Death of a Witch

by M C Beaton

  A sofa partially blocked his view but with a sinking heart he saw two feet protruding from the end of it.

  Praying that she might just be ill, he clambered down and rushed round the front to his Land Rover, where he took out a police battering ram. A warning voice was telling him that he should phone Strathbane for permission before breaking in but he decided that losing time might mean he could not save Ellie’s life.

  “Back off!” he ordered the crowd. He swung the battering ram with all his might and the door smashed open. He ran up the stairs. He tried her flat door and found it unlocked.

  He went in.

  Ellie was lying facedown on the carpet. The back of her head was a mess of blood. A crystal ball, smeared with blood, lay on the floor beside her. Hamish knelt down and felt for a pulse but there was no sign of life.

  As he phoned Strathbane and slowly left the flat to stand guard outside, ignoring the babble of questions that greeted him, he felt a purely selfish pang of fear. There were now four murders, four unsolved murders. He knew that Blair, in order to turn attention away from himself, would say that he, Hamish, was incompetent and there was simply no reason to keep a police station in Lochdubh when Strathbane had to come over and do all the work.

  He waited a long time. He realised they had probably tried to take the shore road, found their way blocked by the tide, and had to circle around to reach the upper road.

  The crowd grew larger by the minute but now they stood in silence.

  At last he heard the approaching sirens. The procession was headed by the procurator fiscal’s BMW, an unmarked police car, followed by two police vans, the forensic van, the pathologist’s car, a fire engine, and an ambulance.

  The procurator fiscal, Mr. Ian Bell-Sinclair, was Hamish’s least favourite person next to Blair. He was fat, pompous, and lazy. The job of the procurator fiscal in Scotland is broadly the same as that of a coroner in other legal systems. He is also supposed to direct police investigations and take statements from witnesses. Unless any of the press were around, Bell-Sinclair shirked as many of his duties as possible.

  He ignored Hamish and turned to Jimmy and his sidekick, Andy MacNab. “Where is your boss?”

  “The detective chief inspector is not very well this morning,” said Jimmy. He turned to Hamish. “Let’s have it.”

  Hamish flatly described what he had found. “I hope you applied for permission before breaking in,” said the procurator fiscal.

  “And he got it,” said Jimmy impatiently. “Let’s go in. Suit up, Hamish.”

  Hamish went to the Land Rover, got out his forensic suit, and put it on. He went back and led Jimmy up to the flat. Bell-Sinclair retreated to his car. He was famous for his detestation of viewing dead bodies.

  “Why her?” asked Jimmy.

  Hamish told him about Angela’s visit and how he had learned that Ellie had been bragging that she knew the murderer.

  “Think she did?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll go out and phone Elspeth. She interviewed her the other day.”

  Hamish went back outside and sat in the Land Rover. He was just about to phone Elspeth when he saw her with a photographer on the other side of one of the barriers the police had used to block off the street.

  He got out and went up to her, saying to the policeman at the barricade, “Let her through. She’s a witness. No, not the photographer, Elspeth. Just you.”

  “She’s dead, isn’t she?” said Elspeth.

  “Let’s go to my vehicle. I need a statement from you.”

  Elspeth described her interview with Ellie and ended by saying, “I’ll swear she was just showing off. If Ellie knew the identity of the murderer, she would have told the police and then phoned all the newspapers. But someone got to hear of it and took her seriously.”

  “Let’s hope you’re wrong and Jimmy finds some evidence of something. I almost hope this murder has got nothing to do with the others.”

  “Is that all? I’ve got to file a story.”

  “Yes, for now. Call on me later.”

  “Will do. Jimmy’s just come out and your girlfriend’s just gone in.”

  “Lesley is not my girlfriend.”

  “If you say so.”

  Hamish saw Elspeth stop by the procurator fiscal’s car. Bell-Sinclair got out, and they exchanged a few words. Then they walked towards the police barrier. Bell-Sinclair struck a pose, and Elspeth’s photographer took a picture of him.

