Death of a Gentle Lady - M. C. Beaton [46]
‘Don’t be nasty, Hamish. I’ve been reading a self-help book. It says, in effect, that if you are not getting on with your work, it could be because of the mess at home, or because you are working in a dirty office. Would you like a coffee?’
‘Fine.’ Hamish quite often shied away from Angela’s offers of coffee, expecting to find some awful cat hairs sticking to his mug, because the cats too often roamed the kitchen table, licking the butter and drinking out of the milk jug. ‘It’ll save you a lot of vet’s fees,’ he added, removing his peaked cap and sitting down. Only two weeks before, one of the cats had ended up with its head stuck firmly in the milk jug.
‘It hasn’t helped a bit with the writing,’ said Angela. ‘Instead of being compulsive about finishing this latest book, I’ve become compulsive about cleaning.’
A dismal yowling started up outside.
‘That’s it!’ Angela turned to open the kitchen door. ‘Poor beasties. I can’t bear it any longer. I’m going to let them in.’
‘Could you wait till we’ve had coffee?’ pleaded Hamish. ‘I’ll need to talk to someone.’
‘What about? The fact that Irena told you something mysterious?’
‘I made that up, hoping our murderer might have a go at me.’
‘But you got your man. I haven’t been reading the newspapers. Has something else happened?’
Hamish told her about the wire across the stairs and the female footprints.
‘A woman? Who on earth could that be?’
‘Probably someone who’s long gone. No, wait a bit. She might just still be around the area. Jimmy told me he’d put extra men on the job, going all over the place, interviewing any visitors. Where could she be staying?’
‘A tent up on the hills somewhere?’
‘That’s an idea. I’d better get off and tour around again.’
Angela put a mug of coffee down in front of him. ‘Have your coffee first. What’s happened to that Russian policewoman?’
‘Gone back to London, thank goodness. She fair gave me the creeps.’
‘Have you seen much of Priscilla?’
‘I have not,’ said Hamish huffily. ‘Herself is either walking the hills with an Irishman who’s staying at the hotel or rehearsing her part with Harold Jury.’
‘I might call on Harold Jury again,’ said Angela. ‘I only met him briefly when he suggested I might like to play Lady Macbeth. It would be nice to discuss writing with another author.’
‘He’s an odd character,’ said Hamish. ‘I put him down as dead arrogant and yet when I went to one of the rehearsals, I must say I was surprised at his patience.’
‘Have you read his latest book?’
‘No. Any good?’
‘I found it a bit dull but maybe that’s just me. I like stories, and that stream-of-consciousness business bores the pants off me. I’ll lend it to you.’
‘Can’t be bothered. Well, I’m off.’
Hamish hovered in the doorway wondering whether to dare ask her to look after the dog and cat, but then decided that if he was simply going to search around the moorland and the foothills, he could take them with him.
The balmy weather had ceased, and Sutherland was gearing itself up for the long northern winter. Hamish hurried back to the police station, knowing he had better set off quickly – the sun went down at four in the afternoon.
Once the animals were put in the Land Rover along with lunch packed for all of them, Hamish drove up into the hills and along heathery little-used tracks, stopping occasionally at outlying crofts to ask if they had seen any campers.
He stopped for a picnic lunch. After his pets had been fed, he put them in the Land Rover and decided to roam across the moorland on foot before the light faded.
But all was peaceful and quiet apart from the sad piping of the curlews. Soon the shadow of the mountains fell over the landscape. He returned to the Land Rover, got in, and stared out at the fading countryside. His ruse was not working. There had been no more attempts on his life.
Back to Lochdubh, where a letter was lying on the doormat. He walked in, sat down, and opened it. It was from Elspeth. ‘This is just to say goodbye,’ she had written. ‘Let me know if anything happens.