Death of a Gossip (8 page)

Marvin polished his bald head with his hand and looked sideways at Lady Jane. No ma’am, he thought, the day I let a broad like you screw up my act, well, you can kiss my ass in
Macy’s window.

At last the horrible dinner was over. Alice smoothed down the velvet of her gown with a nervous hand and smiled hopefully at Jeremy. He looked at her vaguely and turned abruptly to Daphne Gore.
‘Come on,’ he said to Daphne. ‘We’ve got to talk.’

Alice’s eyes filmed over with tears. She was dreadfully tired. She felt alien, foreign, alone. When she passed the bar, it was full of people drinking and laughing, the other guests who
did not belong to the fishing school. She hesitated, longing for the courage to go in and join them, longing for just one compliment on her gown to make some of her misery go away.

Constable Hamish Macbeth leaned on his garden gate and gazed across the loch to the lights of the hotel. He had fed the chickens and geese; his dog lay at his feet, stretched
across his boots like a carriage rug, snoring peacefully.

Hamish lit a cigarette and pushed his cap back on his head. He was not happy, which was a fairly unusual state of mind for him. This was usually the time of the day he liked best.

He had to admit to himself he had let Lady Jane get under his skin. He did not like the idea of that fat woman ferreting out details of his family life, even if there was nothing shameful to
ferret out.

It was true that Hamish Macbeth had six brothers and sisters to support. He had been born one year after his parents had been married. After that there had been a long gap and then Mr and Mrs
Macbeth had produced three boys and three girls in as quick a succession as was physically possible. As in many Celtic families, it was taken for granted that the eldest son would remain a bachelor
until such time as the next in line were able to support themselves. Hamish had deliberately chosen the unambitious career of village constable because it enabled him to send most of his pay home.
He was a skilful poacher and presents of venison and salmon found their way regularly to his parents’ croft in Ross and Cromarty. The little egg money he got from his poultry was sent home as
well. Then there was the annual prize money for best hill runner at the Strathbane Highland games. Hamish had taken the prize five years in a row.

His father was a crofter but could not make nearly enough to support all six younger children. Hamish had accepted his lot as he accepted most things, with easy-going good nature.

But of late, he had found himself wishing he had a little bit more money in his pocket and yet he would not admit to himself the reason for this.

What he
could
admit to himself was that he was very worried about the fishing class. Crime in Hamish’s parish usually ran to things like bigamy or the occasional drunk on a Saturday
night. Most village wrangles were settled out of court, so to speak, by the diplomatic Hamish. He was not plagued with the savage violence of poaching gangs, although he felt sure that would come.
A new housing estate was being built outside the village; one of those mad schemes where the worst of the welfare cases were wrenched out of the cosy clamour of the city slums and transported to
the awesome bleakness of the Highlands. To Hamish, these housing estates were the breeding grounds of poaching gangs who dynamited the salmon to the surface and fought each other with razors and
sharpened bicycle chains.

Something in his bones seemed to tell him that trouble was going to come from this fishing class. He decided it was time to find out a little more about Lady Jane.

He sifted through the filing cabinet of his mind, which was filled with the names and addresses and telephone numbers of various friends and relatives. Like most Highlanders, Hamish had
relatives scattered all over the world.

Then he remembered his second cousin, Rory Grant, who worked for the
Daily Recorder
in Fleet Street. Hamish ambled indoors and put through a collect call. ‘This is Constable Macbeth
of Lochdubh with a verra important story for Rory Grant,’ said Hamish when the newspaper switchboard showed signs of being reluctant to pay for the call. When he was at last put through to
Rory, Hamish gave a description of Lady Jane Winters and asked for details about her.

‘I’ll need to go through to the library and look at her cuttings,’ said Rory. ‘It might take a bit of time. I’ll call you back.’

‘Och, no,’ said Hamish comfortably, ‘I am not paying for the call, so I will just hold on and have a beer while you are looking.’

‘Suit yourself,’ said Rory. Hamish tucked the phone under one ear and fished a bottle of beer out of his bottom drawer. He did not like cold beer and, in any case, Hamish had grown
up on American movies where the hero had fished a bottle out of his desk drawer, and had never got over the thrill of being able to do the same thing, even though it was warm beer and not
bourbon.

