Hamish MacBeth 06 (1991) - Death of a Snob (4 page)

Harriet led kim into a sterile-looking kitchen where everything gleamed white under strips of fluorescent light.

“I bet it’s herb tea,” said Hamish, looking gloomily about.

“No, real tea. I’ve been in charge of the kitchen while Jane’s been away.” Harriet opened a cupboard and took down a canister of tea and then plugged in an electric kettle.

“Never tell me Jane does all her own cooking,” Hamish said more in hope of being contradicted than anything else.

“Not while the hotel is running.” Harriet heated the teapot and spooned in tea-leaves. “Women come in during the day to do the cleaning and make the beds. But for us, her friends, she does do the cooking.”

“Health stuff?” asked Hamish.

“Well, yes, but you only have to suffer for the next few days. I’m doing a traditional Christmas dinner, and, of course, tonight’s dinner,”

“Which is?”

“Very simple. Sirloin steak, baked potato, peas and carrots, salad. Before that, soup; and after that, butterscotch pudding.” She filled the teapot.

“And were you all friends before you met up here?”

“No,” said Harriet. “We’re all new to each other. In fact, I was very surprised to get Jane’s invitation. We’re not that close. I felt I was putting on too much weight—oh, about four years ago—and went to a health farm in Surrey. Jane was there, slim as ever, but finding out how a health farm was run. We talked a lot and then met once or twice in London for lunch. How did you meet her?”

“I’m a friend o’ a friend o’ hers,” said Hamish. “That’s all. I had nowhere to go this Christmas and she asked me along.”

The grey eyes regarding him were shrewd. “And that’s all? You’re not Jane’s latest?”

“Hardly,” said Hamish stiffly, “with her husband present.”

“Her ex-husband. But that wouldn’t stop Jane. Anyway, she’s made a go of things here. Of course, she imports a lot of staff during the tourist season, chef, masseur, waitresses, the lot. The Todds, that’s Heather and Diarmuid, were paying guests, and so they’re now here as non-paying friends. The same with the Carpenters.”

“More like acquaintances than friends.”

“Exactly. Off with you. I’ve got to prepare dinner.” Harriet took down a tray and put teapot, cup and saucer, sugar and milk on it, handed it to Hamish, and shooed him out.

Hamish returned to the lounge, carrying the tray. He was feeling much more cheerful. He liked Harriet Shaw.

But no sooner had he taken off his sports jacket and tie, for the room was hot and there did not seem to be any rigid dress code, and established himself in an armchair, than Heather Todd bore down on him and stood over him, her hands on her hips. “Are you a Highlander?” she demanded.

“Yes,” said Hamish, carefully pouring tea and determined to enjoy it.

She threw back her head and laughed. It was a copy of that laugh of Jane’s, which always sounded as though Jane herself had copied it from someone else.

“A Highlander, and yet you are prepared to contribute to the rape of your country.”

Hamish’s eyes travelled up and down her body with calculated insolence. “Right now, I’ve never felt less like raping anyone or anything in ma life.”

Heather snorted, and one sandalled foot pawed the carpet. “What of the Highland clearances?” she demanded.

“That wass the last century.”

“Burning the poor Highlanders’ houses over their heads, driving them out of their homes to make way for sheep. And now it’s trees!”

“I hivnae heard o’ one cottager being turned out to make way for a tree,” said Hamish, trying to peer round her tightly corseted figure to see if Jane or anyone else looked like coming to his rescue.

“What have you to say for yourself?” Heather was asking.

“What I haff to say,” said Hamish, his suddenly sibilant accent betraying his annoyance, “is that when the Hydro Electric board was burying whole villages under man-made lakes, your sort never breathed a word. Now that it iss politically fashionable to bleat about the environment, it’s hard for folks like me to believe you give a damn.”

Heather did not listen to him. He was to learn that once launched, you could say what you liked, she never heard a word. Irritated, he rose and pushed past her and sat on the other side of the room.

He was joined by John Wetherby. “I could kill that woman,” said John. “Pontificates from morning till night.”

“Well, maybe her husband will do the job for you.” Hamish looked longingly at the tea he had been forced to abandon.

“Him! That wimp. Have you seen him pass a mirror? He stops dead-still and gazes longingly at himself like a man looking at a lover.”

