Hamish Macbeth 02 (1987) - Death of a Cad by M.C. Beaton

Author:M.C. Beaton
Format: epub

NINE

The wild vicissitudes of taste.

—Samuel Johnson.

Priscilla had decided to visit Mrs Mackay, she of the green bottle and the bad leg. Henry had readily agreed to go with her. Putting thirty niiles between himself and Tommel Castle seemed an excellent idea.

Despite the police investigation, Henry was in a high good humour. He had received a visit from several members of the local Crofters Commission who had formally asked him if he could still be counted on to hand out the prizes at the fair on the following day. They had been courteous and highly flattering. Henry had been made to feel like a local squire.

As Priscilla drove competently along the Highland roads, he looked out across the glittering windy landscape and thought it might be quite a good idea to buy a castle. There seemed to be castles all over Scotland for sale. It would be wonderful publicity. Somehow, he must manage to get himself a coat of arms. If he sold the film rights of Duchess Darling, they could film the whole thing in his castle. He had more than enough money to decorate it in style. Then, after his marriage, he would invite journalists from the Sunday newspaper colour supplements. Yes, a castle was a definite possibility.

Priscilla looked beautiful and happy. Just getting away from the gloomy atmosphere of death was enough to make both of them feel like schoolchildren at the beginning of the holidays.

Henry told her to stop when they were on a deserted stretch of road and then took her in his arms. She was passionate and responsive, and he felt a heady feeling of triumph as his hand slid up under her skirt for the first time. But his searching hand stopped short of its goal. He had a sudden prickling feeling at the back of his neck, a feeling he was being watched.

He released Priscilla and turned around. An elderly man was peering in the car at Henry’s side.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” shouted Henry.

“I wass passing,” said the old man in a quavery voice, “and I thought to myself, thought I, Those people are having the bad trouble with the steering. I saw you both fumbling away.”

“Mr McPhee,” said Priscilla, who had recognized the old man, “we were not having trouble with anything at all. Thank you for your concern.”

Mr McPhee smiled. “It is not any trouble at all, at all. Are you sure it is not your clutch that is wrong?”

“No, not my clutch,” said Priscilla, and giggled, and that giggle of hers made Henry even more furious.

“Drive on,” he said.

“I haven’t introduced you,” said Priscilla. “Mr McPhee, this is my fiance, Henry Withering. Henry, Mr McPhee.”

“Oh, of course, you are that playwright that everyone iss talking about,” said Mr McPhee. “It iss a grand thing to have a way with the words. I mind my daughter Elsie’s youngest boy, David, was a fair hand with the words when he wass at the school.”

“Priscilla, will you drive on or do I have to get out and walk?” snapped Henry.

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