by M C Beaton
Harry Mackay found his voice. It came out as a croak. He cleared his throat and said, “It’s all a load of rubbish, Macbeth. Okay, so I owed Anstruther money, but he’s your man. He had every reason to hate Mainwaring. He knew Mainwaring had pulled a fast one. And those books on alcoholism were for my sister. She was down in Inverness in the alcoholic unit and I sent away for them, but by the time I got them, she had disappeared.” His lips trembled and he took out a handkerchief and wiped his mouth. “I had nothing to do with it. Nothing. And you can’t prove it.”
Hamish kept his eyes fixed on Mackay. “Two deaths,” he said in a gentle, lilting voice. “Sandy knew what you’d done and so you killed him. Two deaths, and all for nothing. But there’s one thing you didn’t tell your friend Anstruther, and that was that the whole railway project was scrapped a month ago, and if he found you had bought him three worthless properties…We don’t have the death penalty – yet – but Anstruther would have been glad in that case to act as our executioner. He may very well yet, for I had great pleasure in telling him about the collapse of the scheme. The bailie he had bribed to give him information from the first secret meeting about the railway had resigned by the time of the second secret meeting, which cancelled the project.”
“So what’s it to be, Mackay? A nice safe police cell or Anstruther’s boys after you?”
There was a long silence. No one spoke, no one moved.
The rising wind moaned around The Clachan and snow pattered on the window panes.
“It wasn’t planned,” said Mackay in a tired voice. “I followed him. He was going to report me to my head office. They would have fired me. I daren’t lose my job. I didn’t think Mainwaring really knew about the railway project. I thought he was just buying up cheap property in the hope it would rise in value one day. He never had a good head for business.
“He insulted me in the The Clachan. I left and then waited for him to leave. I followed him to Cnothan Game. I found a bit of rusty pipe by the road and put it in my pocket. But, man, man, I still didn’t mean to kill him. He poked around and tried the office door but it was locked. I followed him into the lobster shed. He sat on the edge of the main tank and took out a notebook and began to write. There was an empty glass by the side of the tank. He put the note down by the tank. I knew it was a note for Jamie saying something about Sandy abandoning his post. Mainwaring never thought Sandy would return. All my hatred for the man boiled up in me and at the same time I realized in a flash that with him gone, Mrs. Mainwaring might sell and then I would be safe from Anstruther. I struck him hard, and he fell into – ”
But Blair moved like lightning. He thrust Hamish aside and clapped a large beefy hand over Harry Mackay’s mouth.
“Enough o’ this,” he shouted. “Anderson! MacNab! Take him off tae Strathbane and book him.”
“And so,” said Hamish Macbeth that evening to Jenny Lovelace, “I don’t know why Blair shut him up at that point.” But Hamish did know. Blair had seen the bit about the lobsters coming up.
Hamish wondered how on earth Blair would suppress the evidence.
Jenny looked at his drawn face and said quietly, “Want to be left alone tonight?”
Hamish most definitely did not want to be left alone, but he felt he had been using Jenny in a way. Proposal first. Bed later.
He nodded bleakly and Jenny kissed him gently on the cheek, patted Towser, and went out.
Just then, the phone rang and he went to answer it. It was Jimmy Anderson, phoning from Strath bane. “We’ve got the full confession,” he said cheerfully. “Like to hear the rest?”
“Go ahead,” said Hamish.
“Well, to take the story up from where Mackay left off, he just sacked him on the back of the neck and Mainwaring toppled over into the tank. Mackay fled, taking the note with him. When he heard about the skeleton, he knew whose it was and how it got to be one, but he didn’t know who had taken it out of the tank and cleaned up, see. He prayed that it might be some friendly local trying to cover up for the murderer, some local who wanted Mainwaring dead. Then Sandy turned up. Mackay had dropped his gold pen out of his jacket pocket when he’d bent over the tank as Mainwaring sank. Sandy had taken the clothes and all the other bits and burned the things that would burn, chucked the false teeth on the moor, and thrown the watch in Loch Cnothan. He’d even shovelled up all the ash, put it in a sack with a brick, and sunk it in a peat bog.