“Let’s talk about something else,” said Hamish. “What brought you here?”

“I am Jane’s ex-husband.”

“Aye, just so, but what brought you?”

“Oh, I get you. I couldn’t believe she’d made such a go of things. When we were married, she was always full of harebrained schemes to make money. That’s how I got her to agree to a divorce. I said I would put up the money for this place if she agreed. I thought she would be back after a year, asking me to bail her out, but not a bit of it.”

“And weren’t you embarrassed about seeing her again…after the divorce, I mean?”

He gave a cackle of laughter. “You don’t know Jane. Have you heard her psycho-babble yet? There’s not one idea in that head of hers that doesn’t come straight out of a woman’s magazine. An article on ‘How to Be Friends With Your Ex’ was one she enjoyed a lot. Are you the latest amour? She occasionally liked a bit of the rough stuff.”

Hamish was too amazed to feel insulted at this bit of blatant snobbery. “Did she have affairs when you were married?”

“Yes, she said we had become sexually stagnant and went out to experiment.” His voice grew reflective. “It was that hairy truck-driver I couldn’t take.”

Hamish gave John Wetherby a prim look of startled disapproval and rose and moved away. The Carpenters, surely, would be safe company. Sheila was reading a book and Ian was sipping a large whisky and smiling vaguely at nothing.

He sat down next to Ian. “Topping place,” said Ian, looking around.

“I hear you’re a farmer,” said Hamish. “Funny, I wouldn’t have thought farmers would go to health farms. Although, come to think of it, maybe that’s not true. I just had a vague idea that perhaps health fanatics went in for it.”

Ian patted his round stomach complacently. “Sheila keeps up with all the fads. We each lost five pounds when we were here in the summer. Of course, we put it all back on again the week we got home. Didn’t we, sweetie?”

“Mmm?” Sheila was buried in a book with a pink cover called Love’s Abiding Passion. Her lips were moving slightly and she was breathing heavily through her nose.

And then Heather was before them. “What are you reading, Sheila?” she demanded. Sheila gave a little sigh and held up the book so that Heather could read the tide.

“My dear, dear Sheila,” said Heather, shaking her head. “Surely you can find something better than that pap?”

“It’s a marvellous book,” said Sheila, her fat cheeks turning pink.

Heather suddenly snatched it out of Sheila’s hand and flicked over the pages and then gleefully read aloud.

“There was a tearing sound and the thin silk cascaded at her feet. He thrust his hot body against her naked one and she could feel his aroused masculinity bulging against her thigh.”

I ask you, Sheila, how can you bear to read a book like that?”

Sheila snatched it back and heaved herself out of the sofa and waddled from the room. Her husband stood up and glared at Heather. “It’s better than the works of Marx any day.”

“It would considerably improve your wife’s mind to read Karl Marx.”

“Yah!” said Ian. “What d’you lot think about the fall of Communism in Eastern Europe, hey?”

“That was not real Communism,” said Heather; “Real communism…”

“Stuff it, you old crow,” said the farmer and left the room with the same waddling walk as his wife. Hamish felt like running after him and shaking his hand.

Before Heather could speak to him again, he darted for the door and let himself out into the night. The high wind of earlier in the day had descended to ground level and was tearing and shrieking and moaning along the shore, where seals lay at the edge of the crashing waves, their curious eyes gleaming pink from the neon sign of The Happy Wanderer.

The wind was cold. Hamish wished he had remembered to put on his jacket. Priscilla often called him a moocher. He hugged his thin body against the bite of the wind. He should have stayed where he was in Lochdubh. He could imagine someone saying they would like to strangle Jane, but no one would really think of doing it. There was not enough real about the woman to encourage great love or great hate. And that marriage of hers! When John had been talking about that truck driver, Hamish had felt slightly sick.

His cold would get worse if he stayed outside. He walked back in. Jane was standing talking to Heather. Heather was not hectoring Jane about anything but looking at her with open-mouthed admiration and hanging on every word.

“Is there a telephone?” Hamish asked Jane.

“There’s one in my office you can use. It’s over there,” said Jane, pointing to a door on the right of the lounge.

Hamish walked over to where she had pointed. A ceramic sign on the door said ‘Jane’s Office’ and was decorated by a wreath of painted wild flowers.

