Hamish Macbeth 19 (2003) - Death of a Village

by M C Beaton

  “Your girlfriend told us,” said Mrs. Docherty.

  “She iss not my girlfriend,” said Hamish testily, and leant back and closed his eyes.

  SEVEN

  Man is the only animal that laughs and weeps; for he is the only animal that is struck with the difference between what things are, and what they ought to be.

  —William Hazlitt

  “I hope you have some definite facts to report,” said Daviot. “It’s two in the morning.”

  Hamish told him of the attempt on his life.

  “And you didn’t even phone? I’ll get the boys over there, fast!”

  “Wait a wee minute, sir. If you do that, the locals will obstruct you as before. There’s no evidence of that drugged whisky. They’ll all gang up together and swear I was drunk. I’m sure that electrician knew his job, just as I’m sure no money has been spent on that cottage in keeping it in order in years. The wiring will appear to have been faulty, and if an electrician checks through the house, I’m sure he’ll find some of the wiring really is faulty.”

  “So what do you suggest?”

  “I suggest you get an undercover squad of workmen to go over to Stoyre and check everything and help me clean up. I want the locks repaired and a burglar alarm put in. Don’t tell the estate agent anything about it at the moment. I’ll return there tomorrow with the workmen and go on as if nothing happened. That will scare whoever’s trying to get me. I think they’ll lie low for a bit. Whatever is going on there, it must be something big, something that involves the whole village. There are lots of handy inlets and bays north of Stoyre and the only way to them is along a dirt road leading north from the village. I’d like to take a look in case anyone’s landing anything illegal.”

  Daviot studied Hamish, wishing, not for the first time, that the man were more like a regular policeman. Every time he looked at Hamish Macbeth, with his long, lanky figure, pleasant face, and flaming red hair, he saw a maverick. But Strathbane police had hit the headlines with the solving of the insurance fraud and the hospital business, and both investigations had been successful because of Hamish.

  “All right,” he said reluctantly. “You’ve got the rest of the week. If you don’t come up with anything, it’ll be a waste of money. Are you recovered from the drugs?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “How did you get here?”

  “That elderly couple, Docherty and Jefferson, who saved my life, gave me a lift.”

  “Keep them out of this one. Promise?”

  “I’ll do that,” said Hamish.

  They discussed arrangements and then Hamish went up to the canteen, where he found Mr. Jefferson feeding Lugs sugar buns.

  “You’ll ruin his teeth,” howled Hamish. He looked at the bowl on the floor. “And you’ve been giving him coffee.”

  “The poor wee dog needed a treat,” said Mrs. Docherty. “So, are they sending men over there?”

  Hamish hesitated. Detective Harry MacNab was at the next table and obviously straining his ears to hear what they were saying.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  On the drive back he was pestered with questions until he said wearily, “All right. I’ll tell you. But you’ve got to keep away from Stoyre.” He described his plan.

  “We could help you,” said Mr. Jefferson.

  “No, you’ve done enough. You are not to go near Stoyre. Do I have your promise?”

  They both gave him a reluctant “yes.”

  “Did they ever find out what was in those pills they gave us at the nursing home?” asked Mrs. Docherty, changing the subject.

  “Betterdorm. Sleeping pills.”

  “What’s Betterdorm?” asked Mrs. Docherty.

  “Betterdorm is a brand name. The drug is a central nervous system depressant similar to barbiturates. The effect on the body is a reduction in the heart and breathing rate and blood pressure. Small doses create a feeling of euphoria. Larger doses can bring about depression, irrational behaviour, poor reflexes, and slurred speech. It’s a grand way of making old folks seem senile.”

  “Maybe that’s what’s behind all this in Stoyre,” said Mr. Jefferson. “Maybe someone’s landing drugs and all this religious business is a cover-up.”

  “Forget Stoyre,” snapped Hamish. “Chust drop me off and don’t go near the place again.”

