by M C Beaton
‘I think that when the birds are examined, it’ll be found they were shot around the morning of the twelfth and that they were killed with number seven shot.’
‘It’s still all speculation,’ said Blair furiously.
‘I should suppose,’ said Hamish. ‘that his gear is still in his room and his car is still out front. I suggest we search both and see if he had any more cartridges with him.’
‘Go and have a look, Jenkins,’ barked the colonel.
‘This is all a muddle, you village idiot,’ said Blair, turning a dangerous colour of puce. ‘You keep calling the murderer a “he”. How do you know it was a man?’
‘I don’t,’ said Hamish. ‘It could just as easily have been a woman.’
Voices rose in a furious buzz. ‘He’s a better fiction writer than I am,’ came Henry’s sharp tones. And Mrs Halburton-Smythe’s voice, shaky with tears: ‘This is a nightmare. You must stop Macbeth making up these lies, Priscilla.’
Jenkins came back into the room, carrying a small box. He handed it to Colonel Halburton-Smythe. The colonel opened it and looked gloomily down at the contents. ‘Number seven,’ he said in a hollow voice.
Everyone looked at Blair again as if he were their last hope. Hamish studied their faces. They were all, even Priscilla, willing Blair to say that Hamish Macbeth had made a mistake.
But Blair’s heavy head was down on his chest. ‘I’ll need to call the boys in,’ he mumbled.
‘Speak up!’ demanded Lord Helmsdale.
‘I’ll need tae get statements from ye,’ roared Blair suddenly, making them all jump. ‘This is a bad business. And you’ll all need tae stay here until your rooms are searched. Come wi’ me, sir,’ he said to the colonel.
The colonel followed him out. The rest stayed where they were, stricken, looking accusingly at Hamish, and listening to the mumble of voices from the hall.
Blair was in a quandary. He sweated to think what his superiors would say if they learned he had been made to look a fool by the local bobby. But if he could get Hamish out of the investigation before anyone from Strathbane arrived, then he could make it look as if he, as a diligent officer, had been unsatisfied with the accident verdict and had returned to the scene of the crime.
‘Look here, sir,’ he said in oily, wheedling tones. ‘This is going to take a wee bit of time. Now I am sure you don’t want the television and press to harass your wife, daughter, or guests. If you would let me set up headquarters here with MacNab and Anderson, we’ll soon get to the bottom of this.’
‘You’ll find this dreadful murder had nothing to do with me or my guests,’ said Colonel Halburton-Smythe.
‘Exactly,’ cried Blair. ‘And you won’t want your family or guests troubled with a lot of haranguing, which they would get if they allowed that Macbeth to stay around.’
The colonel hesitated. In all fairness, he could hardly bring himself to agree with the detective inspector’s description of Macbeth’s possible line of questioning. It was Blair who was notorious for his bullying manner. But Blair now seemed conciliatory and was behaving in a servile manner – which was more the way the man ought to behave, thought the colonel. He knew Hamish Macbeth would suspect each and every one of the guests. And Hamish, never as overawed by the local gentry as the colonel thought he ought to be, would not dream of taking the heat away from the castle by questioning the locals first. Then there was Priscilla to consider. The colonel, deep down, had always feared that one day Priscilla might horrify them by upping and saying she wished to marry the village policeman. It was only a half-formulated idea, never openly admitted, for the colonel was too much of a snob to bring that thought out into the open and look at it. But it niggled away at the back of his mind. Then there was the final clincher. If it hadn’t been for Macbeth’s interference, this sordid death would still be considered a respectable and gentlemanly accident – which Colonel Halburton-Smythe was still convinced it was. He found himself saying that Blair could stay at Tommel Castle, provided he agreed to keep the press at bay.
‘But don’t go upsetting the servants, mind,’ said the colonel. ‘No ringing the bells and making them fetch and carry. It’s hard enough to get good servants these days. I don’t want them handing in their notice because some copper decides to behave like a lord of the manor.’
Blair bit back an angry retort and bared his teeth in a horrible fawning smile instead.
In his new cringing manner, he thanked the colonel profusely and then went back to the breakfast room and jerked his head at Hamish as a signal that the policeman was to follow him out into the hall.
