Death Of A Snob Part 4

John Wetherby was glowering at his breakfast. He was wearing a V-necked pullover over a blue s.h.i.+rt and a tightly knotted tie, grey flannels, and walking shoes, his idea of suitable wear for a hiker.

Jane rose and addressed them at the end of the meal. "This will not do," she said gaily. "There is a nasty atmosphere and we should all be having a lovely, lovely time." She lifted a box and put it on the table. "I have here a supply of balloons, thread, and pencil and paper. Now, I suggest we each write down our resentments, blow up our balloons, and carry them outside and watch them all float away!"

"Oh, for G.o.d's sake, Jane," snapped her ex-husband. "Be your age."

"Don't be stuffy," said Heather. "Sounds like fun. Come on, Sheila, get your head out of that trash." She gave that laugh copied from Jane. "It's like watching a rather nice little pig with its head in the trough."

"Watch your mouth, you rotten b.i.t.c.h," shouted Ian.

"I know what it is," cried Jane, holding up her hands. "We need some fresh air to blow the cobwebs away. Forget about the balloons. Where's your Christmas spirit? Get your coats and off we go."

They all meekly rose to their feet. "I don't think I can bear this," said Harriet to Hamish.

He smiled down at her. "I have to go over to the village this morning, and maybe there's a bar there..."

"I'll come with you," said Harriet. "Don't tell the others. We'll just join the end of the crocodile and then veer off."

Jane set out at the head of the group. Her voice floated back to them. "Let's sing! All together now. 'One man went to mow...'"

"Come on," said Hamish to Harriet as the group straggled along the beach behind Jane.

The air was warmer than the day before, but a howling gale was still blowing. s.n.a.t.c.hes of Jane's singing reached the ears of Hamish and Harriet as they made their way inland and onto the road that led to the village; The rising sun was low on the horizon, curlews piped dismally from the heather, and seagulls crouched on the ground, occasionally taking off to battle with the gale.

They tried to talk but at last fell silent, for the shrieking wind meant they had to shout. Harriet was wearing a tweed jacket and matching skirt. Her short brown hair streaked with grey was crisp and curly. She walked with an easy stride by Hamish's side. Hamish was happy. The silence between them was companionable, tinged with a conspiratorial edge prompted by their escape from the others.

They turned a bend in the road and in front of them stood a very battered old Fiat truck, parked in the middle. They made their way around it and stopped short. A small man was sitting at the side of the road in front of the truck, weeping bitterly.

"Hey," cried Hamish, crouching down beside the forlorn figure. "What's your trouble?"

"It iss him," said the man, raising a tear-stained face and jerking a gnarled thumb in the direction of the truck. "He iss out to kill me."

Hamish got up, and motioning Harriet to stand well back, he went quickly to the truck. There was no one in the cabin and nothing in the back but barrels of lobster.

He loped back and sat down on the road beside the man and said coaxingly, "Now, then, there's no one there. Who are you talking about?"

"Him!" said the little man pa.s.sionately, and again that thumb jerked at the truck. "Can't you see him, sitting there, watching me?"

The truck-driver was probably only in his forties, but hard weather and a hard life made him appear older. Like most of the islanders, he was small in stature. He had a weather-beaten face. Spa.r.s.e grey hairs clung to his brown scalp.

Harriet bent down and shouted above the tumult of the wind, "But there is not a soul about except for us."

"Wait a bit." Hamish held up his hand. "Do you mean the truck is trying to kill you?"

"Aye, the beast! The beast. Wa.s.s I not loading the lobsters and did he not back into me and try for to tip me into the sea?"

"And did you not have the brakes on?" said Hamish cynically. "What is your name?"

"Geordie Mason."

"Well, listen, Geordie, stop your havering. I am Hamish Macbeth, and this is Harriet Shaw. We're going into Skulag. I'll hae a look at your truck and drive it for ye."

Geordie rubbed his eyes with his sleeve. "Wid ye dae that? Himself will no' mind. It's jist me he cannae thole."

Hamish drew Harriet aside. "It'll save us a walk," he said. "I'm sure the wee man is harmless. Probably been at the methylated spirits."

Hamish climbed into the driving-seat, Geordie sat next to him, and Harriet on the other side. It was an old-fas.h.i.+oned bench seat, and so it could take the three of them comfortably.

Hamish turned the key in the ignition. The engine gave a cough and remained silent. "Ye've got to tell himself it's no' me that's driving." Geordie had recovered from his grief and seemed almost proud of demonstrating the b.l.o.o.d.y-mindedness of his vehicle.

Harriet stifled a giggle. "All right," said Hamish amiably. "Does he have a name?"

"He's an agent o' the deil, no' a pet."

"Why he?" asked Harriet. "I mean boats and planes and things like that are she."

"I jist ken," said Geordie, folding his arms and glaring through the windscreen.

"Oh, Fiat truck," said Hamish Macbeth, "this is your friend speaking. This is not your master, Geordie Mason. We're going to Skulag, so be a nice truck and get a move on."

He grinned as he turned the key in the ignition, a grin that faded as the old engine roared into life.

