Death of a Dreamer Read Online Free Page A

very, very good.’
    ‘I’ll grant you that. Maybe she’s just lonely. Don’t you find it too quiet up here after London?’
    ‘I was brought up here.’
    ‘And will you live in London when you are married?’
    ‘Yes, my fiancé’s work is there.’
    ‘When’s the wedding?’
    A shadow crossed Priscilla’s face. ‘Peter, my fiancé, is waiting until he can get a good break from work.’
    ‘I would think any man in his right mind wouldn’t leave you loose for long.’
    Willie appeared behind Jock. ‘Would you like to examine the kitchen?’
    ‘No, I wouldn’t,’ said Jock crossly.
    ‘Just for a minute.’
    ‘Go away, Willie,’ said Priscilla.
    Willie retreated.
    ‘What was all that about?’ asked Jock.
    ‘Oh, you’ll find out sooner or later. I was once engaged to Hamish Macbeth.’
    ‘The policeman?’
    ‘Yes. He broke off the engagement, but I fear the villagers still hope we’ll get together again.’
    ‘But they know you are engaged?’
    ‘Of course. But they prefer to ignore it.’
    ‘Odd place, this. It all seems so calm and unruffled on the surface, and underneath there seems to be all sorts of things going on. Why did Hamish break off the engagement?’
    ‘Mind your own business,’ said Priscilla coolly, ‘and tell me about yourself.’
    So Jock did, telling her about his early days at Glasgow School of Art and his struggles to make a living as a painter.
    ‘And you can do that now?’ asked Priscilla.
    ‘Yes, I’m pretty successful, thanks to my agent, Betty Barnard. Terrific energy that woman has. She worked night and day until she found me a gallery.’
    Their food arrived. Jock ordered wine. They chatted amiably as the restaurant cleared of customers.
    ‘That was very pleasant,’ said Priscilla when they finished.
    ‘I don’t usually do portraits, but I would like to do one of you.’
    ‘What! Sit on the waterfront, which is where I gather from the gossips that you do your painting?’
    ‘I was hoping you might lend me somewhere in the hotel.’
    ‘I’ll think about it. Let’s go.’
    Jock and Priscilla entered the hall to a roll of drums. ‘Take your seats, ladies and gentlemen,’ announced Matthew Campbell, the reporter who had been elected
master of ceremonies. ‘Lochdubh’s very own line dancing team will entertain you.’
    Jock tried hard not to laugh. The Currie sisters, Mrs Wellington, Freda, Angela, and various other village women in what they fondly thought was western dress cavorted to a rollicking country
and western tune played on the fiddle and accordion.
    His eyes were streaming with suppressed laughter by the time they finished. Then Matthew announced, ‘And now take your partners for a ladies’ choice. It’s the eight-some
reel.’
    Effie rushed up to Jock. ‘Our dance, I think,’ she said.
    ‘I don’t know how to do it.’
    ‘Come on. We’ll just follow the others.’
    Hamish walked over and sat down by Priscilla. ‘You might have told me you had arrived,’ he said.
    ‘I was going to call on you tomorrow. Oh, do look at Effie and Jock. They’re falling over everyone.’
    ‘You came in with Jock?’
    ‘Yes, he took me for dinner.’
    Hamish was suddenly and jealously glad Jock was making such a mess of things. He blundered into people in his set and finally sent Jessie Currie flying.
    ‘You know,’ said Priscilla, ‘for an artist, Effie does have a clumsy hand with make-up. She looks like a clown.’
    Effie’s make-up was dead white, and she had tried to make her small mouth look larger. She had set her hair in tight curls.
    ‘Looks like Ronald McDonald,’ said Hamish, who was gradually falling into a nasty mood. There was Priscilla as calm, as seemingly indifferent, as ever.
    ‘Have you got a day off tomorrow?’ asked Priscilla.
    ‘Yes. Why?’
    ‘I’ll take us out on a picnic, and we can catch up on the gossip.’
    Hamish’s face cleared. ‘Great. Mind you, I smell rain.’
    ‘If it rains, we can go down to