Hamish Macbeth 19 (2003) - Death of a Village

by M C Beaton

  “Mr. Jefferson, I can hardly charge the minister with kidnapping you because Strathbane knows your record and will ask nasty questions about why you were breaking and entering. I will take you back to Lochdubh, and I want you to stay there until this business is cleared up.”

  “I don’t want to stay in Lochdubh any more,” said Mr. Jefferson, his eyes filling with tears again. “It’s not the same without Annie. Do you think she’d mind if I sold her cottage and moved back down to London? It’s too violent up here.”

  “I don’t think she would mind at all,” said Hamish. “Let’s get you home. Elspeth will drive you. Your car’s in the minister’s garage. Leave it for the moment. You’re not fit to drive. I’ll get someone to bring it over.”

  “I’ll drive it now,” said Graham. “I left mine at the police station.”

  “Thanks for all your help, Graham. Now let me deal with the minister.”

  When they had left, Hamish joined the minister in the manse kitchen. “You will need to excuse my wife,” Mr. Mackenzie said heavily. “She’s gone to lie down. This has been a terrible strain on her. She was frightened that old gentleman would die. I think we were all turned mad.”

  Hamish looked at him curiously. “This is a whole new century. How can people be so isolated from the real world with television and all?”

  “We don’t have the television in Stoyre. The mountains block off reception and they are not going to bother about a little place like this. We have a very strong belief in God.”

  “And damn little common sense,” said Hamish. “Now, I do not trust you enough yet to confide in you. But you are all to sit tight or I will book the whole village for murder and kidnap. Do you understand me?”

  He nodded his head.

  “If you do this, I will let you off for the kidnapping of Mr. Jefferson.”

  “I will do what you say.”

  “Have you seen these men diving in Scorie Bay?”

  “We were instructed to keep clear of it. But I think they hide their boat somewhere during the day and dive at night. You must forgive us. We thought it was the will of God.”

  “You ought to try Christianity or Judaism for a change,” said Hamish sarcastically, “and stop going on as if you’re members of a weird cult. Do you know how the myth of the Holy Grail started? It dates back, just like the beliefs of the people of Stoyre, to the old Celtic legends of magic drinking vessels.” A vision of Annie Docherty’s contorted face rose before him and he added savagely, “Chust grow up, man. Grow up!”

  When he left the manse, he thought, Now for Strathbane. I’ve some explaining to do.

  Back in Lochdubh, Hamish tried to leave Lugs with Elspeth, but the normally good-natured dog growled and bared his teeth, and so Hamish had to beg Angela for her help again. Then he drove to police headquarters and marched up to Chief Superintendent Daviot’s office, only to find his way barred by Daviot’s secretary, Helen.

  “You are not to go in there,” she said, standing in front of the door. “He is busy and is not to be disturbed.”

  Hamish lifted her aside and marched straight in. Daviot was seated in an armchair in front of a small television set watching a Rangers versus Celtic football match. He struggled to his feet and demanded wrathfully, “How dare you burst in here? I asked not to be disturbed.”

  “You won’t mind when you hear what I’ve got to say,” said Hamish amiably.

  “Very well. You may sit down. It had better be good.”

  Hamish patiently began at the beginning, telling about the hologram that had been operated to frighten him and Annie Docherty and about his demonstration to the villagers of Stoyre. He did not, however, say anything about Mr. Jefferson.

  “So,” he finished, “they’re diving on Scorie Bay at night and that’s when we should catch them.”

  “We should get on to the secretary of state’s office and find out what they are diving for.”

  “I’ve already done that,” said Hamish patiently. “There’s no record of any wreck there.”

  “We could have got started on this sooner if you hadn’t decided to keep all this information to yourself!”

  “Until I’d managed to get the villagers and the minister to open up,” said Hamish, “you would have found nothing. You’d have sent a squad along there in daylight and found nothing.”

  “Goal!” shouted a voice from the television set.

