Death of a Glutton (5 page)

‘Aye, you see he made this daft bet with the locals that he could get anyone to eat anything and so they gave him an old wild cat. Not wanting to lose his money, he pretended to you that it was cat, although he actually made it from the best haunch of venison. The trouble is, I gather, he was insulting and threatening.’

‘He was indeed!’

‘Aye, well, there he was telling the others that that wass the only thing he wass ashamed of,’ said Hamish, his accent growing more sibilant, as it usually did when he was upset or embarked on a really stupendous lie. ‘As a matter of fact, he wass telling them that he fair fancied you himself. That wass what wass so disgusting.’

Peta glanced in the mirror and tweaked a curl into place. ‘Of course,’ went on Hamish, ‘I am sure you would rather leave and sue the hotel for the indignity of it all. Mind you, it’s the silly season and these things haff a way of getting into the newspapers …’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t want that,’ said Peta hurriedly. She wanted this nice policeman to go on telling her about how the cook actually fancied her. Her subconscious was grasping that there was a way out of facing up to the fact that she was a compulsive overeater in the way that an alcoholic will blame the coffee and marmalade at breakfast or anything else as a reason for his chronic diarrhoea. Anything is to blame but drink. And in Peta’s case, anything but food.

‘In fact, the silly loon was chust saying about how pretty you wass,’ said Hamish, laying it on with a trowel.

‘You men,’ said Peta. ‘I don’t understand you.’

‘I don’t understand the behaviour of some men myself,’ said Hamish severely. ‘They will go to cruel lengths to attract the attention of some lady, even to the extent of threatening her. The point is this: If Sean apologizes to you, will you let the whole matter drop?’

Peta chewed one chubby thumb and glanced up at the constable. She longed to sue the hotel, or at least get Tommel Castle to pay her something for the indignity. But if she did that, the whole thing might come out, including the fact that she had been gullible enough to think that delicious meal was old wild cat. The newspapers would have a field day.

‘I have been sick,’ she said. ‘Very sick and frightened, too.’

‘Chust let Sean come and apologize to you. A great lady like yourself can surely accept an apology,’ said Hamish humbly.

‘Very well,’ said Peta. She glanced in the mirror again. ‘Goodness, I look a fright.’

As Hamish left, she was reaching for her bag of cosmetics.

‘So far so good,’ said Hamish to Priscilla. ‘She’s prepared to let the matter drop if Sean apologizes. Quick, go into the office and get me his file.’

Once he had the file in his possession, he flicked through it. ‘Check any of this?’ he asked.

‘Mr Johnson’s supposed to do that,’ said Priscilla, ‘but you know how it is up here. You get so desperate for good staff, you don’t care too much about checking up on them.’

Hamish left her and drove quickly down to Lochdubh. Why should such an excellent chef as Sean come all the way to the north of Scotland? He was a townee. He was always making disparaging remarks about Highlanders. So, with any luck, he had a criminal record. No time to check. The longer Peta was left alone, the more she would realize that the tale he had spun her was absolutely ridiculous.

He went straight to the bar and took away the glass that Sean was about to raise to his lips. He faced the others. ‘If any word of what this fool has been telling you gets out, I will sue the lot of you for slander. Come with me, Sean. You’re in bad trouble.’

‘I suppose ah’m fired,’ said Sean sulkily as Hamish led him outside.

‘Not yet. Now listen, you daft gowk. I know you have a criminal record.’

Sean stared at the ground. ‘You have even done a prison term for assault.’

‘A man’s got a right to knock his wife about,’ muttered Sean.

Thank God for Highland intuition, thought Hamish. ‘Look, Sean, I can get you off the hook; otherwise you’ll be down in prison in Strathbane tomorrow morning.’

Sean looked at him pleadingly. ‘Ah’m an artist,’ he said. ‘That wumman is mair than flesh and blood can stand.’

‘Well, you’re going to have to stand it. You’ve got to come back with me and apologize to her and tell her it was a venison casserole, and what’s more, you’ve got to let her think you fancy her.’

‘That great scunner. Aw, go and bile yer heid, Hamish!’

‘The only alternative is prison, and I’ll make sure you get a long stretch.’

