Hamish Macbeth 12 (1996) - Death of a Macho Man (16 page)

“Someone still might be determined to make it one of us.”

Lucia perched on a chair at the counter and took the cup of coffee Priscilla was holding out to her.

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” began Lucia primly, and Priscilla reflected that not only had the beautiful Lucia lost her charming Italian accent but was rapidly assuming the mannerisms of a Scottish village housewife of the gossipy variety, “Hamish Macbeth is going around tormenting everyone and saying this man, Beck, did not murder Duggan but one of us did.”

“And why should he say that?”

“It’s his pride. He’s begun to believe he solved all those past cases himself.”

“He did!”

“We have only his word for it.”

“Oh, no, I was there at some of them, and believe me, if it had not been for Hamish’s brains and Highland intuition, some criminals would still be at large.”

“Willie says there’s another reason.”

“That being?”

“That if it’s Strathbane that’s not convinced that Beck did the murder, then it stands to reason that Hamish should go around accusing one of us.”

“I don’t follow your reasoning.”

“Don’t you see, Hamish is the one who is the most likely suspect. He was the one who was saved from being beaten by Randy because of his death.”

“I know Hamish Macbeth very well,” said Priscilla severely, “and he would never harm anyone, let alone kill him.”

Lucia dropped her long eyelashes and looked thoughtfully at her coffee cup. “I sometimes wonder if any of us really knows Hamish. I mean, I was shocked when I heard he had been found in bed with that Betty woman, and her someone else’s fiancée, too.”

Priscilla reached across the counter and firmly took Lucia’s coffee-cup from her. “I can’t spend any more time gossiping,” she said. “I have work to do.” Lucia picked up her rain hat and put it on. She walked to the door. With her hand on the doorknob she looked over her shoulder. “Poor Priscilla,” she murmured, and then she left.

Priscilla grimly went back to stacking the shelves. Damn the philandering Hamish Macbeth. Because of Lucia’s last remarks about Hamish and Betty, she had forgotten the earlier ones about Hamish’s not believing Beck was the murderer. John and Betty were still at the hotel. They were not due to leave until the end of the following week. She would be glad to see them go.

§

Towards evening, the rain eased off and a watery sun turned the sea loch to gold. Hamish, who had completed some long neglected paperwork, stretched and yawned. He went outside and leaned on the garden gate.

He saw the Currie sisters approaching and wished he could turn and run indoors, but that would show guilt over having been found in bed with Betty, and what he did in his own bed in his own home was his business. Or so he told himself as both approached, with identical shopping baskets over their arms and the pale sun glinting on their glasses.

“You should be ashamed of yourself, ashamed of yourself,” said Jessie, who had an irritating habit of repeating everything.

“What I do in my own bedroom is nothing to do with you.”

“We’re talking about you going round the village throwing suspicion on everyone so you don’t get suspected of murdering that Duggan yourself,” said Nessie.

“What!” Hamish looked every bit as bewildered as he felt.

“Accusing folks, accusing folks,” snapped Jessie.

“You’re the only one that has to worry,” said Nessie. “Weren’t you the one that stood to get a pounding from Randy Duggan and weren’t you the one who was saved by his murder?”

“His convenient murder, his convenient murder,” said Jessie.

“That’s daft,” said Hamish. “And who’s been saying such a thing?”

“It’s self-evident,” said Nessie smugly.

Both sisters moved on.

Hamish stared after them and scratched his head. Now who had been putting that idea into their heads?

He had a sudden sharp longing to see Priscilla, not, he told himself severely, for any romantic reasons, but simply to toss around a few ideas.

He changed out of his uniform into a shirt, sweater and jeans, and drove up to the Tommel Castle Hotel. He parked the Land Rover, and as he was walking across the gravel of the forecourt, Betty came out.

Hamish blushed. “I’m sorry I haven’t called you, Betty,” he said awkwardly, vivid memories of what they had done together rushing into his head. “I did try once, but you were out.”

“That’s all right.” She reached up and kissed him on the cheek. Hamish drew back hurriedly. “Where’s John?”

“Around,” she said carelessly. “Let’s go up to my room and have a…chat.” She wet her lips.

“No, no,” babbled Hamish, backing towards the castle and stumbling as he went. “I’m on business.”

He mopped his brow as soon as he was indoors. He went through to the hotel office where Priscilla was working at a computer. She gave him a closed look but said, “Take a chair and help yourself to coffee. I’ll be through with this in a minute.”

