Free Death of a Charming Man by MC Beaton

woman puts up with.’
    ‘What things?’
    Her mouth closed like a trap. ‘I do not discuss my neighbours.’
    ‘Well, that’s that,’ said Hamish with a sigh of relief as he drove off. ‘Don’t tell me you want to live in a place like that, Priscilla.’
    ‘No, it was pretty dire,’ she said. ‘But Craig-allen is all right, Hamish.’
    ‘A bad house,’ said Hamish firmly. ‘Let’s go to Drim.’
    ‘Do you know,’ said Priscilla, ‘that in all the time I’ve lived up here, I’ve never been to Drim. I’ve heard it’s a dead-alive sort of place.’
    ‘Aye, it’s all of that.’
    They drove down towards Drim. Below them they could see the black sheen of water on the loch, that thin sea loch which lay between the towering walls of the mountains where nothing grew in the scree on the flanks except an occasional stunted tree. As they climbed down from the car, the air was heavy and still. Either the wind had suddenly dropped, thought Priscilla, or Drim was so protected from the elements that hardly a breath of air stirred the black waters of the loch.
    ‘Why would anyone want to live here?’ asked Priscilla, looking around.
    Hamish shrugged. ‘Why would anyone want to live in a place like Strathbane either, Priscilla? You’d best wait here. I’ll see Jock on my own.’
    After Hamish had disappeared into the shop, the women began to emerge from the community hall after their exercise class. They stopped short at the sight of Priscilla standing beside the police Land Rover. She was wearing a short blue skirt of soft wool and a short-sleeved wool sweater. A white cashmere cardigan was draped about her shoulders. Her long legs in sheer stockings ended in low-heeled, tan leather court shoes. The women huddled together and stared at her from the top of her smooth blonde head to the tips of her shoes.
    ‘What’s someone like that doing here?’ asked Betty Baxter harshly.
    ‘Maybe she’s come tae see Peter,’ said Nancy Macleod, voicing all their worries.
    ‘In a polis car?’ demanded the hairdresser, Alice MacQueen.
    Priscilla saw them watching her and smiled tentatively. There were no answering smiles, only eyes as hard as Scottish pebbles.
    Inside the shop, Hamish was confronting Jock Kennedy, who had been summoned from the back premises by his wife, Ailsa. ‘Look, Jock,’ said Hamish, ‘I know you are running a sort of pub in the back there after hours, and it will chust not do.’
    Jock scowled ferociously. ‘Who telt ye?’
    ‘It doesn’t matter. You’ve got to stop it.’
    ‘You cannae stop me from having a few friends round.’
    ‘No, and I suggest you make it that. If Strath-bane heard about it and crashed in here one night, how would things look for me? I am not booking you, Jock, nor am I asking to have a look-see. Chust make sure you’re doing nothing illegal in future.’
    ‘You should not be bothering an honest man like me,’ said Jock. ‘It’s that Sassenach you should be after.’
    ‘What’s he done?’
    ‘He’s a dirty fighter. He kicked me in the balls.’
    Ailsa gave a shrill laugh. ‘It was self-defence. Hear this, Macbeth. It wass at the ceilidh. Himself here gets them to call Peter out fur a dram and as soon as Peter appears, Jock challenges him to a fight. Going to beat him to a pulp, he wass.’ Ailsa laughed again. ‘Well, you got your comeuppance, so leave Peter Hynd alone.’
    ‘Hiss days here are numbered, wumman.’
    ‘I’ll leave you both,’ said Hamish hurriedly. ‘Don’t forget what I said, Jock.’
    He went outside. He paused for a moment, studying the scene in front of him. Priscilla had turned to face the loch, trying to look unconcerned. The women of Drim had edged closer to her, as if inspecting some rare wild beast.
    ‘Shoo!’ said Hamish, running up to them and waving his hands.
    Hamish returned to Priscilla, his face grim. ‘That great fool, Jock Kennedy, challenged Peter Hynd to a fight and Peter kicked him where it hurts the