Sean stared wildly around. It was still light, for there are only a few hours of semi-darkness in a Highland summer. A pale-green sky stretched across the glassy loch. The air smelled sweetly of peat smoke, for fires were lit even in the hot weather to heat water for washing. A man was rowing out into the bay, phosphorescence from the water dripping like jewels from his oars. A gull was picking its way gingerly along the shore over the oily rocks and glistening seaweed.

Unbalanced as he was, Sean had come to love Lochdubh, although not for one minute would he admit it to anyone. He gave a broken little sigh. ‘All right, ah’ll do it, Hamish. But if there was one way of removing that fat wumman frae this planet and not get caught fur it, I would do it, and gladly, too.’

They drove in silence to the castle. ‘There’s the others,’ said Hamish, seeing the minibus in front of them on the narrow road. He leaned on the horn. Ian stopped in a lay-by and Hamish shot past and disappeared up the drive to the castle in a cloud of dust.

‘Don’t leave me,’ pleaded Sean when they were outside Peta’s door.

‘No, I’m staying with you,’ said Hamish. ‘In you go.’

Peta was reclining in bed. Her face was heavily made up and she was wearing a pink negligee which clashed with her red hair.

Sean sank to his knees on the carpet and babbled out a stammering apology with all the histrionic overacting of the Glasgow drunk which Hamish began to feel might go on forever and Sean hadn’t got to the bit about fancying her. He kicked him with his boot.

‘And tae say all them awful things to a lady as fine and beautiful as yerself,’ mourned Sean. ‘Ah’ll never raise my head again.’

Peta smiled slowly and her recently emptied stomach rumbled. ‘Well, I’m still a teensy bit peckish, so if you’ll just whip me up an omelette or something, I’ll forgive you.’

Hamish jerked Sean to his feet. ‘Good idea,’ he said heartily.

Half an hour later, Peta had consumed a twelve-egg ham omelette with a mound of chipped potatoes and was feeling quite elated. Priscilla had presented her with a bottle of champagne. Priscilla had told Mr Johnson that Peta wrote a column on hotels and restaurants for a glossy magazine and that the staff were to be instructed to be extra attentive to her. She also awarded a thousand-pound prize annually, said Priscilla, to the best hotel servant.

Priscilla then felt uneasily that Hamish Macbeth’s facility for lying was rubbing off on her. She walked out with him to the Land Rover.

‘I can’t begin to tell you how very grateful I am to you,’ said Priscilla. ‘Do you think it’s safe to have Sean around now?’

‘I think he’ll behave himself,’ said Hamish. ‘The man’s a marvellous cook. It’s because he’s a wee runt from Glasgow that his eccentricities seem so sinister. If he worked in a famous French restaurant, he would be regarded as a great character.’

Priscilla held out her hand. ‘Anyway, thanks a lot, Hamish.’

His hazel eyes glinted down at her in the twilight. ‘What about a kiss?’

‘Oh,
Hamish
.’ She smiled and raised her head to kiss him on the cheek but he twisted his head and his lips came down on hers, gentle and warm.

The kiss was very brief but Priscilla felt oddly shaken. Hamish stared at her angrily for a moment and then said abruptly, ‘Call me if there’s any trouble.’

Priscilla stood and watched him go. He drove off very quickly and did not acknowledge her wave.

‘Damn,’ muttered Hamish, staring bleakly through the windscreen. ‘Why the hell did I do that? I don’t want to have to live through all that nonsense again.’

Maria noticed that they were being served breakfast the next morning in a dining room separate from the other guests. All Peta’s fault. And yet the hotel staff were treating Peta like a queen and the chef had come into the dining room twice to ask her humbly if there was anything special he could cook for her. Peta was smiling and beaming with all this attention. She ate surprisingly moderately for her and it soon dawned on Maria that men were now the focus of Peta’s desires. She flirted with Sir Bernard and John Taylor. Her flirtation took the line of rather old-fashioned bawdy jokes about what the bishop had said to the actress. Only Crystal laughed. Crystal, too, was being very attentive to her aunt. Her new hair-style made her look as if she had been caught in a high gale, but her somewhat characterless face was as fashionably beautiful as ever. She was wearing very brief shorts with high-heeled sandals.

Maria, regretting that the pre-arranged programme meant that the party could not get off early and escape Peta, rose to her feet. ‘You will see from your programmes,’ she said, ‘that we are planning a visit to the theatre in Strathbane this afternoon, although we will leave late in the morning and have a packed lunch on the bus. It is a Scottish comedy show and I hope you will all enjoy it.’

