by M C Beaton
“I don’t know,” said Elspeth.
“But I do,” said Priscilla from the doorway. Elspeth scowled. He saw the way Priscilla looked at Perry. Couldn’t that damn female leave her just one man?
“Who are they?” asked Hamish.
“Just the one. A Mr. Garry.”
“We checked on him.” Hamish had piles of papers spread out in front of him on the table.
“Ah, here we are! Mr. Dominic Garry. Stockbroker. Likes hill walking. Fifty-five years old. He’s pretty fit?”
“Yes. He’s tall and thin. Does a lot of walking. We borrowed the last of the skis so I don’t suppose he’ll be going anywhere today.”
“I’ll get up to the hotel and have a word with him.”
“We’d better get started on your colour piece, Perry,” said Elspeth. “We’ll go along to the Highland Times and use a desk there.”
“I heard the snow plough going past,” said Priscilla. “You might be able to get up there in the Land Rover, Hamish. I’ll come with you.”
As they arrived at the hotel forecourt, Priscilla said, “That’s Mr. Garry. Just leaving.” Hamish jumped down from the Land Rover and called out, “Mr. Garry! A word with you!”
Garry was wearing an expensive anorak over thick knee breeches and sturdy boots.
“I was just going out for a walk,” he said. “Isn’t it beautiful in the snow?”
“If you wouldn’t mind coming back into the hotel. It won’t take long,” said Hamish.
When they were seated in a corner of the lounge, Hamish waited until Garry had shrugged off his anorak and said, “As you will have heard, Mr. Garry, there have been murders committed.”
“And what’s that got to do with me?”
“I am just asking everyone around if they might have see anything,” said Hamish soothingly. “Now, I see from my notes that you are a stockbroker from London. I am curious as to why you are up here on such a long holiday. This hotel is expensive.”
“Do I have to tell you?” Hamish’s eyes sharpened. “Of course.”
“I had a nervous breakdown. You can check with my psychiatrist. I’ll give you his number. He suggested I take a long break as far away from London as possible. I have plenty of money, and this has been a very healing experience.”
“What caused the breakdown?”
“I was wrongly accused of insider trading. By the time my name was cleared and I was settling down, my wife asked for a divorce. Come up to my room. I am going to give you phone numbers to check my story and then will you please leave me alone? I will also telephone my psychiatrist and give him permission to speak to you. I gather the phones are working again.”
♦
Hamish, when he got back to the police station, telephoned the psychiatrist. As he listened, his heart sank. He had been hoping that it would turn out some crazed outsider had been responsible. But the psychiatrist confirmed that Garry had indeed had a nervous breakdown. He said that in his opinion, Garry was a gentle man, not suited for the cutthroat life of the City. The divorce had been the final straw. He had private means. He warned Hamish not to upset him.
Hamish gloomily went back to studying his notes. Surely somewhere in the middle of all this information was something he had missed.
His eyes fell on the statement he had taken from Timmy Teviot. The man hadn’t been lying about the poachers, but there had been something else he hadn’t been saying. There had been something at the back of his eyes, and Hamish was suddenly sure he knew about the brothel.
Timmy wouldn’t be working today. The road right round the loch wouldn’t be cleared yet, but he decided to put his skis on and call on Timmy.
The phone rang. It was Lesley. “Hamish, I am very sorry…,” she was beginning.
“Talk to you later,” said Hamish. “Got to rush,” and put the phone down.
The phone immediately rang again.
“I told you…,” Hamish was beginning when Elspeth’s voice came down the line.
“It’s me, Elspeth. Hamish, while Perry was writing his piece, I’ve been thinking and thinking about the murders. The one thing that seems to tie them all together is sex.”
“Sex!”
“Think about it.”
∨ Death of a Witch ∧
10
The beaten men come into their own.
– John Masefield
After a long and weary trudge round the loch, Hamish was irritated to be told that Timmy had gone to the pub in Lochdubh.
The ground round the loch was flat, so there were no slopes to ski down. He wished he had worn his snowshoes instead. The sun was glittering blindingly on the snow. Lochdubh looked like a Christmas card, but, that morning, he was in no mood to admire it. When he reached the cleared waterfront, he took off his skis, carried them to the police station, and propped them against the wall. Then he made his way to the pub.
He went straight up to Timmy, who was propping up the bar. “You,” said Hamish curtly. “Follow me to the station.”
To Timmy’s nervous demands of “What’s up? What have I done?” Hamish only replied, “In the station.”
When they were settled in the office, Hamish began. “You’ve been holding out on me, Timmy.”
“Me? Man, I tellt ye about them poachers.”
“So you did. But you didn’t tell me you knew about Fiona McNulty.”
There was something like relief at the back of Timmy’s eyes. “Oh, well, I didn’t want to go getting any of the men in the village into trouble.”
“Like Fergus?”
“Aye, he was the only one I knew about.”
“And how did you know about him?”
“We got drinking one night and he tellt me.”
Hamish’s eyes sharpened. “There’s something else he told you that you aren’t letting on. Out with it, Timmy, or I’ll take you down to Strathbane and let Blair deal with you.”
