by M C Beaton
“Flying up from the south. We’ll have the terrorist squad here.”
“Can’t be the IRA this far north.”
“The major’s retired but he was once in army intelligence. May have had something to do with Northern Ireland.”
“Are they sure it was some sort of explosive? Couldn’t have been a faulty Calor gas tank?”
“Too early to say. Could just be some anti-English bastards. You mind that film Braveheart?”
“Of course,” said Hamish. “And what a load of inaccurate historical rubbish it was, too.”
“Aye, but you know it caused a lot of anti-English feeling in some weak heads. Then there was that showbiz chap, Cameron McIntosh over in Mallaig. His cottage got destroyed.”
“Well, we’ll see,” said Hamish uneasily. All the while he thought, This can’t be happening in Stoyre. He looked down at the calm sea and the sun-warmed stone harbour. Something evil was gong on here.
Blair came marching up to him. “Move your lazy bum, Macbeth, and see what you can get out of the local yokels.”
Hamish set off down the slope from the ruins of the major’s cottage.
He decided to try the manse first. The door was eventually answered by what he at first thought was a young girl. She was wearing a short summer dress and her hair was in pigtails. Her thin legs ended in white ankle socks and black flat shoes. Her features were small but then he noticed the thin, spidery lines on her face. “Mrs. Mackenzie?”
“Yes, Officer. Won’t you come in? My husband is going about his parochial duties.” Her voice was soft and lilting.
Hamish took off his cap and followed her along a stone-flagged passage to the manse kitchen. The long sash windows were open and a breeze fluttered the crystal-white net curtains. A scarlet Raeburn cooker stood against one wall and a dresser with brightly patterned plates against another. There was a scrubbed wooden kitchen table in the centre surrounded with ladder-back chairs.
“Sit down, Officer,” said the minister’s wife. “Coffee?”
“That would be grand.”
She put instant coffee in two mugs and poured boiling water from a kettle on top of the stove. “Help yourself to milk and sugar,” she said, sitting down opposite him. “I suppose you’ve come about that terrible business.”
“The major’s cottage, yes. What can you tell me about it?”
“Nothing.” Her eyes were greyish blue and slightly slanted, the sort of Highland eyes which reflected everything back, in a way, without betraying their owner’s feelings. “We were woken up about dawn with this tremendous blast, and the windows of the manse rattled.”
“So you got up and went out to have a look?”
“Well, no. We were both still tired, so we went back to sleep.”
“Heavens, woman! Surely natural curiosity would ha’ impelled you to go out of doors to see what had happened.”
“Odd things happen every day,” she said serenely. “It is God’s will and it is not up to us to question the will of God.”
“I would think it was up to everyone to question the will of man,” said Hamish dryly. He looked at her curiously. “I mean, God didn’t blow up the major’s cottage. Some villain or villains did it.”
“It could have been lightning or a thunderbolt.”
“Meaning God zapped the major’s cottage? Havers. And what do you think a douce body like the major would have done to incur the wrath of God?”
Her thin lips became even thinner as she folded them into a reproving line. “He did not attend the kirk when he was here.”
“The kirk is Free Presbyterian. Stands to reason the major is probably a member o’ the Church of England.”
“That is as may be.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
She sipped her coffee in silence while Hamish gave her a frustrated look. At last he said, “So you’ve nothing to tell me?”
“There’s nothing I can tell you.”
He stood and picked up his cap. “If you think of anything, let me know.”
“You can find your own way out?”
“Aye.”
Baffled, Hamish went off. He stood outside the door of the manse and looked down on the village of Stoyre, a huddle of houses before a tranquil sea. The air smelled fresh and clean. Somewhere up on the hill a sheep bleated.
He walked down into the village and into the pub. A few locals were sitting at tables. When he came in, they rose to their feet and went out. Andy Crummack, the landlord, was polishing glasses.
“I seem to be bad for business,” commented Hamish.