‘Will the theatre be air-conditioned?’ asked Sir Bernard, who was already sweating in the close heat.

‘I doubt it. I don’t even know a London theatre that’s air-conditioned.’

Mr Johnson came in with a fax and handed it to Peta. She read it. ‘It’s from my accountant,’ she said, beaming all round. ‘Do you know, Maria, I am now worth three million.’

‘Three million
pounds
,’ exclaimed Sir Bernard.

‘Exactly,’ said Peta.

‘But that’s extraordinary. Surely a share in a matrimonial agency can’t bring in that sort of revenue.’

‘No, sweetie, a rich husband who left me the lot and a good stockbroker.’

Sir Bernard gave her a calculating look. Three million. He was rich, but never too rich not to want more. He could expand his business with a dowry like that. And with the way she ate, she wouldn’t live long.

John Taylor felt shaken. He’d always thought of men having a lot of money, but not women. Peta was surely nearly past the age of child-bearing. She must be … what … forty-five? And yet, three million. If he married her, that three million would become his, or rather, he would see to that. Then what would his son and daughter think when he died and left the lot elsewhere? Of course, the full impact would be spoilt if he died before Peta, but she couldn’t live long. That bulk of hers must be a terrible strain on the heart.

Three million, thought Matthew Cowper. I could buy a stately home with that and entertain the chairman and his wife and see their eyes pop out. I could have a Rolls to drive to work. Dammit, I could have a chauffeur. Peta looked a freak. But being married to a freak in a stately home was different from being married to a freak in a small bungalow. She would be considered Falstaffian and eccentric.

Of the men, only Peter Trumpington remained unmoved.

This is awful, thought Jenny Trask. Those men are all looking at her in such a horribly calculating way. They’re all rich. Well, Matthew Cowper, I gather, has simply got a good salary, but greed is stamped on their faces. In fact, we’re all greedy in one way – for romance, for money, for love. I wish Peta hadn’t said that about her millions. Deborah, Jessica, and Mary are looking as if they could kill her.

Crystal was leaning back in her chair, her cloud of artistically tangled hair shielding her expression. Jenny wondered what she was thinking and whether she had accompanied her aunt to the Highlands with a view to becoming Peta’s legatee. As they rose to go, however, Crystal said languidly that she had a lot of things to do and would not be going with them.

On the bus there was a scramble by Matthew, John and Sir Bernard to sit next to Peta. Matthew, being the youngest and most agile, got there first.

But at the theatre, it was John who succeeded in manoeuvring himself into a seat next to Peta by dint of buying her a large box of chocolates. The party were not all seated together, the seats being in twos throughout the auditorium. The noisy Scottish show ran its course, finishing up with a chorus line of small Scottish girls kicking their height in short tartan kilts to the wheezy music of the Strathbane Workers’ Pipe Band.

Sir Bernard managed to secure the seat next to Peta on the journey home. Deborah sat next to Jenny in silence. She had lost her exuberant spirits. Only Peter Trumpington and Jessica Fitt seemed happy as they sat together at the back, an odd couple, the handsome man and the grey woman.

Maria found her hands were shaking. Peta had probably arranged for that fax to arrive. The week was turning out a total disaster.

If only Peta would die.

That evening at dinner, Peta again ate very little and cracked jokes, and John and Matthew and Sir Bernard seemed to be vying with each other as to who could laugh the loudest.

After dinner, at nine o’clock, Peta suddenly announced she was going up to bed, and Crystal, like a beautiful shadow, followed her out. Deborah was not talking to Sir Bernard. She said she was going out for a walk. Mary French said something nasty about yuppies and said she had found the castle library and was going to retire there, books being better than men any time. John Taylor said he was going to bed. He was old and the day had been exhausting. Matthew went out for a walk, remarking that the light nights meant one could take a walk any hour of the day. Sir Bernard said he would accompany him and Matthew said nastily he preferred his own company, so Sir Bernard set out to go for a walk on his own.

Jenny asked Priscilla if she could borrow one of the castle cars. ‘Of course,’ said Priscilla. ‘Come into the office, I have to take the number of your driving licence before you go.’

Once she had written down the number, Priscilla said, ‘You’ll find the keys in the ignition. Car theft is one crime that hasn’t reached Lochdubh yet. Where are you going?’

‘Just a drive down to the village.’