by M C Beaton
“I think God is punishing me,” she said. Her eyes began to water in the way of someone who has cried and cried for days.
“Now, now,” said Hamish, wondering not for the first time why when things went wrong entirely through people’s own making that they should wonder what God had against them. “Just tell me slowly and carefully. And remember. Nothing shocks me.”
“You’re a good man, Hamish. Randy and I fell into conversation in Patel’s store. I was buying flour and he said he thought I was probably a good cook. I said, in the way we have in the village, “Oh, drop by one day and I’ll give you some of my scones.” So a day later, he did that and we got talking. I’ve never travelled further man Glasgow, Hamish, and his stories fascinated me. Also…he looked at me as if I were a woman, you know, and my ain husband didn’t even do that in the later years afore he died, if you take my meaning.
“I wouldn’t have let things get far, but he said he fancied me. I said I was a respectable body and a village was a hotbed of gossip and I had no desire to ruin my reputation. He pointed out that he came in the back way. No one had seen him. No one would know. So…I let him.”
“You had an affair with him?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you kept it quiet, I’ll say that for you. So what went wrong?”
“He asked me to do a nasty and evil thing.”
“You can tell me,” said Hamish soothingly. “Now what was it?”
Her voice broke as she said, “I cannae tell anyone. Dirty, evil beast!”
“Now, Annie, it’s a wicked world out there and we lead the sheltered life in Lochdubh. It may be nothing that horrible. Just spit it out and you’ll feel better. I won’t say a word to Blair.”
“Do you mind not looking at me when I tell you?”
“I’ll go and look out of the window.”
He rose and went and stared through the lace curtains.
The Currie sisters, Jessie and Nessie, were walking slowly past, arguing about something, shopping baskets over their arms.
“He came to me one night about three days afore the murder,” said Annie in a choked voice. “He said he had bought me a wee present and he wanted me to put it on afore we went to bed.”
“What was it?”
“It was a suspender belt, black stockings wi seams and…and…purple silk crotchless knickers. He wanted me to wear them in bed.”
Hamish felt a sudden desire to giggle.
“I told him, I told him straight to his face, I was not a whore. I told him that my Hector, God rest his soul, had never even put the lights on once in the bedroom in all our marriage days, and the dirty animal had the nerve to tell me I was becoming boring and he felt like spicing things up a bit. I threw the filthy garments of Satan on the fire and told him to get out. He stood there laughing at me, like the demon he was. I said I would kill him. We were through ben the kitchen and I started to throw things at him. He left by the front and I threw a pot at his head, and now Blair will be hearing about it.”
Hamish turned round. Annie’s plain face was scarlet with shame.
“Now look here, Annie, you must not distress yourself. No one needs to know, although it is not very shocking at all. You just tell the police that he made a pass at you and you threw him out. Simple. I mean, you didn’t exactly tell Blair that you had been sleeping with Randy.”
“Oh, Hamish, I never thought of that.”
“Did you tell anyone other than Mrs. Wellington?”
She shook her head.
“So don’t. Just stick to the story I gave you. No need to say anything else. Tell me, what did Mrs. Wellington think of Randy’s…er…behaviour?”
“She told me that men were like that, because she had read about it, and I wasn’t to worry. She said they sold underwear like that in the city shops and Lochdubh must be the last place in the world where they sold knickers with elastic at the knee. But I found that hard to believe. What self-respecting woman would wear stuff like that?”
“Don’t distress yourself further, Annie. I have to ask you this. What were you doing on the evening of the murder?”
“I was at home until the fight I went to watch, for I hoped you’d beat the living daylights out of him.”
“Might have at that,” said Hamish, who didn’t believe a word of what he was saying. “Do you know that Randy was drugged wi’ chloral hydrate before he was shot?”
“What’s that?”
“It’s an old-fashioned sleeping draught. You wouldn’t happen to know anyone who might still have some?”
“No, but Dr. Brodie would know. He’s been the doctor here for some time.”