“I cannae go betraying the man’s confidence.”
“Then we’re off to see Blair.”
“Och, anything but that. But you didnae hear it from me!”
“Out with it.”
“I cannae think it’s got anything to do wi’ the murder o’ his poor wife.”
“Spit it out.”
“It sounds right daft now. But she used to beat him.”
“Ina? That wee woman?”
“Fact. He had a sore dunt tae the head and he was saying it happened at work, but when he’d had a few jars, he says tae me that Ina hit him wi’ the frying pan.”
“Why did she do that?” asked Hamish.
“She’d learned from one o’ the women that he’d been seen one night up at the witch’s place.”
“You should ha’ told me this before. Off with you, Timmy. I may be talking to you later.”
Hamish phoned Jimmy. “I thought you were supposed to be on holiday,” said Jimmy. “I am. Is Fergus out?”
“Yes, he’s at home.”
“Thanks.”
“Hamish, if you know anything…”
“I’ll let you know. Talk to you later.”
♦
Hamish walked up to Fergus’s home and knocked at the door. Fergus answered. “Not again,” he said. “I’m no’ going back tae Strathbane.”
“Just a wee chat,” said Hamish.
“Come ben.”
Hamish edged his way around bulging rubbish sacks on the front step. “Been cleaning?” he asked.
“Aye. When I came back and saw the mess I’d been living in, I couldnae bear the sight of it. Poor Ina would ha’ gone mad.”
Hamish took off his cap and sat down. “Fergus, did Ina beat you?”
“What a thing to say and her not cold in her grave!”
“Fergus. You’ve got into trouble by not telling the truth. Out with it.”
“Well, maybe,” Fergus mumbled.
“You were seen going to Catriona Beldame’s.”
“Och, that was silly. She gave me this stuff and all it did was m
ake my balls itch.”
“And Ina found out you’d been there?”
“Yes, someone told her.”
“And what did she do?”
“She hit me with the frying pan.”
“And was she in the habit of hitting you?”
Fergus hung his head. Then he burst out with: “What could I do, Hamish? I couldnae hit a woman. I couldnae talk about it. Me, a big man being hit by a wee woman? The shame o’ it.”
“What about Fiona McNulty. Did Ina know about her?”
“Maybe.”
“What maybe?”
“The day she was murdered, she left a note for me.”
“Fergus. For God’s sake, man. The things you’ve been keeping from me. Have you got the note?”
“No, I burnt it.”
“What did it say?”
“It said something like, “I know what you’ve been up to and you’re for it.””
“I got the idea you were relieved when she was killed.”
“I was that. I’m free at last. That’s what I thought. But you know what it’s like. You read about old lags who feel so strange and lost when they’re let out of prison after a long sentence that they can’t wait to get in again. I don’t seem to have thought for myself or acted for myself for a long time.”
“But you went to Fiona.”
Fergus looked at Hamish with pleading eyes. “Fiona wasnae really a hoor. She just did a bit on the side for some fellows. She was warm and nice. Hamish, you may as well have the lot. I hadn’t had any sex since my honeymoon. When we got back, herself says, “I’m not having any more of that nastiness.””
“You had grounds for a divorce.”
“This is Lochdubh, Hamish. I’m not the only one.”
“Who else visited Fiona?”
“I don’t know and that’s the truth. I never asked her. I wanted to keep up the lie that she was mine only.”
Fergus began to cry, great gulping sobs. Hamish handed him a handkerchief and waited in sympathetic silence until Fergus had cried himself out. “Just look at me,” said Fergus. “Crying over a hoor when I cannae even shed a tear for my ain wife.”
“Here’s what I want you to do,” said Hamish. “I want you to go to Dr. Brodie and get him to recommend a good psychiatrist. You need to talk all this out.”
“I’m not mad!”
“No, but you’ll drive yourself mad wi’ the load o’ guilt you’re carrying. Now, do you have any idea who’s been committing these murders?”
“Hamish, I swear to God I haven’t a clue.”
♦
Elspeth was wondering what to do about Perry. They both had been summoned back to the office. Elspeth had pointed out that the roads south were still impassable in a lot of places. The news editor told her to get back as soon as she could and to bring Perry with her.
She was anxious to remove Perry from Priscilla’s orbit. Perry was easy and charming to both of them. Elspeth was only comforted by the fact that she had overheard Priscilla inviting Perry for dinner and Perry had refused, saying he still had work to do.
In order to get Perry out of the hotel, she suggested they go down to the police station. “It would be a shame,” said Elspeth, “to get on the road and then find out Hamish had solved the murders. Then we’ve got Catriona’s funeral later on.”
“Do you think he will solve the murders?” asked Perry.
“He always has in the past. Mind you, there’s a first time for everything.”
♦
Hamish was in his office. He had pinned a large sheet of paper up on the wall with the names of the four murdered women with arrows pointing to each name from a centre circle in which he had written the one word in heavy black ink – SEX.
“Come in,” he said. “I’m just trying to work something out. Now, Archie Maclean said to me, “We don’t do sex in Lochdubh.” I thought that was funny at the time. But think of it. If that’s the case, there must be a good few sexually repressed men around.”