  Mr. Daviot twisted round and looked at it and sighed. “Very well. I’ll see to it and keep you posted.”

  “No,” said Hamish.

  “I beg your pardon, Macbeth?”

  “I mean sir, I want to be there when the squad goes in. This is my case.”

  “It’s too big for you. Oh, very well. I’ll try to get the men rounded up and we’ll go there, say, at midnight and meet you in Stoyre and then we’ll all go along.”

  “I know where they moor the boat,” said Hamish. “It’s in a cave and the only access to it is down the cliffs, and you can’t get in at high tide. You’ll need expert climbers.”

  “We’ll have boats and climbers,” said Daviot, his eyes straying longingly towards the television set.

  “But you will let me know it’s on for tonight?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  Hamish waited impatiently all day. The phone rang several times but it was only locals phoning up for a chat, and Hamish had to restrain himself from shouting at them to get off the line.

  At last at five o’clock, Jimmy Anderson rang. “It’s off for tonight, Hamish,” he said.

  “Why on earth…?”

  “Haven’t you been listening to the weather forecast?”

  “Man, I’ve been sitting by the phone all day waiting for news. What’s up with the weather?”

  “Hurricane-force winds are due to hit the coast this evening. It’s batten down the hatches and wait for tomorrow and hope it dies down. They won’t be out in this weather.”

  Hamish rang off and sat brooding. If there was a wreck and that wreck contained something so valuable for these men to take such risks, then greed might prompt them to ignore the weather forecast.

  He got out the maps Elspeth had given him and located Scorie Bay. It was further to the north than the cave, a wide basin. So they weren’t diving in the little natural harbour beside the cave where they moored their boat. He felt anxious and restless. What if they had been bringing up stuff from some wreck and storing it? What if there was only one last dive? Perhaps when the squad arrived, say tomorrow, they would have gone. Perhaps they had an informant in the village who would have tipped them off that the villagers now understood how the visions had been created. That might panic them into ignoring the weather. Perhaps hurry and greed had made them forget to tune in to the shipping forecast.

  He decided he simply had to go out to Stoyre and see for himself. It was taking a risk. If he was seen by any of the men, they might pack up and leave and then there would be nothing to find by the time the police arrived.

  He fed Lugs and then set out for Stoyre in the police Land Rover. There was a strong wind blowing. But in Sutherland, people, including Hamish, were used to ferocious winds.

  He parked the car in the shelter of a disused quarry outside Stoyre. He feared if he parked it on the waterfront, salt spray might damage the engine. He climbed out of the Land Rover and began to head through the village and out to the north. The full fury of the rising wind struck him and he reeled against its force like a drunken man. It tore and boomed in the heavens like the wrath of the God that the villagers of Stoyre believed in. The air was alive with stinging spray from the waves crashing on the shore.

  Bending his head, he forged on up to the top of the cliffs. It felt as if the whole world were in tumult. The weight of the large and powerful light he was carrying in a knapsack on his back strained at his shoulders.

  One enormous roaring gust sent him sprawling in the heather at the side of the track and he lay there, gasping. He could not take out the map because he knew it w
ould be ripped out of his hands. He staggered to his feet and forged on, using a torch to light his way. At last he recognised the rock round which he had tied the rope. Not far to go now.

  It was as bad as walking in a fog, he thought. The air was thick with spray. The noise was tremendous. He felt as tired and beaten as if he had been in a fight. His eyes were stinging with salt. The wind was shrieking now, like a demon.

  He gained the top of the cliffs. Below him, if he had guessed correctly, was Scorie Bay.

  His torch showed a small track, like a rabbit track leading downwards. There had been a beach shown on the map.

  Hamish slid off his knapsack and dragged it to the very edge of the cliffs beside the track. He doubted whether the beach would still be there.

  He undid the straps of the knapsack and took out the large light, set it up, and switched it on. Its powerful beam shone down on waves like mountains. No one would be out on a sea like that.

