Hamish MacBeth 06 (1991) - Death of a Snob Read Online Free
Author: M.C. Beaton
health-farm business after all, he thought.
The fisherman was a gnarled little man with a sour expression. Jane hailed him gaily, but he jumped nimbly onto the jetty and began to tie the rope around a bollard, ignoring her completely, as did his second in command, a pimply-faced boy with pale eyes, a wet mouth, and an incipient beard.
“Angus is quite a character,” said Jane, meaning the fisherman and giving that merry laugh of hers again. She and Hamish went on board, Hamish carrying her heavy suitcase and his own travelbag. The two-man crew cast off and the boat bucketed out over the rough sea. Hamish went down below to an oily, stinking little engine room furnished with two smelly berths and a dirty table. He sat on one of the berths. The youth scrambled down and went into the galley and put a kettle on the stove, which was lurching about on its gimbals.
“What’s your name?” asked Hamish.
“Joseph Macleod,” said the boy. He began to whistle through his teeth.
“Is Mrs. Wetherby in the wheelhouse?” asked Hamish.
“Naw, herself is oot on the deck.”
“In this weather?”
“Aye, her’s daft. There’s worse coming.” The boat lurched and bucketed but the boy kept his balance, swaying easily with the erratic motion. “Right bad storm inland. Heard it on the radio.”
Hamish thought uneasily of Priscilla. They were on the west coast. The storm had been driven in from the east. He hoped she was safe.
Jane clattered down to join Hamish, her face shining with good health. “Marvellous sea,” she said. “Waves like mountains.”
“I can feel them, and that’s enough.” Hamish, still seated on one of the berths with the raised edge of it digging into his thighs, looked queasily at Jane. “It’s a wonder you got them to bring the boat out in this weather.”
“I pay well.” Jane lay down on the other berth and raised one booted leg in the air to admire it.
Hamish had to hand it to Jane. It was a dreadful crossing and yet she prattled on as if lying on a sofa in her own living-room. The little fishing boat crawled up one wave and plunged down the next and then wallowed about in the choppy trough at the bottom before scaling another watery mountain. The boy left the kettle and started to work the pumps, for sea water was crashing down the companion-way. The air was horrid with the sound of wind and waves and the groanings of the boat as it fought its way to Eileencraig.
Hamish’s cold felt worse. His forehead was hot and there was a ringing in his ears. Jane’s presence was claustrophobic. There was too much of everything about her, thought Hamish dizzily. Too much length of black-booted leg, too much cleavage, and too much of that breathy, sexy voice that rose remorselessly above the storm.
“The reason for the divorce,” Jane was saying, “was that we both needed space. It’s very important to have space in a marriage, don’t you think?”
“I wouldn’t know,” replied Hamish, “not being married myself.”
Jane’s large eyes swivelled round like headlamps turning a corner to focus on him. “Everyone to their own bag,” she said cheerfully. “Have you a lover?”
“I am not a homosexual.”
“Then why aren’t you married? I mean, you’re over thirty, aren’t you? And anyone over thirty who is not married is either a homosexual or emotionally immature.”
“It could be argued that divorce is a sign of emotional immaturity,” said Hamish. “Inability to make a go of things once the first fine careless rapture has died down.”
“Why, Hamish Macbeth, you are straight out of the Dark Ages!”
Hamish got up and clutched at a shelf for support. “Going to get a breath of air,” he said, and scurried up the iron stairs before Jane could volunteer to accompany him.
It was still wild, but the great seas were dying. He went into the wheelhouse. “Nearly there,” grunted the fisherman.
Hamish peered through the spray-blotched window. “Can’t see anything but
The fisherman was a gnarled little man with a sour expression. Jane hailed him gaily, but he jumped nimbly onto the jetty and began to tie the rope around a bollard, ignoring her completely, as did his second in command, a pimply-faced boy with pale eyes, a wet mouth, and an incipient beard.
“Angus is quite a character,” said Jane, meaning the fisherman and giving that merry laugh of hers again. She and Hamish went on board, Hamish carrying her heavy suitcase and his own travelbag. The two-man crew cast off and the boat bucketed out over the rough sea. Hamish went down below to an oily, stinking little engine room furnished with two smelly berths and a dirty table. He sat on one of the berths. The youth scrambled down and went into the galley and put a kettle on the stove, which was lurching about on its gimbals.
“What’s your name?” asked Hamish.
“Joseph Macleod,” said the boy. He began to whistle through his teeth.
“Is Mrs. Wetherby in the wheelhouse?” asked Hamish.
“Naw, herself is oot on the deck.”
“In this weather?”
“Aye, her’s daft. There’s worse coming.” The boat lurched and bucketed but the boy kept his balance, swaying easily with the erratic motion. “Right bad storm inland. Heard it on the radio.”
Hamish thought uneasily of Priscilla. They were on the west coast. The storm had been driven in from the east. He hoped she was safe.
Jane clattered down to join Hamish, her face shining with good health. “Marvellous sea,” she said. “Waves like mountains.”
“I can feel them, and that’s enough.” Hamish, still seated on one of the berths with the raised edge of it digging into his thighs, looked queasily at Jane. “It’s a wonder you got them to bring the boat out in this weather.”
“I pay well.” Jane lay down on the other berth and raised one booted leg in the air to admire it.
Hamish had to hand it to Jane. It was a dreadful crossing and yet she prattled on as if lying on a sofa in her own living-room. The little fishing boat crawled up one wave and plunged down the next and then wallowed about in the choppy trough at the bottom before scaling another watery mountain. The boy left the kettle and started to work the pumps, for sea water was crashing down the companion-way. The air was horrid with the sound of wind and waves and the groanings of the boat as it fought its way to Eileencraig.
Hamish’s cold felt worse. His forehead was hot and there was a ringing in his ears. Jane’s presence was claustrophobic. There was too much of everything about her, thought Hamish dizzily. Too much length of black-booted leg, too much cleavage, and too much of that breathy, sexy voice that rose remorselessly above the storm.
“The reason for the divorce,” Jane was saying, “was that we both needed space. It’s very important to have space in a marriage, don’t you think?”
“I wouldn’t know,” replied Hamish, “not being married myself.”
Jane’s large eyes swivelled round like headlamps turning a corner to focus on him. “Everyone to their own bag,” she said cheerfully. “Have you a lover?”
“I am not a homosexual.”
“Then why aren’t you married? I mean, you’re over thirty, aren’t you? And anyone over thirty who is not married is either a homosexual or emotionally immature.”
“It could be argued that divorce is a sign of emotional immaturity,” said Hamish. “Inability to make a go of things once the first fine careless rapture has died down.”
“Why, Hamish Macbeth, you are straight out of the Dark Ages!”
Hamish got up and clutched at a shelf for support. “Going to get a breath of air,” he said, and scurried up the iron stairs before Jane could volunteer to accompany him.
It was still wild, but the great seas were dying. He went into the wheelhouse. “Nearly there,” grunted the fisherman.
Hamish peered through the spray-blotched window. “Can’t see anything but
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