"I bid ye so, but would yis listen?" demanded Geordie with gloomy satisfaction.

Hamish drove steadily down the road, reflecting that he should be taking better care of Harriet. Perhaps Geordie would start seeing green snakes or spiders before they reached the village. And yet the man did not smell of drink.

"Is there a pub of some kind?" he asked.

"Aye," said Geordie. "Down at the hotel, The Highland Comfort, next tae the jetty."

The village of Skulag was a small cl.u.s.ter of low houses standing end-on to the sea, some of them thatched in the old manner with heather. There was no one to be seen as they rattled down the cobbled main street. Hamish parked neatly in front of the hotel, which was on a small rise above the jetty. It was a two-storeyed white-washed building, originally built in the Victorian era as a holiday home for some misguided Glasgow merchant who had survived only one holiday summer before putting the place up for sale. It had been an hotel ever since.

Inside, apart from a hutch of a reception desk, the rooms leading off the hall still bore their Victorian legends of 'Drawing-Room', 'Smoking-Room', and 'Billiard Room'.

Hamish, who had been in such hotels before, opened the door marked 'Drawing-Room' and there, sure enough, was the bar along one wall. Along the other wall was a line of gla.s.s-and-steel windows overlooking the jetty.

"What are you having?" asked Hamish. "I'd sit at a table over at the window, Harriet. I doubt if the natives are friendly." He nodded towards the line of small men in caps who were propping up the bar. They looked back at him with sullen hostility.

"A whisky and water," said Harriet.

Hamish ordered two whiskies and water and then carried mem over to a table at the window.

"There's that poor mad truck-driver," said Harriet.

Hamish looked out. The truck was where he'd left it, parked on the rise. A little below, at the entrance to the jetty, stood Geordie, leaning forward against the force of the wind and trying to light a cigarette.

And then, in front of Hamish's horrified eyes, the truck began to creep forward and Geordie was standing in a direct line of its approach.

Hamish struggled with the rusty catch of the window and swung it open. "Geordie!" he yelled desperately. "Look out!"

Geordie looked up, startled. The truck stopped dead.

"Wait a minute," said Hamish to Harriet. He ran outside the hotel and straight up to Geordie. "You'd 'better have the brakes on that truck of yours checked," he shouted against the screaming of the wind.

Geordie shrugged. "What's the point? Anyway, himself stopped when he heard you."

Hamish went back to the truck and climbed inside the cabin. The keys were still in the ignition. He switched on the engine and put his foot gently on the accelerator. Nothing happened. The brakes held firm.

He switched off the engine and got down and walked to the front of the truck. There was no explanation why the thing had suddenly stopped. It was parked on a slope, it had started moving, and it had stopped when he called.

He shrugged and went back into the bar to join Harriet.

"Odd," he said. "Did you see that?"

"He should get it checked," said Harriet. "A good mechanic would sort the trouble out in no time."

The men at the bar were staring at both of them and talking rapidly in Gaelic. "What are they saying?" asked Harriet.

"My Gaelic's a bit rusty," said Hamish, "but they are saying, I gather, some pretty nasty things about Jane. That wee man there with the black hair is saying she should be driven off the island and the other one is saying someone should kill the b.i.t.c.h."

"How awful! Why are they so nasty about her? Jane's harmless."

"I think it's just because they are nasty people," said Hamish. He shouted something in Gaelic in a sharp voice and the men relapsed into sulky silence.

The door to the bar opened and a large policeman lumbered in. He had a huge round fiery-red face and small watery eyes. Those eyes rested briefly on Hamish and then sharpened. He marched up to their table.

"Whit are you doing here?" Harriet looked from Hamish to the policeman in surprise.

"Holiday, Sandy," said Hamish briefly.

"At The Happy Wanderer?"

Hamish nodded.

"You need to pit on weight, man, no' lose it." Sandy looked cynically down at Hamish's thin and lanky form. "Wait a minute. The place is closed. She's got her friends there."

"One of which is me," said Hamish equably.

"You're up tae something." Sandy looked mulish. "And if I find you're poaching on my territory, I'll phone Strathbane and have ye sent home."

"Do that." Hamish gazed up at him blandly.

Sandy muttered something, turned and threw a longing look at the bar, and then slouched out.

"What was all that about?" asked Harriet. "Have you a criminal record?"

Hamish shook his head. "I'll tell you the truth if you promise to keep it to yourself. I am the local copper in a village called Lochdubh on the west coast of Sutherland. Jane asked me to come because she was afraid someone was trying to kill her."

"Oh, the bathroom heater. But that was an accident. But of course I won't tell anyone who you are."

"Jane herself thought it an accident but she went to a Mrs. Bannerman in this village and got her fortune told. This Mrs. Bannennan told her that someone from far away was trying to kill her. Jane had also just missed being hit by a falling rock. She was worried it might be one of you. I plan to see Mrs. Bannerman this morning. Would you like to come along?"

Harriet grinned. "Lead on, Sherlock. This is all very exciting."

"Now that you know the truth about me," said Hamish, "tell me what you think of the other guests. Let's start with the horrible Heather."

