Death of a Valentine - M. C. Beaton [77]
Josie, on her way into police headquarters, was stopped by Blair. “Tell them that Macbeth led ye on,” he said. “Tell them he wound ye up.”
So Josie, dressed neatly in a tailored suit and white blouse with her hair brushed and shining, said in a low voice that she was so very sorry, that Hamish had wooed her and led her on.
But because she had proved herself to be an expert liar, this was not believed—which she saw immediately from the stony faces looking at her. The interview went on for a long time as they dragged everything out of her, from taking the date-rape drug from the evidence room, to drugging Hamish, to faking evidence that she was pregnant.
Finally, Josie was told to wait outside. She sat miserably on a hard chair in the corridor. She felt numb.
When she was called in after ten minutes, she was told she was no longer welcome on the police force. Hamish Macbeth had phoned from the Inverness airport to say he would not be pressing charges. They wanted the whole scandal hushed up as quickly as possible. If Josie talked to the press, however, they would press charges against her.
Downstairs, nobody looked at her as she made her way out. She now had to drive to the manse in Lochdubh to collect her clothes. She had begged her mother to do it for her, but Flora had hardened towards her daughter and told her to do it herself.
She hoped against hope that Mrs. Wellington would be out when she arrived, but that lady was in the kitchen. “I’m sorry,” said Josie.
Mrs. Wellington was stirring something vigorously on the stove. She did not turn round. “Get your things and go,” she said.
When she had everything packed up, she took her suitcases out to the car and drove out of Lochdubh. As she was approaching the Tommel Castle Hotel, she suddenly thought that one drink for the road would brace her. She went into the bar and ordered a whisky.
Mr. Johnson came in after she had sat down with her drink and began talking to the barman. She went up to him. “Is Miss Grant staying here?”
“No she’s not,” he snapped. “She’s gone off to Corsica with Hamish.”
Josie slowly sat down again. How could they do this to her? It was her honeymoon.
Hamish and Elspeth spent a few blissful days either walking around the old walled Genoese town of Porto Vecchio or swimming at the beach of Palombaggia, a dream of white sand and clear blue water protected by pink granite rocks. Hamish said he still felt a bit shaky, and in the evenings, he liked to sit in some café or other watching the people go by.
Elspeth talked about her work at the television station. Unlike Hamish, she felt she could not relax because she knew there were a good few women who coveted her job. At times, when Hamish was dreamily sitting looking out at the crowd, she had an impulse to rush to the airport and get the next plane home. It was not as if Hamish showed any romantic feelings towards her. He treated her more like a male friend and at night they both retired to their separate rooms.
On their fourth evening there, Hamish suddenly said, “If you got married, would you leave your job?”
“No,” said Elspeth. “Well, maybe. I haven’t had much success with men.”
Hamish was wondering whether to propose. He did not relish the idea of moving to Glasgow. Elspeth was easy and affectionate with him. She could always work for Strathbane Television. Horrible although the experience with Josie had been, it had put the idea of children into his mind. A son or daughter would be great. He had seen jewellers with pretty rings. He had been on the verge of proposing to her for so long but something had always thwarted him. Perhaps it would be a good idea just to take the plunge and see what they could work out.
Back in his room that evening, he thought that perhaps he would find out if there was any news of Priscilla. He obscurely felt it would be some sort of way of saying goodbye to the love that had plagued him for so long.
Elspeth was sitting