Hamish Macbeth Omnibus Read online

  ‘Had,’ said Priscilla. ‘Vera’s dead. Remember?’

  ‘And good riddance,’ said Pruney with sudden venom. ‘She was probably bumped off by one of the servants. She’s the sort of woman who has affairs with servants and milkmen and people of that class. Vera was a murderee.’

  She clutched Priscilla’s arm in a powerful grip. ‘Peter loved me,’ she cried. ‘You do believe me, don’t you? Someone has got to believe me.’

  ‘Is everything all right, Miss Halburton- Smythe?’ came a cool voice from the doorway.

  Pruney gasped and jumped to her feet.

  Hamish Macbeth stood on the threshold.

  ‘I’m just going,’ she squeaked, and scurried out past him.

  Hamish came in and closed the door.

  ‘What was all that about?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, Peter couldn’t leave anything in a skirt alone. He kissed her hand and made poor Pruney think he’d fallen for her. Why are you here?’

  Hamish sat down on the bed, and then yawned and lay down and stretched out. ‘I’m going away,’ he said. ‘I chust wanted to make sure you were all right. I had a feeling you’d still be awake.’

  ‘Henry might have been in here.’

  ‘So he might,’ said Hamish equably. ‘But it wasn’t Henry’s voice I heard.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ said Priscilla, lying down beside him and clasping her hands behind her head.

  ‘Chalmers has decided to try a long shot. He’s got the address of that aunt of Bartlett’s in London and wants me to go and see her.’

  ‘But the police down there could do that, surely?’

  ‘Aye, but he thinks my famous charm might unearth something. We’re getting no farther with the case up here, and things are verra serious. Now, Bartlett got engaged to Diana in London, he ditched Jessica in London. There might be something there, or, failing that, this aunt might know of a further connection between Bartlett and the rest of the guests.’

  ‘How long will you be away?’

  ‘I’m going down on the night train. I cannae get a sleeper in the second class and the police don’t run to first-class fares. I’ll spend the day in London and then come straight back up.’

  ‘I wish you weren’t going,’ said Priscilla in a small voice. ‘I’m beginning to be frightened of everyone, except Mummy and Daddy, and they never were the sort of parents one could talk to, you know. Earlier this evening, Mummy said with tears in her eyes that the only good thing in this whole mess was my engagement to Henry.’

  ‘Well, that is something,’ said Hamish, staring at the ceiling.

  ‘But it’s all going wrong, Hamish,’ wailed Priscilla. ‘I think I’m frigid!’

  Hamish slid a comforting arm about her shoulders. ‘Now, now,’ he said, ‘I am thinking that a couple o’ murders are enough to freeze anyone.’

  Priscilla responded with a choked sob. She buried her head on his chest and began to cry.

  ‘There, now,’ said Hamish, pulling her into his arms and stroking her hair. ‘Once these murders are solved, you’ll be able to see things a bit more clearly.’

  Hamish had a sudden pang of sympathy for Henry. Priscilla was wearing a short scanty nightdress and was pressing against him for comfort. He realized she had absolutely no idea of the effect she was having on him.

  He grimly tried to keep his thoughts on something else as he rocked her like a child and murmured soothing nonsense in her ear.

  ‘I might have guessed,’ said Henry Withering, walking into the room and glaring at the couple on the bed. ‘Give me back my ring, Priscilla.’

  Priscilla started to say something, but Hamish tightened his grip and looked blandly at Henry. Priscilla took off her ring. Hamish took it from her and held it out to Henry, who walked up to the bed and snatched it.

  ‘You’d better think up something to tell your father in the morning,’ said Henry, ‘because he’s going to hear all about this.’

  Priscilla struggled free from Hamish’s embrace. ‘Henry!’ she called desperately. But the slamming of the door was the only answer.

  ‘Now, don’t start crying again,’ said Hamish. ‘You wanted out of that engagement. Didn’t you?’

  Priscilla hung her head. ‘But Daddy’s going to be furious.’

