Free Death of a Gentle Lady by M. C. Beaton Page A

to reason that she had quickly ditched the bike somewhere outside Lochdubh, got into a car, and driven off.
    So where would a stranger dump a bike on the road out of the village? She might heave it over the bridge and into the river. She wouldn’t want to use a mobile phone—that could be traced. She maybe wouldn’t want to drive into the village in case someone noticed the make of car and the registration number.
    He drove back down to the humpbacked bridge over the River Anstey, got out, and scrambled down beside the bridge to the river.
    In spring when the snow melted, the Anstey would become a raging torrent. But now it was peaceful, the golden peaty water chuckling over the rocks. And there, lying in the water, was a bicycle. He could see that the old-fashioned wicker basket on the front, described by the Currie sisters, had come partially loose and was swaying in the stream.
    He telephoned Jimmy and told him of the find. Jimmy told him to guard it until the crime operatives and the forensic boys arrived.
    “Is this how you go about your detecting, Hamish?” asked a cool voice from above him on the bridge. He looked up. Hair shining in the sunlight, there stood Priscilla.
    His heart gave a great leap and then he reminded himself of their romance, failed because of Priscilla’s coldness. How could he still hanker after a woman whose idea of lovemaking was to just lie there, supine, and suffer?
    “Don’t come down,” he called. He climbed up to join her. Doomed as their romance had been, there was still this warmth and trust between them. “I’ve just found a bike that’s part of the murder investigation.”
    “You’d better get some tape,” said Priscilla. “There’s still a bunch of press outside the station, and they’ll soon be along here trampling over everything.”
    Hamish got police tape out of the Land Rover and with Priscilla’s help began to cordon off the area.
    When it was finished, Priscilla looked at him with cool blue eyes. “Hamish, what on earth possessed you to get engaged to a tart?”
    “She was beautiful, she needed rescuing, and”—added Hamish harshly—“nobody else wanted me and I was tired of being single.”
    “
You
broke off our engagement, not me,” said Priscilla. “And I wouldn’t go so far as to say nobody wants you.”
    “What?”
    “Here they come, cameras waving. And Elspeth is at the fore.”
    “Look, duck under the tape and come down to the riverbank,” said Hamish.
    “Won’t we be messing up a crime scene?”
    “From the state of that bike, it was chucked over. Come on. I’ll tell you all about it.”
    Elspeth, penned behind the tape with the rest of the press, called down to Hamish, but he affected not to hear.
    He began at the beginning, telling Priscilla everything he knew, including the destroyed passport. He had always told her everything, knowing she was trustworthy and a very good listener.
    When he had finished, she said, “How awful it all must have been for you.”
    He looked at her with gratitude. No one else had thought of how he must feel.
    He heard sirens in the distance. “Are there any odd strangers up at the hotel apart from Harold Jury?”
    “I’ll double-check,” said Priscilla. “I don’t think so. Apart from the press, there are a few die-hard fishermen.”
    Superintendent Daviot’s head appeared over the parapet. “Come up here, Macbeth, and let the men do their work. Oh, Miss Halburton-Smythe, how nice to see you.”
    Priscilla and Hamish climbed up the bank. “I’d better be off,” said Priscilla.
    “Can we meet for dinner?” asked Hamish.
    “I’ll phone you.”
    Elspeth watched them and then saw the way Hamish looked after Priscilla as she got into her car and drove off.
    She edged her way back through the press and walked round to where the police Land Rover was parked on the bridge. Elspeth opened the passenger door, got in, and crouched down.
    Daviot said to Hamish, “That was good work.”
    “I’m going