Hamish Macbeth 02 (1987) - Death of a Cad (4 page)

Whatever had put the shadows under the eyes of both Diana and Jessica, they were hugging to themselves, occasionally casting triumphant looks at each other, and then turning away puzzled, each obviously wondering what the other had to look triumphant about.

As well as the members of the house party, there was a sprinkling of local notables, now clustered about Henry, asking for his autograph and laughing at his slightest joke.

Priscilla was proud of Henry. He was so good-natured, so likeable, and so much at ease that all her doubts about their engagement had been laid to rest.

He had appeared during the day hi respectably worn casual clothes and was now dressed in a beautifully tailored dinner jacket, the only relic of his past reputation for bohemianism being a pink-striped frilled shirt.

And then she looked across the dining room -it was the only large room in the castle, which was why it was being used for the party—and witnessed the full glory of the arrival of PC Macbeth.

Priscilla stifled a sharp exclamation of dismay and crossed the room to join him.

“Hamish,” she hissed, “where on earth did you get that frightful dinner jacket from?”

“It’s a wee bit on the short side,” admitted Hamish ruefully, looking down at his long, lanky figure. “But wee Archie was the only waiter at the Loch-dubh Hotel who was off duty tonight.”

The dinner jacket hung loosely on him and the sleeves only came three-quarters of the way down his arms, and his trousers were exposing a long length of woolly plaid sock.

“Come with me quickly,” urged Priscilla. “Uncle Harry often leaves some of his gear here, and he’s tall and thin. Mummy’s glaring already.”

Uncle Harry was Mr Paul Halburton, Mary Halburton-Smythe’s brother, an archaeologist who travelled far and wide with the minimum of baggage and who always left most of his wardrobe behind at Tommel Castle after one of his flying visits. The Halburton-Smythes had double-barrelled their name after their marriage.

Priscilla led Hamish quickly from the room before her mother could reach her.

Upstairs, in a cell-like room at the top of the castle, Priscilla rummaged through her Uncle Harry’s wardrobe until she found a respectable dinner jacket and trousers. “Put these on immediately, Hamish,” she said. “You can hand them back tomorrow. I’ll parcel up Archie’s clothes and put the parcel in the hall and you can pick it up when you leave. Didn’t you get my parents’ message telling you not to come?”

“No,” said Hamish, removing the waiter’s dinner jacket and then the abbreviated trousers. “I would hae been most offended. I think, as it is, I should go home.”

Priscilla wrestled with her conscience. Her parents would be furious. But Hamish looked so miserable, and he did not seem to have much fun—except with some of the local ladies, Priscilla reminded herself sharply. But he saved every penny to send back to his mother and father and large brood of brothers and sisters over on the east and she was sure he never ate enough.

The door opened, and Jenkins, the Halburton-Smythe’s English butler, walked in. Hamish was just about to put on Uncle Harry’s trousers.

“Don’t you ever knock?” snapped Priscilla.

“A good servant never knocks,” said Jenkins, his gooseberry eyes bulging with outrage. “And what, may I ask, are you doing with this constable, and him without his trousers?”

“Don’t be a silly twit, Jenkins,” said Priscilla. “You saw Mr Macbeth arrive. He could not possibly put in an appearance in that awful dinner jacket, so I am lending him one of Uncle Harry’s. What are you doing here anyway?”

“Mrs Halburton-Smythe sent me to look for you. One of the maids said she had seen you coming up here.”

Priscilla bit her lip. Somehow it had never crossed her mind even to turn her back while Hamish was changing his trousers. She had become used to the fact that the Highlander, though quite prudish and shy in some respects, was never self-conscious about appearing undressed. But Jenkins was not a Highlander. And if she pleaded with Jenkins not to tell her mother what he had seen, that might make the whole innocent business seem sinister.

“Very well, Jenkins,” said Priscilla. “You may go.”

“And what shall I tell Mrs Halburton-Smythe?” asked Jenkins, his eyes gleaming with malice. It was not that he disliked Priscilla in any way; it was just that he was a terrible snob and he thought Hamish Macbeth had no right to be attending Tommel Castle as one of the guests.

“Chust say,” said Hamish, whose Highland accent became more marked and sibilant when he was annoyed or upset, “that Miss Halburton-Smythe will be doon the stairs shortly, and if you add anything to that statement, ye great pudding, I’ll hear o’ it and I’ll take ye apart bit by bit.”