‘Not here,’ said Hamish, seeing Jenkins lurking in a corner of the hall. ‘You’re chust dying to have a go at me. Let’s go outside.’
He walked ahead out of the castle, and with a muttered curse, Blair followed him.
Hamish walked up to his car and then turned and faced the detective inspector. ‘Out wi’ it, man,’ he said laconically.
Blair took a deep breath.
‘In the first place, Officer,’ he snarled, ‘You are incorrectly dressed. I shall put in a report about that.’
Hamish was wearing a worn checked shirt and an old pair of flannel trousers.
‘Secondly, I am still convinced that this was an accident. You had no right to crawl about the moors looking for clues wi’out phoning me and telling me what you were doing. Thirdly, you should not have sent that helicopter pilot off before I saw him. You’re standing there, you big scunner, thinking you’re cleverer than me because you think you solved that last case. Well, it was a fluke, see. It’s all going in my report, and I’ll see you in front of a police committee yet, you cheeky bugger.’
‘Aye, well,’ said Hamish amiably, ‘that would be the terrible thing. I can see it now,’ he went on dreamily, ‘telling all the bigwigs how Detective Chief Inspector Blair wanted to let a murder pass as an accident. I’m wearing my old clothes because that uniform of mine can’t stand much more –’
‘Whit?’ roared Blair. ‘Listen, laddie, I happen to know you had the money for a new uniform last year.’
Hamish bit his lip. He had not spent the money on a new uniform, but had sent it home to his family.
‘Anyway,’ said Hamish airily with a wave of his hand, ‘to get to the matter of the helicopter pilot. His name’s Billy Simpson and I typed out his statement and you can have it today. In any case, his statement doesn’t matter now, for the pathologist’s report says the captain died before the helicopter arrived. But I can tell all this to that police committee you were threatening me with.’
‘Maybe I was a bit hasty,’ said Blair. ‘We’ll forget about the pilot. Just you run along and look after all those interesting cases like kiddies nicking sweets from the local shop and leave the big stuff to the experts.’
‘I was at a party here the night before the shooting,’ said Hamish. ‘I could describe what the guests were like and how they behaved to the captain.’
Blair clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Maybe I’ll drop down to the station and get it from ye later.’
‘So I’m not to have the honour of putting you up?’ said Hamish.
Blair puffed out his chest. ‘I’ll be staying here at the castle. The colonel’s invitation.’
Hamish looked amused.
‘So just run along and keep out of it,’ said Blair.
‘Aye, wi’ an expert like yourself around,’ sighed Hamish, ‘you won’t be needing me.’
He opened the car door. ‘Don’t forget to get the grouse examined,’ he said.
Blair grunted and turned to walk away.
‘And don’t forget the gun room,’ said Hamish sweetly.
Blair swung about.
‘What?’
‘The gun room . . . in the castle,’ said Hamish patiently. ‘Someone shot the captain, and unless they were silly enough to have the gun lying about their bedroom, you’ll probably find a gun has been borrowed from the gun room, cleaned, and put back.’
Police Constable Macbeth drove sedately out of the estate and along the road to Lochdubh. He pulled to the side of the road at the top of the hill overlooking the village, switched off the engine, and climbed out of the car.
A mist was rising from the loch below, lifting and falling. One minute the village lay in its neat two rows, and the next was blotted from view.
‘I hate that man!’ cried Hamish loudly. A startled sheep skittered off on its black legs.
He took a great gulp of fresh air. Hamish hardly ever lost his temper, but Blair’s dismissal of him from the case was infuriating. Hamish, in that brief moment, hated not only Blair but Priscilla Halburton-Smythe as well. She was nothing but a silly girl who had become engaged to a man simply because he was famous. She was not worth a single moment’s heartbreak. And let Blair solve the case if he could!