He poured coffee, sat down and watched as she competently typed out hotel accounts. The bell of her fair hair shone golden in a shaft of sunlight. He thought briefly of the dark swarthiness of Betty with a sudden stab of revulsion.

At last, she switched off the computer and said quietly, “Well, Hamish?”

“Well, Priscilla, I’m not going to chew over why I was in bed with Betty. I want to talk about the case.”

“What case?”

“The murder of Randy Duggan, lassie.”

Priscilla’s face cleared. She suddenly remembered all that Lucia had said. “Oh, I heard you didn’t believe Beck did it. It was Lucia who told me.”

Hamish’s features sharpened. “Since when have you been on gossiping terms with Lucia?”

“Since never. She dropped by for a chat, Hamish. She said you were going around saying you didn’t believe Beck had done it, and she said as you were the prime suspect, you were trying to throw suspicion on everyone else, and probably the idea that Beck hadn’t really done it would have come from Strathbane.”

“If it had come from Strathbane, this village would still be crawling wi’ policemen.”

“Of course! Why didn’t I think of that? I’ll put that about and that will scotch that story.”

“Will you?” Hamish looked at her gratefully.

Then he frowned down into his coffee-cup. “I think Willie’s behind this. He probably sent Lucia around to spread the gossip. But why is Willie scared? It wouldn’t surprise me if Lucia fears that Willie might have done it and Willie thinks she might be the guilty party.”

“Do you think that’s possible? I find it hard to believe. Can’t they find out anything about Randy Duggan? If we knew who he was, we would then have a better idea as to why he was murdered and by whom.”

“Nothing that I’ve heard,” said Hamish gloomily. “If it was because he was a criminal and a Scottish criminal, Glasgow would be the place to start. But I’d need to go at my own expense, and money’s a bit low at the moment.”

Priscilla hesitated and then said, “I could lend you the money, Hamish.”

“It’s kind of you, but I’ll manage somehow.”

“What about the bank? You’ve a regular salary. Wouldn’t they advance you something?”

He shook his head. “I’ve an overdraft as it is.”

“Are you fit?”

“Why?”

“There’s a prize for a thousand pounds over at Cnothan games. For hill-running. You used to be champion at that.”

“A thousand pounds! When is it?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Och, all the entries are in.”

“You can still register. Colonel Daicy was telling Daddy that a lot of people were dropping out because of the bad weather.”

Hamish brightened. “I’ll go over to Cnothan and see what I can do. Care for a drive?”

Betty’s coarse laugh sounded from the hall. Priscilla’s face took on a closed look. “I’m too busy.” She switched on the computer again. Hamish left, walking quickly through the reception area. He heard Betty call to him but he rushed out of the castle and leaped into the Land Rover, driving off at such speed that he sent a burst of gravel up against the windows of Priscilla’s office. He found, on reaching Cnothan, that he could still enter, and scraped together the necessary five-pound fee for doing so out of loose change in his pockets. Then he studied the course on a map. It looked gruelling and he wondered dismally whether he would be up to it or not. It ran across boggy tracts of moorland and then straight up the side of towering Ben Loss to the summit, down the other side, back round the flanks, and across the moorland again to the finishing line. But he had a purpose to drive him on. Without that thousand pounds, there would be no money to go to Glasgow, and perhaps the real identity of Randy would remain lost forever along with that of his murderer.

But at my back I always hear

Time’s winged chariot hurrying near

—
Andrew Marvell

P
riscilla told one of the maids early that evening that Hamish Macbeth was to take part in the hill-running at Cnothan the following day, and the maid told the rest of the staff, who told the guests, and so in an hour’s time the news had reached the village of Lochdubh and spread all over the place.

Many were determined to go over to Cnothan to see Hamish run. Ian Chisholm, the local garage owner, got out his carnival-coloured Volkswagon bus, painted bright red and yellow with the remainder of left-over paints to cover the rust, and put up a handwritten poster advertising a service to the Cnothan Highland Games.

The weather was calm and still, with a low sun shining on the waters of the loch. People were standing outside their cottages, gossiping. After the days and weeks of rain, Lochdubh was drying out and coming to life. Old resentments were forgiven and even Hamish’s affair with Betty was forgotten as the villagers prepared to go to Cnothan to cheer their champion to the finishing line. The fact that Hamish was still looking for the murderer of Duggan had mostly been forgotten and was generally put down to a sort of mental aberration on Hamish’s part. Murder had left Lochdubh, and the sun was shining.

