Death of a Glutton hm-8 Read online

  “I haff it here,” said Ian triumphantly. “Three pounds a stick,” It had cost him one pound and fifty pence a stick in Patel’s store in Lochdubh, but he felt his foresight deserved a profit. The bus then rumbled on, with Ian occasionally making up a story about some feature of the passing landscape.

  Maria began to relax. It was all very sad and annoying about Peta. She had been such a jolly and likeable woman in the past. She had enjoyed her food, but in reasonable quantities. But gradually she had begun to stuff herself, and the more she stuffed, the more her personality had undergone a change, becoming a mixture of vanity, arrogance, and bad temper. It was as if, thought Maria, food was some sort of mind-altering drug. Maybe it was. She had read somewhere something about Overeaters Anonymous. But it was the fashion to psychoanalyse people these days and it was all so tiresome and irritating, as if one could no longer be allowed the luxury of disliking someone. If Peta had a problem about food, then it was Peta’s job to do something about it.

  There was no doubt, thought Maria with feeling, that Peta’s perpetual interference in the business was beginning to affect her, Maria’s, judgment. Take this lot, she thought, twisting her neck round to look at them. Who would have thought of such unlikely combinations? No – she gave herself a mental shake – she was not losing her grip, Peta or no Peta. It was something to do with this weird place and landscape. Introduce the same bunch of people to each other at a London cocktail party and they would not have paired off in the same way.

  ♦

  Sean, the cook, shouldered his way into the bar in Lochdubh, which opened early to cater for the fishermen. He was not in the best of moods, to say the least, and the ribbing he got from the customers about ‘thon great fat wumman up at the castle’ made his temper worse.

  “All ma art gone bust,” he said in a strong Glasgow accent. “I could put shite down in front o’ that bitch and she would shovel it down. I could get her to eat anything.”

  Archie Maclean’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “Could ye get her to eat this? Dougie brought it in. He didnae shoot it. Found it dead. Died o’ auld age if you ask me.” He opened a sack and dragged out a dead wild cat, a great beast with mangy-looking fur. From the rank smell of it, it had been dead several days.

  “Course,” sneered Sean. “Told you I could get her tae eat anything.”

  Archie winked at the others. “Put your money where your mouth is, Sean.”

  “Whit?”

  “Serve this cat up tae her the night and if she eats the lot, I’ll pay ye ten pound.”

  The others began to press their bets.

  “I’ll dae it,” said Sean. He shoved the cat back in the sack and then heaved the sack over his shoulder.

  “Hey, wait a bit,” said one of the fishermen. “And how is we tae know whether the fat wumman ate it or no’?”

  “Archie here can come up and sit in the dining room,” said Sean. “She’s frightened the other guests awa’, so nobody’ll notice.”

  ♦

  The clients of Checkmate strolled along the waterfront at Ullapool, scrubbing their faces with sticks of repellent. Ullapool is the home of a particularly savage tribe of midges. But it is a beautiful little town with a pretty harbour and some good shops. Despite the heat and the midges, everyone was in a good mood, and even John Taylor walked with a jaunty step.

  Lunch in a waterfront restaurant was not particularly good, being of the chips-with-everything variety, but Peta was not there and the sun was still shining and there seemed a determination on everyone’s part to enjoy the day. They talked incessantly of Peta and how horrible she was, still drawn together by that communal resentment, until Maria began to realize what Priscilla had already guessed: Peta, in her repulsive way, was an asset.

  They made their way after lunch to Inverewe Gardens which, despite the fact that they are in the far north of Britain, are near the Gulf Stream and so boast palm trees and many exotic plants.

  Maria deliberately let them think they were all returning to the castle for dinner, because when the gaiety of the group began to flag, she announced they were stopping for dinner somewhere on the road home and so the spirits of everyone soared again at this further reprieve from Peta.

  The dinner at an unpretentious hotel recommended by Priscilla was simple but good. The company enlivened the evening by picturing Peta wolfing down her solitary dinner.

  ♦

  And it was a solitary dinner, too. Peta had trailed around all day, feeling cross that the others had escaped her. A large breakfast and larger lunch did nothing to restore her mood. Crystal, who should have been some sort of a companion, had passed the day in her room, reading magazines and doing things to her hair and nails. Peta called on her to ask her to come downstairs for dinner but met with a rebuff. Crystal’s hair was in rollers and she said she was trying out a new style and wasn’t going to take them out. She said she was going to have a flask of coffee and some sandwiches in her room. Peta began to protest loudly, saying as she was paying for Crystal’s holiday in this expensive hotel, then the least Crystal could do was to keep her company. But Crystal had a genius for turning suddenly deaf. All the while her aunt was railing at her, she lazily flipped over the pages of a film magazine and did not appear to hear a word.

  Peta hated her own company. Almost tearfully, she ended up by saying, “You were the sole beneficiary in my will but the first thing I’m going to do when I get back to London is cut you out.”