  Hamish swung his long legs off the bed. ‘If you don’t start thinking for yourself,’ he said, ‘you’re going to end up in another mess. I’m sick to death of hearing what Daddy and Mummy would think. You’re a nice girl, Priscilla, but they’ve kept you ower young for your own good. Take my advice and go and wake your father and give him your version. And make sure you put it plainly enough. Henry had every reason to think the worst. What a frustrated man he must be! You’re enough to try the patience of a saint. I am your old friend Hamish. But a village copper has feelings – and eyes – and you’re parading about with practically nothing on.’

  Priscilla snatched up her dressing gown and wrapped it around her. ‘I’m sorry, Hamish,’ she mumbled.

  ‘Aye, well, God knows you’re safe enough with me. Chust make sure you cover up when there’s anyone else around. I’ll be back from London as fast as I can. In the meantime, don’t trust anyone. If you’re that worried, you might try talking to your mother or father as adult to adult and not like a child.’

  ‘Stop patronizing me, Hamish,’ said Priscilla.

  ‘You get back from the world the way you treat the world. You treat me like a big brother. What else do you expect?’

  ‘I expect a little sympathy and understanding. You’re as bad as Henry.’

  ‘Poor Henry. There are times when I think you need a good slap on the bum to bring you to your senses.’

  ‘Oh, get out,’ said Priscilla wearily, ‘and take your so-called charm with you.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  But, Sir, let me tell you, the noblest prospect which a Scotchman ever sees, is the high road that leads him to England!

  – Samuel Johnson

  The crowded train from Inverness to London gave Hamish ample time to reflect on the stoicism of the British. As they chugged their way through the Grampians, the air-conditioning was blasting into the carriage. People rose and put on their coats and sat down again.

  Hamish complained to the guard.

  ‘You’re the only person that’s complaining,’ said the guard sourly. ‘If I were you, I’d gang doon the train and find a compartment with the heat on.’

  ‘But there’s ground frost tonight,’ said Hamish plaintively. ‘Why is the air-conditioning on?’

  ‘Fur the American tourists.’

  ‘Oh, the Americans, is it?’ said Hamish. ‘And here’s me thinking you maybe had the Laplanders or the Eskimos on board.’

  ‘It’s folk like you that make British Rail a failure,’ said the guard obscurely, moving away.

  Hamish sighed and took down his overnight bag and made his way along the train. He was glad he was not in uniform. The last time he had worn his uniform on the London train, the passengers had treated him like a walking tourist office.

  What on earth did the American tourists make of all this? thought Hamish, as he eventually settled into a vacant seat farther down the train. No buffet car and eleven hours to make the journey to London.

  ‘Hello!’ piped a small voice.

  Hamish looked up.

  A boy with a pinched white face was sitting opposite him, clutching a comic. Hamish looked about and then looked back at the child.

  ‘Are you travelling on your own?’ he asked.

  ‘Naw, I’m with them,’ said the boy, jerking his thumb across the aisle where four men were drinking beer and playing poker.

  ‘Which of them’s your dad?’

  ‘None of them,’ said the boy.

  ‘Uncle, then?’

  ‘Don’t know ’em from Adam.’

  Hamish surveyed the white little face and the knowing eyes of the child.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Wee Alec. Alec MacQueen.’<
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  ‘Well, Alec, what are you doing travelling on this train with four men you don’t know?’

  ‘It’s my maw’s idea,’ said Alec. ‘Man, I’m fair sick of the trains.’

  ‘Oh, they’re friends of your mother?’

  ‘Naw.’ Alec put his pointed elbows on the table between them and leaned forward. ‘It’s like this. If you’ve got a Family Rail card and you take a child along, you get a third knocked off the price o’ the fare. Disnae need to be your own child. Anyone’s child’ll do. So my maw tells one who tells the other that if anyone wants to borrow me, they can. She charges five pounds a head for my services,’ said Alec proudly. ‘Then when we get to London, they turn me over to some other blokes who are coming back up. Then I pick up another lot at Inverness and come back down, so’s I can go back up with them ones what I come down with.’

  ‘Are you on your school holidays?’

  ‘Aye, but it disnae matter one way or the other. If she’s got a good fare, my maw takes me off the school.’

  ‘And do you like it?’

  ‘Naw, I hate it,’ said Alec. ‘I want to be in the school with my friends.’