Jenkins glared awfully and then he wheeled about, his arms held out as if carrying a tray, and made a ponderous, stiff-legged exit.

“He’s like a butler in a fillum,” said Hamish. “I think when he feels his act or accent is slipping, he takes the bus down tae Strathbane and sees another old movie.”

“Don’t blame old Jenkins too much,” said Priscilla ruefully. “We must have looked like a bedroom farce.”

“How do I look now?” asked Hamish anxiously, straightening down the lapels of Uncle Harry’s dinner jacket.

“Splendid,” said Priscilla, thinking privately what a difference good clothes made to Hamish’s appearance. He was really quite a good-looking man with his red hair and clear hazel eyes, particularly when he was out of that joke of a uniform. It would be fun to take Hamish in hand. She gave herself a mental shake.

“Well, if you’re ready, let’s go,” she added.

“Are you sure it is all right?” asked Hamish, hesitating.

“You
shall
go to the ball,” said Priscilla with a grin.

Hamish moved closer to her and looked down at her shyly. “You’re looking awf’y pretty tonight, Priscilla.”

Priscilla always dressed in what pleased her and never bothered about the dictates of fashion. She was wearing a leaf-green chiffon blouse with a V-necked frilled collar and a black evening skirt. Her fair hair fell in a smooth line to her shoulders. Her only jewellery was the emerald-and-diamond engagement ring Henry had bought her at Asprey’s. She looked up into Hamish’s eyes and felt strangely awkward and uncomfortable. Up until that precise moment, Priscilla had always been at ease in the policeman’s company. With Hamish, she felt obscurely that she could be herself and that Hamish would always like her no matter what she did. It was that old feeling of undemanding intimacy that had made her stay in the room while he changed his trousers. For the moment that easiness had fled, and Priscilla felt herself beginning to blush.

She took a step backwards and mumbled, “Let’s go.” Aware of Hamish’s curious eyes on her, she scooped up the waiter’s clothes, draped them over her arm, and hurried from the room without looking back to see if he was following her.

When she reached the dining room, she abandoned Hamish to his fate and went to join Henry. He was happily talking to his admirers and, to her relief, had not noticed her absence from the room.

At last she looked over to see how Hamish was faring. The policeman was engaged in conversation with Jeremy Pomfret and the Helmsdales. Priscilla’s parents had been thwarted in their intention of throwing Hamish out by the Helmsdales’ welcome of him. For Hamish took many prizes at shooting contests and Lord Helmsdale was one of his admirers, as was Jeremy Pomfret. Lady Helmsdale did not know Hamish, but she found him a nice, pleasant man with a refreshing air of shyness—unlike that horrible Peter Bartlett, that cad, who had now drunk enough to turn nasty.

Lady Helmsdale was further pleased when Hamish turned out to have intelligent views on the decline of the grouse population. “If the decline continues,” said Hamish, “most of Scotland’s moor owners will hae no alternative but to opt for intensive sheep farming or forestry planting, and that would mean the loss of the heather and the heather accounts for ninety per cent of the grouse. It would also lead to a verra serious loss of sporting income, rural employment, not to mention the tourist revenue.”

Jeremy, encouraged by Hamish’s shy, respectful manner, found courage to air his own views. Hamish listened with half an ear, while he picked up snippets of conversation from other parts of the room. While appearing to attend closely to Jeremy and the Helmsdales, he was indulging that intense Highland curiosity of his to the hilt.

There wasn’t a woman as well-dressed as Priscilla in the room, he thought. Vera was wearing last year’s fashion of slim sheath with three belts. But Vera was plump, and all she had achieved was three spare tyres instead of one. Hamish knew Vera by sight. He did not know Diana, but he thought it was a pity that such a beautiful girl should be dressed in funereal black that was bunched up, Japanese-style, about her middle. The horsy girl beside her, mused Hamish, turning his gaze on Jessica, should surely never have gone in for an orange strapless gown. Every time she moved her shoulders, her bones stuck out in all sorts of odd places.

Jessica and Diana had drawn a little aside from Vera and Peter.

“I wish you would stop staring at me in that smug way and saying how tired you are,” whispered Diana. “If you’ve got one of the gamekeepers into your bed, you should keep quiet about it.”

41

“I would hardly call Peter a gamekeeper,” giggled Jessica.

“What!” Diana almost spluttered with rage. “He was with
me
!”

“He couldn’t have been,” said Jessica. “He was with me.”