Hamish took his kilt out of the wardrobe, but the moths had chewed several holes in it and the pleats badly needed pressing and there was an egg stain near the hem. He took out a pair of shorts instead and a pair of running shoes. Then he put any thought of the race to come firmly out of his head.

It was only when he awoke on the day of the race that he experienced the first real stab of apprehension. He had done no training at all. He was not particularly fit. He could only hope that the other runners were as ill-prepared. Cnothan was one of the small Highland games, not a big event the likes of Braemar.

Archie Maclean called round as Hamish was getting ready to depart. “I chust thought I would tell you,” he said, “that the water bailiff over at the Cnothan estates is entering. His name is Bill French.”

“So?” demanded Hamish impatiently.

“Himself was in the Special Air Service. Fit as a fiddle, made o’wire and steel.”

“These ex-army men let themselves go to seed pretty quickly,” said Hamish.

“Not this one. Heard he can run like the wind.”

“Och, away wi’ ye, Archie. You’re trying to make me scared afore I even get to the starting post.”

“Not me,” said Archie. “My money’s on you, Hamish, and don’t you forget it, and the whole village is turning out to cheer you on.”

And that made Hamish feel worse than ever.

It got even worse. As he moved off in the police Land Rover, the multi-coloured bus full of cheering villagers moved onto the road behind him, along with a long cavalcade of cars, and when the procession reached the gates of Tommel Castle Hotel, it was joined by even more cars. Hamish saw John and Betty and then Priscilla. He had a gloomy feeling that he was going to let everyone down and make a fool of himself into the bargain.

The sun shone remorselessly down and you could see for miles. No hope of the event being cancelled because of mist or rain. When the marquees and flags of the games appeared down in the valley and Hamish through the open window could hear the skirl of the pipes, he began to feel weak and helpless. He would not get near that prize money and he would have no hope of getting to Glasgow. Why had he been so stiff-necked and proud? Why hadn’t he accepted Priscilla’s offer of money?

He drove slowly into the large field reserved for parked cars and climbed down feeling stiff and old. It was because he no longer had a dog, he thought sadly. Towser had loved long walks in the hills.

Priscilla walked over the still-spongy grass to join him. “You don’t look exactly confident,” she said.

“It was a daft idea,” muttered Hamish in a low voice. “I havenae done any training, and there’s an ex-SAS man competing.”

“You could always cancel.”

“What! With the whole village here to see me! Don’t be daft, lassie.”

“Then just think of the money.”

Unluckily for Hamish, the hill-running was the last event of the day. By the time he had watched the piping championships, caber-tossing, pigeon-plucking, ferret-chasing and all the other many activities, his heart was in his running shoes.

But at last the loudspeaker called for the competitors in the hill-running race to go to the starting line. Priscilla felt sorry for Hamish as his long lanky figure in a brief pair of shorts and a T-shirt sloped up to the starting line, where about fifteen tough and fit-looking men were waiting. Hamish took up his position and waited with a dry mouth. “All the best, Hamish!” shouted some Lochdubhite and the rest of the village spectators began to cheer. He gave a limp wave and a weak smile.

They all crouched ready. Silence fell on the crowd. A curlew piped from the hillside. Then the starting pistol fired and they were off, Hamish set himself an easy pace, determined to do his best. He gained a good bit of advantage over the moorland, having run the course years before, knowing which treacherous bogs to avoid. Ben Loss was not a rock climber’s mountain. Family parties often climbed its heathery flanks to picnic on the top. But for men running flat out, it was a gruelling climb. Hamish could feel his bream getting ragged and hear his heart pounding against his ribs, and to each heartbeat a voice cried in his brain, “Failure, failure, failure.” And men, as he reached the summit and started the downward run, he saw the rest were ahead of him, with the powerful man he had earlier identified as Bill French, the water bailiff, leading the pack. All at once, he wanted to give up and sit down in the heather. His pace lagged. Then he decided to give it his best effort. He took a deep breath and prepared to run down that mountain and back across the moor as fast as he could. And then, just as he paused and stooped to retie the lace of one of his running shoes, there was the crack of a rifle from the heather over to his right and a bullet whizzed over his bent head. In a flash he realized that if he stopped any longer to find out who was firing at him, the marksman would take another shot at him. He set off, this time running for his life.