  Hamish looked wildly round the compartment. There were a lot of children on the train. Were they all for hire?

  ‘Would you like me to do something to stop it?’ he asked.

  ‘I would like that fine,’ said Alec. ‘But I don’t want my maw to get in trouble with the police.’

  Hamish opened his mouth to say he was a policeman, and then thought the better of it.

  Nobody seemed to care about education these days. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen a truant officer. He could call on Alec’s mother or report her to the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children, but they were surely overloaded with more dramatic cases of child cruelty.

  He chatted idly to Alec until the child fell asleep, his narrow head and greasy, lank hair rolling with the motion of the train.

  When they arrived in Edinburgh, Hamish left the train and went in search of a phone. He put through a reverse-charge call to Rory Grant on the Daily Chronicle, forgetting it was the middle of the night. But he was in luck. Rory was on night shift.

  ‘What do you want, you great Highland berk?’ came Rory’s voice over the crackling of a bad line.

  ‘I have often wondered how this word “berk” came about,’ said Hamish.

  ‘It’s rhyming slang. Berkeley Hunt.’

  ‘Tut, tut, that’s no’ very nice,’ said Hamish, shocked.

  ‘Did you put through this expensive long-distance call just to ask me the meaning of rude words?’

  ‘No, I have a wee story for you.’

  Hamish told him about Alec, and then finished by saying, ‘I would like to do something to help the boy. He is a kind of Scottish Flying Dutchman, if you take my meaning.’

  ‘It’s a nice human-interest one. Whether they’ll send me to meet the train is another thing. I’m out of favour these days. Didn’t even get sent up on that murder of yours – or murders, I gather, from the stuff coming over on the tapes. But I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll phone the story round for you – there’s that big Scottish Sunday’s got an office in London – and in return I want you to fill me in on some background on the murders.’

  ‘I will do my best,’ said Hamish. ‘I have an appointment later in the morning. If you can meet the train, maybe we can have breakfast somewhere.’

  ‘I’ll try. If not, phone me at home during the day.’

  Hamish ran back to the train and found his seat had been taken by a hot and cross-looking woman. Alec was still asleep. Once more, Hamish collected his overnight bag and went in search of a free seat.

  The only one to be found was back in the freezing compartment. With a sigh of resignation, he pulled another sweater out of his bag, put it on, and settled down and tried to sleep.

  Somewhere after Carlisle, the air-conditioning went off and the heating came on. He arrived in London eyes gritty with sleep and sweating profusely.

  As he got off the train, he looked along the platform and smiled in satisfaction. Rory had done his work well. There were five reporters and three photographers clustered around Wee Alec, who was proudly holding forth, although there was no sign of Rory.

  Hamish went to the Gents and changed into a clean shirt, shaved with an electric razor, parked his bag in a station locker, and went in search of breakfast.

  At ten o’clock, he took the District Line to Chelsea and walked along the Kings Road to Flood Street, where Captain Bartlett’s aunt, a Mrs Frobisher, had a house.

  The air felt very warm, and a brassy sun was shining through a thin haze of cloud.

  Chalmers had promised to phone and warn Mrs Frobisher of his arrival.

  The door to Mrs Frobisher’s home was opened by a dumpy, suet-faced girl dressed in a black off-the-shoulder T-shirt, black ballet tights, and scuffed shoes.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Hamish politely. ‘I am Police Constable Hamish Macbeth of Lochdubh, and I am here to speak to Mrs Frobisher.’

  ‘Get lost, pig,’ said the girl. The door began to close.

  Hamish put his foot in it. ‘Now, what is a beautiful creature like yourself doing using such ugly words?’ he marvelled.

  ‘She don’t want to see you.’

  ‘Miranda!’ interrupted a sharp voice. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s that copper you don’t want to see,’ the girl roared over her shoulder.

  A door in the hallway opened behind her and an elderly lady emerged, leaning on a cane. Her hair was white, and her face criss-crossed with wrinkles.

  She peered around Miranda’s bulk. ‘You don’t look like a policeman,’ she said doubtfully. ‘I received a call from Scotland, saying an officer would call on me and I told whoever it was that I had no wish to see the police again.’