“We keep ourselves to ourselves in this village,” said Andy, “and we don’t like nosy coppers asking questions.”
“Then get used to it,” snapped Hamish. “Because I’m the first of many.” He took out his notebook. “Now, where were you when the major’s cottage was blown up?”
“I was in my bed.”
“And did you go out to see what happened?”
“No, I thought it was thunder.”
“Man, the blast must have been horrendous. What time did you hear it?”
“I looked at the clock. It was just after five.”
“Andy, something’s going on in this village and I mean to get to the bottom of it.”
“Aye, well, that’s your job.”
The pub door opened and Elspeth came in. Hamish was relieved to see someone, anyone, from outside this strange village. “Come and have a drink,” he hailed. He jerked a thumb at Andy. “No use asking him anything.”
Hamish ordered a tonic water for himself and a whisky for Elspeth and carried them to a corner table. “Got any news for me?” he asked.
“Not a thing. They all heard that blast at dawn and inexplicably no one admits to going out to see what happened or even to looking through a window.”
“Do you still think they’re scared of something?”
“No, that’s the odd thing. They’ve got carefully blank faces, but underneath they’re elated about something—elated and secretive, like children hiding something.”
“Don’t you think,” asked Hamish, surveying her outfit, “that you might get a bit more out of the locals if your clothes weren’t so strange?”
Elspeth was wearing a grey chiffon blouse with a pair of cut-off denim shorts and clumpy hiking boots.
“No, you old fuddy-duddy. No one is going to get anything out of this lot.”
Hamish looked across her out the window and saw a familiar figure heading for the pub door. “Blair,” he hissed. “Don’t say you saw me.”
He vaulted the bar and made his way through to the back premises just as the detective chief inspector came through the door. There was a back storeroom with a door opening onto a weedy garden. In the middle of the storeroom, clutching a Bible and on his knees in prayer, was the landlord. Hamish edged round him and darted out into the sunlight. Andy seemed unaware of his existence.
Hamish then went diligently from cottage to cottage, asking questions and getting the same replies as Elspeth had received. He had just left one of the cottages when he heard himself being hailed by Jimmy Anderson. “Get anything?” asked Jimmy.
Hamish sighed. “I get the impression they all believe it was the wrath of God. They’ve never actually attacked anyone English up here before. I mean, they don’t even like people from anywhere south of Perth.”
“See Blair?”
“He was heading for the pub. He’s probably still there.”
“Well, that’ll keep him away for a bit. The major should be here this afternoon. I wonder what he’ll have to say. The bomb squad is combing the ruins. They think it was one of those fertiliser bombs like the IRA uses.”
“Now, why don’t I believe it was the IRA?” muttered Hamish. “There’s something odd going on here, Jimmy.”
“I agree with you. I think one of them did it out of spite. Maybe the Lord told them to do it. Is there a lot of inbreeding in these parts?”
“Not now. No.
”
“It would drive me daft living in a place like Stoyre. Think what it’s like in the winter when the sun rises at ten in the morning and sinks at two in the afternoon.”
“It does that in Strathbane.”
“Aye, but there’s life there, man. Lights, traffic, theatre, cinema, clubs.”
“And crime and drugs.”
“Maybe, but we haven’t had anything as dramatic as this.”
“Oh, here’s the boss,” said Hamish.
Blair, red in the face and breathing whisky fumes, came up to them. “You,” he said to Jimmy, “come back up to the major’s with me. You, Macbeth, get back to your local duties. We’ve enough men here.”
Hamish trotted off. He knew that Jimmy would probably fill him in later and he also knew that he wasn’t going to get anything more out of the locals.
As he drove off to Lochdubh, he noticed a cloud, a small round cloud, travelling towards the sun. The breeze through the open window felt damp against his cheek and the countryside had that waiting feeling it gets when rain is about to arrive. By the time he got back to the police station, the sky was a uniform grey, as if the clouds had sunk down rather than blowing in from the sea.