“He wanted money. Mackay arranged to meet him up the river and when Sandy got there, Mackay waited until he had counted the money and put it in his jacket and then took out his trusty rusty pipe and clobbered Sandy the way he had clobbered Mainwaring and then he stuffed the body under a bush. Then he remembered the money. He wanted to go back and retrieve it, but found he couldn’t bring himself to go near the corpse.”
“How are you going to keep it quiet about the lobsters?” asked Hamish.
“I don’t know. Maybe Blair’ll try to pervert the course of justice by saying, “Look, laddie, shut up about the lobsters and I’ll see you get a lenient sentence,” but I don’t know. Who was the reporter who told you about the railway? That one in London?”
“It wasnae really a reporter,” said Hamish. “It was my second cousin, who’s a cleaning woman on the Scottish Telegraph. She reads everything she finds in the wastepaper buckets. She told me last year and I forgot about it until the other day. So Mainwaring in a way brought about his own death by deciding to interfere in Jamie’s life. He left that glass of whisky on the tank, and Mackay got him when he went back to retrieve it. So it wasn’t a cold-bloodedly, planned murder; Mackay didn’t leave the whisky for Sandy. The witchcraft had nothing to do with it…och, I suppose you’ll be telling me next that that hoax call which got me out of the way was also made by someone else.”
“Aye. Mackay swears blind it wasnae him.”
“Alistair Gunn,” said Hamish suddenly. “I’ll bet it was Alistair Gunn. He was stinking o’ fear when I arrived at The Clachan. He probably though if the call was traced to him, then he would be charged with the murder. I gather they’ve released what’s left of Mainwaring and the funeral’s tomorrow.”
“Aye, are you going?”
“No,” said Hamish. “I think I’ll spend the day in bed. I found your murderer and I think I deserve a break.”
“You’ve got the luck o’ the devil,” said Anderson.
“‘Cheery bye. Save me some whisky for your next murder.”
♦
The shrilling of the telephone at seven the following morning dragged Hamish from his bed. He stumbled through to the office and picked it up. Blair’s voice at the other end sounded almost obscenely cheerful.
“Great news, laddie,” he crowed. “All our troubles are over.”
“What happened?” asked Hamish.
“Mackay hanged hisself in his cell last night. He can’t talk and we can say what we like aboot the death.”
“So what’s the official line?” asked Hamish.
“Oh, something like he cut off the flesh and threw it in the loch and then when he put the skeleton on the moor, the crows and buzzards and little wee foxes cleaned the rest – hence the scores on the bones. Sandy and the lobsters hasnae been mentioned.”
“Are ye sure it wass the suicide?” Hamish’s voice was sharp.
There was a long silence and then Blair’s voice sounded again, low and menacing this time. “list you keep your long Highland nose oot o’ this case. It’s no longer got anything else to dae wi’ you.” And then he banged down the receiver.
Hamish went through to get dressed. He felt sick. He kept seeing pictures in his head of a midnight visit to a cell and a prisoner being forcibly strung up.
When the phone rang again, he waited for a long time before going through and answering it. It was Jimmy An-derson.
“I’ve heard the news,” said Hamish bleakly.
“Aye, that’s why I’m calling. Cheer up. He really did commit suicide. The pathologist confirmed it a
nd he hates Blair and would have given anything to make it out to be murder if there had been the slightest doubt.”
Hamish let out a long sigh of relief. “Thanks. Thanks a lot.”
Anderson chuckled. “I know how much you love Blair and guessed what ye might be thinking. Ta-ta.”
Hamish Macbeth went straight back to bed and slept until noon.
Towser awoke him by tugging at his sleeve. “Want a walk, boy?” mumbled Hamish. He had gone to bed the second time fully dressed. He got up and peered out of the window and found himself staring straight into a wall of snow.
Hamish groaned. “I’d better dig a tunnel if I’m to get you out.”
The snow had stopped and by the time he had shovelled a path down to the gate, the sun was shining. He waited patiently while Towser cavorted among the snow-drifts. The snow-plough chugged past as it had done before and threw a wall of snow up by the gate. “Let it stay,” muttered Hamish. “I don’t feel like visitors the day.”
