Free Death of a Gossip by MC Beaton Page A

filled with the names and addresses and telephone numbers of various friends and relatives. Like most Highlanders, Hamish had
relatives scattered all over the world.
    Then he remembered his second cousin, Rory Grant, who worked for the Daily Recorder in Fleet Street. Hamish ambled indoors and put through a collect call. ‘This is Constable Macbeth
of Lochdubh with a verra important story for Rory Grant,’ said Hamish when the newspaper switchboard showed signs of being reluctant to pay for the call. When he was at last put through to
Rory, Hamish gave a description of Lady Jane Winters and asked for details about her.
    ‘I’ll need to go through to the library and look at her cuttings,’ said Rory. ‘It might take a bit of time. I’ll call you back.’
    ‘Och, no,’ said Hamish comfortably, ‘I am not paying for the call, so I will just hold on and have a beer while you are looking.’
    ‘Suit yourself,’ said Rory. Hamish tucked the phone under one ear and fished a bottle of beer out of his bottom drawer. He did not like cold beer and, in any case, Hamish had grown
up on American movies where the hero had fished a bottle out of his desk drawer, and had never got over the thrill of being able to do the same thing, even though it was warm beer and not
bourbon.
    He had left the police office door open, and a curious hen came hopping in, flew up on top of the typewriter, and stared at him with curious, beady eyes.
    Priscilla Halburton-Smythe suddenly appeared in the doorway, a brace of grouse dangling from one hand, and smiled at the sight of Hamish with his huge boots on the desk, bottle of beer in one
hand, phone in the other and hen in front.
    ‘I see you’re interviewing one of the village criminals,’ said Priscilla.
    ‘Not I,’ said Hamish. ‘I am waiting for my cousin in London to come back to the telephone with some vital information.’
    ‘I meant the hen, silly. Joke. I’ve brought you some grouse.’
    ‘Have they been hung?’
    ‘No, I shot them today. Why do you ask?’
    ‘Oh, nothing, nothing. It is verra kind of you, Miss Halburton-Smythe.’
    Since Hamish’s family did not like grouse, the policeman was calculating how soon he could manage to get into Ullapool, where he would no doubt get a good price for the brace from one of
the butchers. If they were fresh, that would give him a few days. Hamish did not possess a freezer except the small compartment in his refrigerator, which was full of TV dinners.
    Hamish stood up, startling the hen, who flew off with a squawk, and pulled out a chair for Priscilla. He studied her as she sat down. She was wearing a beige silk blouse tucked into cord
breeches. Her waist was small and her breasts high and firm. The pale oval of her face, framed by the pale gold of her hair, was saved from being insipid by a pair of bright blue eyes fringed with
sooty lashes. He cleared his throat. ‘I cannot leave the telephone. But you will find a bottle of beer in the refrigerator in the kitchen.’
    ‘I thought you didn’t like cold beer,’ called Priscilla over her shoulder as she made her way across the tiny hall to the kitchen. ‘I aye keep one for the guests,’
called Hamish, thinking wistfully that he had kept a cold bottle of beer especially for her since that golden day she had first dropped in to see him about a minor poaching matter four whole months
ago.
    ‘No more trouble, I hope,’ added Hamish as Priscilla returned with a foaming glass. ‘I hope it is not the crime that brings you here.’
    ‘No, I thought you might like some birds for the pot.’ Priscilla leaned back and crossed her legs, tightening the material along her thighs by the movement. Hamish half closed his
eyes.
    ‘Actually, I’m escaping,’ said Priscilla. ‘Daddy’s brought the most awful twit up from London. He wants me to marry him.’
    ‘And will you?’
    ‘No, you silly constable. Didn’t I just say he was a twit? I say, there’s a picture show on at the