Death of a Valentine - M. C. Beaton [8]
Annie was wearing a white gown covered with a red robe trimmed in rabbit fur.
She sat down on the throne. To Josie’s surprise, the crown, which was carried to the platform by a nervous little girl bearing it on a red cushion, looked like a real diamond tiara. The gems blazed in the sunlight, sending out prisms of colour.
“Is that real?” Josie asked.
“Aye,” said Hamish. “It once belonged to a Lady Etherington, English she was, and right fond of the Highlands. She lent it out once and her family have got it out o’ the bank every Lammas Day since then.”
“Do the family live in Braikie?”
“No. Lady Etherington’s grandson who owns the tiara lives in London but he’s got a shooting box up outside Crask and he aye comes up for the grouse shooting.”
Gareth Tarry, the provost, made a long boring speech. It was mostly about defending the council’s decision to stop building the seawall on the road to Braikie where, in previous years, the houses had been flooded at high tide.
It was only when an infuriated man from the audience shouted out, “You wouldnae be broke, ye numptie, if ye hadnae pit all your money in an Iceland bank.”
Anyone who had invested their savings in Iceland banks during the credit crunch was currently left in doubt as to whether they would get their money back.
The provost pretended not to hear but decided to get on with the crowning. He raised the glittering tiara and announced solemnly, “I now crown Miss Annie Fleming the Lammas queen.”
Everyone cheered. Annie graciously waved a white-gloved hand. She was helped down from the platform and back onto the float. Her throne was carried up onto it. The pipe band struck up again and the float, pulled by a tractor, moved off.
“She’s off round the town,” said Hamish. “You stay here and I’ll follow and keep my eye on that tiara.”
Hamish loped off. Josie miserably watched him go. She had looked forward so much to spending the day with him. But she suddenly had work to do.
People who owned houses along the shore road leading into Braikie, and who had been unable to sell their properties because of the frequent flooding from the rising sea, were gathering in front of the platform, heckling Mr. Tarry. He was a plump, self-satisfied-looking banker.
The provost saw the arrival of his official Daimler on the road outside the field and, climbing down from the platform, he tried to ignore the crowd and make his way to it. “You listen tae me,” shouted one man, and, trying to stop him, grabbed him by the gold chain.
Josie sprang into action. She twisted the man’s arm up his back and dragged him to the side. “You are under arrest,” she said, “for attempting to steal the provost’s gold chain. Name?”
“Look, there’s a mistake. I chust wanted to stop him and get him to answer my questions.”
“Name?”
“Hugh Shaw.”
Josie charged him and then proceeded to handcuff him. She heard cries of “Get Hamish,” and “Whaur’s Macbeth?”
Hamish came running back into the field. A boy had sprinted after him and called him back.
Josie said, “This man, Hugh Shaw, tried to steal the provost’s gold chain.”
Hamish looked down at her wearily. He knew Hugh owned a bungalow on the shore road. “Were you just trying to get his attention, Hugh?” he asked.
“Aye, that I was, Hamish. Thon fat cat has bankrupted the town, and until that wall is built there’s no hope o’ getting my place sold.”
“Take the handcuffs off, McSween,” said Hamish.
“But—”
“Just do it!”
Red in the face, Josie unlocked the handcuffs. Hamish raised his voice. “Now listen here, all of you. The only way you’re going to get that wall built is to do something about it yourselves. There are out-o’-work bricklayers and dry-stone wallers amongst ye. We’ll work out some fund-raising scheme and build the damn thing ourselves.”
There was an excited murmur as the news spread back through the crowd. The local minister, Mr. Cluskie, mounted the platform and went to the microphone. He announced