Death of a Sweep - M. C. Beaton [63]
Nessie poured him a large mug of tea. She sat down, back erect, and watched him in silence.
‘Cut the bacon,’ he snarled. He planned to eat with one hand while keeping the revolver levelled on her. Nessie cut the bacon into small pieces. She had covered the already salty bacon in salt.
He took a large gulp of tea, and his eyes bulged. He gasped and retched, clutching his throat. Jessie seized the pistol. But she knew nothing about guns and did not know how to release the safety catch. Prosser staggered to the door. All he wanted to do was get away. He crashed out into the night.
Nessie took out her knife and freed her sister. ‘We’ve got to ring the bell,’ she said. ‘We’ve got to get the men back.’
‘Mmm,’ said Jessie, her mouth still covered by duct tape.
Up on the moors, Hamish and the searching men heard the bell. Cursing, Hamish sprinted down towards the village, his dog and cat at his heels.
In the church, in the corner where the bell rope of the single bell hung down, stood Nessie Currie, pulling on the rope for all she was worth.
When he tapped her on the shoulder, she screamed until she saw who it was.
The villagers were all crowding back into the church. Matthew Campbell, editor of the Highland Times, listened as Nessie told her story. Then, led by Hamish, they all ran out again to look for Prosser. Hamish stopped on the way and roused Jimmy. From Nessie’s description, he said, it looked as if Prosser had come back to exact revenge.
All that night, the villagers, reinforced by police, searched all around while a police helicopter buzzed overhead.
The rain had cleared and the first Sutherland frost glittered on the heather. Lying buried in the heather, Prosser felt deadly ill. He would need to get back to Edinburgh, where he knew a doctor who owed him a favour. They would have roadblocks up all over the place. But he had to move or he would freeze to death. He daren’t even go back to the bothie where he had hidden his rifle and other equipment.
He rose stiffly. His mouth was burning. A sheer desire to stay alive drove him up to his feet.
By a long circuitous route he arrived at the back of the Tommel Castle Hotel. The kitchen door was only a simple Yale lock, and he sprang it easily. He took a pencil torch out of his pocket and flashed it around the kitchen. He opened the fridge, took out a bottle of milk, and gulped as much down as he could. He ate dry bread and then drank more milk. Then he made his way quietly up the back stairs. He found an empty hotel room, the door standing open. He went in and shut and locked the door, first hanging a DO NOT DISTURB sign outside. Prosser stripped off and showered, tumbled into bed, and fell fast asleep.
When he awoke next morning, he decided he needed a change of clothes. He heard voices in the corridor outside as the guests went down for breakfast. He heard the people in the room next door, talking loudly as they walked away. Wrapped in a towelling robe he had found in the bathroom, he waited until the corridor was silent. He saw a maid coming along with clean sheets and positioned himself outside the door next to his.
‘I’m afraid I’ve lost my key,’ he said. He winked at her. ‘I was just … er … visiting a friend.’ The Polish maid giggled. She was new and had just come on duty. She smiled and opened the door with her passkey. She went to the door of the room he had spent the night in.
‘Just leave her,’ said Prosser. ‘She wants to sleep until late.’
He went quickly into the room she had opened for him.
He opened drawers and took out clean underwear and put it on. It was a little bit large for him. He then opened the wardrobe and selected moleskin trousers, a hunting jacket, and a plaid shirt. He grinned. There was even a deerstalker. He crammed it down on his head.
Then he saw that the man had left his wallet on the bedside table. He snatched it up. He coolly walked out and down into reception and out into the car park. He got into the nearest car, one the hotel kept for guests, planning to hotwire