  How that man does love his photo in the press, thought Hamish. He went to join Jimmy and told him what Elspeth had said.

  “Well, Hamish, it’s the usual old drudgery. We can’t tell yet when she was killed. Get into that crowd and the shops around and ask if anyone saw anything.”

  Hamish spent a weary day, asking question after question. Of course, there were always a few imaginative people who would swear they saw a sinister figure lurking around, but further questioning and an invitation to the police station for an interview always had them backtracking like mad.

  By the end of the day, he began to wonder why he went on punishing himself by remaining a common bobby. If he had upgraded to detective, then he would be in the middle of knowing everything that was going on with the investigation. On the other hand, that would mean moving to Strathbane, working at first on the beat and then sitting and passing the necessary exams. He would need to move into police accommodation, and that would mean getting rid of Sonsie and Lugs. He consoled himself with the thought that Jimmy usually kept him well informed.

  Hard on that thought came the other worry. Four murders and not a clue! He hadn’t bothered to ask what ailed Blair, assuming it to be one of his usual alcoholic troubles, but even from his sickbed Blair was, he knew, capable of putting the boot in, yammering on about how incompetent Hamish had turned out to be.

  As he wearily returned to his Land Rover, all around the press were having a field day. Television vans were lined up outside the police barriers. The voices of TV reporters talking about “the highland serial killer” were blown towards him on the decreasing wind.

  He drove back to the police station and fed his pets. He felt too tired to feed himself. He almost wished Lesley would arrive carrying her stew pot.

  He went into the office, typed up his report, and sent it off. That finished, he decided to treat himself to a meal.

  Hamish went out onto the waterfront. The wind had died down but angry waves still rose and fell on the loch, crashing down on the shingle of the shore and retreating with a hissing sound.

  Willie Lamont welcomed him and gave him a table by the window. Hamish ordered a dish of lasagne and half a bottle of wine.

  When Willie arrived with the wine, Hamish said, “You’ve heard about the murder of Ellie?”

  “Aye. Bad business. Evidently herself was bragging about how she knew who the murderer was. She even wrote up the horoscopes for the paper, practically saying she knew who it was.”

  “Are you sure she wrote the horoscopes? Have you got the paper?”

  “Just out today. I’ve got a copy in the kitchen. I’ll get it for you.”

  When he returned with the paper, Hamish read the horoscopes. His heart sank. He was sure it was Elspeth’s work and nothing to do with Ellie. He took out his phone and called Matthew Campbell.

  “Yes, it was Elspeth,” said Matthew. “Angus usually does them but he’s ill and I asked Elspeth to do them in return for the use of a desk in the office.”

  Hamish felt a pang of fear. How stupid of Elspeth. “Don’t dare tell anyone at all who wrote them,” he said.

  “They’ll think it was Angus.”

  “So that puts his life at risk. Damn, I’d better get up there.”

  When his food arrived, Hamish gulped it down, paid his bill, and set off up the hill to the seer’s cottage.

  To his relief, Angus himself answered the door.

  “Can I come in?” asked Hamish. “I’ve come to warn you.”

  “I’m fine now, Hamish. What’s it
about? I know. I’ve seen the paper. They’ll think it was me. Who was it?”

  “Never mind. Have you a spare bed, Angus?”

  “Just the one.”

  “I’ll go back and get my sleeping bag. I’m staying here tonight.”

  Hamish returned half an hour later, followed by Sonsie and Lugs. “I’m off to bed,” said Angus. “I’ve kept the fire lit for you.”

  Hamish had changed into civilian clothes. He crawled into his sleeping bag, fully dressed. He even left his boots on.

  The floor was hard but he was so tired he immediately fell asleep. During the night a long low hiss awakened him. He opened his eyes, feeling the weight of his wild cat on his chest. In the light of the fire, Sonsie’s yellow eyes burned red and her fur was standing up on her back.

  “Good girl,” whispered Hamish, shoving her off. He eased himself out of the sleeping bag and then sat up and listened.