The office was strictly functional; large steel desk, steel filing cabinets, two easy chairs for visitors.

Hamish sat behind the desk, picked up the phone and dialled Tommel Castle, now called Tommel Castle Hotel. He recognised the voice of Mary Anderson, a local girl, who operated the hotel switchboard. “Can I speak to Priscilla?” he asked.

“Herself is not back,” said Mary. “She went to Rogart.”

“Is the storm bad?” asked Hamish, trying to blot out pictures of a car upended in a blizzard by the side of the road with a woman and a dog lying beside it.

“Oh, it’s real bad. That’s Hamish, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Has she phoned?”

“No, but they got it worse over there than here, so folks are saying. Maybe the lines are down.”

Hamish thanked her, put down the receiver, then lifted it again and dialled his parents’ home.

His mother answered. “Is Priscilla there?” demanded Hamish, his voice sharp with anxiety.

“Aye, she’s here. But you cannae talk to her, son.”

“Why?”

“The poor lassie’s still fast asleep by the fire. My, Hamish, she used to be the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, and now she’s nothing but skin and bone. She cannae leave. She’ll need to stay the night. I’ll let her sleep a bit and then give her a good supper and put her to bed.”

“Have you the room?”

“Och, yes, we’ll put a cot bed in the girls’ room. How’s yourself?”

“I’m just fine.”

“Is it a grand place?”

“Well, it’s a health farm, sort of mock-Spanish villa.”

“On Eileencraig! My, my.”

“Dinner,” called Jane, putting her head round the door.

“I’ve got to go, Ma,” said Hamish quickly. “I’d phone tomorrow.”

He said goodbye and sat for a moment looking at the phone. What on earth would the elegant and fastidious Priscilla make of his noisy, easygoing family?

He rose then and went out through the lounge to the dining-room. It was panelled in pine wood. Several small tables had been put together to make a big one and it was covered by a red-and-white-checked cloth and decorated with candles in wine bottles. A stag’s head ornamented one wall, and Hamish noticed to his surprise that it was fake. He hadn’t known that such a thing existed. Jane probably did not approve of bits of real animal being used, hence the fake head and the synthetic skins on the lounge floor.

Dinner was excellent and Hamish could only be glad that he was seated between the Carpenters and therefore protected by their bulk from Heather. Also, to his relief, conversation at dinner was innocuous. Jane was explaining that they would all go for a walk along the shore in the morning and then, after lunch, take a walk inland while there was still some light. Hamish enjoyed the excellent meal washed down with some good claret. He began to feel mellow. It was not going to be such a disaster after all. But he should show some gesture toward earning his keep.

As soon as dinner was over, he asked Jane to show him that bathroom heater.

Jane let him into her bedroom, through a door emblazoned with the legend “Sir Walter Scott.” It was furnished pretty much the same as the one allotted to Hamish, except that there were two bookshelves stuffed with women’s magazines instead of one.

He went into the bathroom and examined the heater carefully and then stood back and looked at the ceiling.

There was a patch of damp and black mould beginning to form on it. He was sure the builder had been right and that the heater had fallen off the wall because of the damp. In feet, probably the whole structure of the health farm needed to be treated for damp, but to tell Jane that at this early date would make him feel more of a fraud than he was and so he murmured non-committally that he would take another look at it on the following day, and that he would probably start his investigations by going to see Mrs. Bannerman.

Jane stood very close beside him. “I see what Priscilla means,” she said. “You are very competent.”

Hamish shied and took a nervous step back.

“How did you meet Priscilla?” he asked.

“It was at a party in London,” replied Jane. “Such a boring party, we decided to leave early and went to a bar for a drink and got talking. We had a few lunches after that.”

“And when did you last see her?”

“About three years ago, and then I heard this summer that her father had gone bust and turned the castle into an hotel.”

Hardly a friendship, thought Hamish. “Shall we join the others?” he said, easing around her and making for the door.

Jane looked a little disappointed but followed him out. “Pity,” she murmured. “I’ve never had a policeman before.” Or rather, that’s what Hamish thought she’d said.

The rest of the guests were back in the television lounge and grouped around the set. It was a talk show. A famous film star told everyone how he had got off the booze, and he was followed by a famous romantic novelist.