Hamish reminded himself fiercely that he had settled for a quiet life. He had had chances of promotion and had sidestepped them all, for he knew he would find life in a large town unpleasant. He would need to obey his superiors who might turn out to be like Blair. He loved his easy, lazy life and the beauty of the countryside. Apart from his hens and geese, he rented a piece of croft land behind the police station where he kept sheep. There was enough to be made on the side in Lockdubh, what with the egg money, the sale of lambs, and the money prizes he won at the various Highland games. Why should he throw it all away out of hurt pride – because a detective had insulted him and the daughter of the castle had made it obvious she enjoyed money and fame, even if that fame was only reflected glory?
His anger went as quickly as it had come, leaving him feeling tired and sad.
He climbed back in his car, stopping outside Lochdubh to give a lift to a sticky urchin who had wandered too far from home.
Once inside the police station, which had an office on one side, with one cell, and the living quarters on the other, he hung a notice on the door referring all inquiries to Strathbane police, and then went inside and firmly locked and bolted it.
The newspapers and television would be along soon, and Hamish knew that ordinary constables were not supposed to give statements to the press. It was easier to pretend he was not at home instead of having to open the door every five minutes to say, ‘No comment.’
He ate a late breakfast, and then, taking Towser, decided to walk about the village and make sure all was quiet. Murder at the castle should not distract him from more petty crimes. The crimes committed in the village were usually drunkenness, petty shoplifting, and wife-beating – or husband-beating. Drugs had not yet reached this remote part of north-west Scotland.
He went on his rounds, dropping into various cottages for cups of tea. Then he ambled along to the Lochdubh Hotel to pass the time of day with Mr Johnson, the hotel manager.
‘What’s this I’m hearing?’ said Mr Johnson, ushering Hamish into the gloom of the hotel office. ‘They’re saying it’s a murder up at Tommel.’
‘You get the news quickly,’ said Hamish.
‘It was that Jessie. Does she ever do any work? She’s always down in the village, mooning over that boyfriend of hers. She says the Mafia wasted Captain Bartlett – there was another American movie showing at the village hall the other night. The Godfather, I think it was.’
‘No, it wisnae the Mafia,’ said Hamish with a grin. ‘I won’t be having anything to do with the case. It’s that scunner Blair from Strathbane. He told me to push off.’
‘Blair doesn’t know his arse from his elbow,’ said Mr Johnson roundly. The bell rang on the reception desk outside. He hurried to answer it. Hamish listened, amused, to the sudden horrible refinement of the hotel manager’s accent. ‘Oh, yes, Major Finlayson, sir,’ twittered Mr Johnson. ‘We have a very good cellar, and Monsieur Pierre, our maître d’, will be delighted to discuss our wine list with you. Is modom well? Good, good. Grand day for the fishing, ha, ha.’
‘Silly old fart,’ said the manager, walking into the office and shutting the door. ‘I hate wine snobs.’
‘Who in the name o’ the wee man is Monsieur Pierre?’ asked Hamish.
‘Och, it’s Jimmy Cathcart from Glasgow. He thought it would look better if he pretended to be French. Mind you, when we get the French tourists, he says he’s American. Now, what about this murder, Hamish?’
Hamish looked hopefully towards the coffee machine in the corner.
Mr Johnson took the hint and poured him out a cup.
Hamish sat down, nursing his cup of coffee, and described his findings.
‘But you can’t just leave it there!’ exclaimed Mr Johnson when Hamish had finished.
‘It is not my murder. It is Blair’s.’
‘Good heavens! That man couldn’t find his own hands if they weren’t attached to his arms. Are you going to let a murderer roam around on the loose? He might murder again.’
‘It’s not my case,’ said Hamish stubbornly. He drank his coffee in one gulp and put the cup down on the desk. ‘To tell you the truth, I no longer care if the whole damn lot of them up at that castle drop dead tomorrow.’
Chapter Seven
. . . one of those people who would be
enormously improved by death.
– Saki
By early evening, the mist had thickened. Hamish was able to make out some figures clustered around the outside of the police station. He quietly made his way around to the back door so as to avoid the gentlemen of the press.
The thick mist had blotted out all sound. Hamish fried a couple of herring for his dinner and gave Towser a bowl of Marvel Dog, a new dog food given to him free by the local shop to try out. Towser ate a mouthful and then tottered around the kitchen, making dismal retching sounds.