Hamish silently cursed himself for not having thought of such an obvious thing himself. “I’ll go and have a wee word with the doctor. So are you feeling better, Annie?” He stood up to leave and she rose as well. She kissed him on the cheek and looked up at him from under her sparse eyelashes. “Thanks, Hamish. Call on me anytime. Has anyone ever told you, you are a very attractive man?” Hamish disengaged himself hurriedly and made for the door. “‘Bye,” he said and escaped outside and took a gulp of fresh air.
Annie went to the window and watched him go. “The big softy,” she said, half to herself. “I hope I didn’t lay it on too thick.”
♦
Hamish knew there was no surgery that morning and so went to the doctor’s house. Dr. Brodie’s wife, Angela, opened the door to him. “Come in, Hamish,” she said, her thin face lighting up with pleasure.
“Is the doctor home?”
“In the kitchen.”
Hamish went through to the cluttered kitchen, where Dr. Brodie was eating toast and drinking coffee.
“What brings you here, Hamish?” asked the doctor. “Apart from the free coffee, that is.”
“Chloral hydrate,” said Hamish.
“One of Blair’s sidekicks has been round asking me that very question. I never prescribed it. In fact, I don’t believe in sleeping pills either. I just tell them that lack of steep never killed anyone.”
“I thought lack of dreaming could do that,” said Hamish. “I read this article…”
“It wouldn’t kill anyone in Lochdubh. They dream with their eyes open.”
“I want to talk to Angela about sexy underwear.”
“Do you want me to leave the room?”
“No. Listen, Angela,” said Hamish, “can you imagine a middle-aged woman in this day and age being horrified at the idea of wearing a suspender belt and crotchless panties?”
“If she’s middle-aged, she probably wore a suspender belt in her youth, but the crotchless panties might come as a bit of a shock. What middle-aged woman have you been horrifying, Hamish?”
“Oh, nothing. Now about this chloral hydrate…?”
“They could,” said Dr. Brodie, “in this village, find it in someone’s medicine cabinet left over from the old days. A lot of them have relatives out on the isles with medicine cabinets full of junk handed down from generation to generation. Do you know when I was last on Barra, I found someone with a cabinet full of old-fashioned drugs. What about the shotgun, Hamish? I suppose they’re sifting through the records.”
“I suppose they are. I mean, standard routine,” said Hamish absent-mindedly. He glanced at Angela, who was putting fresh coffee in the percolator. She seemed such a contrast to Annie. Why? Hamish suddenly remembered a woman in Glasgow at the bus station pleading with him to lend her some money for her fare home to Inverness. She said she had been mugged. Hamish had generously given her the money for her bus fare home. She had seemed such a decent woman.
Later that evening he had seen her lurching along Sauchiehall Street, dead drunk, and realized he had been conned. There had been something about that talk with Annie that hadn’t rung true.
He wondered what Annie’s underwear was really like. Turning the problem over in his mind while he talked of other things, he drank a cup of coffee and took his leave. The next call he made was on Archie Maclean. How the fish
erman appeared to fish all night and stay awake all day was a mystery, but there was Archie sitting outside his cottage in the sunshine, smoking a pipe. Hamish sat down on the wall beside him. “I’ve been to see Rosie,” he said. Archie’s gnarled little brown face brightened, but he cast a nervous look over his shoulder at his cottage, where his wife could be heard scrubbing the floors. “How wass she?”
“Herself was just fine,” said Hamish, “or as far as I could I judge. She didn’t seem all that friendly. A buttoned-down, closed-up sort of woman.”
“Oh, now that iss the mystery aboot her,” said Archie eagerly. “She’s all wumman.”
“It’s an odd sort of friendship for a man like you to strike up,” said Hamish. “Weren’t you scared to death your wife would find out you had been going there?”
“She knew. I gave her Rosie’s book, mind? She got it into her head that Rosie was an auld wumman and I didnae tell her otherwise.”
“She’ll find out.”
“‘Don’t care,” said Archie bravely, but he cast another frightened look behind him.
“Did she talk about herself?” asked Hamish curiously. “Why she came here, that sort of thing.”
