Hamish Macbeth - Death Of A Dreamer Part 2

"Yes."

"We've one table left," said the vision. "Thank goodness the tourists are back."

"You're a very glamorous maltre d'," commented Jock.

"I'm standing in this evening. My parents run this hotel. I'm Priscilla Halburton-Smythe. Our maitre d' is off sick."

She handed him a large menu and said, "Your waiter will be along in a minute. Would you like a drink?"

"No thanks. I'll order wine with the meal."

He watched Priscilla as she walked away. What a figure! And that beautiful bell of golden hair that framed her face! There was a remoteness about her which quickened his senses.

He made his meal last, watching while the other diners gradually finished theirs, hoping all the time for another few words with the beauty.

His back was to the window. At one point, he had an uneasy feeling of being watched. He turned round quickly, but there was no one there.

Priscilla at last came into the dining room and approached him. "Would you like anything else?"

"I would like you to join me for a coffee."

Priscilla looked amused. "I've just been hearing about you. You're Jock Fleming." She sat in a chair opposite him.

"Are you always here?" asked Jock.

"I work in London. I came up yesterday on holiday. I usually fill in for any of the missing staff when I'm here. It's a duty holiday to see my parents, and I find it can get a bit boring if I have nothing to do."

"I'd like to take you out one evening," said Jock. "Just friends," he added quickly, suddenly noticing she was wearing an engagement ring. "Where is your fiance?"

"In London."

"So what do you say? What about tomorrow night at that Italian place?"

"All right," said Priscilla with a laugh. "What time?"

"Eight o'clock suit you?"

"Fine. Now I'd better go and see how they're getting on clearing up the kitchen."

Outside, Effie scuttled off from her observation post in the bushes opposite the dining room. Who was that woman? Perhaps she was Jock's agent. She would need to find out.

Two.

A dream itself is but a shadow.

-William Shakespeare Priscilla had appeared in Lochdubh at the end of Hamish's last case and then had disappeared again like the mountain mist. If he thought of her-which he told himself was hardly ever-he decided it would be a long time before she ever came back.

They had been engaged at one time, and Hamish had broken off the engagement. There was a s.e.xual coldness and distance about Priscilla that had been too hurtful to bear. And yet he had not found any other woman with whom he could fall so pa.s.sionately in love as he had done with Priscilla.

He may have considered his emotions free of her, but the residents of Lochdubh did not, and so no one told him she was back at the hotel.

It was another lovely day, and he was tempted to skip going on his rounds, which covered more and more miles each year as the government shut down other local police stations. But duty was duty, and some of the old folk in the oudying crofts might have fallen ill. He got in the police Land Rover and set off, taking his dog and cat with him.

There was a new softness to the air. Hamish guessed there was some rain coming. The water in the loch had changed to light grey, although the sky was still blue and the mountains appeared very close, each cleft and rock as distinct as in a steel engraving.

At one point in the afternoon, he parked up on the moors and took out a packed lunch he had brought with him along with food for the dog and cat. He sat down in the heather and fed the animals and himself.

All at once, he had a sudden sharp feeling that Priscilla was near, but he dismissed it from his mind. If she were back in Lochdubh, someone would have told him.

Down on the waterfront, Mrs. Wellington, large and tweedy and wearing a brown velvet hat with a pheasant's feather stuck in it, hailed Angela Brodie. "Have you told Hamish that Miss Halburton-Smythe is up at the hotel?"

"I've only just learned of her arrival," said Angela. "I went to the police station to tell him, but he was out."

"We're not going to tell him," said Mrs. Wellington, waving a plump arm which seemed to encompa.s.s the whole village.

"Why not? He's bound to find out sooner or later."

"We think the reason he's never married is because he's still hankering after her."

"But that's no reason to treat him like a child."

"We don't want him getting hurt. With any luck, she'll be off back to London before he knows anything about it."

Effie was dressing with extreme care for the ceilidh that evening. She dreamed of dancing with Jock, of him holding her close and whispering into her hair that he loved her. She had bought a white cotton dress and a tartan sash in Strathbane. "I look the very picture of a highland la.s.s," she told her reflection. She had also bought makeup; for the first time in her life. She sat down at her dressing table she had hardly ever used, and applied the foundation cream and then powder. She painted her lips with a scarlet lipstick and then surveyed the effect with pleasure. "I look about nineteen," she told her reflection.

Jock Fleming, dressed in his one good suit, collar, and tie, walked into the Italian restaurant and was ushered to a table by Willie Lamont, the waiter.