He had left the police office door open, and a curious hen came hopping in, flew up on top of the typewriter, and stared at him with curious, beady eyes.

Priscilla Halburton-Smythe suddenly appeared in the doorway, a brace of grouse dangling from one hand, and smiled at the sight of Hamish with his huge boots on the desk, bottle of beer in one
hand, phone in the other and hen in front.

‘I see you’re interviewing one of the village criminals,’ said Priscilla.

‘Not I,’ said Hamish. ‘I am waiting for my cousin in London to come back to the telephone with some vital information.’

‘I meant the hen, silly. Joke. I’ve brought you some grouse.’

‘Have they been hung?’

‘No, I shot them today. Why do you ask?’

‘Oh, nothing, nothing. It is verra kind of you, Miss Halburton-Smythe.’

Since Hamish’s family did not like grouse, the policeman was calculating how soon he could manage to get into Ullapool, where he would no doubt get a good price for the brace from one of
the butchers. If they were fresh, that would give him a few days. Hamish did not possess a freezer except the small compartment in his refrigerator, which was full of TV dinners.

Hamish stood up, startling the hen, who flew off with a squawk, and pulled out a chair for Priscilla. He studied her as she sat down. She was wearing a beige silk blouse tucked into cord
breeches. Her waist was small and her breasts high and firm. The pale oval of her face, framed by the pale gold of her hair, was saved from being insipid by a pair of bright blue eyes fringed with
sooty lashes. He cleared his throat. ‘I cannot leave the telephone. But you will find a bottle of beer in the refrigerator in the kitchen.’

‘I thought you didn’t like cold beer,’ called Priscilla over her shoulder as she made her way across the tiny hall to the kitchen. ‘I aye keep one for the guests,’
called Hamish, thinking wistfully that he had kept a cold bottle of beer especially for her since that golden day she had first dropped in to see him about a minor poaching matter four whole months
ago.

‘No more trouble, I hope,’ added Hamish as Priscilla returned with a foaming glass. ‘I hope it is not the crime that brings you here.’

‘No, I thought you might like some birds for the pot.’ Priscilla leaned back and crossed her legs, tightening the material along her thighs by the movement. Hamish half closed his
eyes.

‘Actually, I’m escaping,’ said Priscilla. ‘Daddy’s brought the most awful twit up from London. He wants me to marry him.’

‘And will you?’

‘No, you silly constable. Didn’t I just say he was a twit? I say, there’s a picture show on at the village hall tonight. Second showing, ten o’clock. Wouldn’t it be
a shriek if we went to it?’

Hamish smiled. ‘My dear lassie, it is Bill Haley and his Comets in
Rock Around the Clock,
which was showing a wee bit before you were born, I’m thinking.’

‘Lovely. Let’s go after whoever you’re speaking to speaks.’

‘I cannot think Colonel Halburton-Smythe would like his daughter to go to the pictures with the local bobby.’

‘He won’t know.’

‘You have not been long in the Highlands. Give it a day, give it a week, everyone around here knows everything.’

‘But Daddy doesn’t
speak
to anyone in the village.’

‘Your housemaid, Maisie, is picture daft. She’ll be there. She’ll tell the other servants and that po-faced butler, Jenkins, will see it as his duty to inform the
master.’

‘Do you care?’

‘Not much,’ grinned Hamish. ‘Oh, Rory, it is yourself.’

He listened intently. Priscilla watched Hamish’s face, noticing for the first time how cat-like his hazel eyes looked with their Celtic narrowness at the outer edges.

‘Thank you, Rory,’ said Hamish finally. ‘That is verra interesting. I am surprised that fact about her is not better known.’

The voice quacked again.

‘Thank you,’ said Hamish gloomily. ‘I may be in the way of having to report a wee murder to you in the next few days. No, it is chust my joke, Rory.’ Hamish’s
accent became more sibilant and Highland when he was seriously upset.

He put down the phone and stared into space.

‘What was all that about?’ asked Priscilla curiously.

‘Gossip about a gossip,’ said Hamish, getting to his feet. ‘Wait and I’ll just lock up, Miss Halburton-Smythe, and we’ll be on our way. I’ll tell you about it
one of these days.’