“Aye, she said she wanted the Highland background, but also she said it was cheaper to live up here. She said…she said I wass a verra interesting man.” And Archie gave a dreadful smirk.
To a wee henpecked man like Archie, thought Hamish, such flattery must have been like a drug. And yet, what had Rosie’s purpose been in getting the little fisherman all steamed up?
He left Archie and went up to Tommel Castle Hotel. He drove past Blair on the waterfront, gave him a cheery wave and got a suspicious scowl in return.
“Now what?” said Priscilla as Hamish walked into the gift shop.
“Do you never think I might just want to see you?”, demanded Hamish plaintively. “But yes, there is something.”
“What now?”
“Could you invite Annie Ferguson up to the castle for tea this afternoon – say three o’clock?”
“I barely know the woman, Hamish. Why should I invite her?”
“Because I want a look inside her house. Because I think she’s hiding something from me.”
“You want me to assist you in breaking and entering?”
“There won’t be any breaking and entering. She disnae lock her door. Come on, Priscilla.”
“Oh, very well. What excuse do I give?”
“You won’t need one. You’re the lady of this manor. She’ll be that flattered, she’ll come like a shot.”
“Give me her number and I’ll ring now so you’ll know if the coast is going to be clear.”
Priscilla rang Annie and invited her. Hamish listened to the enthusiastic squawks of acceptance from the other end of the line. “Remember,” cautioned Priscilla when she had replaced the receiver, “if you get caught it’s got nothing to do with me.”
After he had left her, Hamish walked across the hotel carpark to the police Land Rover. A small energetic-looking woman hailed him. “Where do you go in this burg for some fun?” she asked.
He pushed back his cap and scratched his hair. “It depends what you mean by fun,” he said. “Are you here on holiday?”
“Yes.” She held out a well-manicured hand. “I’m Betty John. I’m John Glover’s fiancée.”
Now here was sexiness compared to Rosie, thought Hamish. Betty exuded a sort of animal energy. “The banker?” he asked.
“The same.”
Hamish smiled. “And why would you be here looking for fun when you are on holiday with your fiancé?”
“I’ve just arrived and the unromantic bugger’s gone off somewhere on business. He never stops working. I work in the same bank. I tell you what, have dinner with me this evening. I’ve never had dinner with a copper before.” A malicious light gleamed momentarily in Hamish’s hazel eyes. He wondered what Priscilla would think when she found out that he had been dining with John’s fiancée. He wondered whether she even knew that John had this fiancée. But she was bound to know. Still, it would be nice if she didn’t like the idea.
“That would be grand,” he said. “There’s an Italian restaurant in Lochdubh which is pretty good.”
“I’ll find it. Eight o’clock suit you?”
“Great.”
“See you then.” Hamish went off, whistling.
Promptly at three in the afternoon, and keeping a sharp look but for Blair, he strolled along to Annie’s cottage, going up the lane at the side and then vaulting the back gate. Randy could have come this way often without being seen. There was only old Mrs. Biggar on the one side of the lane and she was deaf, and then there were Mr. and Mrs. Gilchrist on the other side and they were unusual in that they never minded their neighbours’ business.
As he had expected, the back door was unlocked. Lochdubh was one of the few remaining villages where people often do not bother to lock their doors or, for that matter, their cars.
He went through the neat, tidy kitchen and up the stairs to the bedrooms. He found one single one which had an unused air, a bathroom, gleaming with peach plastic, and then a double bedroom which was obviously where Annie slept. The bed was made, blankets tucked in hospital fashion. There was a photo of the late Mr. Ferguson beside the bed and a large Bible.
He opened a drawer on the bedside table. He found a packet of hairpins, a hairnet – what woman wore a hairnet these days? – and, tucked at the back of the drawer, a packet of condoms. Randy’s?