"I'm waiting for someone," said Jock. "I'll choose what to eat when she arrives. Ah, here she is now."

Priscilla was wearing jeans, a cotton shirt belted at the waist, and low-heeled sandals. Jock suddenly felt overdressed.

Then he realised the other diners in the restaurant had fallen silent.

After Priscilla had sat down, he said, "We seem to be attracting a great deal of attention."

"You're new here," said Priscilla easily, "and still a subject of gossip."

"But they're not gossiping. They're staring."

"Ignore them." Priscilla picked up the menu.

"Am I overdressed?" asked Jock.

"I forgot to tell you. There's a ceilidh in the church hall tonight. I thought we would go along afterwards. I'm surprised there's so many in here. The restaurant is supplying a buffet supper at the ceilidh."

The mystery was solved when Willie approached to take their order and asked if they had tickets for the ceilidh.

"Why?" asked Priscilla. "I've never needed a ticket before."

"It's like this," said Willie. "It's a set meal here tonight which is covered by the ceilidh ticket because the restaurant is supplying the eats at the hall. If you've got a ticket, you don't pay here and I mark your ticket that you've been fed."

"We haven't got tickets," said Jock impatiendy. "We'll just choose from the menu." He opened the menu and found it contained a single sheet of typed paper. On it was written three courses: salad, lasagne, and chocolate mousse.

"You can't have anything if you haven't got tickets," said Willie.

Jock raised his bushy eyebrows in despair.

"Get us two tickets, and we'll pay for them," said Priscilla patiently.

"Wine's extra," cautioned Willie.

"Just get the tickets, Willie."

Willie went away and came back with two tickets. Jock paid for them and said, "This is a madhouse."

"Never mind. We don't need to bother choosing anything, as it's all been chosen for us. How are you enjoying your stay?"

"Very much. I'm being pestered a bit, though, by Effie Garrard."

"Our gift shop sells her stuff. She's very, very good."

"I'll grant you that. Maybe she's just lonely. Don't you find it too quiet up here after London?"

"I was brought up here."

"And will you live in London when you are married?"

"Yes, my fiance's work is there."

"When's the wedding?"

A shadow crossed Priscilla's face. "Peter, my fiance', is waiting until he can get a good break from work."

"I would think any man in his right mind wouldn't leave you loose for long."

Willie appeared behind Jock. "Would you like to examine the kitchen?"

"No, I wouldn't," said Jock crossly.

"Just for a minute."

"Go away, Willie," said Priscilla.

Willie retreated.

"What was all that about?" asked Jock.

"Oh, you'll find out sooner or later. I was once engaged to Hamish Macbedi."

"The policeman?"

"Yes. He broke off the engagement, but I fear the villagers still hope we'll get together again."

"But they know you are engaged?"

"Of course. But they prefer to ignore it."

"Odd place, this. It all seems so calm and unruffled on the surface, and underneath there seems to be all sorts of things going on. Why did Hamish break off the engagement?"

"Mind your own business," said Priscilla coolly, "and tell me about yourself."

So Jock did, telling her about his early days at Glasgow School of Art and his struggles to make a living as a painter.

"And you can do that now?" asked Priscilla.

"Yes, I'm pretty successful, thanks to my agent, Betty Barnard. Terrific energy that woman has. She worked night and day until she found me a gallery."

Their food arrived. Jock ordered wine. They chatted amiably as the restaurant cleared of customers.

"That was very pleasant," said Priscilla when they finished.

"I don't usually do portraits, but I would like to do one of you."

"What! Sit on the waterfront, which is where I gather from the gossips that you do your painting?"

"I was hoping you might lend me somewhere in the hotel."

"I'll think about it. Let's go."

Jock and Priscilla entered the hall to a roll of drums. "Take your seats, ladies and gentlemen," announced Matthew Campbell, the reporter who had been elected master of ceremonies. "Lochdubh's very own line dancing team will entertain you."

Jock tried hard not to laugh. The Currie sisters, Mrs. Wellington, Freda, Angela, and various other village women in what they fondly thought was western dress cavorted to a rollicking country and western tune played on the fiddle and accordion.

His eyes were streaming with suppressed laughter by the time they finished. Then Matthew announced, "And now take your partners for a ladies' choice. It's the eight-some reel."

Effie rushed up to Jock. "Our dance, I think," she said.

"I don't know how to do it."

"Come on. We'll just follow the others."

Hamish walked over and sat down by Priscilla. "You might have told me you had arrived," he said.