  The next day, Hamish looked out of the window of the house on the waterfront. Behind him, workmen were cleaning off the smoke damage and checking the wiring. One was putting in a burglar alarm and a locksmith was changing the locks. What did they make of it all?

  ‘They’ were the villagers. They stood in groups a little way away from the front of the house, watching and whispering. Through the open window, the hissing and murmuring of their voices reached Hamish’s ears, sounding like the waves on the beach.

  He felt a superstitious shudder run through his body. It was like being trapped in some science fiction film where the aliens had taken over the population.

  And then a small noisy sports car roared along the waterfront and jerked to a stop outside the house. Elspeth climbed out. She was wearing a scarlet ankle-length cardigan over a white shirt blouse and brief shorts. Hamish felt ridiculously pleased to see her. It was as if her very arrival had broken some sort of spell. The villagers began to move off.

  “Come in,” said Hamish. “What brings you?”

  “I came to see what you were up to,” said Elspeth. “Why all these workmen?”

  “Had a bit of faulty wiring.”

  “Oh, yeah? So what’s the reason for the new burglar alarm and the new locks?”

  “Walk across to the harbour wall with me. Come on, Lugs.”

  “What’s up with Lugs?” asked Elspeth. “He looks right miserable.”

  “His coat was all smoke. I had to put him in the shower this morning. He’ll perk up when he gets the sun on his back.”

  They leant on the harbour wall. “At least there aren’t any gales,” said Hamish. “I think that’s why the cottage was so cold and damp when I moved in. I’ll bet on a stormy day the waves crash over this wall and go right up to the door.”

  Elspeth bent down and patted Lugs. He shrugged as if to push her off and moved slightly away, looking up at her out of his strange blue eyes.

  “Your dog is jealous of me.”

  “Havers. He was never jealous of Priscilla.”

  Damn that bloody woman, thought Elspeth. Aloud she said, “So tell me the truth. What’s really going on?”

  “You’ve to say nothing, mind, and nothing in print. If I get something, you’ll be the first to know.”

  So he told her about being drugged, then the fire and how he was rescued.

  Her eyes shone with excitement. “So they were prepared to kill a policeman to keep whatever they’re hiding quiet!”

  “It looks like that.”

  “So why aren’t Strathbane rounding everyone up in the village?”

  “I persuaded the boss to leave me be. They won’t try anything more for a bit.”

  “Exactly,” said Elspeth impatiently. “They’ll lie low until you leave.”

  “When the workmen are finished, I’m going to walk up the coast a bit and have a look.”

  “I’d come with you but I’ve got a story over in Cnothan.”

  “What about?”

  “It’s a cake-baking competition, so help me.”

  “You won’t last long up here with all these fiddling stories.”

  “If I stick around you, I’ll get something big. I feel it in my bones.”

  “You can do something for me.”

  “Like what?”

  “See if you can get me admiralty charts for the bit of coast to the north of here. See if there are any caves. Somewhere a boat could be hidden.”

  Elspeth was just returning to the newspaper office in the late afternoon when she saw old Mrs. Docherty standing looking out over the loch.

  “Where’s your partner?” she asked when she had crossed t
he road to join her.

  “Oh, him. I’m sick of him.”

  “Already? What’s the matter?”

  “He wants us to get married.”

  “And you don’t want to?”

  Mrs. Docherty heaved a sigh. “I wish he’d leave me alone. He doesn’t know I made a will out in his favour. I’m not leaving anything to that daughter of mine. She hasn’t been near me in years. I mean he thinks if he marries me, he’ll be secure. He hasn’t any money of his own.”

  “If you’re leaving him the money anyway, why not marry him?”

  “The truth is, I wouldn’t mind being on my own again. It upsets me, having someone around. I’ve got this pain in my arm. Maybe that’s what’s making me crotchety.”

  Hope it’s not angina, thought Elspeth. “When did you last have a check-up?”

  “Not in years. I don’t hold with doctors and hospitals.”