“Hallo! Hamish Macbeth! Are you there?” called a voice from the other side of the snow wall. Jamie Ross.
“What is it?” called Hamish.
“Just want a wee word,” called Jamie. “I’ll shovel my end and you shovel yours and we might meet in the middle.”
Hamish sighed and picked up the shovel and dug until he had made a gap. He found Jamie and Helen Ross on the other side. “Come in,” said Hamish reluctantly.
He led the way up the path and into the kitchen. Helen Ross looked more beautiful than ever in a white parka over a scarlet wool jump suit and white high boots.
“No more trouble, I hope?” asked Hamish.
“We felt we’d better give you an explanation,” said Jamie awkwardly. “I told Helen to flirt with Mainwaring and find out if he knew about the plans for the railway.”
“So you knew about the plans?” asked Hamish.
“Yes. But not that they’d been cancelled.”
“It wasn’t a very secret meeting,” said Hamish. “I’m beginning to wonder if the whole of Sutherland knew about it.”
“Well, it turned out Mainwaring didn’t have a clue about the railway, but he wasn’t going to sell either.”
“Oh, well,” sighed Hamish. “It’s all over now. Why are you telling me this?”
“Helen didn’t want you to think badly of her. That’s why she spun you that tale about being bored and all.”
“I wish you had told me about the railway first thing,” said Hamish sharply. “It would have saved a lot of time.”
He looked curiously at Helen as he spoke. She smiled at him and lit a cigarette. Hamish had a feeling that she had been telling the truth to a certain extent, that she had found Mainwaring’s company a pleasure and had been disappointed with him in Inverness.
“And didn’t you think you were doing anything wrong by risking your wife’s reputation?” asked Hamish.
“Well, no,” said Jamie awkwardly. The fact that the whole thing had been Helen’s idea hung in the air. “But I tell you this, Hamish: I’ll never do it again. I’ve been pushing and pushing to get money and more money, but I think greed and ambition are beginning to make me do things against my conscience. I’ll need to start another business now, for when it comes out at the trial about those cannibalistic lobsters of mine, I’ll be ruined.”
“It won’t come out,” said Hamish. “Mackay hanged himself last night.”
“Clever man,” said Helen Ross, and blew a smoke ring.
Jamie ignored her. “Here!” he said. “I hope it was suicide.”
“Yes, no doubt about it.”
Jamie looked dazed. “I’ve been up all night, plotting and planning what to do. Now I don’t need to bother. But, you know, I can’t help feeling heart-sorry for Mackay. I would have liked to murder Mainwaring myself. Well, we’d better be on our way.”
Hamish watched them as they picked their way down the path, Jamie holding his wife’s arm so that she would not slip.
“It’s a miracle he didn’t murder Mainwaring,” said Hamish to Towser, “for that man is married to a Lady Macbeth and disnae know it.”
♦
Despite all his good intentions, Hamish found himself that evening in Jenny’s cosy kitchen. She was flushed and excited and strangely guilty about something. He asked her what was wrong, but she blushed and said, “Nothing.”
They had a pleasant dinner together and then went to bed for a more energetic night than they had had before.
Hamish awoke at dawn and propped himself up on one elbow and looked down at Jenny’s flushed and sleeping face and at her black curls. He decided to ask her to marry him. The sick, unnatural yearning for Priscilla would soon go away. He lay back on the pillows and clasped his hands behind his head and wondered what Priscilla would think when she learned of his marriage. She would do the right thing, of course; she always did. She would congratulate him warmly and send him a suitable present. But when she came calling at his kitchen door in Lochdubh, she would be an intruder, no longer a friend. Perhaps he and Jenny would have children and he could buy them train sets and teach them how to fish. He drifted off to sleep again, and in his dream it was the day of his wedding to Jenny, and Priscilla was telling him she had always loved him.
He awoke with a groan. Jenny stirred and put an arm across his naked chest.
“Are you awake, Hamish?” she whispered.
“Yes,” said Hamish gloomily. He had to propose – now or never.
“There’s something I’ve got to tell you.”
Both twisted round and stared at each other, for they had said the same thing at the same time.
“You first,” said Hamish.