Both girls glared at each other and then gradually the anger died out of their eyes to be replaced by a look of mutual consternation.

“He couldn’t be such a bastard. Even Peter couldn’t do that,” whispered Diana. “What time did he call on you?”

“Four in the morning,” said Jessica in a small voice. “He didn’t call on me. I went to him.”

“He told me to visit him at midnight,” said Diana miserably.

Both girls held hands like children and turned and looked at Peter Bartlett. His back was to them and Vera was facing him. They saw her full, pouting lips framing a kiss.

“And guess who was with him in-between-times.” said Jessica. Her eyes filled with tears. She took a step towards the captain.

“Don’t,” said Diana. “Don’t let him know we’ve found him out. Let’s get him for this. I could kill him.”

“I wouldn’t flirt so blatantly if I were you,” Peter Bartlett was saying to Vera. “Freddy might notice.”

Vera’s eyes were soft. “After last night, Peter darling,” she said, “he can notice what he likes. We’re made for each other.”

Peter never knew quite how it happened. A few drinks and he loved the world. A few more and his life seemed full of dead bores. He turned a jaundiced eye on Vera.

“I must say,” he said, “you were certainly the best of last night’s bunch. Lots to be said for middle-aged women with insatiable appetites.”

The smile slowly left Vera’s face as the full implication of what he had said sank in.

“Who else was with you last night?” she demanded. “Oh, darling, you must be joking. There can’t have been anyone else.”

The captain’s black eyes swivelled round to Jessica and Diana and then back to Vera. One eyelid drooped in a mocking wink.

Vera threw the contents of her glass in his face, burst into tears and ran from the room. Her husband saw her stumbling departure and ran after her.

Everyone began to talk very loudly as if nothing had happened.

Hamish had been studying the scene thoughtfully. He saw Priscilla waving to him and excused himself from the Helmsdales and Jeremy and went to join her.

“Henry’s dying to speak to you again,” said Priscilla brightly. She had once more had to reassure Henry that she had no interest whatsoever in the village constable. Henry had finally noticed Hamish’s presence in the room and had accused Priscilla of countermanding her parents’ orders by re-inviting the constable herself. Priscilla had explained the reason for Hamish’s presence, but Henry was still suspicious, although he covered his suspicions very well, and asked her to call Hamish over. He wanted to see the pair of them together again, just to put his mind at rest.

Right behind Hamish came the adoring Prunella Smythe. She was a middle-aged lady wearing a great many bits and pieces. Her hemline drooped. Bits of scarf and thin tatty necklaces hung around her neck. She had a scrappy stole around her thin shoulders with a moth-eaten fringe that had wound itself into the ends of her long dangling earrings.

Called by one and all ‘Pruney’, Miss Smythe’s pale eyes behind her thick glasses looked out on the world with myopic wonder.

Before Henry could speak to Hamish, Pruney launched into full gush. “I cannot tell you enough, Mr Withering, how much I adored your play.”

Peter Bartlett, who had been standing behind them mopping his face with a napkin, turned around. “I never read anything but the
Racing Times
, Henry, but I did hear you’d got your smash hit at last. What’s it about? The evil capitalists?”

“Oh, no,” said Pruney in a rush. “Nothing like that
at all
. It’s the most glorious drawing-room comedy,
quite
like the old days. None of those nasty swear words or”—her voice dropped to a stage whisper “
—sex
.”

“Sounds a bore,” said the captain.

Pruney giggled. “It’s actually quite naughty in bits. I love when the duchess says, “Marital fidelity is so yawn-making.” ”

Henry turned as red as fire. “Shut up!” he said rudely. “I hate it when people quote my play. Shut up, do you hear!”

Pruney’s short-sighted eyes filled with startled tears.

“Nasty Henry,” said Peter in high good humour.

“Come along, Miss Smythe. You shall tell me all about it. I could listen to you all night.”

He led the now gratified Pruney away.

“He can’t even leave Pruney alone,” said Priscilla. “That man’s a menace.”

“He minds me o’ Jimmy MacNeil down in the village,” said Hamish. “That man would lay the cat.”

Priscilla rounded on Henry. “What on earth came over you?” she asked. “There was no need to rip up poor old Pruney like that.”

“How would you feel if you had spent years writing good solid plays and then only been accepted and famous after you’d deliberately produced a piece of twaddle,” said Henry in a hard flat voice. “I can’t even bear a line of
Duchess Darling
.”