He walked Lugs and fed him and then himself. He checked on his sheep and went back indoors as the first fat raindrops began to fall. He made a pot of tea and sat down at the kitchen table to mull over the situation in Stoyre. Somehow the greyness of the day and the soft rain falling outside seemed to bring back reality to the Highlands and to his mind. He was now sure that some local had blown up the major’s cottage to get rid of him. The major or some of the guests he usually invited in the summer might have offended someone, and Highland malice, as Hamish knew, ran slow and deep and took its time over getting revenge.
He carried his mug of tea through to the office and stood at the window, looking out at the rain-pocked waters of the loch. Mist was rolling down the hills opposite to hang in grey wreaths round the top of the forest trees. A small yacht sailed into view. Two figures were taking down the sails, and he could hear the chug-chug of the donkey engine.
He sat down at his desk and switched on the computer and began to type a report. The next day would be a Sunday. Hamish remembered he had promised to go to church in Stoyre with Elspeth. Might be interesting to hear one of Fergus Mackenzie’s sermons and discover what it was in them that had prompted such a strong religious revival.
Jimmy Anderson arrived in the early evening. “Blasted weather,” he said. “Got any whisky?”
“No,” said Hamish, “and the shop’s closed. Closes early on Saturday.”
“Got anything?”
“I’ve got some brandy left over from Christmas.”
“That’ll do.”
Hamish took down the brandy bottle from the cupboard. “I won’t join you,” he said. “I don’t like brandy much.”
“And that’s why you’ve got it left over from Christmas. Good. All the more for me,” said Jimmy. “Pour it out.”
Hamish poured a measure of brandy into a glass and placed it in front of him.
“Got cold in here,” complained Jimmy.
“I’ll light the stove,” said Hamish. “Any more orders?”
“No,” said Jimmy, taking a swig of brandy. “Ah, that’s better. Blair’s been getting on my tits. There’s bigwigs up from Scotland Yard and some bods from MI5, and Blair’s been showing off by pushing me around and crawling to them.”
Hamish filled the stove with kindling and paper and struck a match. When the stove was lit, he added several slices of dark peat and a couple of logs. “I think it was a local job,” he said.
“Well, to be sure, the dafties are all blaming it on God.”
“Did you manage to get out of them why God should be angry with Major Jennings?”
“Mrs. MacBean at the general store was more forthcoming than the rest of them.”
“What did she say?” asked Hamish.
“When I asked her why God would see fit to blow up the major’s cottage, she replied that God moved in mysterious ways. And believe me, that meant she was being downright talkative compared to the rest of them up in Brigadoon.”
“So long as everyone’s convinced it’s a terrorist attack, they’ll leave the locals alone. Did the major arrive?”
“Yes, but he seemed quite unfazed. He said the cottage was insured. He said he’d had some trouble with the locals. He believes it was a piece of spite.”
“What trouble?”
“Usual trouble any incomer has up here—not getting help, plumber not turning up, no one prepared to help with the garden or building repairs, that sort of thing.”
“I’m off to the kirk tomorrow,” said Hamish. “Maybe I’ll start off by finding out why they’ve all gone religious.”
“Maybe you’ll see the light yourself,” said Jimmy. “Pass that bottle over.”
FOUR
Where we tread ‘tis haunted holy ground.
—Lord Byron
Hamish’s first thought when he picked up Elspeth the next day was that at least she had made the effort to dress in a more conventional manner. He had been afraid that she might have decided to turn up for church in something like hot pants. But she was wearing a long black skirt with a black sweater and had a tartan stole around her shoulders. When she climbed into the Land Rover, however, he noticed that she was still wearing her favourite clumpy boots.
“Haven’t you got a pair of shoes?” he asked.
“Hamish Macbeth! Somehow you have graduated to being a grumpy husband without ever having been one. Have you seen the feet of women who have worn high heels all their lives? All bent and twisted. So just drive on and mind your own business.”
