Death of a Gentle Lady by M. C. Beaton Page B

for dinner.”
    “I would like that.”
    “Oh, I forgot. You are in your Russian uniform, and there are still a number of press about.”
    “I have my suitcases in my car. I will bring them in and change.”
    Hamish changed into a suit, collar, and tie while Anna was in the bathroom. He had helped her carry in two huge suitcases. One lay open on his bed.
    Anna eventually appeared wearing black velvet trousers, a white silk blouse with a low neckline, and a black velvet jacket encrusted with gold embroidery. Pay must be good in Moscow, thought Hamish. She went into the bedroom, opened the other suitcase, and dragged out a sable coat, which she put on.
    “I am ready,” she said.
    To Hamish’s relief, the restaurant was quiet. “You should ha’ been here earlier, Hamish,” said the waiter, Willie Lamont. “So many folk! Your lady is new to the village?” He hovered hopefully.
    “Just give us a couple of menus, Willie, and go away,” said Hamish.
    Willie came back with the menus. “Would you like some vodka?” asked Hamish.
    “I will take some wine.”
    “Would that be an American accent?” asked Willie.
    Anna turned pale eyes up to him. “You are a waiter, are you not? So wait. Do not ask impertinent questions.”
    When Willie had gone off again, Hamish said awkwardly, “You must forgive Willie. He used to work for me but he fell in love with the restaurant owner’s daughter. This is a very democratic village. You see, in the Highlands, everyone considers himself equal to everyone else. There are few class distinctions. If, for example, I considered myself superior to the villagers in any way, they would not gossip to me—and in the past that gossip has helped me solve cases.”
    “I looked up your file,” said Anna. “You have had a lot of success and yet you are still a village policeman.”
    “I am not ambitious. I love this village. I do not want to leave.”
    “Odd. Let us choose what we are going to eat.”
    Hamish, mindful of his budget, settled for minestrone followed by spaghetti Bolognese. Anna chose a dish of antipasti and then an escalope Milanese.
    Willie came up again and asked them stiffly what they wanted to order. This time Anna smiled at him. “I am not American. I am Russian.”
    Willie looked alarmed. “Might I be having a wee word with you, Hamish?”
    “This lady is an inspector in the Moscow police,” said Hamish, sure that Willie thought he had hitched up with another hooker.
    Willie’s face cleared. “Welcome,” he said. “I thought—”
    “Never mind what you thought, Willie. Take the orders.”
    When they were alone again, Anna said, “Now, tell me how it was that you came to propose marriage to Irena.”
    Hamish explained how he had thought he was doing a good turn. And then over the rest of the meal, he outlined what he knew about Mrs. Gentle and how he was sure that Irena had overheard something at the family reunion that had made her a danger to someone.
    “We will start first thing in the morning,” said Anna. She looked over Hamish’s shoulder. A strikingly beautiful blonde woman was staring in the window at them with a look of dismay on her face.
    “I’d better take you up to the hotel and find you a room,” said Hamish.
    “No need. I am used to roughing it. I will sleep at your station.”
    Anna looked again but the beautiful woman had gone.
    Priscilla hurried back along the waterfront to the police station, where she had left her car. On impulse, she took down the key from the gutter over the kitchen door, unlocked the door, and went in. She looked in the bedroom. She looked at Anna’s cases on Hamish’s bed. Anna had hung away her uniform in Hamish’s wardrobe.
    Priscilla left and shut the door behind her. For the first time she thought that she did not really know Hamish.
    She saw that bright little picture in her mind again— Hamish in his best suit talking intently to a woman as if she were the only thing that mattered in his world.
    Chapter