  “Dr. Brodie’s all right. Might be wise to talk to him about that pain.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  When Mrs. Docherty opened the door of her cottage, she choked on the cigarette smoke which was hanging in the living room in grey wreaths. “I told you not to smoke in my house,” she said wrathfully.

  Mr. Jefferson stubbed out his cigarette and opened the window. “You’re turning into a nag, Annie. You should be grateful to me. If it hadn’t been for me, you wouldn’t have a cottage.”

  “I’d have discovered enough for the police to work on without you.”

  “So you say.”

  Mrs. Docherty suddenly felt she could not stay in the same room as him. He would have to go. Hamish Macbeth! He would know what to do.

  “Where are you going?” asked Mr. Jefferson as she made for the door.

  “Out,” she snapped.

  As Mrs. Docherty cruised along the waterfront at twenty miles an hour, she saw Elspeth again and stopped. “I’m off to see Hamish Macbeth,” she said. “He’ll know what to do about getting rid of Charlie Jefferson.”

  “You might not find him at home. He was going to walk north out of Stoyre and search the bays and inlets.”

  “It’ll be dark soon. I’d better get a move on.”

  She drove off.

  It took her a long time to get to Stoyre because she always drove very slowly. She parked on the waterfront and rang the new doorbell outside Hamish’s cottage. But he did not answer.

  She decided to walk north out of the village so that she might meet him on the road home. It was a clear, starry night. She followed the grass-grown track until she began to feel tired. She realised it was time to turn around. She had the whole distance to walk back. She sat down on a rock to rest for a moment.

  Mrs. Docherty was just about to get to her feet when a frightening apparition rose in front of her. It was a horrible cloaked figure, so tall it blotted out the stars.

  She knew it was the Grim Reaper. She let out an animal scream of pure terror and clutched her heart.

  Hamish Macbeth was sitting in a corner pub in Stoyre, his dog at his feet. There was a large space all around him. The locals were all seated as far away from him as they could get. Let them get rattled, thought Hamish, and something might happen.

  His mobile phone rang. It was Elspeth.

  “I’m a bit worried, Hamish. Have you seen Mrs. Docherty?”

  “No, I’m in the pub being sent to Coventry.”

  “She’s fed up with Charlie Jefferson even though she’s left him everything in her will, and wants to live on her own again. She took off for Stoyre some time ago to ask you for your help. Trouble is, I told her you were going to search north of the village and she may have gone that way.”

  “I didn’t go,” said Hamish. “The workmen took all day. I’d better go and look for her.”

  The minute he left the Fisherman’s Arms, he saw Mrs. Docherty’s small car parked outside his cottage. He set off rapidly out of the village. The wind was rising and a thin veil of clouds was streaming across the moon and dimming the stars.

  He hurried along with Lugs racing at his heels. He took out his torch and shone it in front of him.

  He had just crested a hill when he saw her lying there. He felt for a pulse but there was none. He shone his torch on her face. It was a death mask of horror.

  He took out his phone and called Strathbane and then took off his jacket and placed it gently over Mrs. Docherty’s contorted face.

  The next few days were a nightmare. The autopsy determined that Mrs. Docherty had died of a heart attack. Daviot said enough was enough. Hamish’s covert operation wasn’t working. And if Hamish thought there was something odd going on to the north of the village, then it was time a whole squad was sent up to comb the area. He dismissed Hamish’s plea that something had frightened the old woman to death. The police pathologist said she had been suffering from angina and she could have dropped dead at any moment. Enough money had been spent on that cottage. Daviot had discussed the matter with Detective Chief Inspector Blair, who had pointed out—wisely—that it was a waste of police funds. Hamish was to go back to his beat. The estate agent would be billed for some of the repairs. It had probably been faulty wiring, after all.

  He, Daviot, had received a report from Scotland Yard that the major had been in debt when his cottage had blown up and it had been insured well above its value. The fear was the major had arranged the blast himself, although nothing could be proved.

