Death of a Dreamer (24 page)

He was just leaving the shoe shop when he saw Robin Mackenzie on the other side of the street. Hamish hailed her. ‘I thought you were in Inverness.’

‘I came up to get the last of my stuff. I was just taking a last look round,’ said Robin.

‘What about lunch?’

‘All right. There’s quite a good Chinese here.’

Inside the restaurant, Hamish asked her, ‘How do you think you’ll get on in Inverness?’

‘It’s not too bad. Better than Strathbane. I know I did the wrong thing, Hamish, but so did Daviot, and the way he got on his moral high horse makes me sick.’

‘Aye, but the man’s at that dangerous middle age, and when a young woman like you throws herself at him, he’s easy prey.’

‘Never mind. Tell me all about the case.’

Hamish talked as they ate. When he finished, Robin asked, ‘So what happened to Effie’s mobile phone?’

‘I don’t know. You should still have been on the case. Went right out of my head.’

‘All you need to do is get the number and ring it. The battery might still be working.’

‘I may do. But what’s the point? Betty will never go to trial now.’

‘Why?’

‘She hanged herself with her tights in her cell.’

‘Saves a trial.’

They finished their meal. Robin said, ‘If you’re ever down in Inverness, give me a call.’ She took a card out of her handbag. ‘That’s my new number.’

‘Thanks. I will.’

Hamish stopped off at the Tommel Castle Hotel on the way back.

‘I’m right sorry, Hamish,’ said Mr Johnson. ‘How was I to guess that a woman like Betty Barnard was a murderess?’

‘It’s over now. How’s business?’

‘Not very good. Cancellations coming in every day.’

‘Let me think.’

Hamish slumped down in an armchair on the other side of the manager’s desk and closed his eyes. He was silent so long that Mr Johnson finally asked, ‘Have you fallen asleep,
Hamish?’

Hamish opened his eyes. ‘This is a fake castle, right? Built in Victorian times, but it looks spooky. You need a ghost. People love ghosts.’

‘Now, how do we get a ghost?’

‘We need someone who was killed here in the nineteenth century or someone who committed suicide. You tell the staff the plan. They won’t want to be laid off because of lack of
customers, so they’ll play along. I’ll see Matthew Campbell, when you’re ready and start the ball rolling. Then what about murder weekends?’

‘Hamish, what are you talking about?’

‘Some hotels have murder weekends. You get a sort of Agatha Christie script. Everyone dresses up in twenties or thirties clothes and takes a part. They’ve all got to guess who the
murderer is.’

‘Could be an idea.’

‘Get on the Internet and find out where they do it and what they charge.’

‘I don’t know if Colonel Halburton-Smythe will agree to the idea.’

‘He may not, but Priscilla will. She’s coming back to live here.’ Hamish’s hazel eyes glowed.

And you’ll get hurt all over again, thought the manager. Aloud, he said, ‘That’s good. She’s a grand worker. What are you going to do now? Take a holiday?’

Hamish opened his mouth to say he was going to New York and closed it again. Priscilla was coming home, and he wanted to be in Lochdubh when she arrived. But that’s not for a month, said a
voice in his head. Plenty of time to go to New York.

I can’t leave my animals, he thought, relieved to find a genuine excuse. No one in the village would look after Sonsie.

‘Hamish, your lips are moving, but no sound is coming out.’

Hamish blushed. ‘Sorry, I was thinking. I’ll take some time off just to potter around and relax.’

Back at the police station, there was an urgent message from the minister, Mr Wellington, asking Hamish to call at the manse.

He went round to the kitchen door at the back, knowing the front door was hardly ever used.

Mr Wellington let him in. ‘I have a problem of conscience,’ began the minister.

‘I’m surprised you can’t cope with it yourself.’

‘Sit down.’

Hamish sat at the kitchen table. The manse kitchen was a large gloomy room dating from the days when there would be at least six servants living in at the manse.

‘It’s like this,’ said Mr Wellington. ‘Jock Fleming called on me. He wants me to remarry him to his ex-wife. I do not wish to do it.’

‘Why?’

‘Because his presence in this village brought murder with it. I feel it should have been my Christian duty to marry him, and yet I could not. I asked him if he believed in God and Jesus
Christ, and he laughed and said, “No more than you do. I’m like the rest of Scotland. Church is for births, marriages and deaths.”’

