by M C Beaton
‘Don’t be tellin’ that Mainwaring any of our business,’ said John Sinclair. ‘We keep ourselves to ourselves in Cnothan.’
‘Aye,’ said Hamish dryly. ‘I had noticed that. I’ll call on your father tomorrow.’
After the Sinclairs had left, Hamish turned back to the television. The wildlife programme had ended and now a couple with almost unintelligible Birmingham accents were writhing on a bed. He wondered why it was that the actresses television chose for the passionate sex scenes were always scrawny, sallow, and angry-looking. He tried the other channels. On one, the news again, on another, an ‘alternative’ comedian was making up in four-letter words what he lacked in wit, and on the third, there was the umpteenth rerun of The Quiet Man. He switched off the set and stared moodily into space. The wind had risen and was tearing through the trees outside the house. He felt lonely and miserable. Then he thought of Jenny Lovelace, and a little glimmer of light appeared on the horizon of his depression.
The morning was glaring bright and freezing cold. He crossed the road and knocked on the door of Jenny’s cottage. There was no reply. Feeling cold and miserable again, he returned to the police station and got out MacGregor’s white police Land Rover, noticing without much surprise that it was nearly out of petrol.
He stopped at the garage, calling out ‘Fine Day’ to the petrol pump attendant, who grunted by way of reply and looked at him with hard, hostile eyes.
Hamish waited until the tank was filled up, paid for the petrol, and then said to the petrol-pump attendant, ‘That’s a nasty, stupid face you’ve got, you unfriendly, horrible man.’
He drove off, leaving the man staring after him, and headed out on the Lochdubh road, wishing with all his heart he was going home. Just on the outskirts of the town were several long, low, white-washed buildings with a sign outside that read CNOTHAN GAME AND FISH COMPANY.
Hamish decided to call in on the way back and see if he could scrounge anything.
The natives appeared to grow friendlier the farther he drove out of Cnothan. By asking a man on a tractor, he was able to find out that Diarmuid Sinclair, John’s father, lived on the hill up on the left of the road a few yards farther on.
There was a path leading up to a small white croft house, but no drive. He parked the Land Rover in the ditch and walked up towards the house.
No smoke came from the chimney and the curtains were tightly drawn. And yet, mused Hamish, the old man could not be too much of a recluse, for the fencing around the croft was in good repair and there was a fair-sized flock of Cheviots cropping the grass.
He knocked on the low door but there was no reply. The wind soughed and whistled through the stunted trees that formed a shelter belt to one side of the house. A flock of seagulls wheeled overhead and then landed in the field in front of the house. ‘Bad weather coming,’ muttered Hamish. He tried the handle of the door and found it unlocked. He opened it and went in.
Like most croft houses, it had a parlour, seldom used, to one side, and a living-room-cum-kitchen on the other. He went into the kitchen.
Diarmuid Sinclair sat beside the cold hearth wrapped in a tartan blanket. He looked like one of the minor prophets or the Ancient Mariner seeking one of three to stoppeth. He had a long white beard and glittering eyes, bushy eyebrows, and a rosy, wrinkled face.
‘Blowing up outside,’ said Hamish. ‘Cold in here. Want the fire lit?’
Diarmuid looked at him with the sorrowful eyes of a whipped dog, but said nothing.
Hamish made a clicking noise of impatience. He went back outside and round the house to the peat stack and collected some peats. He chopped kindling and took the lot back indoors and proceeded to light the fire.
When it was crackling merrily, he swung the smoke-blackened kettle on its chain over the blaze and then went to a shelf in the corner and found mugs, a carton of milk, and a jar of instant coffee. When the kettle was boiling, he made the coffee, put in plenty of sugar, and, fishing in his pocket, produced a flask of whisky and poured a generous measure in one cup.
He handed the cup to the old man, who drew a wrinkled hand out from under his rug and waved it away.
‘I am not wasting good whisky,’ said Hamish severely. ‘Drink it, ye miserable old sinner, or I’ll arrest ye for impeding the law in the process of its duty.’
‘I am the sick man,’ quavered Diarmuid.
‘You look it,’ said Hamish heartlessly. ‘And it’s no wonder, sitting there feeling sorry for yourself and too damn lazy to light your own fire.’