It was a very subdued party that met in the lounge in the morning. Heather Cartwright was visibly losing her usual phlegmatic calm. Her plump face was creased with worry, and
her voice shook as she asked them to be seated.

Lady Jane was absent, but everyone seemed to jump a little when anyone entered the room. John Cartwright, in a weary voice, said he felt they had not all learnt the art of casting properly and
so he would take them out to the lawn at the back to give a demonstration. His eyes turned to the major to make his usual remark, that those with experience could go ahead, but somehow he could not
bring himself to say anything.

They stood about him, shivering in the chill, misty morning air as he demonstrated how to make the perfect cast. He warmed to his subject but his little audience fidgetted restlessly and moved
from foot to foot.

Finally, their unease reached him, and he stopped his lecture with a little sigh. ‘Enough from me,’ he said. ‘We will go to the upper reaches of the river Anstey. I’ll
leave word at the desk for Lady Jane. There is no point in disturbing her if she’s sleeping late.’

Like the day before, the warmth of the sun began to penetrate the mist. ‘Bad day for fishing,’ said the major knowledgeably, and Alice could only envy the quick way in which he had
recovered from his humiliation.

‘I like the sunshine,’ she said, and then could not resist adding, ‘and I hope Lady Jane doesn’t turn up to spoil it.’

‘Got a feeling we won’t be seeing her,’ said the major cheerfully.

And then it was as if they all had the same feeling. Everyone’s spirits began to lift. John Cartwright smiled at his wife and pressed her hand as he drove up the twists and winds to the
river. ‘I’ve a feeling we’ve been worrying too much about that woman,’ he murmured to Heather. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll see to it she doesn’t plague us
anymore.’

Alice gave a little sigh of relief. Obviously the Cartwrights were going to tell Lady Jane to leave. She grinned at Charlie, but Charlie was looking white and sick and turned his head away.

She shrugged. Again, the sunshine was bleaching away the worries of the night. She was prepared to accept that she did not stand a chance with Jeremy. Let him have Daphne. There was no use
fighting it. She would enjoy the exercise and scenery as much as she could. Once more her thoughts returned to Mr Patterson-James. She was sure he would be impressed when she described her
holiday.

But when she climbed out of the car and waited for Heather to hand her her rod, she could not help wishing Jeremy would join her as he had done on the other days.

But John Cartwright, with the continued absence of Lady Jane, was once more on form. He was determined his little class should get the proper schooling. He said he was going to give them a
demonstration of how to catch a salmon. When they all had their gear on he led the way up a twisting path beside the river at a smart trot. Alice felt the sweat beginning to trickle down her face
as she stumbled along after him. Below them, at the bottom of the steep bank, the river Anstey foamed and frothed. At times, delicate strands of silver birch and alder and hazel screened the river
from their view, and then, around another turn it would appear again, tumbling headlong on its way to the sea. To the right, the tangled forest climbed up the mountainside.

Marvin Roth put an arm around his wife’s shoulders to help her. ‘Didn’t mean to take you on a survival course,’ he said. Amy shook his arm away and strode ahead of him up
the path with long, athletic strides. Marvin hesitated, took off his cap, and passed a hand over the dome of his bald head. Then he replaced his cap and plunged after her.

‘What’s up with you this morning, Miss Alice?’ came Jeremy’s voice behind Alice. ‘Don’t I get a smile?’

Remember, it’s no use, Alice chided herself fiercely. Aloud she said, ‘I haven’t any energy to do anything other than try to keep up. It’s so
hot.
I didn’t
think the Scottish Highlands would be so hot.’

‘It’s like this sometimes,’ said Jeremy, falling into step beside her. He was wearing a blue cotton shirt open at the neck, as blue as the sky above. He smelled of clean linen,
aftershave, and masculine sweat. The heavy gold band of his wrist watch lay against the brand-new tan of his arm. Alice’s good resolutions began to fade.

‘What did you think about our major’s little trick?’ Jeremy went on. ‘Not quite the manner of the officer or the gentleman, as our Lady Jane would point out.’

‘I think it was understandable,’ said Alice. ‘It must have been a terrible temptation to lie. Only think the way people go on about cars and horses and . . . boats. It’s
surely more in the nature of a gentleman to
lie
when it comes to sports.’