“Including you,” said Elspeth.
“Don’t be cheeky. Let me think. Wait a bit. What if I’ve been looking at this the wrong way round?”
“The funeral’s today,” interrupted Elspeth.
“Whose funeral?”
“Catriona. She’s still legally married to Rory so he’s agreed to stump up. Don’t suppose any of the village will be going, but Perry and I may as well do a piece. Mrs. Wellington will be there, of course.”
“That’s it!” exclaimed Hamish. “Mrs. Wellington. The village women were complaining to her about Catriona. What if I should be looking for a woman instead of a man? Take Catriona’s murder. Lesley said that provided the weapon was sharp enough, then a woman could have done it. All the murders seem to have been done in a frenzy of hate. Now, if Ina wasn’t one of the murderees, I might have thought it was her.”
“Why Ina?”
“Never you mind. When’s the funeral?”
“Three o’clock.”
“Maybe see you there. I’ve got to dash.”
♦
As Hamish walked up to the manse, he marvelled at how little he actually knew of what went on behind the lace curtains of the cottages in Lochdubh.
Whoever would have thought that Fergus was a battered husband?
Mrs. Wellington greeted him with a curt “I’m busy.”
“It iss verra important,” said Hamish. Mrs. Wellington always made him feel nervous. She invited him into the manse’s vast and old-fashioned kitchen.
“Don’t sit down,” she barked as Hamish removed his hat.
He turned and faced her. “Before Catriona was murdered, a lot of the women came to you about their husbands visiting her. Was there any particular one that was more upset than the others?”
“If, as I think you are, you are trying to pin any of these murders on the respectable ladies of Lochdubh, then I have nothing to say to you.”
“There have been four murders and maybe there’ll be another one if you don’t help.”
“Then look for a man! Women are the gentler sex, or have you forgotten?”
“Did you know that Ina Braid beat her husband?”
Mrs. Wellington had been rolling pastry. She glared at him and brandished the rolling pin. Hamish took a quick step back.
“Either Fergus is really guilty or all this has turned his brain. I knew Ina Braid, and she was a gentle soul.”
♦
Hamish returned to the station. The wind was rising and blowing powdery snow from the tops of drifts. The sky above was getting darker. Villagers were queuing at Patel’s, frightened that more snow would mean that deliveries of goods wouldn’t get through.
In the police station, he sought out two camper’s gas lamps and placed them in readiness on the kitchen table. More snow would probably mean a power cut. Sonsie and Lugs crashed through the flap on the door. Hamish could see that their coats were embedded with hard little snowballs. He filled a basin with warm water and patiently began to remove the snow from them.
Then he put more peat in the stove before pouring himself a cup of coffee, going into the office, getting his notes, and once more spreading them out on the kitchen table.
The snow meant that he would have at least the whole of what was left of the day free from interruptions. Then he remembered Catriona’s funeral. Surely it wouldn’t take place on such a day.
He phoned Mrs. Wellington. “No, of course not,” she said in answer to his query. “Mr. McBride is unable to get further north because of the snow and we are going to wait until he arrives.”
“What…?” began Hamish when the phone went dead.
He went back to the kitchen and tried the lights. No success. The snow piling up against the kitchen window was cutting out any light.
He lit the lamps and hoped that his sheep were safely in the shelter he had built for them. He suddenly cursed, remembering he hadn’t given them their winter feed.
Hamish strapped on his snowshoes and collected tw
o buckets of feed he had ready by the door. He put on a coat and woollen hat, opened the door, and plunged into the roaring white storm outside. He felt a superstitious shudder as he made his way up the hill at the back.
The wind was screaming and howling. It was as if the old gods had decided to take back Sutherland, take it away from the petty grip of man and restore it to a wilderness.
He was pleased that the low wooden shelter he had built for the sheep was holding up. He poured their feed into a trough, stood for a moment watching them, and then headed back to the station.
♦
Elspeth and Perry struggled back to the hotel. “We’ll never get out of here,” said Perry. “Not that I care much.” But that charming smile of his was not only for Elspeth but also for Priscilla, who had come to meet them.
“Clarry’s made some mulled wine,” said Priscilla. “Like some?”
“Lovely,” said Perry. “Wait till we get out of these wet clothes. My feet feel like two blocks of ice and we’re dripping melted snow all over the place. Come on, Elspeth.”
Priscilla watched them go. Was there anything going on between them? Her father had got on the phone to friends in the south and had found out all about Perry’s impeccable background and had started nagging his daughter to ‘do something.’
Usually that would have been enough to put Priscilla off, but she was becoming more and more fascinated by Perry.
The hotel generator could be heard faintly through the noise of the storm outside. She paced up and down the hall. What was taking them so long? Had they gone to bed together? Perish the thought!
Priscilla decided that she had better retreat to the lounge and look as if she were reading a magazine.
It was a full half hour before they both appeared.
“I’ll get the wine,” said Priscilla.
“Don’t you just ring the bell?” asked Perry.
“Only a few of the staff live in, and they are cleaning the rooms.”
“She moves like a dancer,” said Perry appreciatively. “Very graceful girl.”
