by M C Beaton
“Ailsa Kennedy was hinting that he had gone further than that with her, but no one really believed her. Then there was Jimmy Macleod’s wife, Nancy. Alice MacQueen said she saw her leaving Peter’s cottage in the middle of the night, but she would hardly leave her husband’s bed to go out in the night without him knowing. Still, it’s all over now. The house has been sold.”
“What? So soon?”
“Yes, the man from Newcastle and his wife were here early today. A Mr. Apple. He’s got the grand plans for building that extension. He’s going to move the builders in right away.”
“Like all incomers, he might find it hard to get help.”
“He’s importing his own. Got caravans for them and a mobile home for himself and his wife coming up by road tomorrow.”
Hamish felt his fatigue leaving him. In order to finalize the deal, Peter would need to have signed the papers at the lawyers’.
“I’ll be off in the morning early,” he said. “I’ve got to see someone in Inverness.”
“I’ll put an alarm beside your bed,” said Edie. “What time do you want breakfast?”
“About seven. I can make my own.”
“Och, no, I’ll be up and about. I’ve little else to do now the exercise classes have finished.”
Hamish looked at her curiously. “Did Peter Hynd flirt with you?”
Her eyes grew dreamy. “Yes, he did. I felt young again, excited, happy. And when he went away, I looked in the mirror and there again was just me, Edie Aubrey, middle-aged and plain. He had a knack of making every woman feel she was the one who was special to him. I thought I was his favourite, but now I’ve got over the madness I realize he was only playing around.”
§
Hamish experienced a feeling of mounting excitement as he drove to Inverness, propelled southward by the Sutherland gale. One way or another, the investigation would now be over. With any luck he would find that Peter Hynd was alive and well. To think that any man in Drim was not only capable of impersonating a good-looking Englishman but also of forging his signature was ridiculous. And with any luck, Betty would turn out to have died from a heavy fall.
To his disappointment, the genial Mr. Brand was on holiday and he had to deal with his older, crusty partner, Mr. MacDougal. Mr. MacDougal listened impatiently to Hamish’s request and then said, “I dealt with Mr. Hynd myself.”
“That’s great,” said Hamish. “Did he tell you where he was staying?”
“Yes, he had come up from London. Jenny!” The pallid girl slouched in. “Bring Mr. Hynd’s address.”
Hamish waited. A seagull perched on the window-ledge outside and looked in curiously through the grimy panes. Jenny came in and put a slip of paper in front of Hamish and he found himself looking down at the Vale of Health address. “This won’t do,” he said sharply. “That’s the house he rents out.”
“That’s all we’ve got,” said Mr. MacDougal. “Now, I’m very busy and I’m expecting a client.” He stood up.
“One moment,” said Hamish. “What did Peter Hynd look lie?”
“Pleasant, upper class, fair hair, only stayed for as long as it took to sign the papers.”
“May I take a copy of the papers? I would like to have the signature checked.”
“Mr. Brand, who is a good fellow but too easygoing, told me he had faxed signatures to the bank in London already. Are you here on official business?”
“I’m just following up inquiries of my own.”
“If you return with an official request from headquarters, then we will let you have the papers. Until then…”
When Hamish went into the outer office he asked Jenny, “Was the Peter Hynd who came to sign the final papers the one you had met before?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?” she said rudely. “But I wouldn’t be knowing. I got a ladder in my tights and ran out to get a new pair, and when I got back I heard he’d been in.”
Hamish left the lawyers’ in a bad mood. Surely it was silly to go on following this ridiculous hunch that Peter Hynd was dead. Still, to wrap it up neatly, it might be a good idea to go to Strathbane and get an official request to take those papers and have a handwriting expert check the signature. He decided to go over Blair’s head. Blair would hate him for it, but then Blair hated him anyway.
To his surprise he was ushered into Mr. Daviot’s office without having to wait, but the minute Mr. Daviot said solemnly, “Sit down, Macbeth,” his heart sank. No ‘Hamish.’
