buying some whisky in Patel’s and thae Currie sisters thought fit to inform me
of your romance. Now, I’ll keep it from Blair, but get rid of her and don’t go near her again until this case is closed. Get
over to Cnothan and knock on doors and see if you can get anyone to talk.”
Jimmy had expected an argument but to his surprise all Hamish replied was a meek, “Yes.”
“I’ll be off then,” said Jimmy. “You get back in there and give the lassie her marching orders.”
“I’ve just had a rocket about seeing you,” said Hamish to Hannah. “I’ve been told not to see you again until the case is closed.”
Hannah looked dismayed. “But does he need to know?”
“You can’t keep anything quiet around here,” said Hamish.
“Except murder,” said Hannah cynically. “I could have helped you. I’m very good at judging people.” She began to tell him
several very long and boring stories.
Oh, why didn’t I listen to her last night? wondered Hamish. I was so captivated by her beauty, I barely listened to a word
she said. He also wondered if this was how women felt the morning after when they realised what a mistake they had made. He
felt grubby, petty, and stupid.
He at last interrupted her by saying gently that he had to get over to Cnothan.
“I may have a surprise for you,” said Hannah. “I’ll bet I can find that murderer for you.”
“Don’t do anything,” said Hamish sharply. “It’s dangerous.”
“Pooh! Nothing frightens me,” said Hannah, with the insouciance of someone who has never faced any danger before.
She gave him a passionate kiss to which he tried his best to respond.
Hannah did not go back to her brother’s home. Instead she drove to Braikie. She remembered what Hamish had told her about
the Palfours. He had said he was sure the boy wanted to tell him something. If she could get Charles Palfour to talk to her,
then that nasty detective would tell Hamish it was all right to see her. Hannah could see herself as Sergeant Macbeth’s wife.
She would be written about in all the papers as a sort of Watson to Hamish’s Sherlock. Hannah was possessed of a narcissistic
vanity. She had once overheard her boss saying to someone, “Our Hannah has unplumbed shallows.” Hannah had simply thought
he had meant depths and had made a stupid mistake.
She sang as she drove over the heathery hills to Braikie.
Although the locals referred to Braikie as “the village,” thinking it sounded posher than “town,” it was a town by highland
standards, although not very large.
The appearance of a beautiful woman in Braikie, asking for the Palfours, set gossipy tongues wagging. One would say they had
seen her on television, another in a Bond film. Even more imaginative were the ones who watched CSI programmes on television and swore she had come over from America because there had always been something suspicious about
the Palfours.
So Hannah found it easy to be directed to Mrs. Mallard’s home. Mrs. Mallard was out shopping but Olivia answered the door
and curtly asked Hannah what she wanted.
“I would like to speak to your brother, Charles,” said Hannah.
“Why?”
“I am making enquiries on behalf of Hamish Macbeth,” said Hannah importantly.
“Show me your warrant card,” snapped Olivia.
Hannah gave the girl what she hoped was a winning smile. “Hamish is very busy at the moment,” she said. “He believes that
Charles was anxious to talk to him.”
“If Macbeth wants to contact my brother, then he may do so, instead of sending some tart to waste my time,” said Olivia, and
slammed the door.
Hannah sat in her car outside the house. She saw what must be Mrs. Mallard coming home but nothing of any youth that might
be Charles. She was stubbornly determined to talk to him. He had to return sometime. But night descended—or the gloaming that
passes for night in the Scottish Highlands in summer—and lights
of your romance. Now, I’ll keep it from Blair, but get rid of her and don’t go near her again until this case is closed. Get
over to Cnothan and knock on doors and see if you can get anyone to talk.”
Jimmy had expected an argument but to his surprise all Hamish replied was a meek, “Yes.”
“I’ll be off then,” said Jimmy. “You get back in there and give the lassie her marching orders.”
“I’ve just had a rocket about seeing you,” said Hamish to Hannah. “I’ve been told not to see you again until the case is closed.”
Hannah looked dismayed. “But does he need to know?”
“You can’t keep anything quiet around here,” said Hamish.
“Except murder,” said Hannah cynically. “I could have helped you. I’m very good at judging people.” She began to tell him
several very long and boring stories.
Oh, why didn’t I listen to her last night? wondered Hamish. I was so captivated by her beauty, I barely listened to a word
she said. He also wondered if this was how women felt the morning after when they realised what a mistake they had made. He
felt grubby, petty, and stupid.
He at last interrupted her by saying gently that he had to get over to Cnothan.
“I may have a surprise for you,” said Hannah. “I’ll bet I can find that murderer for you.”
“Don’t do anything,” said Hamish sharply. “It’s dangerous.”
“Pooh! Nothing frightens me,” said Hannah, with the insouciance of someone who has never faced any danger before.
She gave him a passionate kiss to which he tried his best to respond.
Hannah did not go back to her brother’s home. Instead she drove to Braikie. She remembered what Hamish had told her about
the Palfours. He had said he was sure the boy wanted to tell him something. If she could get Charles Palfour to talk to her,
then that nasty detective would tell Hamish it was all right to see her. Hannah could see herself as Sergeant Macbeth’s wife.
She would be written about in all the papers as a sort of Watson to Hamish’s Sherlock. Hannah was possessed of a narcissistic
vanity. She had once overheard her boss saying to someone, “Our Hannah has unplumbed shallows.” Hannah had simply thought
he had meant depths and had made a stupid mistake.
She sang as she drove over the heathery hills to Braikie.
Although the locals referred to Braikie as “the village,” thinking it sounded posher than “town,” it was a town by highland
standards, although not very large.
The appearance of a beautiful woman in Braikie, asking for the Palfours, set gossipy tongues wagging. One would say they had
seen her on television, another in a Bond film. Even more imaginative were the ones who watched CSI programmes on television and swore she had come over from America because there had always been something suspicious about
the Palfours.
So Hannah found it easy to be directed to Mrs. Mallard’s home. Mrs. Mallard was out shopping but Olivia answered the door
and curtly asked Hannah what she wanted.
“I would like to speak to your brother, Charles,” said Hannah.
“Why?”
“I am making enquiries on behalf of Hamish Macbeth,” said Hannah importantly.
“Show me your warrant card,” snapped Olivia.
Hannah gave the girl what she hoped was a winning smile. “Hamish is very busy at the moment,” she said. “He believes that
Charles was anxious to talk to him.”
“If Macbeth wants to contact my brother, then he may do so, instead of sending some tart to waste my time,” said Olivia, and
slammed the door.
Hannah sat in her car outside the house. She saw what must be Mrs. Mallard coming home but nothing of any youth that might
be Charles. She was stubbornly determined to talk to him. He had to return sometime. But night descended—or the gloaming that
passes for night in the Scottish Highlands in summer—and lights
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