Death of an Outsider by M.C. Beaton

kitchen like this. And Priscilla would never spill hot coffee on her bare feet as Jenny had just done, for Priscilla never spilt anything and Priscilla would never go around on her bare feet. In fact, thought Hamish, feeling more cheerful than he had done in a long time, Priscilla is a pill.
    They chatted for some time until Hamish reluctantly said he’d better get back to the police station.
    ‘Come any time,’ said Jenny.
    ‘I will,’ said Hamish Macbeth. She held out her hand and he took it in his. The physical reaction of his own body amazed him. He looked down at her in surprise, holding her hand tightly.
    ‘Goodbye,’ said Jenny, tugging her hand free.
    The snow had melted and great sheets of rain were whipping through the town, Hamish noticed in a bemused way. Towser watched him reproachfully as he entered. Hamish donned his waterproof cape and put the dog on the lead and went out to the shops.
    The butcher’s shop was a cheery, gossipy oasis in the desolation of Cnothan. The butcher, John Wilson, had heard all about the ducking of the ghillies and wanted the details firsthand. Hamish gossiped happily and came away with a bonus of two free lamb chops and a bag of bones for Towser.
    He went into the grocer’s next door and bought a bottle of wine, vaguely planning to ask Jenny to dinner as soon as possible. He then went into the hardware, which was farther up the street, to buy a corkscrew. He thought there might be one in the bar but did not want to poke around that horrible lounge of the MacGregors to look for it. ‘Get it yourself,’ said the owner of the shop. ‘It’s over there on the left.’ The accent was English but the manner was pure Cnothan. Hamish wondered if the outsiders became as rude as the locals in sheer self-defence.
       
    In the Clachan, Alistair Gunn and Dougie Macdonald were suffering the taunts of William Mainwaring. ‘So your joke backfired,’ jeered Mainwaring, ‘and the pair of you let that copper shove you in the loch.’
    ‘Weel, ye haff to go carefully when you’re dealing with a poofter,’ growled Alistair Gunn.
    ‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Mainwaring.
    ‘He means Macbeth,’ said Dougie in his high sing-song Highland whine. ‘The man is a fairy, a homosexual. You should have smelt him. He wass stinking of the perfume.’
    Mainwaring looked amazed. ‘Aye,’ said Alistair, enjoying startling the Englishman. ‘He’s wan o’ them. I can always tell.’
    Mainwaring suddenly burst out laughing and slapped Alistair on the back. ‘Well, old chap,’ he said, ‘it takes one to know one.’ And, still laughing, he went off.
    Alistair stood there stupidly, mulling over that ‘it takes one to know one’. Then a slow feeling of outrage started somewhere in the pit of his stomach and spread throughout his whole body.
    ‘I’ll kill that man,’ he howled.
       
    Later that evening, Mrs Struthers, the minis-ter’s wife, was just finishing a lecture on microwave cooking to the Mothers’ Meeting in the church hall. The dishes she had prepared were proudly laid out on a table in front of her. William Mainwaring walked in, his eyes roving about the room, obviously looking for his wife. Mrs Struthers was glad Agatha had not put in an appearance and prayed that Mr Mainwaring would leave as soon as possible.
    ‘And that concludes my lecture,’ she said. ‘I now have some paper plates and knives and forks here and I would like you ladies to sample my cooking.’
    Her mouth gave a nervous twitch as Main-waring approached the table. ‘What a strange selection,’ he said in a wondering voice. ‘What’s that cup of goo?’
    ‘It’s a sweet-and-sour sauce,’ said Mrs Struthers.
    ‘And what’s it made of?’
    ‘Pineapple juice and marmalade and a spoonful of vinegar.’
    ‘Yech!’ said Mainwaring. ‘And look at that baked potato. It doesn’t look cooked.’
    He seized a fork. Mrs Struthers made a sort of dismal bleating sound like a lamb lost on a