‘What a clown you are,’ said Hamish. ‘You know I brought home some liver just in case you didn’t like Marvel Dog. Sit yourself down until it’s cooked.’
He had been feeling calm and peaceful just before his return home, but as he lifted down the heavy frying pan – Towser liked his liver medium rare – he was overcome by another wave of sadness. Was this what the future held for him? Chatting away in the evenings to a spoilt mongrel?
There came a sharp, impatient knocking on the front door. Hamish hesitated. He began to wonder if his relative, Rory Grant, who worked in London for the Daily Chronicle, had perhaps been sent up to cover the murder. He should have phoned Rory, he thought. It was too early perhaps for the Fleet Street boys to have arrived, unless Blair had released the news very quickly and some of them had managed to fly up from London.
He put the pan on the stove and dumped the liver into it and then cautiously tiptoed his way to the front door. He pulled aside the lace curtain at the window at the side of the door. In the misty half-light, he could just make out the sharp features of Detective Jimmy Anderson, Blair’s underling.
Cursing his own curiosity, he unlocked the door. ‘Come in quickly,’ said Hamish. ‘I’ve been avoiding the press.’
‘They’ve had short shrift from Blair,’ said Anderson. ‘But headquarters in Strathbane phoned the news of the murder to the local paper after Blair told them about it. They’ll have phoned Fleet Street. The Scottish television stations are here and all the Scottish papers from Dumfries to John o’Groats. You’d think they’d never had a murder in Scotland before.’
‘It’s a rich-folks’ murder,’ said Hamish, ‘and that makes a world o’ difference. Come in.’
Anderson followed Hamish into the kitchen and stood watching as Hamish seized the frying pan and turned the liver over.
‘That smells good,’ said Anderson. ‘Sorry to interrupt your dinner.’
‘It’s no’ for me,’ said Hamish, blushing. ‘It’s fur ma dog.’
‘I bet ye buy it presents for its birthday,’ jeered Anderson.
‘Don’t be daft,’ said Hamish furiously, remembering with shame that he had bought Towser a new basket for his birthday just last month. ‘What brings you here?’
‘The fact is,’ said Anderson, ‘I could d
o with a dram.’
‘Oh, aye? And you staying in splendour at Tommel Castle.’
‘I rang the bell to ask for a drink,’ said Anderson, his sharp blue eyes roaming about the kitchen as if searching for a whisky bottle, ‘and that berk, Jenkins, answered. “Police are not to ring bells for the servants,” he says. “I’ll remember that, mac,” says I. “Just fetch me a drink.” “Colonel Halburton-Smythe’s instructions,” says he, “but the officers of the law are not to imbibe intoxicating liquor while on duty and will take their meals in the servants’ hall.” I told thon old ponce where he could put his servants’ meals and he told the colonel, who told Blair, and Blair’s gone all creepy and told me I’d better take a walk until he calmed the colonel down.’
‘I might have something,’ said Hamish, piling the liver into Towser’s bowl. ‘Then again, I might not.’
‘I thought,’ said Anderson, staring at the ceiling, ‘that perhaps you might like to get a run-down on all the statements.’
‘I’m not on the case,’ said Hamish, ‘but come through to the living room and I’ll see what I can do.’
Hamish’s living room was not often used. It did not even boast a television set. Bookshelves lined the walls, and the mantelpiece was crammed with various trophies, which Anderson examined. ‘You seem to have won everything,’ he commented. ‘Hill running, clay-pigeon shooting, angling competition, even chess! Bring in much money?’
‘The hill running does, and the angling.’ said Hamish, ‘and sometimes the shooting if it’s at a big game fair. But often the prize is something like a salmon or a bottle of whisky.’
He took out a glass and began to fill it with whisky.
‘Steady on,’ said Anderson. ‘I’ll need some water in that.’
‘It’s watered already,’ said Hamish, ‘and don’t ask me why, for I cannae be bothered telling you.’ For although Hamish did not mind discussing the laird’s wife’s penchant for topping up the prize bottles of whisky with water with the locals or Priscilla, he had no intention of running down the good lady’s reputation to an outsider.
