Death of a Gentle Lady - M. C. Beaton [3]
‘Come and have a drink. One for the road.’
‘All right.’
As soon as they were in the bar and seated over their drinks, Jimmy lit a cigarette. ‘That’s against the law,’ exclaimed Hamish. ‘No smoking in Scotland.’
‘So sue me. Do you care?’
‘Someone might report you.’
‘Like who? Nothing but coppers in here, and the barman smokes himself.’
‘Be a good lad and put it out. I’m not going to sit here, aiding and abetting a crime.’
‘Oh, all right, Mother. Are you just going to take this lying down? Last time the villagers got up a petition.’
‘I’m weary. I seem to have been living under constant threat of eviction for years. But I tell you one thing, before I leave, I’m going to get that woman out of the Highlands.’
‘How?’
‘Wait and see.’
Back in Lochdubh, Hamish began to gossip busily. The news of his forthcoming eviction and subsequent loss of his pets spread like wildfire throughout Sutherland. Matthew Campbell, the local reporter, wrote up the story, saying that Hamish’s banishment had been instigated at a Rotary dinner by Mrs Gentle, a newcomer to the Highlands.
Mrs Gentle, arriving back in Lochdubh a week later followed by her tall maid, felt a definite chill in the air that had nothing to do with the clear autumn day. It was as if she suddenly did not exist. People avoided eye contact. Her greetings went unnoticed. Mr Patel, who ran the local store, packed up her groceries in silence.
Her temper was rising, but she masked it well. As she left the shop, she met Mrs Wellington, the minister’s wife. At that moment, Mrs Wellington was more interested in the repairs to the church roof than the banishment of Hamish Macbeth.
‘Good morning,’ she said breezily. ‘A fine brisk day. I hate to rush you but my husband needs that cheque for the repairs to the church roof.’
Mrs Gentle gave her little curved smile. ‘What cheque?’
‘You promised to donate a generous amount of money towards the church.’
‘Did I? How stupid of me. I am holding a family reunion next week and I have just discovered I am quite low in funds. Such a pity. I am sure you will find the money somehow.’
Mrs Gentle returned home in a bad mood. The sight of her daughter slumped in front of the television set with a large gin and tonic in her hand made her erupt into rage. She switched off the set, walked round, and stared down at her daughter.
‘Sarah, I want you out of here after the family get-together.’
‘But you asked me up here. You said I could stay as long as I liked.’
‘I’ve changed my mind. I’m changing my will as well. It’s time you got a job.’
‘But I’m fifty, Mother.’
‘You’ll find something. Andrew has a good job.’ Her son, Andrew, was a stockbroker. ‘The grandchildren are doing well. You’ve always been a failure. Ayesha, take that stuff into the kitchen and stop gaping.’ The maid went off. Mrs Gentle watched her go, then followed her into the kitchen. Ayesha had been working as a maid in a London hotel when Mrs Gentle had offered her the job although she maintained the fiction that she had hired the girl through an agency.
‘I never asked you what country you came from,’ said Mrs Gentle.
‘Turkey,’ said Ayesha, putting groceries away. ‘Izmir.’
That curved smile again. ‘Dear me, I thought all Turks were dark.’
‘Not all,’ said Ayesha. ‘Some of us are quite fair.’
‘Let me see, Turkey is not in the European Union. I do hope you have a work permit. Silly me. I never asked you.’
Ayesha flushed to the roots of her hair. ‘I was studying at London University, but my student visa ran out. I needed money, so I worked in a hotel.’
‘I can’t have an illegal alien working for me. Wait until after the family party and then you must leave or I will have to report you to the police.’
‘Oh, please. Can’t you apply to the Home Office for me?’
‘Don’t be silly. Oh, don’t start to cry. Get on with your work.’
Hamish Macbeth was just settling down to a dinner of comfort food – haggis, mashed potatoes, and mashed turnips – when he heard the front doorbell ring. The locals never used the front door, which had jammed with