by M C Beaton
The bar began to fill up with the locals, men at first, and then later their wives, come to curb the expense of a Saturday night’s drinking.
Faces swam in front of Sandy, and voices offered to buy him a drink. The locals were violently jealous of Jamie Ross. Not only did he make a great deal of money, but he did not hide the fact. His new white Mercedes had caused a great deal of heart-burning. To a number of the locals, it seemed like a good joke to get Sandy drunk. Nothing would happen to Jamie’s business, of course, but he would be furious when he got back to find his watchman away sleeping off another drinking bout.
Sandy became dimly aware that Hector was demanding his car keys, and with the cunning of the drunk, he said he had walked and did not have his Land Rover with him.
Then Hector was calling ‘Time!’ and Sandy was aware of the sharp cold outside the pub, of people laughing and teasing him.
He climbed into his rusty Land Rover and then his mind went blank. He drove home in a total drunken blackout.
Sandy Carmichael awoke at noon the following day. His mouth felt like the bottom of a parrot’s cage. He drank great gulps of cold water and splashed his face. It was then he remembered his job.
He was still wearing the clothes he had worn the night before. He scrambled out and drove to the Cnothan Game and Fish Company.
His mind worked feverishly, Jamie and his family would be back on the last train. He must get the second half of his wages from Jamie, before Jamie learned, as he surely would, that he had been drinking in The Clachan on Saturday night.
He unlocked the office and then began to calm down. Of course, everything was just as he had left it. He went over to the lobster shed and looked around. The whisky glass was still there. He slipped it into his pocket. He sat down on the edge of the main tank and sighed with relief.
Then he blinked. The water seemed to have a strange pinkish tinge. He slowly scooped a handful of water into the palm of his hand.
Pink.
Then, as he stared at the tank, a piece of torn and shredded jacket slowly rose to the surface and turned over and over in the bubbling water.
He got to his feet and looked down into the lobster tank.
There, underneath the busy, crawling black lobsters, lay a white skeleton, grinning up at him.
Sandy fainted dead away with shock.
When he came round, he staggered up, gloomily deciding he had had a bout of the horrors. But another look into the depths of the pool showed him the skeleton was still there.
Sandy sat down on the edge of the pool. Now fear and shock were sharpening his wits. He thought about that glass of whisky. Jamie couldn’t have left it. Some friend of Jamie’s must have been sitting in the shed drinking, got drunk, and fallen into the pool and had his body picked clean by the voracious lobsters. But if he called Macbeth, Macbeth would call in a forensic team, and all the lobsters would be taken away along with the skeleton. The whole shed would be sealed off. Eighteen thousand pounds’ worth of lobsters! Sandy began to cry. You couldn’t insure lobsters, could you? No one would ever trust him again. Jamie wouldn’t pay him the second half of his wages and so he would not be able to get a drink to blot out this nightmare. He scrubbed his eyes with his dirty sleeve.
The self-pity of the habitual drunk gripped him. Life was always playing him dirty tricks. Well, he, Sandy, was going to fight back!
He saw a long pole with a net standing in the corner and carefully began to scoop out every bit of clothing. He found a garbage bag and put each shredded piece into it. With his whole body screaming for a drink, he began to search the water to make sure nothing was left. Gold glittered faintly in the light. With mad patience, he fished out the object. It was a gold watch with a few shreds of leather strap still attached to it. He took a deep breath and searched again, poking and moving the crawling black lobsters to see if there was anything left underneath. His search was rewarded. He brought up remains of a leather wallet and scraps of plastic credit cards and pound notes. After that, he found some silver and pennies, which he retrieved by donning a thick pair of work gloves. Shaking and exhausted, he had just decided that must be all when his eyes caught the shine of gold again. Swearing horribly, he resumed his macabre fishing and at last brought up a gold pen. He looked at it curiously, wondering where he had seen it before, and then slipped it into his pocket. A last frantic hunt revealed a pair of false teeth. Shivering and sick, Sandy put them in his pocket as well. Then he eased the net under the skeleton and raised it to the surface. He seized one arm bone and pulled it out. There was a black monster of a lobster clinging to the skeleton and he screamed and tore it off and threw it back in the pool.