  He tilted the powerful light on its stand and pointed it left and right.

  And then it shone on a boat, a cruiser. It had just crested a giant black wave. The skipper at the wheel shielded his eyes from the light and soundlessly cried out something. The boat disappeared down a trough. Hamish waited. He thought of Annie Docherty’s twisted, frightened face and could feel no pity for the men on board.

  The boat rose again. The skipper was still shouting. He could see other men, about four of them. The boat was held on the top of the wave for what seemed like an eternity. It balanced on the crest, a toy on the ferocity of the ocean. It slid sideways down into the next trough and disappeared.

  Wiping the salt from his eyes, Hamish kept the beam steady. No boat rose on the next wave. Then the beam picked out the yellow of oilskins and the white of a life jacket. A man was trying to swim to safety, and yet there was no way Hamish could get down the cliffs to see if he could help. He knew the wind would pluck him off the path and throw him into the sea.

  The man struggled on the top of a wave and was lifted up and carried towards the cliffs. His mouth opened in a soundless scream as he was borne inexorably forward. Hamish briefly shut his eyes. When he opened them again, there was nothing on the heaving, roaring sea. Then after a few minutes the light picked out bits of wreckage.

  He switched off the light and with a struggle got it back into the knapsack, which he wedged between two rocks.

  Doubled up against the wind, he headed back towards Stoyre.

  It seemed to take hours. One powerful gust threw him down against a rock and he yelped in pain, then lay there for a few moments to get his breath and summon up enough energy to get him down to the village to shelter.

  As he gained the hill above the village, a small moon soared out from behind black ragged clouds.

  Hamish stared down in dismay and then sank to his knees.

  Huge waves were crashing over the village, pounding over the houses, and spreading out up towards the church.

  Drowned Stoyre.

  NINE

  Lord, Lord! Me thought what pain it was to drown;

  What dreadful noise of water in mine ears!

  What sights of ugly death within mine eyes!

  Me thought I saw a thousand fearful wracks;

  A thousand men the fishes gnaw’d upon;

  Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl…

  —William Shakespeare

  Hamish blinked salt spray from his eyes. There was a faint flicker of light from the church on therise above the village. By a circuitous route, he began to stumble towards it while above him the heavens roared and screamed and the very ground beneath his feet seemed to shake with the ferocity of the storm.

  He gained the church door. There was a small door let into the maindoors, and he seized the handle and pushed it open and then turned around and forced it shut against the strength of the wind.

  Then he gazed around the church. All the villagers, their pets, and even their hens seemed to be there. They sat silently in the pews. Against the wall of the church was a large pile of belongings. He took out his mobile phone but could get no reception at all. His clothes were soaking. He went up to the altar to where the minister was checking through a list of names. “I’ve got to get through to headquarters,” said Hamish.

  “All the phones are down,” said Fergus Mackenzie. He raised his voice. “Mrs. Tyle? Where is Mrs. Tyle?”

  “She chust wouldnae come with us,” called a tearful voice. “And she’s there with her wee granddaughter who iss visiting her from Oban.”

  “Where does she live?” asked Hamish.

  “The waterfront.”

  “The waves are going right over those houses,” said Hamish. He stood up and shouted. “I’m going out there to see if I can get to Mrs. Tyle. I’ll need a strong rope and some of you men.”

  “You’ll never get near the place,” called Andy Crummack.

  “We can try. For God’s sake, find me a rope.”

  A length of stout bell rope was produced from the vestry. Hamish coiled it up and carried it to the church door. Andy and two other men came with him.

  “We’ll get down as far as we can,” said Hamish. “I’ll tie this round my waist. Pull me back in if it looks hopeless.”

  They opened the door and went out into the night. Hamish thought rapidly. Great waves were crashing over the row of small two-storey fisherman’s cottages on the waterfront and then sweeping up the back gardens and up towards the church. He tied the rope round his waist.

