Death of a Gentle Lady

presents.’

    They picnicked on a flat rock in a hollow protected from the wind high up on the moors.
    Hamish, watching Priscilla as she efficiently laid out the picnic, thought that she was, for him, rather like cigarettes. Just when he thought the craving had gone, back it would come. He longed to take her in his arms but dreaded rejection. He forced himself to chat lightly about this and that until the yearning went away.
    When they arrived back at the hotel, Hamish asked, ‘Will you be watching the performance?’
    ‘No, I’m going off to London. I’ll tell Mr Johnson about Fringley bringing the stuff for the gift shop.’
    ‘You seem to be able to come and go with that job of yours.’
    ‘I take contracts, Hamish. That’s the blessing about being a computer programmer. I’ll start another contract when I get back.’
    Hamish was torn between relief and sadness that she was going. Without Priscilla around, he could really concentrate on the case.

    He decided to call on Angela and see if she was ready for her big part. He found her in her kitchen, sitting in front of her computer as usual.
    ‘What’s this?’ asked Hamish. ‘I thought you would be walking up and down, feverishly remembering your lines.’
    ‘I’m not going, Hamish.’
    ‘Why?’
    Angela sighed and pushed a lock of hair away from her thin face. ‘I just don’t want to do it. It’s Harold. Why should I bother to help him out when he was so rude to me?’
    ‘How rude?’
    ‘I went up to the hotel yesterday to talk to him about writing. He said to me loftily that he couldn’t be bothered wasting the time to talk to me. He said if I was having difficulties, I should wait for inspiration. So when he came tearing down here to tell me to play Lady Macbeth, I told him I hadn’t the time because I was waiting for inspiration. I suggested he get inspired and find someone else.’
    ‘Unlike you to be so harsh.’
    ‘Hamish, I have met many writers at writers’ conventions and not one has blethered on about inspiration. It’s hard work, and you just sit down and do it. Every writer knows that.’
    Hamish scratched his fiery hair. ‘Angela, don’t you feel you might be letting the rest of the folk in the village down? They’re all so excited about being in a play.’
    ‘Yes, I was struck by guilty conscience, so I phoned him and said if he was absolutely stuck, I would do it. He said harshly he had someone and hung up on me.’
    ‘I wonder who it could be?’ marvelled Hamish. ‘No one else has had time to learn the lines.’
    ‘Maybe he’s got some actress up from London. Anyway, I’m still mad at him.’
    ‘Writing seems to have stiffened your spine,’ said Hamish. ‘The old Angela could be bullied into doing anything for anyone. Even your kitchen’s still clean!’
    ‘Well, you know how it is. I think I am a real writer at last. I sit down at the computer and am overcome by a burning desire to defrost the fridge.’
    ‘Keep at it. I’ll be going to the play tonight. What about you?’
    ‘I can’t now, Hamish. What if it’s a dreadful failure and everyone blames me for letting them down?’
    ‘I’m sure the ambitious Harold will have found someone.’

Chapter Twelve

    The glass is falling hour by hour, the glass will fall forever
But if you break the bloody glass you won’t hold up the weather.
– Louis MacNeice

    The wind had roared away earlier and now mist was creeping up the loch, making the dark evening even darker. Hamish was glad they had a calm night for the performance because he had checked his barometer and the glass was falling.
    He walked along to the church hall. He wondered whether the murderer would try to kill him again.
    People were streaming out of cottages, and the air was full of excited chatter. I don’t like Harold, thought Hamish, but he’s certainly brought a bit of excitement to the village.
    The men had all put on their best suits; some of the women were even wearing their church hats. Hamish was in casual clothes and wondered whether he should go back and change but decided against it.
    The seating was on a first-come, first-served basis, and he could only get a seat at the back of the hall.
    He studied his programme. Priscilla was still listed as playing Lady Macbeth.
    The hall was full. He recognized people from other towns and villages in Sutherland. The play had been well advertised in all the local papers.
    The school orchestra was murdering the ‘Toreador’s March’ from