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

to check at the hotel,” said Hamish. “They’ve got bikes they let their guests use.”
    He walked to the Land Rover, seemingly deaf to the cries of the journalists demanding to know the significance of the bicycle.
    Hamish switched on the engine and then glanced down to his left and stiffened. “Chust what do you think you are doing, Elspeth?” he demanded.
    “I’m a reporter, remember? I want something to report.”
    “Tell you what, if you go to the station and take Lugs and Sonsie for a walk and feed them, I’ll give you something to report.”
    “Like when?”
    “Say five o’clock.”
    “You’re on, copper. What did your hooker think of the possibility of sharing a home with your two other wives— Sonsie and Lugs?”
    “Get out!”
    “I’m going.”
    Hamish drove off, feeling highly irritated. He regretted telling Elspeth he would see her later. She had jeered at him in the past over his devotion to his pets.
    When he walked into the hotel, he glanced in the bar and then walked through to the lounge not just to see if he could find any odd-looking guests, but also to see if he could meet Priscilla again.
    Apart from Harold Jury and his laptop, there were no other guests in the lounge. But the surprise was that Harold appeared to be entertaining Mrs. Wellington and the Currie sisters. Hamish ambled over to join them despite a ferocious keep-out-of-this look on Mrs. Wellington’s face.
    Harold wanted to berate Hamish over the trick he had played on him, but bit his lip when he realised how silly it would make him sound.
    Nessie Currie said, “If you behave yourself, Hamish, there might even be a part for you.”
    “A part in what?” Hamish asked curiously.
    “The Mothers’ Union is going to put on a production of
Macbeth
and we are here to ask this distinguished author to help us.”
    “Has Mr. Jury any knowledge of the theatre?”
    “He is a cultured man, cultured man,” said Jessie. “Which is mair than what you are. Go and find your murderers, murderers.”
    Harold had been about to refuse, but the thought of becoming a presence in the village would wipe out his humiliation. From the look on the constable’s face, it would irritate him no end.
    Hamish walked back to the reception area. Priscilla was just coming out of the manager’s office.
    “Hullo again,” she said. “You look upset.”
    Hamish told her of the offer to Harold. “It’s not fitting. The man could be a murderer.”
    “Hamish, he is a famous author. That was a dirty trick you played on him. Fortunately I was able to soothe him by telling him you were by way of being the village clown.”
    “Priscilla! That’s an awfy harsh thing to say.”
    “I had to do something. The press will soon leave, and the hotel needs all the guests it can get. Having someone of Jury’s stature here is good for business.”
    “Why? Is business that bad?”
    “The European Union’s lousy economy and the weak dollar are killing off the tourists. In the grouse season, we used to get the French, and Americans in the fishing season. Now most of our guests, such as we have, are homegrown. We swore that next time the press arrived in Lochdubh, we would turn them away, but we can’t do that because we need the business.”
    “What about the Irish? They’ve done well out of the Union.”
    “We got one Irishman here, but he’s only interested in hill walking.”
    “What’s his name? You didn’t tell me about him.”
    “It slipped my mind. Patrick Fitzpatrick.”
    “What’s he like?”
    “Tall beanpole of a fellow. Very quiet. Courteous. Quite good looking.”
    “I’d like to look at the shed where you keep the bikes.”
    “Most of them are falling to bits. Any keen cyclist usually stays at a youth hostel. The ones we get either drive or walk. I’ll get the key.”
    Hamish waited. Mrs. Wellington’s voice suddenly boomed from the lounge, “All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.”
    And Harold’s amused cry