Surely a respectable woman who had had a brief and, according to her, shameful fling, would have got rid of the things. He went to a large chest of drawers and slid the drawers open. The top drawer had papers and documents. He reluctantly left them and looked in the drawers underneath. Grimly respectable underwear, terrifying corsets, large sensible bras, wool knickers for winter, cotton knickers for summer, both of the old-fashioned kind sold in Lochdubh. Nylon petticoats, plain without lace. Thick stockings. He closed the drawers carefully after making sure that he had not disturbed anything. He turned and looked around. There was a wardrobe against the other wall. He crossed the room and swung it open. Serviceable suits and dresses, skirts and sweaters and cardigans, two tweed coats and one raincoat. On the shelf above, a selection of hats. Women in Lochdubh still wore hats to weddings, funerals, and on visits. He was about to turn away defeated and feeling ashamed of himself for having been poking around a respectable lady’s belongings when he saw that the wardrobe had two drawers at the bottom. He gave a shrug. Might as well do the job thoroughly. He knelt down on the floor and slid the top drawer open.
He stared down at a colourful jumble of sexy underwear. There were French knickers trimmed with lace, suspender belts, filmy black stockings, exotic nightgowns, and, underneath them all, three videos of the hard-porn variety. He sat back on his heels, amazed. The things that went on behind the lace curtains of Lochdubh, he marvelled. But one thing was certain. Here was a woman who would not have been alarmed in the slightest by any request to wear sexy underwear, nor would she have thrown it in the fire. But she had had a noisy fight with Duggan, because that was what she had told Blair, and that he would hear somehow and wanting to get her side of the story in. So what had really gone on? He must find a way to talk to her again without letting her know he had been in her home.
The doorbell shrilled suddenly and imperatively, making him jump. He carefully closed the drawers and tiptoed down the stairs. Through the frosted glass pane of the front door, he could see the square bulk of a woman and guessed that the minister’s wife had come calling.
He let himself out of the back door, jumped over the fence again and strolled down the lane. The lane led up the hill to the cottages at the back. In fact, if one crossed the fields from the top of the lane, one could reach Randy’s cottage.
Mrs. Wellington hailed him as he came out of the lane. “Were you up at the scene of the crime?”
“Just taking a look,” said Hamish. “I’m not supposed to b
e on the case.”
“And more’s the pity. I was just trying to call on poor Annie, but she’s out. Did you have a word with her?”
“Yes, I did. I told her to tell Blair that Randy had made pass at her and that was what the row was about.”
“Clever of you. Her good name must be protected.”
“Unless she’s guilty.”
“And I thought you were an intelligent man! Annie Ferguson a murderess! Don’t be so daft!”
∨ Death of a Macho Man ∧
5
If once a man indulges himself in murder, very soon he comes to think little of robbing; and from robbing he comes next to drinking and sabbath-breaking, and from that to incivility and procrastination.
—Thomas de Quincey
Hamish decided to leave confronting Annie until he could think about it and decide how to go about it. He could hardly say to her something like, “A woman with underwear like yours would not be shocked by Randy’s suggestion.” He found he was looking forward to dinner with Betty as an escape from Blair and the case. At least he was not bothered by the press, they confining their attentions to his superior. He saw a headline in a newspaper, “Murder Village,” and shuddered. Lochdubh was getting a reputation. He was about to buy a copy and then decided against it.
He dressed carefully for dinner in a very well-tailored charcoal-grey suit and silk tie. Hamish had become a dedicated thrift-shop buyer. He brushed his red hair until it shone and then strolled along to the Italian restaurant.
Betty had not yet arrived. He let Willie Lament usher him to a table for two in a quiet corner and then looked at him in surprise. Willie’s fanaticism for cleaning was a legend. But in the candle-light, Hamish noticed that Willie’s usually neat features were marred by stubble and there was a stain on his jersey. His glance fell on the checked table-cloth. There was a splash of spaghetti sauce on it which had not been cleaned away after the previous diners had finished. He looked again at Willie. In any other man he might have decided that the unshaved face was meant to be designer stubble, but this was Willie.
“What’s happened to you?” demanded Hamish. “You look awful and there’s a stain on this tablecloth.”
