Death of a Gentle Lady - M. C. Beaton [47]
He looked at it sadly. No ‘Love, Elspeth,’ not even ‘Best wishes, Elspeth.’
Did he really want to marry her now? And why did he nurse that odd hankering for Priscilla? Why did he keep hoping that one day she would thaw out and become as passionate as the woman of his dreams?
The kitchen door opened and the fisherman Archie walked in. ‘We was coming back this morning, Hamish,’ he said, ‘and I got a good look at thon folly from the sea. There’s a big chunk o’ the cliff has fallen and it’s perched there like a toy castle balancing on someone’s outstretched hand. It’s now only got the lip o’ the cliff to support it.’
‘I’ll phone up Andrew Gentle and warn him,’ said Hamish. ‘Sit down, Archie. Want some of that wine?’
‘Na. I don’t know how thae actors survive on that bitter stuff. I thocht yours had gone off but they had some at the rehearsal and it was like drinking acid. I’ll take a dram.’
Hamish poured him a measure of whisky and then, after some hesitation, poured one for himself.
‘You know what puzzles me, Archie?’ said Hamish. ‘Everyone up here knows everyone else’s business. All I want to know is if some-one’s seen a tall strange woman about, and no one’s seen anything at all.’
‘Gamekeeper Geordie saw Priscilla and thon Irishman having a picnic,’ said Archie. ‘You chust going tae stand by and let that happen? They was up by the Beithe Burn.’
‘Archie, Priscilla can do what she likes.’
When Archie had left, Hamish found Andrew Gentle’s card and phoned to warn him about the perilous condition of the castle.
‘There’s nothing I can do about it,’ said Andrew testily. ‘I am sure if the damn thing falls into the sea, the insurance company will put it down to an act of God. I’ll come up in the spring, hire an architect, and see if anything can be done.’
It was only when he had rung off that Hamish realized he still had the key.
He could not settle down for the evening. He felt restless. He wanted to banish Priscilla’s bright image from a corner of his brain. He decided to take a run down to Inverness. It was late-night shopping, and if he hurried he could be there in time. He needed some new casual clothes.
He took Sonsie and Lugs with him. There were plenty of shops in Strathbane, the nearer town, but he wanted to get well away from Lochdubh.
But by the time he had battled round the crowded shops and bought new shirts and trousers, he was longing to get back to the peace of home. He bought kebabs for himself, the dog, and the cat, and fed them in the quiet street by the river where he had parked before setting out for home.
He decided to take the old way over the Struie Pass and whistled cheerfully as he zigzagged round the hairpin bends into Sutherland. He had just reached the famous viewpoint when the engine coughed and died. The petrol light was flashing empty. Hamish stared at it, puzzled. He had filled the tank just before arriving in Inverness. He got out with his torch, searched under the vehicle, and then shone the torch back along the road. There was no sign of any petrol leakage.
He opened up the petrol cap and put a dipstick in. The stick came out dry. He took a four-gallon tank of petrol out of the back of the Land Rover and poured it into the tank.
Still puzzled, he drove on. At the police station, he lifted his pets down from the vehicle, took the key down from the gutter, opened the kitchen door, and switched on the light.
‘I don’t think you pair need anything more to eat tonight,’ said Hamish. ‘Off to bed.’
He decided to have a cup of coffee. Coffee never stopped him from sleeping.
Hamish was about to open the fridge door when he glanced down at the floor. Soot from the stove had covered a little bit of the floor in a fine black layer, and in the middle was the faint imprint of a shoe.
He stared at it for a long moment. He guessed the wearer would take size seven shoes. That was the size of the shoe-prints on the back stairs of the castle. Size seven, British, was size nine, American – and what was