  ‘I can well understand that,’ said Hamish. ‘I’ll try not to take up too much of your time.’

  ‘You seem harmless enough,’ said Mrs Frobisher. ‘Come in. Bring us some coffee, Miranda.’

  The girl sulked off, crashing her fat shoulders off either wall of a narrow passage at the back of the hall.

  ‘Your daughter?’ asked Hamish politely.

  ‘Good heavens, no,’ said Mrs Frobisher, leading the way into a small sitting room on the ground floor. ‘I am much too old to have a daughter of Miranda’s age. Miranda is my maid. I got her from an agency. They send me very strange girls. But then, I don’t suppose anyone in their right mind wants to be a maid these days. Now, what on earth do you want? I’ve talked and talked to policemen about Peter. I don’t think I can add any more.’

  ‘There’s been another development,’ said Hamish, and told her about the murder of Vera.

  ‘Gosh,’ said Mrs Frobisher, sitting down abruptly. ‘What a frightful thing to happen. Are you sure it wasn’t suicide? I always thought that woman was unstable.’

  ‘I think she was killed by someone baking cakes for her with roach powder,’ said Hamish. ‘It’s too nasty and complicated a death for suicide.’

  ‘I met her once,’ said Mrs Frobisher. ‘Peter brought her here. A greedy woman. Greedy for sex, greedy for money. But I think I know who it is who has been committing these murders. It must be Diana Bryce.’

  ‘And why is that?’

  Miranda clumped in with a tray with a pot of coffee and cups, thumped it down, and banged her way out.

  ‘I wasn’t sure when I heard about the shooting. But poison! I could well see Diana doing that. She threw every kind of fit when Peter broke off the engagement. She followed him to a night-club and made the most awful scene. He told me about it. The poor boy was worried, I could see that.’

  ‘You were fond of your nephew,’ said Hamish gently.

  Mrs Frobisher’s old wrinkled face crumpled like a baby’s, and for a moment Hamish thought she was going to cry. But she eased herself to her feet and poured two cups of coffee.

  ‘Yes, very fond,’ she said. ‘H
e was not always so wild, so irrational. He was quite bright at Sandhurst, and seemed set for a good military career. He was always taking up hobbies and then dropping them. I always told him he was turning my home into a graveyard for his abandoned hobbies. There’s his stamp collection, his model airplanes, his computer, his wood carvings, his . . . oh, so many things.’

  ‘I would like to see them, if I may,’ said Hamish.

  ‘His parents died when he was still at school,’ said Mrs Frobisher, her eyes staring past Hamish to days of long ago. ‘I took care of him. I don’t have any children of my own. But after he left Sandhurst, I couldn’t really have him staying here. I’m too old-fashioned and he always brought girls home.’

  ‘Jessica Villiers?’

  ‘No, he hasn’t stayed here since he was a young man. I haven’t heard of her.’

  ‘The Helmsdales? Did he talk of them?’

  She shook her head.

  Patiently, he took her through the names of all the members of the house party. Diana Bryce and Vera were the only names familiar to her.

  Hamish then led the conversation off on to more general subjects, hoping that when he guided her back to Peter Bartlett, she might remember something to give him just one clue.

  She became animated as she talked, and he guessed she was lonely. She asked him to stay to lunch, much to Miranda’s obvious fury.

  They were just finishing a miserable little lunch of cold quiche and limp salad when Mrs Frobisher suddenly said, ‘I’ve just remembered. You mentioned the name of Throgmorton. Sir Humphrey Throgmorton?’

  Hamish nodded.

  ‘I’ve just remembered something about him. He hurt Peter’s feelings very much. Peter called around to his home. Tea, I think it was. Wait a bit. It’s coming back to me. Well, poor Peter broke a cup and saucer by accident, and not only did this Sir Humphrey throw a terrible scene, but he wrote to Peter’s colonel-in-chief and complained. The colonel never liked Peter and this was jam to him. Peter said the old man used it as an excuse to give him the dressing down of a lifetime. Peter said Sir Humphrey was a closet homosexual and as vengeful as sin. Can you imagine anyone making such a fuss over some old china?’