“I find to my surprise,” said Mr. Daviot, “that you have chosen to take your holidays in Drim, of all places. My wife called on Priscilla with details of a house for sale and Priscilla told her that you appeared to have no interest in settling down.”
Although Hamish was used to the Highland bush telegraph, he was always amazed at its speed. Harry Baxter, he thought, Harry would tell the other fishermen in Lochdubh and the word would speed up to Tommel Castle Hotel.
“If we could put my personal life on one side,” said Hamish. He explained his reasons for staying in Drim, his reasons for suspecting both the absence of Peter Hynd and the death of Betty Baxter. He ended up with his request to get the papers from the lawyers in Inverness.
The superintendent leaned back in his chair and surveyed the tall, gangling sergeant. He had tolerated his wife’s social ambitions while privately thinking Priscilla much too good for Macbeth. Hamish had proved a clever if unorthodox policeman in the past, but Mr. Daviot thought he was hellbent on this wild-goose chase in order to stay away from Priscilla. What man in his right mind with a gorgeous fiancée like Priscilla Halburton-Smythe would choose to spend his holidays in a place like Drim? It showed a dangerous instability. Mr. Daviot preferred the plodding, obsequious type of policeman, which was why Blair, despite all his gaffes, had never been reduced to the ranks. Also, Mr. Daviot was a proud member of the Freemasons, as was Blair, and he remembered that Hamish had refused an invitation to join. “I cannot control what you choose to do on your holidays, Macbeth,” he said, “except to point out to you that you will get no help from me in this non-case. Peter Hynd, wherever he is, has sold his house and signed the papers. Betty Baxter had an unfortunate accident. That is that. I would like to suggest to you that you return to Lochdubh and pay more attention to Priscilla, but your private life is no concern of mine.”
“Exactly,” put in Hamish, turning red with annoyance.
“Do not waste valuable police time again, Macbeth. You may go.”
Hamish left the room, walking as stiffly as an outraged cat. As he drove out of Strathbane, he felt miserable and guilty about Priscilla. And yet he had no reason to feel guilty. She had brought it on herself.
But instead of turning off on the road that led to Drim, he went on to Lochdubh. As he drove along the waterfront he could feel curious eyes following his progress. “There goes the mad and fickle Hamish Macbeth, who prefers to spend his holidays in a place like Drim,” they seemed to be saying. There was a new receptionist at the Tommel Castle Hotel, a plain, middle-aged woman. “Where’s Sophy?” he asked.
“If you mean Miss Bisset, she just walked out. I was working over at Cnothan and Mr. Johnston offered me the job if I could come immediately, so I did.”
“Where is Miss Halburton-Smythe?”
“In the gift shop.”
Hamish walked over to the gift shop. Priscilla was kneeling? on the floor, unpacking a box of china. She looked up and saw him and her face hardened. “How are the sunny shores of Drim?” she asked. “You wouldn’t come on holiday with me,” said Hamish.
“I chust have to make my own amusement and that’s trying to find out what happened to Peter Hynd.” She stood up and smoothed down her skirt. “While making a fool of me in the process?”
“What do you mean?”
“Everyone in the village now knows that the oh-so loving Hamish prefers to spend his holidays in a village a mere stone’s throw away rather than be near me.”
“And did you tell all these nosy folk you pr
eferred to work rather than spend any time with me? Don’t blame me for your fear o’ intimacy, Priscilla.”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“Then come to bed wi’ me…now.”
“I happen to be very busy.”
“Spoken like a woman in love. Och, this is hopeless…absolutely hopeless.” Hamish stormed out. He hurt so badly, he wondered bleakly if he was going to have ulcers.
All he had left in life was this mad case. And he would solve it even if it meant taking the whole village of Drim apart!
He stopped off at the police station to get extra clothes and I make sure he really had switched everything off. The new cooker gleamed in the dark corner. He gave it a savage kick. And then the bell at the front door sounded. He had an impulse to let it go on ringing. After all, there was that notice on the door telling people that all inquiries were being handled from Cnothan. But curiosity beat sloth and he went and opened the door.