  “Hold the rope steady so that the undertow doesn’t send me flying into the cottages. Which is Mrs. Tyle’s?”

  “Third from the end,” roared Andy.

  Hamish waited for the waves to retreat and counted the interval before they returned. Then he set off. He waited until more huge waves had crashed over the cottage and then began to run. The undertow from the retreating waves was very strong, and he fell twice and had to be pulled upright by the men holding the rope. He saw a metal clothes pole at the end of the garden and seized it just as the waves crashed over again. He hung on tightly, holding his breath until the waves retreated, and made a dash for Mrs. Tyle’s cottage. The back door was open. He stumbled towards it, pulled forward by the undertow. He grabbed the banisters at the bottom of the stairs as the waves hit again, pouring through the broken windows at the front of the cottage. Again he held his breath and felt his muscles straining. The waves retreated just as the banister collapsed under his clutching fingers. The rope tugged at his waist. He untied it. He dashed the salt spray from his eyes and ran up the stairs. Mrs. Tyle and her granddaughter might just be in a back room.

  At the top of the stairs, he tripped over a body. He felt with his fingers. It appeared to be a woman. His groping fingers found the neck. No pulse. The smash of the waves hit the house again but with less ferocity this time. He pushed open a door at the back. A whimper came from somewhere near the ceiling.

  “Where are you?” he shouted.

  “Up here,” quavered a child’s voice. A sliver of moonlight shone into the room. There was a tall old·fashioned wardrobe. He saw the gleam of a pair of small eyes at the top.

  “I’m here to rescue you,” he shouted. “Give me your hand.”

  He felt a small hand clutching his and gave a tug. “Jump! I’ll catch you.” He held the child to his chest and ran for the stairs just as another wave hit the cottage, and the ceiling above where the child had been lying crashed in.

  “He’s a goner,” shouted Andy Crummack as they reeled in the rope. The men retreated up to the ground in front of the church and sat down, staring at the tumult of water and waves lit by a small moon.

  They were too dazed and shocked to go back into the shelter of the church, although the wind tore at their clothes and they were all wet to the skin with flying spray. Another enormous black wave crashed down over the cottages and Andy tugged off his cap and bent his head, salt tears mingling with the salt water on his face.

  “There’s something!” cried one of the
men. “I see something.”

  The wave retreated and the tall figure of Hamish came stumbling out of the kitchen door holding a child in his arms.

  They ran towards him, tumbling and slipping in the water until they reached him. They caught hold of him and with strong arms around him, helped him up to dry land and into the church.

  “Get this child some dry clothes,” shouted Hamish, “and then get her something hot to drink. What’s her name?”

  “Annie,” said one of the women.

  At least I’ve saved one Annie, thought Hamish. He said gently to the child, “You’re safe now.”

  “Where’s Grannie?” she asked.

  “She’ll be along later,” lied Hamish. “Go on. You’ll feel better when you’re dry.”

  Fergus Mackenzie approached him. “I moved my clothes into the church. I have laid out dry clothes and a towel for you.”

  Hamish followed him into the vestry.

  “I assume Mrs. Tyle is dead?” the minister said.

  Hamish nodded and began to strip off his clothes.

  “She was a stubborn woman,” Fergus said sadly. “She would not leave.”

  Andy Crummack walked in and handed Hamish a half-pint bottle of whisky. “Have a swig o’ that.”

  “I will have no drinking in God’s house,” said the minister severely.

  Hamish ignored him and took a gulp of whisky and handed the bottle back to Andy. Then he rubbed himself down and put on the underwear, jeans, and sweater that the minister had laid out for him, along with thick socks and a pair of carpet slippers.

  Hamish saw a battered armchair in a corner of the vestry. “I’ll just sit down for a moment,” he said. “I’m mortal tired.”

  He sank down into the armchair. His eyes closed and he fell immediately into an exhausted sleep. Andy went out into the church and came back with two blankets, which he draped over Hamish.