‘You did the right thing. I want the man out of here as well. Tell you what. I’ll go and see them and speed them on their way.’

Hamish drove to Cnothan, taking his pets with him. At the caravan park, he was told that Mrs Fleming had left but that Mr Fleming was staying on.

Hamish drove into the village of Cnothan. He braked to a halt when he saw Jock. The artist was talking to one of the local girls, Fiona Crumley. As Hamish watched, Jock bent forward and
whispered something in Fiona’s ear, and she blushed and giggled.

He got out of the Land Rover. ‘A word with you, Jock.’

‘See you later,’ said Fiona.

Hamish watched her go and then said, ‘I want you out of here, Jock. I warned you.’

‘I like it here. You can’t force me to go.’

‘Shouldn’t you be back with Dora? I hear you wanted to marry her.’

‘Och, that was just to keep her quiet. I got rid of her by telling her to go to Glasgow and find a minister.’

‘Why the church? Why not a registry office?’

‘Dora wants a white wedding.’

‘I’m warning you for the last time. Get the hell off my beat.’

Jock laughed and walked away. Hamish set off down the main street in pursuit of Fiona. He caught up with her at the loch side – that grim black loch man-made by the Hydro Electric
Board.

‘A word of warning for you,’ said Hamish. She looked at him round-eyed. ‘Keep clear of Jock Fleming. I think you should know he’s got syphilis. Oh, he’ll swear he
hasn’t, but I’d hate to see a lassie like you catching a nasty sexual disease.’

‘Thanks, Hamish. He seemed so nice.’

‘And warn your friends.’

The news of Jock’s fictional syphilis spread like fire in the heather out from Cnothan and across to Lochdubh. Hamish was lucky that no one actually confronted Jock with the fact that he
had the disease. They simply shunned him. He was told his caravan was needed for a pre-booking and no other van was available. Shops refused to serve him. Hamish was relieved when he finally got
the news that Jock had left.

Hamish thought several times about phoning Elspeth but each time couldn’t muster up the courage. After all, what could he say? He had no right to string her along. But
wasn’t he as bad as Effie, getting excited about Priscilla coming back? Wasn’t he a fantasist as well?

His spirits were dampened somewhat by an unexpected visit from Colonel Halburton-Smythe. The fussy little colonel walked into the kitchen one morning when Hamish was washing up dirty dishes. He
sat down at the table unasked and looked around him.

‘To think my daughter might have been living here,’ he said.

Hamish stacked the last clean dish on the rack and leaned against the counter. He wondered if all retired military men who insisted on being addressed by their army rank were as infuriating and
pompous as Priscilla’s father.

‘Did you come to criticize my home?’ he asked.

‘I came about this idea you put up to Johnson. It’s mad.’

‘What’s mad about it?’

‘Ghosts and murder. Haven’t we had enough real murder in Lochdubh already without manufacturing fictional ones?’

‘So don’t do it. Lose customers. What do I care?’

‘Don’t be so hasty. Tell me about it.’

So Hamish patiently described his ideas. The colonel studied him after he had finished with shrewd little eyes. ‘Wouldn’t such an idea bring in the riff-raff?’

‘Not if you charge enough. Tell me, at country house parties, don’t they still dress up and play charades?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, there you are. People love dressing up. If you ferret around in the trunks in the storage room, you’ll probably find enough thirties and twenties clothes to save you buying
any.’

‘I’ll think about it.’

‘What about the ghost? Any murdered people in the castle’s past?’

‘In the early part of the twentieth century, the then Lord Derwent killed his wife. A maid witnessed him throwing her down the stairs. It never went to court, and the maid was paid
off.’

‘There you are. The ghost of Lady Derwent haunts the castle, crying for justice.’

‘So I need to pay someone to play the ghost and keep their mouths shut?’

‘No, then they’d all know it wasn’t real. I know someone who could fix up ghostly effects for you.’

‘I’ll think about it. Horrible business about that artist having syphilis, and to think he was painting my daughter! I’ll be off.’

‘Aren’t you going to thank me for my great ideas?’

‘Oh, they are a bit ridiculous. But thank you for trying.’ He marched out.

Later that day, Hamish did not know whether to be amused or furious when Mr Johnson said that the colonel had gathered the staff together to tell them about ‘his’ great ideas for a
ghost and murder weekends.

