin whistling sound like an old-fashioned steam train heading for a tunnel.

Hamish ran out into the road. A small boy dragging a smaller boy behind him was running down the road, his mouth stretched by that horrible scream to its widest.

The boys collided into Hamish, the eldest throwing his arms round Hamish’s knees.

“Quiet now,” said Hamish sternly and the scream stopped abruptly and the boy began to cry. Hamish prised him loose and knelt down and held him by the shoulders. He recognized the children as Jamie Ferguson and his little brother, Bill.

“Jamie, Jamie,” he said. “It iss me. Hamish Macbeth. What iss it?”

“She’s deid,” yelled Jamie and began to sob again.

“Where?” Hamish gave him a little shake.

“Ower there.” The boy pointed back the way he had come, in the direction of the circling buzzards. Priscilla had come up to join them.

“Look after this pair,” said Hamish to her. “Give them some hot sweet tea. There’s some left in the flask.”

He set off down the road at a run.

He knew every inch of the countryside and remembered that round the next turn, under the circling birds of prey, was a disused quarry which formed a small amphitheatre beside the road.

Hamish hurtled into the quarry, looking wildly about. And then he saw a foot sticking out from behind a great boulder, a fat foot in a thin sandal, a foot with painted toenails.

He walked round the rock.

Peta Gore lay on her back, her sightless eyes staring up at the brassy sky. One large sandwich, half eaten, was clutched in one dead hand. But the most horrible thing, the ultimate indignity, was that a large red apple was crammed in her mouth.

He bent down and felt her pulse. He did it automatically, although he knew she was dead. He saw tyre tracks, faint in the dust of the quarry floor. Then he straightened and looked up at the sky. It was deepening in colour and a puff of damp breeze touched his cheek.

He ran back frantically to where Priscilla was comforting the boys. “It’s Peta. She’s dead,” he said. “Get these boys down to Lochdubh, phone Strathbane, and then bring help back here. Get some of the men. Tell them to bring groundsheets and a tent. It’s going to be a storm soon. Hurry! Oh, damn. My uniform.”

He grabbed his uniform out of the back of the Range Rover, tore off his casual clothes and changed into it while Priscilla, with quick efficient movements, cleared up the picnic and coaxed the shivering boys into the car.

Hamish ran back to where the body was lying, but this time he stood on guard outside the quarry, not wanting to tread on any clues. He flapped his arms at the buzzards above, only glad that they had not descended for dinner before the body was found.

The sky was turning milky white. The storm would appear to come down, he knew from experience, rather than blowing in from the west. The sky would deepen to grey and then black and then the rain would bucket down, blotting out any clues and those car tracks unless the men arrived first with the groundsheets.

♦

Jenny Trask missed all the excitement when Priscilla burst into the bar, for she had already left with her forestry worker, Brian Mulligan. They had drunk an awful lot and Jenny had taken him back to the castle bar, where they had drunk more. Looking through the door of the bar, Jenny had seen that the hall and reception desk were deserted, and so it had seemed like a good idea to slip Brian up to her room where eventually, between tangled sheets, the earth did seem to move for her as a most tremendous storm broke, rocking the castle to its foundations with peal after peal of thunder.