Diarmuid drank a large mouthful of hot coffee and whisky.
‘I see you haven’t heard the news,’ he said drearily. ‘Ma wife died.’
‘That wass two years ago,’ said Hamish. ‘And life goes on, and the poor woman can’t be having much of a time up there what with worrying about you neglecting your grandson and committing suicide. For that’s just what you are doing, you auld scunner.’
‘I’m a poor auld man,’ wailed Diarmuid.
‘You’re about sixty, although I admit you’ve done your best to look like eighty. What on earth are you thinking about to turn your own son and grandson from the door?’
‘They don’t need me. I’m a poor auld –’
‘Oh, shut up,’ said Hamish morosely. He walked to the window and looked out on the desolate scene. ‘Aye, it’s blowing hard and the seagulls are in your fields. There’ll be snow before long.’
Diarmuid tilted his mug and drained the rest of the scalding contents in one gulp.
Then he threw back the rug and eased himself to his feet, releasing a strong smell of unwashed body. ‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ said Diarmuid. He went to a barometer on the wall and tapped it. ‘Never wrong,’ he said. ‘Says “set fair”.’
The wind howled and the first drops of sleet struck the panes of the windows. ‘It’s wrong,’ said Hamish. ‘Look. Sleet. It’ll turn to snow before evening.’
‘Nobody’ll listen to a poor auld man,’ mourned Diarmuid. ‘That machine never makes a mistake.’
Hamish seldom lost his temper, but loneliness, worry that Priscilla might even now be in Lochdubh, and fury at the self-pity of Diarmuid boiled up in him. He seized the barometer from the wall, walked to the front door, and threw it out on the grass. ‘See for yourself, you stupid barometer,’ he howled.
There was a strange rusty sound from behind him. Ashamed of himself, Hamish ran out and retrieved the barometer, scared he had given Diarmuid a heart attack. The crofter’s choking and creaking noises were becoming louder by the minute.
‘There, there,’ said Hamish, quite frightened. ‘Me and my damn temper. Sit down, man.’ Diarmuid sank back into his armchair by the fire, still choking, grunting, and wheezing.
It was then that Hamish realized the crofter was laughing.
It was an hour before he left Diarmuid. As if the laughter had broken his self-imposed isolation, the crofter would not stop talking. Hamish found the croft house boasted a surprisingly modern bathroom at the back and coaxed Diarmuid to take a bath. Then he fried him eggs and bacon, made him a pot of strong tea laced with more whisky, and went on his way, promising to call again.
As he had forecast, the sleet was already changing to snow as he turned the Land Rover in to the short drive that led to Balmain.
Balmain was a bungalow, and not a very good one either. It was a square, thin-walled affair with a temporary look, having the appearance of some lakeside summerhouses. The original croft house stood close by, now being used as a shed. Some scraggly wellingtonias acted as a shelter belt. He rang the doorbell, which sounded like Big Ben, and waited.
He had imagined Mrs Mainwaring would turn out to be a small, faded, timid woman, but it was a giantess who answered the door. Mrs Mainwaring was nearly six feet tall. She was powerfully built and had an enormous bust and a great tweed-covered backside, which she wordlessly displayed to Hamish as she turned and walked off into the house, leaving the door open. He followed her in and found himself in a b
ook-lined living-room. A quick curious glance at the titles told Hamish that it was doubtful the shelves contained one work of fiction, either classical or modern. There were a great number of ‘How to’ books on carpentry, painting, sheep-rearing, art, and gardening. There were shelves of books on popular psychology, and row upon row of encyclopaedias and dictionaries. There were two easy chairs, a low coffee-table, a desk with a typewriter, two filing cabinets, and a large Persian rug on the floor. There were no knickknacks or ornaments, no magazines or newspapers. And the room was cold. The fireplace was ugly, being made of acid-green tiles. A single log smouldered dismally, occasionally sending puffs of smoke out into the stale, cold air of the room.
‘Sit down, officer,’ said Mrs Mainwaring in a deep voice. ‘My husband is out somewhere at the moment. He told me he had been to see you.’
‘I wondered,’ said Hamish, looking round for a place to lay his cap and finally setting it neatly on the coffee table, ‘if you would mind coming with me to the churchyard and showing me exactly where it was you were attacked.’