Mrs. Hendry, the schoolteacher’s wife, stood there, her face blotched with tears.
“I saw the police car,” she said in a choked voice. “I’ve got to speak to you, Mr. Macbeth.”
EIGHT
Good Lord, what is man! for as simple he looks,
Do but try to develop his hooks and his crooks,
With his depthsand his shallows, his good and his evil,
All in all, he’s a problem must puzzle the devil.
—Robert Burns
“Come in,” said Hamish. “Come ben to the kitchen. It’s not formal as the police office.”
He put an arm about her shaking shoulders and led her through.
She sat down at the kitchen table and put her head in her hands. “I can’t go on,” she said. “I’m so weary.”
“He’s been beating you, hasn’t he?” asked Hamish.
She nodded dumbly.
“And what about the children? How many have you got?”
“Two. Ann and Paul. Ann is twelve and Paul thirteen. I had them late. I had given up hope of haying any children. He doesn’t touch them…yet. But he runs the house like a military academy. They have very little freedom. Paul’s starting to get into trouble, playing truant, mixing with a crowd of rough boys.”
“Does your husband drink?”
“That’s the trouble. Lately it’s been getting worse. Dr. Jekyll turns into Mr. Hyde.”
“Has he tried Alcoholics Anonymous?”
“I called him an alcoholic last night and this is what he did.” She raised her sweater. There were red weals and bruises on her body.
“So you want to register an official complaint?” She shook her head and began to cry again, so Hamish rose and put on the kettle and busied himself making tea until she was under control again.
“I can’t,” she said. “The next thing the social services would be round to take the children away.”
Hamish looked at her bleakly. Ever since the famous Orkney case, where the social services and police had raided homes on the island at dawn and taken the children away to the mainland, mothers were terrified of having anything to do with them.
“So what can I do?” he asked.
“Perhaps you could have a word with him?”
“Perhaps I could. But the word I’ll be having with him is not for the record books. I’ll go back with you and wait for him. Keep the children away for an hour.”
“You’ll not hurt him?”
Hamish looked at her in grim amusement. “Only his ego,” he said untruthfully. “You chust leave it to me.”
He followed her car to Strathbane. She parked outside a trim bungalow. He waited, hearing her calling to the children.
Then she reappeared and put the children in the car and drove off.
He waited a few moments and went up and rang the bell. Mr. Hendry answered the door. Hamish immediately smelled whisky. The schoolteacher blinked up at Hamish and said, “Oh, it’s you. Come about the house?”
“If we could go inside…” Mr. Hendry stood back and walked through to the living-room. Hamish followed him. “Do you want to look at it again?” asked Mr. Hendry. “No, I want a good look at you. You’ve been beating your wife again.”
“How dare—”
“Again. Now she hasn’t laid a charge against you…yet…But I am convinced I can talk her into it.”
“Prove it,” sneered the schoolteacher.
“Oh, I could get her to a doctor to look at the bruises and weals on her body. You can either end up in court or we’ll do it this way. You will pick up that phone and phone Alcoholics Anonymous and tell them you want to go to a meeting. You will neffer drink again.”
Mr. Hendry’s fist shot out but Hamish caught him by the wrist and twisted his arm up his back. “Stop it,” shouted Mr. Hendry, “you’re hurting me.”
“Aye, just like you hurt your wife.” Hamish ran his head into the wall and gave it a good bang. “Every time from now on that you hit her, I’ll get to hear of it and come and hit you worse.”
“This is police brutality, you fascist pig, you bourgeois lackey.” Hamish listened in delight to these Stalinist phrases. Anyone of any other political persuasion would repent him to headquarters. Only a drunk pertaining to the far left would think he was up against an establishment conspiracy. He dragged the schoolteacher to the phone and stood over him. “Phone,” he ordered, “or I’ll kick your head in.” Mumbling and cursing, Mr. Hendry dialled the number. “When’s the next meeting?” he snapped when a voice answered.
The voice at the other end said something. “My drinking’s nothing to do with you,” howled the schoolteacher.
