Death of a Gentle Lady

following morning, before Hamish arrived, Priscilla was just finishing her breakfast when she was joined by Harold Jury. ‘We’ve got a hard day’s work ahead of us,’ he said. ‘I’ll drive you down to the village hall for the final rehearsal.’
    ‘I won’t be there,’ said Priscilla. ‘I’m going off for a picnic with Hamish and I’m going to put the whole thing out of my mind until this evening.’
    ‘You can’t do that. I am the producer and I am ordering you to be at the hall!’
    Priscilla stood up. She wavered. Then Harold put an arm around her waist and said softly. ‘I know you fancy me, darling, and that’s what’s making you nervous. Once this play’s over, we’ll have fun.’
    ‘I’ve never encouraged you,’ said Priscilla.
    ‘Oh, yes you have. I saw you trying to make me jealous by flirting with that Irishman.’
    ‘Get this straight,’ said Priscilla, her eyes like chips of ice. ‘I’ve never fancied you, nor will I ever.’
    ‘You’re nothing but a prick tease.’
    ‘And you’re nothing but a prick,’ said Priscilla. ‘Get yourself another Lady Macbeth.’
    She headed for the door. He caught her arm and twisted her round, his eyes blazing. ‘You can’t do this to me!’
    Mr Johnson appeared flanked by the chef, Clarry, who was wielding a meat cleaver.
    ‘Miss Halburton-Smythe,’ said Mr Johnson, ‘I believe Hamish is waiting for you.’
    Harold released her, his face flaming with rage.

    ‘What’s up?’ asked Hamish as he climbed into the passenger seat of Priscilla’s car after lifting Sonsie and Lugs into the back.
    ‘I’m not going to be playing Lady Macbeth,’ said Priscilla. ‘Harold ordered me to stay for the rehearsal today.’
    ‘You can see his point,’ said Hamish awkwardly. ‘Or was there anything else?’
    ‘Yes, he got frisky.’
    ‘Oh, dear. Then who is going to play Lady Macbeth?’
    ‘Angela has been understudying.’
    ‘Poor Angela.’
    ‘Hamish, I have just endured a rather nasty scene. Don’t mention that damn play again!’
    The day was blustery but fine as Priscilla negotiated the zigzag road down to Grianach.
    ‘It’s beautiful, Hamish. That’s a good natural harbour. Good protection. The waves out there look enormous.’
    Priscilla parked by the harbour. Hamish let the dog and cat out and stood breathing in the clean, salty air. James Fringley came striding forward to meet them.
    ‘I thought I told you never to come here again,’ he said.
    ‘This is Miss Priscilla Halburton-Smythe,’ said Hamish. ‘Priscilla, Mr James Fringley, who handles the sales of the stuff. Priscilla here is anxious to give you an order for goods for her hotel gift shop.’
    James smiled. ‘If you just walk up to the house with me, Miss Halburton-Smythe, I can show you a range of goods.’
    ‘You wait here, Hamish,’ said Priscilla.
    Hamish sat down on a bollard and looked out over the glittering water. The light’s too bright and sharp, he thought. A big storm is coming. While he sat there, a few of the locals appeared, saw him, and sheered away.
    Pity, he thought. I could get to love this place almost as much as Lochdubh. How far away it is from the cities, the drugs, and the crime.
    He turned last evening’s dinner with Anna over in his mind. There was something about the woman that repelled him. It was as if some inner kernel of her was as cold as ice. He had met Russians before, all sorts of warm, jolly people. Still, to have risen to the rank of Inspector must mean she had to be very tough indeed.
    Hamish suddenly wanted a cigarette. He wanted to sit smoking and staring out to sea. But he had given up some time ago. I would be stupid to start again. Just the one, he thought. He rose and went into the village shop and said to the troll behind the counter, ‘Ten Bensons, please.’
    A flood of angry Gaelic erupted from the man, which Hamish translated to mean that if he didn’t get out of the shop he would be hit on the head with an axe.
    He retreated to the harbour. The craving had gone and he gave a sigh of relief. To think he had nearly blown it.
    Priscilla came back with a delighted James Fringley. ‘Business is over, Hamish. I think we should go up into the hills for our picnic.’
    As she drove off, Hamish asked, ‘Where’s the goods?’
    ‘He’s bringing it over tomorrow. That stuff will sell like hotcakes. I’m even going to put an ad in the Highland Times . Christmas is coming, and people will be looking for