‘I wasn’t attacked,’ said Mrs Mainwaring. ‘Just startled. Not every day I see witches.’ She gave a sudden bellowing laugh.
‘Whateffer,’ said Hamish politely. ‘When would it be convenient for you to visit the scene of the crime?’
‘It wouldn’t be convenient,’ said Mrs Mainwaring. ‘William would just say I was making a fuss.’
‘But your husband is most insistent that I find out who frightened you.’
‘He likes poking his nose into things and annoying people,’ said Mrs Mainwaring. ‘Annoying the replacement constable must be the breath of life to him.’
‘Would you say you were unpopular in the community?’ asked Hamish.
‘I’m not. He is,’ said Mrs Mainwaring roundly. ‘In fact, I like this place. Nice people.’
‘I would not say that they are very friendly to incomers, even someone like myself from the west coast,’ Hamish pointed out.
‘Well, they’re not hypocrites like the English,’ boomed Mrs Mainwaring, as if speaking of a nationality other than her own. ‘They’re all right when you get to know them. William got soured, that’s all. He ran about at the beginning being charming to everyone and they rebuffed him, and so now he wants his revenge on the lot of them.’
Hamish sighed and took out his notebook. ‘Now, Mrs Mainwaring, if we can just get down to the facts.’
‘Put your book away. I can’t be bothered. I am not really interested in who it is. I can’t take something like that personally when it was all directed at William.’
‘What shall I tell your husband?’
For the first time a little crack appeared in Mrs Mainwaring’s self-assured manner. ‘Have a whisky,’ she said, and lumbered out of the room without waiting for an answer.
‘The coffee will do just fine,’ Hamish called after her. ‘I am driving.’
There was no reply. She was gone a long time. At last she returned with a whisky decanter, a syphon of soda, and a cup of coffee and a plate of scones.
She put the coffee in front of Hamish and then poured herself an enormous glass of whisky and soda and lit a cigarette. She poured the drink down her throat and let out a long sigh.
There came the sound of a car approaching. Mrs Mainwaring moved like lightning. She stubbed out her cigarette and opened the window, letting the gale howl through the room. She seized the whisky decanter, the ashtray, and her glass and ran out.
In what seemed like two seconds she was back, breathing heavily and smelling strongly of peppermint. She closed the window and sat down primly on the edge of a chair.
Mainwaring came into the room. ‘So you’ve actually turned up,’ he said to Hamish. ‘Who did it?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Hamish mildly. ‘I was just interviewing your wife.’
‘You won’t get much sense out of Agatha,’ said Mainwaring. His small blue eyes turned on his wife. ‘What are you wearing that old tweed skirt and jumper for? Didn’t that dress I ordered from the mail order arrive yesterday?’
‘Yes, dear,’ said Mrs Mainwaring meekly. ‘I was saving it for best.’
‘And what is a better occasion than your husband’s company? Go and put it on.’
Mrs Mainwaring’s colour was high as she left the room. A moment later there came the sound of a car starting up.
‘Gone off in a huff, as usual,’ said Mainwaring. ‘Now, I assume you have already dusted the churchyard wall for fingerprints.’
‘No, I haven’t,’ said Hamish crossly. ‘I suggest the best thing to do is to phone Strathbane and ask them to send a team from Forensic. They won’t budge for me but they might do it for you. Not that there’ll be any fingerprints worth having from that wall, and since it was probably not done by hardened criminals, even if you got fingerprints, it wouldn’t do much good.’
‘What you are trying to say is that you’re damned lazy and don’t want to be bothered,’ said Mainwaring.
Hamish got to his feet. ‘I will investigate the case for you as I would for anyone, but I would get further and faster without the hindrance of your insulting and spiteful remarks. You’ve got a nasty tongue. I want a quiet time here and I don’t want another murder investigation. So if you want my advice, stop putting people’s backs up or you’ll end up at the bottom of Loch Cnothan one of these days!’