  All was silent—and then he heard a faint rustling sound from outside. He rose up, went to the door, and opened it. The brae stretched out empty in the moonlight. “Who’s there?” he called.

  Silence.

  He walked around the cottage but could see no one.

  In the morning, he said to Angus, “Is there anyplace you could go for a few days? I’ve a feeling there was someone after you last night.”

  “I could go to my friend in Ardgay. He’ll aye put me up.”

  “Do that, Angus. How did you know about Fiona McNulty?”

  “My psychic powers.”

  “Havers. Someone told you. I wish you really had psychic powers and you could tell me the identity of this murderer.”

  “It will come to me. My cold blocked out the spirit world.”

  “Och, just get packed and get off,” said Hamish.

  After Angus had left in his battered old van, Hamish went back to the police station, showered and changed into his uniform, settled his pets and told them they were on their own for the day, and then phoned Jimmy. He told him his fears about Angus, caused by Elspeth doing the horoscopes.

  “Is she stupid or something?” said Jimmy. “If our murderer learns it was her and not Angus, she’ll be the next on the dead list. We haven’t the manpower to guard her. Go and tell her from me to get back to Glasgow.”

  Hamish drove up to the Tommel Castle Hotel and asked Mr. Johnson if he knew where Elspeth was.

  “All the press were off early and over to Braikie,” said the manager. “Try there.”

  “Try her room first,” urged Hamish. “She may have stayed behind to work on an article.”

  The manager phoned. Elspeth answered and, hearing it was Hamish who was looking for her, said she would come downstairs.

  Elspeth was wearing a ratty old sweater over faded jeans and large clumpy boots. Hamish wished she’d dress up a bit, put on a skirt, and then wondered whether, if he ever married, he would turn into the sort of bullying husband who chose his wife’s clothes.

  “You look anxious,” said Elspeth. “What’s up?”

  “Let’s go through to the lounge and find a quiet corner. This is serious.”

  When they were seated, Hamish leaned forward and said, “Elspeth, you wrote those horoscopes in the Highland Times.”

  “Yes, Matthew was stuck because Ang—”

  “I know. I had to sleep at Angus’s place last night.”

  “Why? Is he still ill?” Her eyes widened. “You think the murderer thinks it was him and might come after him?”

  “Yes, I think someone tried to get him last night. Now, if it leaks out it was you, you’ll be at risk. I want you to go back to Glasgow.”

  “I can’t, Hamish. This is big stuff. Four murders! The news desk will ask me why I want to leave the scene and if I say I’ve been writing for another paper, they’ll sack me.”

  “Can I get you anything?”

  Both looked up, startled. One of the Polish waitresses, a tall girl with red hair, was looming over them. Hamish remembered her name was Anya Kowalski.

  “No, Anya,” said Hamish.

  When she went away, Hamish said, “I wonder how long she was standing there.”

  “I think my radar is out of kilter,” said Elspeth. “I don’t know. But I am not going to quit this story, Hamish. I can look after myself.”

  Anxiety made Hamish’s temper flare. “You’re a silly wee girl!”

  “Don’t you dare patronise me. If you’re so worried about me, get off your arse and go and find out who is doing this.” Elspeth got to her feet. “If you concentrated as hard on looking for a murderer as you do looking after those pets of yours, you might get somewhere.”

  Hamish stood up and smiled maliciously. “Dear me, lassie. I never thought the day would come when you’d be jealous o’ a couple o’ beasties.”

  Elspeth turned on her heel and strode off.

  Hamish sat down again and phoned Jimmy. “She won’t leave,” he said.

  “I put in a report about it after you called,” said Jimmy. “The procurator fiscal says that as we’ve enough Strathbane men on the ground asking questions, you’re to guard Elspeth yourself. He’s got a soft spot for her because a flattering picture of him and comment appeared in the Bugle today.”

  “We had a row,” said Hamish. “How can I guard her when she won’t speak to me?”

  “Ah, love,” said Jimmy. “Make it up and keep after her.”

