Part 12 (1/2)

”Just fine,” said Mr. Johnson. ”Everything's running like clockwork.”

”Not having any troubles with the colonel?”

”Och, no, I just get on with the work, Hamish, and ignore his tantrums. I'm thinking of working here permanently.”

”And what has Priscilla to say to that?”

”Actually, it was her idea. She phoned up at Christmas, worried about what was happening, and when I told her everything, despite her lather's frequent interference, was running all right, she suggested I stay on. Suits me. The pay's a d.a.m.n sight better than at the Lochdubh. When are you coming back?”

”Shortly,” said Hamish. ”I'd better phone Priscilla. Still at Rogart?”

”Aye, still mere and having a grand time, by the sound of it.”

Hamish then rang his mother and apologized for not having called sooner, and after asking about various members of the family, asked to speak to Priscilla. ”I'm afraid you can't,” came his mother's voice. ”She's gone off tae the pub with your dad and his friends for a drink.”

Hamish briefly tried to imagine the elegant Priscilla propping up some Highland bar with his father and friends and found he could not.

”Where are you, son?” asked his mother.

”In Glasgow.”

”At Jean's?”

Jean was Hamish's cousin. ”No,” said Hamish, ”I'm at the Fleur De Lys Hotel in the Great Western Road.”

”What are ye doing there? It's awfy expensive.”

”Och, it's chust a wee place,” said Hamish, taking in the luxury of his bedroom surroundings for the first time and feeling like a kept man.

”No, no, I read an article aboot it,” came his mother's voice. ”How can you afford a place like that?”

Hamish found himself blus.h.i.+ng. ”It's a long story, Ma. I'll tell ye all about it when I get home.”

He talked some more and then rang off. He undressed, got into bed and lay awake for a long time, thinking about the case; and the more he thought about it, the more he decided it must have been an accident and that the weird atmosphere of Eileencraig had put ideas of murder into his head.

But in the morning, over breakfast, he found Harriet was anxious to start the investigations. ”I mink we should call on Diarmuid,” she said. ”Where does he live?”

”Morris Mace, as I recall.”

She took out a street map and studied it. ”Why, that's just around the comer. We can walk there”

Morris Place turned out to be a small square of Victorian houses, mostly divided into flats, but Diarmuid, it transpired, owned a whole house. They rang the bell and waited.

After some time, Diarmuid opened the door. He was impeccably dressed in a pin-striped suit, white s.h.i.+rt, and striped silk tie.

”Going out?” asked Hamish.

”I was thinking about going down to the office,” said, Diarmuid, blocking the doorway, ”although I'm pretty tired. I got back from the north in the small hours of the morning. What are you doing here?”

”We just wanted to ask you about Heather.”

He heaved an impatient sigh and reluctantly stood back, allowing them to enter. He then led the way to a sitting-room on the first floor. It was thickly carpeted and had a green silk-covered three-piece suite, both armchairs and sofa being ornamented with silk ta.s.sels. Heavy green silk fringed curtains were drawn back to let in the pale, grey daylight. A gas fire of simulated logs was flaring away on the hearth. In one corner of the room there was a bar. A low coffee-table stood in front of the fire, its polished oak surface protected with coasters depicting paintings by Impressionist artists. Diarmuid ushered them into chairs and then sat down, adjusting his handsome features into what he obviously considered, an expression of suitable grief.

Hamish's first question appeared to surprise him. Was Heather writing a book? Diarmuid said no, although he added that she was always scribbling away at things. ”If she had written a book,” said Diarmuid, ”then she would have got Jessie to type it. Jessie typed all her letters.”

Hamish looked at him curiously. ”Jessie was your secretary. Didn't she resent having to work for your wife as well?”

”Oh, no, she's a good girl, and besides, Heather paid her separately.”

”Where is she now?”

”At home.”

Hamish took out a small notebook in which he had written all the phone numbers and addresses of his suspects. ”Would you mind if I used your phone and gave Jessie a call?”

”Help yourself,” said Diarmuid, jerking his head to a white-and-gilt model of an early telephone which stood on a side-table by the window.

Hamish rang Jessie. When she answered, he asked her if Heather had ever asked her to type any pages of ma.n.u.script.

”No,” said Jessie harshly. ”Anything else? I'm busy with the funeral arrangements.”

Hamish said no, nothing for the moment, and thoughtfully replaced the receiver.

There seemed to be nothing else to ask Diarmuid. Diarmuid appeared to have forgotten all about going to the office as he ushered them out.

”I feel like giving up,” said Harriet gloomily as they left Morris Place. ”It's such a long shot, Hamish.”

”I'd like to try that editor in New York again,” said Hamish. ”I've got an idea.”

”Well, we can't phone until at least three in the afternoon, when it'll be ten in the morning in New York,” pointed out Harriet. ”I'e got some shopping to do. I'll meet you back at the hotel this afternoon.”

Hamish wandered about the city and then ate a solitary lunch, although his mind was not on what he was eating. Bits and pieces of scenes floated through his mind. Jane flushed and angry. John Wetherby electing to stay with Jane. The Carpenters, fat and miserable, trailing off to the station in Oban. Jessie, cool and competent, going off to hire a car in Oban. Diarmuid, relying on his secretary to do everything.

When Harriet came to his hotel room at three in the afternoon, Hamish began to speak immediately, as if he had been discussing the case with her all through lunch. ”Look, what about mis? Heather actually succeeds in writing a blockbuster. Jessie types it and sends it off...but she puts her own name on it.”

Harriet looked doubtful. ”Would such as Jessie recognise a block-buster? Then we're back to means and opportunity. Jessie was not on the island when Heather was killed.”

”But Diarmuid was,” said Hamish. ”That brief fling with Jane could have been a blind.”

”He'd need to have been awfully fast to follow Heather all' the way over to the other side of the island, run all the way back, and then hop into bed with Jane,” pointed out Harriet, ”Then striking her down in the dark when he was supposed to be searching for her-well, that's hardly premeditated, and if there's money for a book involved, her death would have to be worked out carefully beforehand.”

”There's something there,” muttered Hamish. ”I can feel it.”

He picked up the phone and dialed the editor in New York. ”I'm sorry to keep bothering you, but it's terribly important that I find out who wrote that book I was asking you about.”

”Look, all right, all right,” said the editor, ”I'll give you the author's name. It's Fiona Stuart.”

”Her address?”