Free Hamish Macbeth 02 (1987) - Death of a Cad by M.C. Beaton Page B

that poacher MacGregor, and their dogs are out on our moors, sir.”
    “The devil they are,” said the colonel, turning red. “Didn’t he tell them to hop it?”
    “Sinclair did, sir, but Macbeth said he was within his rights. He said he was looking for clues.”
    “The insolence of that man is beyond anything,” said the colonel. “Phone Strathbane and tell Blair to come over here and give Macbeth the dressing down of his life, and if he doesn’t get over here sharpish, I shall report him to his superiors.”
    “Certainly, sir,” said Jenkins with a satisfied smile.
    The guests looked at each other uneasily.
    “What is he doing?” asked Diana. “I mean, it was an accident.”
    “He’s probably poaching,” said Colonel Halburton-Smythe. “I know that man poaches. He’s only using this looking-for-clues nonsense to cover up the fact he’s a poacher himself. And what is he doing with that rascal MacGregor, if he’s not poaching?”
    Jenkins came back into the room. “Strathbane says that Mr Blair is already on his way here. He wanted to assure you personally that the procurator fiscal’s report tallied with his own. In fact, he should be here now.”
    “Good,” said the colonel. There was the sound of an arriving car scrunching on the gravel outside. “That’ll be him,” said the colonel. “Show him in.”
    Blair could easily have phoned in the news, but he was still smarting over what he considered the Halburton-Smythes’ rudeness in not offering him tea and, like most thin-skinned people who have been snubbed, he could not leave the snubbers alone.
    His fury on learning that Hamish was supposedly looking for clues was tinged with satisfaction. He was in a vile temper and giving Hamish a bawling out appealed to him immensely.
    “I’ll go out and see him now,” said Blair.
    Priscilla looked up and saw Hamish, with Angus MacGregor behind him, standing at the entrance to the breakfast room. She signalled wildly to him to escape, but Hamish stayed where he was, his face unusually set and grim.
    “Good morning, Chief Inspector,” said Hamish.
    Blair swung about, his piggy eyes gleaming. He opened his mouth to yell.
    “It was murder,” said Hamish Macbeth. “Captain Peter Bartlett was murdered. And I hae the proof o’ it right here.”
    Blair’s mouth dropped open and he stared stupidly. A heavy shocked silence fell on the room.
    Into that silence came again the soft Highland voice of PC Macbeth.
    “Och, aye,” he said. “It was nearly the perfect murder.”

SIX
You may kill or you may miss,
    But at all times think of this—
    All the pheasants ever bred,
    Won’t repay for one man dead.
     
    —Mark Beaufoy.
    H amish walked into the room and placed a red-and-white plastic shopping bag on a small table by the window. He rummaged in the bag, then turned around, holding up to the stunned gathering two spent shotgun cartridges.
    “These,” he said, “are number seven shot, not number six.”
    There was a puzzled silence, finally broken by Blair. “What the devil are you talking about, you great gowk?” he cried furiously. “What has all this nonsense got to do with murder?”
    “I think these belonged to Captain Bartlett, and I think he used them yesterday,” said Hamish, unperturbed.
    “Nonsense,” said Blair. “Anyone could have fired them.”
    “But the captain was the only one out shooting,” replied Hamish, inwardly sending an apology up to heaven for the lie when he thought of Angus the poacher’s brace of grouse. But Angus had just assured him they had been shot miles from where the captain died, although still on the estate, and Hamish had years of experience of knowing when the poacher was telling the truth and when he was lying. “Besides, the season just began yesterday.”
    “Then they were from last season,” said Blair with a pitying smile.
    “Och, no,” said Hamish. “The last season’s shooting ended in December, eight months ago. They haven’t been lying