  Hamish left the lounge just as Elspeth was descending the stairs with her coat on. She had completed her ensemble by putting on one of those mushroom-shaped Afghan hats.

  “I’m sorry if I upset you, Elspeth,” said Hamish quickly. “I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we join forces for the day?”

  She looked up at him. “Been ordered to guard me?”

  “I see your radar’s working again. What I really want to do is get down to Perth and interview Ruby Connachie. I want to start at the beginning. I want to find out as much about Catriona as possible. There’s someone in her background somewhere that started all this off.”

  “Hamish, the murderer might be right here in Lochdubh.”

  “Then there’s a chance that someone in the village might have known Catriona before she ever came up here.”

  “Right you are. I could do with some colour for a background piece.”

  “Off we go, then. Let’s start all over again with the first murder.”

  Chapter Eight

  Thou tyrant, tyrant Jealousy, Thou tyrant of the mind!

  —John Dryden

  Hamish first went to the police station and got Ruby Connachie’s address from the computer.

  Jimmy stepped out in front of the mobile police unit and held up a hand to stop Hamish as he was driving off.

  “Where are you going?” he demanded.

  “Here, there, and anywhere,” said Hamish, waving a vague hand. “I have to protect Elspeth here and so I’m taking her right out of the village for the day.”

  “Okay, off you go, but remember the lassie’s a journalist and don’t be talking off the record.”

  “As if I would,” said Hamish piously.

  Much as he desperately wanted to solve the murders, Hamish had a guilty feeling of holiday as he drove off. It was like old times to be with Elspeth again. What did she think of him these days? Should he marry her? It would be grand to be married and maybe have a couple of children.

  “You’ve got a silly smile on your face,” said Elspeth. “What are you thinking about?”

  “The scenery,” lied Hamish. “It’s a grand day.”

  “It is indeed,” said Elspeth as they sped up over the heathery hills.

  That remark about his silly smile had irked Hamish. The dream of marriage to Elspeth disappeared and he began to wonder if Ruby could actually give them any leads.

  Known to the Romans as Bertha from the Celtic Aber The, meaning “the mouth of the River Tay,” Perth has been a Royal Burgh since the thirteenth century and was a royal residence through the middle ages. With its parks and Georgian houses,
it is still one of the fairest of Scotland’s cities.

  But like all towns and cities in Scotland, it had its housing estates, and it was in one of these that Ruby Connachie lived.

  “She must be pretty old by now,” said Elspeth.

  “From the reports, I gather she’s eighty-six and got all her marbles—well, those that haven’t been cracked by jealousy.”

  “So she was jealous of Catriona?”

  “Seems that way. She says Burrell doted on the girl for all he was strict. Here we are. I don’t suppose any of the local police will be visiting her again, so with luck Jimmy will never find out where we have been.”

  Ruby lived in a block of “sheltered” housing for the elderly on the estate. Her flat was on the first floor.

  Hamish rang the doorbell. There was a long silence.

  “I hope the woman’s alive,” whispered Hamish.

  “I sense someone in there,” said Elspeth.

  After what seemed an age there was a sound of shuffling feet on the other side of the door. Then it creaked open on a chain.

  A small, wrinkled face peered up at Hamish. “Who are you?”

  Hamish introduced himself but not Elspeth in the hope that she would think Elspeth was a plainclothes policewoman. The door shut, and then came the sound of elderly fingers struggling to undo the chain. The door swung open again, revealing Ruby to be a small, old woman leaning on a Zimmer frame. Her figure was stooped and her grey hair, thin and sparse, showed patches of pink scalp.

  The door opened directly into a small living room. It was simply furnished with two easy chairs, two hard-backed chairs, a small television set, and two occasional tables, one of which held a framed photograph of a younger Ruby on the arm of a heavyset man.

  Hamish picked it up. “Is this Mr. Burrell?”

  “Yes, that’s him. We would have been married if that fiend hadn’t murdered him. He put it off too long. ‘As soon as Catriona goes to university, we’ll get married,’ he’d say.”

  “What was Catriona like?”