  Crystal did hear that. She thought briefly about following Peta downstairs and making amends, but that would mean taking the rollers out of her hair. She picked up the magazine again.

  Priscilla ushered Peta into the dining room. There had been no reason to turn another room into a separate dining room, for no one else was eating at the hotel that evening. Peta looked so downcast that Priscilla said that the cook was preparing a special meal for her, as she was the only diner. Priscilla was relieved that Sean had returned from the village sober and in such good spirits and prepared to create something for Peta.

  In the kitchen, Sean looked down at his handiwork with satisfaction. He had skinned the cat and stewed it gently for hours in a rich wine sauce embellished with mushrooms and herbs. Before it, he planned to serve only a thin consomme, not wanting to spoil the glutton’s appetite.

  Peta drank the soup and eagerly waited for this special main course. The waitress brought it in in a large casserole. Peta’s eyes gleamed. “Leave it,” she said. “I’ll serve myself.”

  She got through the lot, along with a mountain of sauteed potatoes and a dish of cauliflower and cheese and then leaned back and wiped her mouth with her napkin and gave a satisfied belch. “Bring the cook here,” she said grandly to the waitress. “I wish to compliment him.”

  As Sean entered the dining room, he whispered to the waitress, “Run along. I’ve left a glass of wine for you in the kitchen.”

  Then he approached Peta and smiled in triumph as he saw the empty casserole.

  “That was excellent,” said Peta. “But what was it? Venison?”

  Sean smiled insolently down at her. “Cat,” he said. Archie Maclean, who had crept quietly into the dining room, stared at them. Peta blinked at Sean. “You surely didn’t say ‘cat’.”

  “Aye, cat, moggie, pussie…C-A-T. I bet the boys in the bar that you waud eat anything, and so you did. One auld smelly wild cat.”

  “Get the manager,” spluttered Peta, turning green. “You’re mad.”

  “Oh, no, you fat pig,” hissed Sean, leaning over her with a courteous smile pinned on his face in case anyone looked in the dining room door. “You say one word, and ah’ll take the meat cleaver through your fat neck. But you won’t. You do and ah’ll phone the newspapers and say ah served you the beast to teach a snorting, guzzling pig like you a lesson.”

  He turned and stalked off and Archie slid out after him.

  Peta got shakily to her feet, her handkerchief jammed against her mouth. She ran all the way to her room, w
here she was very sick indeed. She would need to leave, need to get away. It was awful, horrible. Just because she enjoyed her food that madman had threatened her. She would call on that nice policeman. She was almost ready to go and look for Hamish Macbeth when she sat down again with a groan. What if it got in the newspapers? Maria would claim that she was ruining the business. Everywhere she went, people would watch her eating. Peta snuffled dismally.

  It was all Maria’s fault. Maria must have been spreading tales about her. Yes, Maria was jealous and had no doubt paid the cook to drive her away. So she wasn’t going. She was going to stay and snatch up one of these men and teach Maria a lesson.

  ♦

  Priscilla received a phone call from Hamish Macbeth. He sounded worried. He said he was on his way up to the castle to talk to her.

  Soon she heard the police Land Rover skidding to a halt outside the castle. She went out to meet Hamish.

  “Where’s Peta Gore?” he asked.

  “In her room.”

  “Well, I hope she’s all right. I saw Sean rushing into the bar and followed him in and listened. He was collecting bets. They didn’t see me at first, so I was able to learn that Sean had cooked up some old wild cat and served it to Peta, who ate it for dinner.”

  “He’s run mad,” gasped Priscilla. “Let’s hope she never finds out. I’d better tell Johnson to fire Sean, although where we’re going to get another cook in the middle of the season, I don’t know.”

  “It’s worse than that. He did tell her.”

  “We’ll have the press on the doorstep in the morning. We’ll be ruined,” wailed Priscilla.

  “Aye, but maybe we can keep it quiet. Look, there was one thing that struck me about Peta. She fair fancies herself with the fellows. You’d best take me up to her. Leave the whole thing to me. You can keep Sean for the summer if I can arrange everything and then get rid of him when things quieten down. Tell Johnson to start now looking for another chef but don’t tell him why.”

  “But the locals…”

  “Oh, them,” said Hamish. “I can get that lot to shut up any time. Now lead me to Peta.”

  Priscilla took him up the stairs and knocked at Peta’s door. A faint voice called, “Come in.”

  “Do your stuff, Hamish, but God knows how you’re going to manage it,” said Priscilla.

  Hamish went into Peta’s bedroom and closed the door behind him. Priscilla waited, irresolute, and then went off down the stairs.

  “What do you want?” Peta asked the tall constable who stood humbly before her, his cap under his arm.

  “I came to see if you were all right,” said Hamish. “I gather the mad cook served you a venison casserole and told you it was cat.”

  “Venison…?”

  “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 g
et 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.”