Hamish took the phone away from him. “What he is trying to ask is where and when is the next AA meeting?”
“It’s in the church in Market Square in half an hour,” said the voice. “My name is Ron. Ask for me. I’m just leaving to go there.”
“Right,” Hamish banged down the phone..
Fifteen minutes later he thrust the still-cursing Mr. Hendry into the church-room, which was hung with slogans like EASY DOES IT and LIVE AND LET LIVE, reminding Hamish he wasn’t doing much of either.
He did snatch up a pamphlet entitled ‘Help for the Family’ and took it with him back to the Hendrys’ house; He sat in the car and read it, parked outside. He noticed gloomily that it warned families that you could not force the drunk to get sober. All the family could do was to attend Al-Anon meetings for help for themselves. Mrs. Hendry arrived with the children and he handed her the pamphlet. “He’sat an AA-meeting,” said Hamish. “But you’d better read this and get some help yourself. And here is my phone number in Drim. If he lays a finger on you again, you’re to phone me.”
She thanked him but in a way that showed she was regretting the whole business already.
Feeling sad and slightly dirty, he wished he had taken the orthodox line and had got her to report her husband. He drove to a fish-and-chip shop and moodily ate fish and chips behind the driving wheel and then threw the remains to Strathbane’s grimy scavenging seagulls.
Tomorrow was another day. He would doggedly stay in Drim. He thought Heather was right. Even if a murder had not taken place, he was convinced something pretty bad had happened there.
§
The next morning he went up to Jimmy Macleod’s. Nancy was in the kitchen, grey roots poking through the dead black of her hair. “Oh, it’s you,” she said ungraciously. “You’ll find Jimmy out back in the shed.”
“Did you see Peter Hynd leave the village?” asked Hamish.
She turned away from him and riddled with a pot handle on the stove. “No. Why ask me? He came, he went. Like most incomers, that’s all there is to it.”
“Who put a brick through his window?”
“What is this? Folks are saying you are here on holiday?”
“Aye, but I’m curious all the same. Who threw the brick through his window?”
“Och, weans.”
“What had children got against him?”
“Weans will be weans.�
��
Hamish left and went out to the shed, where Jimmy was sharpening an axe.
“Grand day,” said Hamish.
Jimmy scowled by way of reply.
Hamish leaned against the door-jamb. A pile of logs waited by a chopping block to be split. The air smelled pleasantly of pine. Outside, the day was still and clear, with white patches in the shade where the morning sun could not reach the frost. Up in the clear blue sky, two buzzards swirled and turned.
“Nice place, Drim,” Hamish went on. “Full o’ character. I haff often heard myself saying, ‘Yes, Drim is the nicest place in the Highlands. Good place for a holiday.’”
“Havers,” said Jimmy sourly.
“Always the outstretched hand of welcome,” said Hamish dreamily. “That’s when the locals aren’t heaving bricks through people’s windows.”
Jimmy stopped sharpening the axe. “I had nothing to do wi’ that,” he said.
“Who did?”
“Och, who knows or cares? We don’t need strangers here.”
“No? Aye, I suppose you all love each other that much. Neffer the hard word. Come off it, Jimmy. This place is a hotbed of spite.”
“That’s maybe the way an outsider sees it.”
“Well, you’ll be seeing a lot of me. Get used to it.”
Hamish walked off. The one person who would speak to him was Heather. But he would need to wait until she came home from school.
He headed down to the manse. Annie Duncan answered the door. “I was expecting you,” she said. “Come in.”
Hamish looked at her appreciatively. She wore no make-op but her skin had a good colour and her long brown hair shove with health.
“Do you know why I am in Drim?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” she said calmly. “It’s because of Betty Baxter’s death. You think it might be murder.”
“Yes, but I am also worried about the disappearance of Peter Hynd.”
“But surely there is no mystery about that? He took his car and all his things.”
“But no one saw him go. Did you?”
She shook her head and then said, “If he left in the middle of the night, no one would see him, would they? Everyone in this village sleeps like the dead.”