“This is going to be difficult,” said Jenny. “I love you, Hamish, but I’m going back to my husband.”
“I thought you were divorced?”
“I am. But this awful murder and Mainwaring insulting my painting suddenly made me realize I’ve never stopped loving Andrew. He phoned from Canada yesterday evening. He still loves me, Hamish, and wants me back.”
Hamish at first felt a burst of sheer masculine fury, followed immediately by an odd floating feeling of relief.
“We’re very good in bed together,” said Jenny in a small voice. “But it’s not enough, is it, Hamish?”
“No, I suppose not. When are you leaving?”
“Not for a few months. I’ve got to sell up here and start shipping my paintings and belongings to Canada. Hamish, are you mad at me? I shouldn’t have gone to bed with you. But it just sort of happened.”
Jenny got out of bed and went to the window and drew the curtains. She scrubbed at the steamed-up glass with her fist and peered out. She shivered and crossed her arms over her naked breasts. “It’s snowing again, Hamish. What do you want to do?”
“Come back to bed and I’ll show you,” said Hamish Macbeth.
♦
The rest of Hamish’s stay at Cnothan was quiet and dull. The snow changed to weeks of driving rain. He no longer made love to Jenny as lust on both sides disappeared, to be replaced by a comfortable friendship.
The first sunny morning in ages heralded his last day in Cnothan. He wanted to be out of the police station before MacGregor’s return. He whistled as he cleaned the rooms and then he cleared all the groceries out of the kitchen cupboards and took them over to Jenny.
“MacGregor left me nothing,” said Hamish, “so he can find things exactly the same on his return. There’s three funny bottles of liqueur missing from his nasty bar, so I’ve left him a note, telling him to bill Blair.”
“I’ve made you some sandwiches and a Thermos of coffee for the bus,” said Jenny.
Hamish drew her into his arms and kissed her gently. “I’ll miss you, Jenny.”
She gave a little sniff and buried her head against his tunic. “You can come and stay with us in Canada.”
“No, Jenny. That would not be at all the thing. I’ll drop you a line from time to time.”
“Here, I’ve a present for
you.” Jenny went to the corner and picked up a large square parcel.
“What is it?” asked Hamish.
“It’s that painting of Clachan Mohr I did when I was angry.”
“You could get a lot of money for that, Jenny,” said Hamish awkwardly. “Or you could take it to your husband. He’d never call you a chocolate-box painter again.”
“He’s admitted he was jealous,” said Jenny cheerfully. “He really knows my paintings are good. I really don’t like that one, Hamish.”
“Well, I’ll take it,” said Hamish. But he privately thought it was a pity that Jenny did not realize her ex- soon-to-be non-ex husband had been right in the first place and was probably only being tactful now.
The small Lochdubh bus came screeching to a halt outside the post office as he stood there an hour later with his bags, his painting, and his dog.
The driver threw him an evil look and went off to buy cigarettes.
Hamish climbed on the bus, put his luggage on one seat and sat on the other with Towser beside him. The whole town was swimming in lazy golden light and people walked up and down aimlessly, looking drugged in the unfamiliar warmth.
A car drew to a halt beside the bus. Hamish looked idly down at the driver who was climbing out and his heart gave a painful lurch. Priscilla Halburton-Smythe. He stared straight ahead, his heart racing.
She poked her head in the door of the bus. “Want a lift to Lochdubh, copper?” she called. Towser threw himself on Priscilla, uttering ecstatic yips of welcome.
“Aye, that’ll be grand, Priscilla,” said Hamish, his eyes wary.
He tried not to look at her, but was painfully aware of slim, stylish elegance and golden hair.
He wrestled with his bags and painting and climbed down from the bus. Priscilla opened the boot. “Put your bags in there, Hamish,” she said. “What’s that parcel? It looks like a painting.”
“It is,” said Hamish. “I’d better put it in the back seat so it disnae get damaged.”
“Won’t Towser sit on it?”
“No, he’ll sleep on the floor. You know that, Priscilla.”
“Yes, I know that.” She straightened up after arranging his bags in the boot and slammed down the lid. Her eyes were clear and untroubled but slightly questioning.