Chapter Three
How beastly the bourgeois is
especially the male of the species –
– D. H. Lawrence
Bewildered and unhappy, Hamish drove off. He had lost his temper two times that morning when he normally lost it only about two times a year. Far away, at the foot of the long, twisting road, he could see the houses of Cnothan. From this distance, the town had a temporary look, as if this ancient land of rock and thin earth was one day going to give a massive shrug and send all these petty humans and their squabbles to eternity. It was as if the land itself did not like incomers, or, as they were often jeeringly called in the Highlands, white settlers. An ancient hostility emanated from the fields, from the humped Neolithic ruins that dotted the landscape.
Across the fields came the dreary om-pom of a diesel train’s klaxon, tugging at something in Hamish’s memory. The sound of a diesel train, he thought, was never so haunting as the whistle of the old steam trains, which could conjure up visions of bleak distances with one solitary wail.
He slowed as he came to the Cnothan Game and Fish Company. There was something so cheerful and friendly and prosperous about the place that Hamish drove in and sauntered toward the office.
A very small, gypsy-looking man came out to meet him. ‘Jamie Ross,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘You’re just in time for coffee.’
‘I’m Hamish Macbeth.’
‘I know,’ said Jamie. ‘Who doesn’t? Sit yourself down.’
There was a jug of steaming coffee standing ready, made by one of those American coffee machines that first pioneered good coffee in the Highlands of Scotland, replacing the bitter sludge which had masqueraded as coffee before.
The office was bright and warm. ‘Do a lot of business?’ asked Hamish.
‘Aye, but mostly with London. Lobsters, smoked salmon, and venison. I’ve just bought three new refrigerated trucks to take the goods down to the market at Billingsgate. Finish your coffee and I’ll give you a tour.’
While Hamish drank his coffee, Jamie continued to talk proudly of his business, how he had four fishing boats over on the west coast and was well on the way to making himself a fortune.
Then he took Hamish round the long, low buildings. One housed deer carcasses, giant beasts pathetic in death, row upon row of them. The next building was a shop that sold commercial frozen packaged meals as well as smoked salmon, pheasant, grouse, and partridge. The last building they came to had three enormous lobster tanks, each surrounded by a low concrete wall, the water alive with crawling black lobsters. ‘See this one,’ said Jamie, lifting a black monster out of the water.
‘Eight pounds in weight.’
‘And how much will that fetch in London?’ asked Hamish.
‘Oh, about twenty-five pounds. In fact, you could say about a pound sterling for every year of its life. That lobster’s about twenty-five years old.’
‘So how much is in the three tanks – I mean, how much is all this worth?’
Jamie grinned. ‘There’s about six thousand pounds’ worth in each tank. The water’s salt, of course, and the filters you hear bubbling away there keep the water clean.’
‘Man, you must be kept busy,’ marvelled Hamish. ‘Ever get a day off?’
‘Haven’t had one in years,’ said Jamie. ‘But I’ll be going down to Inverness at the weekend for my son’s wedding. All the family’ll be there, so I’ll need someone to mind the store for the first time.’
‘Would you like me to drop in at the weekend and see if everything’s all right?’ volunteered Hamish.
‘No, nothing can go wrong. I’m not worried about burglars. Never had a break-in in Cnothan. I’m more worried about the filters packing up. I’ve got a local man, Sandy Carmichael, who’s going to act as watchman.’
Hamish raised his eyebrows. ‘Not the town drunk, him with the horrors.’
‘The same. But he’s going straight and there’s no harm in him at all. Of course, Mainwaring got to hear of it and dropped by to warn me and yak on about how dangerous it was to employ a drunk. I hate that man; I’d feed him to the fish if I thought I’d get away with it. Interfering, pontificating nuisance. I liked him at first. Funny, that. He was a breath of fresh air. Charming, friendly. Then he buys a book on scientific fish-farming and tries to involve me in it. No business head whatsoever. Or I assume the man has no business head, for I was to put up the money for the venture, which he would run. I fended him off as politely as I could. He became more insistent. Then he started to get rude and make some patronizing remarks about how ill-run my business was. I wanted to buy one of those croft houses out beyond his for my uncle. I told him about it when we were friends. Next thing I know, he’s bought the place himself, and now it stands empty. I know he did it to spite me. I was not interested in the land, only in the house for my uncle. Mainwaring uses the croft land, of course, or the Crofters Commission would step in.’
