Free Hamish MacBeth 06 (1991) - Death of a Snob by M.C. Beaton Page B

to charge him. All Jane has to do is make a complaint of assault and see he does his duty.”
    “It’s not so easy,” said Hamish. “All the islanders will gang up and say that Angus was in their sight all day.”
    “Forensic tests,” barked John.
    “They wouldn’t get anywhere,” said Hamish wearily, “that is, if Strathbane even bothered to send anyone out here. Footprints? The tide’s been up as far as the entrance to the pillbox, not to mention the howling wind sweeping any marks clear. Fingerprints? Of course Angus’s would be on the bolt, for it’s where he stores his stuff.”
    John Wetherby stared at him long and hard and then a smile curled his lips. “I’ve got it,” he said softly. “You’re a copper yourself. Not a private detective, not even a police detective. Who else, I ask you, would wear boots like that?”
    Hamish looked miserably at his feet. He was wearing an old tweed sports jacket, checked shirt, and plain tie and cords. But on his feet were his regulation boots. They had been broken in long ago and were very comfortable, and the thrifty Hamish had seen no reason to waste money on shoes when the state could supply him with footwear.
    Harriet Shaw’s eyes travelled quickly from face to face. There was a stillness in the room. Heather was frankly goggling, Diarmuid was looking enigmatic as usual, the Carpenters were leaning against each other, plump shoulder against plump shoulder, but someone had let out a startled exclamation, quickly stifled. Which one had it been?
    “All right,” said Hamish. “But I am on holiday.”
    “It was that bathroom heater,” said John, Founding on Jane. “You silly cow. How like you to get so paranoid over a mere accident.”
    “At least he found out who shut me in the pillbox,” said Jane quietly. “Now can we all just go ahead and try to have a decent Christmas?”
    Whether it was Jane’s remark, whether it was the presence of a policeman among them, or whether it was because Christmas was approaching was hard to tell, but at least the next few days passed almost in tranquillity. Hamish was surprised that Heather went to great lengths to keep out of his way. He had expected to have lectures from her on the fascist police.
    Harriet, too, appeared to be avoiding him. When Hamish taxed her with it, she smiled and said she was too busy catching up on some writing in her room. He took refuge in reading articles in the women’s magazines collected by Jane. They ranged from the supremely sensible to the downright ludicrous, depending on the publication. In one of the trashier efforts, he found an article entitled ‘Shock Tactics’. It was all about how to get the man of your choice. “Faint heart never won fair gentleman,” he read. “Stun him. Invite him round and put on that naughty nightie and those sheer, sheer stockings.” He put down the article, feeling slightly sad. There was something almost pathetic about Jane. It was as if she had so little self-esteem that she needed to find a personality in the pages of a magazine.
    And then, on Christmas Eve, something happened that made him uneasy. He saw Jane slip a note into Diarmuid’s hand. He wondered uneasily if Jane was after Diarmuid, and his heart sank. Jane was determined to seduce someone to get at John Wetherby. Did she realise that by getting at John she would have Heather to deal with? For if any affair was obvious enough for John to notice, then it would be plain as day to the horrible Heather as well.
    He went to bed trying to work things out in his mind. There was a ferry arriving and leaving again on Boxing Day. He was determined to be on it. Jane needed a minder to protect her from malice, not a policeman, and she had enough money to hire one. He resolved to tell her that in the morning.
    But he awoke very early, and in the distance he heard the reassuring sounds of domestic clatter. Then he remembered that Harriet was making the Christmas dinner, which was to be served in the