"I've met types like Heather on visits to Glasgow," said Harriet. "She seems to spend an awful lot on entertaining any visiting celebrity she can, running a sort of Glaswegian salon. She's a fairly rich, old-fas.h.i.+oned Communist, looking for another totalitarian regime to wors.h.i.+p now that Stalinism has been finally discredited. Says she was brought up in the Gorbals when it was a really horrible slum and tells very colourful stories and I am not sure I believe any of them. Quotes Sartre in very bad French. Refers to celebrities by their first names, Rudi being Rudolph Nureyev, things like that. Adores Jane and is jealous of her at the same time. Jane has no political affiliations that I know of, but she hails from an old county family, and that's enough for a sn.o.b like Heather. Jane's maiden name is Bellingham. Her pa owns a minor stately home in Wilts.h.i.+re and Heather keeps hinting she'd like an invitation. Heather is the kind who hangs around the private section of stately homes on view to the public in the hope that one of the family will emerge and recognise one of their own kind."

"I don't get it," said Hamish. "And her a Communist!"

"When it comes to social climbing, such as Heather never lets politics get in the way, hence her friends.h.i.+p with Jane. Hates romance writers. There's still plenty of first-cla.s.s romance writers around, but she reserves her venom for what used to be called novelettes, you know, the laird and the country girl, or the advertising exec and the secretary. It's still the laird and the country girl or whatever, but with las.h.i.+ngs of s.e.x thrown in. Nothing too vulgar. Lots of euphemisms. She says all their royalties should be taken from them by the government and given to writers' workshops to help the up and coming intellectual. She's about fifty-three. I would say Diarmuid is a bit younger.

"I don't think there's much more to Diarmuid than what you see. He is a supremely vain man and yet appears proud of his unlikeable wife. That atmosphere between them this morning was totally new. He's in real estate, so he can't be doing too well at the moment with the fall in the market.

"John Wetherby. Well, that seems to have been an odd marriage. He delights in running Jane down. I sometimes wonder if she had affairs to score off him. I sometimes wonder if she had any affairs at all. She is a good business woman, but I can't seem to find anything deeper than what you see on the surface. John is a successful banister, opinionated to the point of smugness. Why he accepted Jane's invitation I do not know. I cannot see one trace of affection in his manner towards her. I gather he is a trifle mean and Jane told me he probably jumped at the idea of a free holiday."

Hamish winced and said quickly, "And the Carpenters?"

"He's got a farm in north Yorks.h.i.+re. At first when I saw them flirting with each other and cooing at each other, I thought that marriage looked too good to be true, but I think they are a genuinely nice and rather innocent couple."

"And Harriet Shaw?"

She smiled and he liked the way her eyes crinkled up.

"Widow, no children, writes cookery books which are moderately successful. Gets money from occasional television programmes and cookery articles for magazines. Wonders what she is doing on this bleak island talking about suspects to a policeman."

Hamish laughed. "Drink up and let's see this Bannerman woman. I'll just find out at the bar where she lives."

Harriet waited for him at the door. "Last cottage at the end of the main street, on the left," said Hamish, returning from the bar. "Let's get out of here. You could cut the hostility with a knife."

As they were leaving, a housemaid, about to descend the stairs, saw them, and retreated quickly.

"n.o.body loves us," mourned Hamish.

They walked down the main street, and women appeared outside their cottages and stood watching them. One approached them, a small woman with a fat white face. She caught hold of Hamish's sleeve and began to talk to him urgently in Gaelic. Hamish listened patiently and then shook himself free and walked on.

"What did she say?" asked Harriet.

"She said that Jane's a wh.o.r.e. There was a bad storm the other week and two of the fishermen were washed overboard. They say it's G.o.d's punishment for having a scarlet woman on the island. Jane's been here for two years now. Doesn't she notice any of this? She got me here to protect her because she thinks someone's trying to kill her. Well, after listening to that woman, I've decided that maybe someone is, and if she doesn't shut up shop soon and leave, they'll drown her."

"How did she know who we are?"

"They saw me arriving with her off the boat. Two men left the bar while we were there. The fact that I spoke to them in Gaelic would go round the village in minutes. Here's this Bannerman woman's place."

She opened the door before they could knock. "I knew you wa.s.s coming," she intoned. Harriet looked startled, but Hamish grinned and said, "Phoned you from the bar, did they?"

"Come in," she said rather huffily. They entered a low, dark parlour. Mrs. Bannerman ushered them into chairs and sat facing them.

She was in her thirties, guessed Hamish, and was wearing what looked like a 1960s Carnaby Street outfit: peasant blouse, flowered skirt, bare feet, and beads. Her hair was long and straggly and she had a thin, unhealthy-looking face and small black eyes. He saw with surprise that her neck was dirty. It was not often one saw a dirty neck these days. Carnaby Street outfit: peasant blouse, flowered skirt, bare feet, and beads. Her hair was long and straggly and she had a thin, unhealthy-looking face and small black eyes. He saw with surprise that her neck was dirty. It was not often one saw a dirty neck these days.