  But Hamish had one more task to do before he left Stoyre. While vanloads of police arrived in Stoyre and set out to comb the coast, he made his way up to the church, where he knew a service was going on.

  He walked down the aisle and up to the pulpit, elbowing the startled minister aside. He glared down at the congregation and said, “You killed her. I know you killed her because you are aiding and abetting the wickedness that is going on here. You have her death on your hands. Something or someone frightened that blameless woman to death. You and your damned religious services. I hope you all rot in hell!”

  And with that he strode out of the church.

  Macbeth was in a foul mood for the rest of that day. He felt he should call on poor Mr. Jefferson but decided to leave it until the evening. He was sure there was something sinister going on in Stoyre. Mrs. Docherty may have had a weak heart but he was sure she had been frightened to death by someone or something.

  After he had typed up a long report, he sent it to Strathbane, made himself and Lugs some food, and then wearily decided to call on Mr. Jefferson. The old man opened the door to him, his eyes red with weeping. “Come in, Hamish,” he said. “I don’t know whether I’m crying because my son says I’ve got to go into another old folks home or because I miss her dreadfully. I only knew her for a little bit but she didn’t make me feel lonely. Sit down.”

  “You obviously haven’t heard about the will,” said Hamish.

  “What will?”

  “Mrs. Docherty’s. She told Elspeth before she died that she had left everything to you. So if you want to go on living here, you can. You’d better have a look and see if you can find the name of her solicitors.”

  “Would you mind having a look, Hamish? I can’t touch her things or I start crying again.”

  Hamish searched the cottage until he came across a black metal box at the top of Annie Docherty’s wardrobe. In it were papers, birth certificate, marriage certificate, and two wills. One left everything to her daughter, but to his relief, there was a copy of the new one, testifying that Mr. Jefferson had been left everything. He took it through to him and said, “You’ll find the name of the solicitors there. Give them a ring in the morning. The daughter’s been informed.”

  “I suppose she’ll be coming up for the funeral.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “She’s a hard creature. When I told her that her mother was dead, she said calmly it was only to be expected. She then asked me how much she could expect to get from the sale of the cottage. I told her everything had b
een left to you and she shouted that you could pay for the funeral and no, she would not be attending.”

  “I’ve arranged everything anyway,” said Mr. Jefferson. “I just went ahead because I knew she was on bad terms with her daughter. I’m surprised the solicitors didn’t phone me.”

  “It’s too early yet and like all their kind, they’ll probably be sending you a letter, second-class post. But at least you’ll be able to send them the expenses for the funeral.”

  “Will you be there?”

  “Man, this is the Highlands. The whole of Lochdubh will be there. It’s at two o’clock tomorrow, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, the body was released yesterday. Archie Maclean said it would be nice to lay her out here in the old tradition but I couldn’t bear that. I want to remember her the way she was when she was alive.”

  Archie Maclean, thought Hamish suddenly. I wonder whether he’s been able to find out anything about Stoyre from Harry Bain.

  “I was shocked to learn she was actually ninety-two when she died,” said Mr. Jefferson. “She told me she was younger.”

  “She probably didn’t feel like ninety-two,” said Hamish. “She was full of life.”

  “I feel guilty about her death.”

  “Why?”

  “I should have done all the investigating at the nursing home myself. I shouldn’t have got her to crawl on her hands and knees all the way round to the surgery that day. I fear the strain of it all killed her.”

  Hamish decided not to rattle him at the moment by telling him about his suspicion that she had been frightened to death.

  He said instead, “People aye feel guilty and angry when someone dies. But the autopsy shows that she was ready to pop off anytime. You’ll begin to feel better once the funeral is over.”

  “Do you think it would be sacrilegious to have a smoke? Annie couldn’t bear me smoking in the house.”

  “It’s fine. She’d want you to be comfortable.”

  “I wanted to marry her, you know. Did she say anything to you about me?”