That evening, Gloria Addenfest called on Hamish. ‘Came to say thanks,’ she said. ‘I’m off to the States. I’m glad it’s all over. Funny. I
liked that Barnard woman. I thought she was the only one around that was any fun. All goes to show what a great judge of character I am. I even asked her to visit me in New York.’

‘She fooled us all,’ said Hamish heavily.

‘Here’s my card anyway. You can come and stay with me any time.’

After she had left, a voice nagged in his head that he should go. Priscilla would be as distant as ever. But what would he do with his cat?

His next caller was Jimmy Anderson.

‘Tell me, Jimmy,’ said Hamish, opening a bottle of whisky and putting it in front of the detective, ‘did Betty say anything at the subsequent interview about what she did with
Effie’s mobile phone?’

‘Didn’t ask her. Doesn’t matter now. What’s this rumour going around that Jock has syphilis?’

‘I put it about to get rid of him. His wife had left, and he was already chatting up some young girl in Cnothan. I hope that’s the last we ever see of him. He’ll always bring
trouble.’

‘I hear you went to visit Blair,’ Jimmy said.

‘How did you find out?’

‘He phoned up drunk and weepy and said nobody had bothered to find out how he was except Hamish Macbeth.’

‘The old scunner. I took him a bottle of whisky. He grabbed it from me and slammed the door in my face. It’s a wonder that man isn’t dead.’

‘I think God keeps him on this earth to remind us that suffering purifies the soul.’

Hamish poured himself a small measure of whisky. ‘I saw Robin in Strathbane.’

‘How’s Auld Iron Knickers getting on?’

‘Fine. She likes Inverness.’

‘Someone said, mind you, and if you can believe this, that they had seen Robin down in Inverness arm in arm with Daviot.’

Hamish manufactured a laugh. ‘Now, that really is daft. Daviot, of all people.’

‘That’s what I said. So are you going to take your holiday now?’

‘Starting as soon as possible. Like now.’

‘So where are you going?’

‘Och, I’m chust staying here,’ said Hamish awkwardly.

‘You know, every time I drive into peasantville, I look to see what the hell it is that keeps you here, but I’m blessed if I can.’

‘Never mind. Make that your last whisky this evening. One of these days you’re going to run off the road.’

‘All right, mother.’ Jimmy swallowed his whisky. ‘Here’s hoping we never have to cope with another murder again.’

Hamish was in Patel’s shop the next morning when Angela came up to him. ‘Have you seen the
Bugle?’

‘No, why?’

‘Jock’s been shot. Elspeth’s written the story.’

Hamish bought a copy of the newspaper and went outside and sat on the waterfront wall.

Jock had been shot dead in his flat. Neighbours heard the shot. They found his flat door open and Jock lying dead on the floor. Police said that Jock Fleming owed considerable sums of money to
loan sharks to pay for his gambling debts, and they felt that was the reason he was killed. Then there was an inside feature, also by Elspeth, about Jock’s connection to the murders in
Lochdubh. The article ended by saying that it was reported that prices of his paintings had doubled.

Hamish wondered for a moment whether Dora had decided she’d had enough of Jock’s philandering but then came to the conclusion that probably one of his loan sharks had wiped him
out.

He pottered about for the rest of the day, feeling the peace of Lochdubh beginning to seep into his bones. In early evening, just as the sun was setting, he decided to go for a walk along the
beach.

The air was clear and slightly cool. Thin wisps of cloud trailed the sky above, heralding a change in the good weather.

And then as he looked along the beach, he saw a heron, standing on the flat rock where Betty had stood, looking down into the water.

As he approached, it slowly turned its head and looked at him.

He experienced a sudden superstitious shiver of fear. He ran towards it, waving his arms and shouting, ‘Go away. Shoo!’

The bird lazily opened its great wings and sailed off down the loch in the direction of the Atlantic.

Hamish Macbeth watched it until it was out of sight.

In Brighton, businessman George Bentinck had just returned from working in South Africa. He was expected to attend a Rotary Club dinner, and he wanted a female companion to
take along. His wife was dead, and he didn’t want to sit at the table where all the other men would be flanked by their wives or companions.

He phoned various lady friends, but all said they were too busy. He looked through his address book again. Then he saw the name Effie Garrard. He remembered her as a plain little woman he had
met at a gallery opening. She had insisted on him writing down her mobile phone number. He had been too busy in South Africa to read any newspapers and was blissfully unaware of murder in the north
of Scotland.