A fine drizzle smeared the windscreen. Hamish switched on the wipers, which made a grating sound. “You need new wipers,” commented Elspeth.
“I do not,” said Hamish, who was sometimes mean about small items like windscreen wipers. “They’re chust fine when the rain’s heavy.”
As if to prove his point, the rain began to pour down. “The weather forecast’s pretty good,” said Elspeth. “It said it would get better later.”
“Do you have any idea why Major Jennings’s cottage got blown up?”
“It’s something to do with the villagers. I’m sure of that. There’s a sort of religious mania emanating from them.”
“You mean God told them to do it?”
“Something like that,” said Elspeth vaguely. “Oh, look, I can see a little patch of blue sky ahead.”
As they approached Stoyre, the rain abruptly ceased. Elspeth was used to the lightning-quick changes of weather in the Highlands but she still stared in wonder as the clouds rolled back and the sun blazed down on the still-black sea. Smoke rose from the cottages below them. Most villagers still had their water heated by a back boiler in the fireplace, so fires were often kept going all year round.
Up on the hill, the police tapes fluttered outside the major’s cottage. The waterfront was full of cars and television vans. “You’ve got competition,” remarked Hamish.
“They won’t get anything out of the villagers,” said Elspeth. “If I can’t, they can’t.”
“Fancy yourself as an ace reporter?”
“No, but I’m Highland and they aren’t.”
Hamish parked amongst the cars. “They won’t get a drink here anyway,” he said. “The pub closes on the Sabbath.”
They climbed down from the police Land Rover. There were groups of jaded press standing around. No one bothered to approach them. After their experiences trying to get something out of the villagers and failing, they probably summed up the small population as a waste of time.
Elspeth and Hamish caught up with the line of villagers making their way to the church.
“Now,” said Hamish, “let’s see what the preaching is like.”
The interior of the church was small and whitewashed. There were no religious statues, no crosses. There wasn’t even an organ. A c
hanter, a man who struck a tuning fork on one of the front pews and sang the first note, started off hymn singing.
They sang, “There is a green hill far away without a city wall.”
“I used to think that meant a city that didn’t have a wall,” whispered Elspeth. “Then I learned it meant outside the city wall.”
“Shhh!” said an old lady waspishly.
The hymn was followed by two readings from the Bible, and then the minister rose to deliver his sermon. Hamish listened in surprise. Whatever had caused this religious fervour in Stoyre, it could hardly be the preachings of Fergus Mackenzie. Hamish and Elspeth were seated at the back of the church and they had to strain to hear what the minister was saying. His soft voice did not carry well. There was no passion or threat of hell fire in his sermon. He said the villagers all knew that they were chosen by God and must live up to this privilege. He talked of Moses and the burning bush and then of the leading of the Israelites to the promised land. His soft voice and the heat of all the bodies in the church and from the sun, now blazing in through the windows, had a soporific effect on Hamish, and his head began to droop. Elspeth nudged him in the ribs. “Pay attention.”
The service ended with the Twenty-third Psalm.
Elspeth and Hamish waited outside by the church door to see if any of the villagers said anything of interest to the minister, but all they could hear were murmurs of ‘Grand service’ or replies to the minister’s occasional questions about health or children.
Hamish saw Mrs. MacBean, who ran the general store, and taking Elspeth’s arm, he fell into step beside her. “Bad business about the major’s cottage,” he remarked.
“We should not be discussing such things on the Sabbath,” said Mrs. MacBean primly. “We have our minds on higher things.” This reminded Hamish that it was a peculiarity among some Presbyterians to not even hail their best friend on a Sunday. As Mrs. MacBean had said, the mind was supposed to be on higher things. They had strict observance of the Lord’s Day. There would even be a member of the congregation whose duty it was to ‘police’ the village on a Sunday to make sure no one was doing anything sinful like watching television or hanging out their clothes.
