Death of a Dreamer Read Online Free

down in the heather and fed the animals
and himself.
    All at once, he had a sudden sharp feeling that Priscilla was near, but he dismissed it from his mind. If she were back in Lochdubh, someone would have told him.
    Down on the waterfront, Mrs Wellington, large and tweedy and wearing a brown velvet hat with a pheasant’s feather stuck in it, hailed Angela Brodie. ‘Have you told
Hamish that Miss Halburton-Smythe is up at the hotel?’
    ‘I’ve only just learned of her arrival,’ said Angela. ‘I went to the police station to tell him, but he was out.’
    ‘We’re not going to tell him,’ said Mrs Wellington, waving a plump arm which seemed to encompass the whole village.
    ‘Why not? He’s bound to find out sooner or later.’
    ‘We think the reason he’s never married is because he’s still hankering after her.’
    ‘But that’s no reason to treat him like a child.’
    ‘We don’t want him getting hurt. With any luck, she’ll be off back to London before he knows anything about it.’
    Effie was dressing with extreme care for the ceilidh that evening. She dreamed of dancing with Jock, of him holding her close and whispering into her hair that he loved her.
She had bought a white cotton dress and a tartan sash in Strathbane. ‘I look the very picture of a highland lass,’ she told her reflection. She had also bought make-up for the first
time in her life. She sat down at her dressing table, which she had hardly ever used, and applied the foundation cream and then powder. She painted her lips with a scarlet lipstick and then
surveyed the effect with pleasure. ‘I look about nineteen,’ she told her reflection.
    Jock Fleming, dressed in his one good suit, collar, and tie, walked into the Italian restaurant and was ushered to a table by Willie Lamont, the waiter.
    ‘I’m waiting for someone,’ said Jock. ‘I’ll choose what to eat when she arrives. Ah, here she is now.’
    Priscilla was wearing jeans, a cotton shirt belted at the waist, and low-heeled sandals. Jock suddenly felt overdressed.
    Then he realized the other diners in the restaurant had fallen silent.
    After Priscilla had sat down, he said, ‘We seem to be attracting a great deal of attention.’
    ‘You’re new here,’ said Priscilla easily, ‘and still a subject of gossip.’
    ‘But they’re not gossiping. They’re staring.’
    ‘Ignore them.’ Priscilla picked up the menu.
    ‘Am I overdressed?’ asked Jock.
    ‘I forgot to tell you. There’s a ceilidh in the church hall tonight. I thought we would go along afterwards. I’m surprised there’s so many in here. The restaurant is
supplying a buffet supper at the ceilidh.’
    The mystery was solved when Willie approached to take their order and asked if they had tickets for the ceilidh.
    ‘Why?’ asked Priscilla. ‘I’ve never needed a ticket before.’
    ‘It’s like this,’ said Willie. ‘It’s a set meal here tonight which is covered by the ceilidh ticket because the restaurant is supplying the eats at the hall. If
you’ve got a ticket, you don’t pay here and I mark your ticket that you’ve been fed.’
    ‘We haven’t got tickets,’ said Jock impatiently. ‘We’ll just choose from the menu.’ He opened the menu and found it contained a single sheet of typed paper.
On it was written three courses: salad, lasagne, and chocolate mousse.
    ‘You can’t have anything if you haven’t got tickets,’ said Willie.
    Jock raised his bushy eyebrows in despair.
    ‘Get us two tickets, and we’ll pay for them,’ said Priscilla patiently.
    ‘Wine’s extra,’ cautioned Willie.
    ‘Just get the tickets, Willie.’
    Willie went away and came back with two tickets. Jock paid for them and said, ‘This is a madhouse.’
    ‘Never mind. We don’t need to bother choosing anything, as it’s all been chosen for us. How are you enjoying your stay?’
    ‘Very much. I’m being pestered a bit, though, by Effie Garrard.’
    ‘Our gift shop sells her stuff. She’s