His brain had become sharp and clear. The water filters would soon turn the water clear again. The work gloves were nearly in tatters from the claws of the lobsters, so instead of putting them back on the edge of the sink in the corner where he had found them, he added them to the wet and ragged clothes in the bag. He went out and got his Land Rover and backed it up to the shed. He put the bag of clothes and the skeleton in the back and threw an old travelling rug over them.
As he drove off, he could feel the weight of those terrible false teeth dragging at his pocket. He stopped at a bend in the road and hurled the things out of the window, as far away into the gorse and heather as he could manage.
Then he drove to his home, which was a tumbledown cottage outside Cnothan. He took the bag of clothes round the back of his cottage and dumped it down. He siphoned some petrol out of his Land Rover and poured it over the bag and set fire to it. He raked the blaze, turning it over and over, until he was sure all the clothes had been reduced to ash. Then he raked up the ashes and put them in a bag.
He went into his cottage and made himself a cup of hot sweet tea. He took out the watch and pen and laid them on the table. He remembered seeing that pen before.
He longed for a drink so much that his whole body ached and his hands trembled. But he had not finished yet. He remembered the haunting of the Mainwarings and the stories about witchcraft that had buzzed around the town. He drove off again, up out on to the moors. Up against the failing light of the winter sky stood a ring of standing stones, a miniature Stonehenge.
He drove off the road and over the moor towards it, the Land Rover lurching and bumping over the springy turf. He carried the skeleton in his arms into the middle of the standing stones. A ray of setting sun burst through the clouds and shone on to a raised piece of turf in the centre. Sandy gently laid the skeleton down.
It was then he realized that the skull was nearly coming away from the body of the skeleton. He examined it with delicate probing fingers and then let out his breath in a long hiss.
This had been no accident. This was murder.
‘If I report this now,’ said Sandy aloud, ‘they will probably be after me for the murder. If I keep my mouth shut, there’ll be money in it for me.’
The sun disappeared and the wind began to howl, tugging at his clothes, as if the spirits of the dead had risen from the moors and were trying to hold him back.
He gave a whimper of fright and began to run.
That evening, Hamish Macbeth saw the light in Jenny’s cottage. He was longing for a sympathetic ear. He had gone all the way to the Angler’s Rest to find the report of an assault on one of the customers had been false. ‘Probably some of the locals playing a joke on you,’ the manager had said.
Hamish had stayed to talk, and by the time he had returned to Cnothan, The Clachan was closed. The next day, he had put off trying to see Jenny, but a morning listening to Mr Struthers’ sermon and an afternoon interviewing secretive locals about the frightening of Mrs Mainwaring had irritated him immensely.
He saw Jenny moving about and went and knocked on the door. At last she opened it. ‘Come in,’ she said. Hamish followed her through to her kitchen. ‘Will you have a drink?’ she asked, turning around.
‘What on earth has happened to you, lassie!’ cried Hamish, for Jenny’s eyes were red
with weeping and her face was bloated.
She averted her face. ‘I had news of my sis-ter’s death,’ she said. ‘In Canada.’
‘I never heard a thing about it,’ said Hamish, his mind racing. Relatives, however far away, always phoned the local police station.
‘I had a letter,’ said Jenny drearily. ‘It came yesterday.’
‘I am verra sorry,’ said Hamish awkwardly. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘Just talk to me.’
‘I think it’s yourself that needs to do the talking,’ said Hamish.
Jenny gave a weak smile. ‘I’m being silly,’ she said. ‘I never liked my sister. We’re not very much alike. It was the shock, that’s all.’
‘And will you be going to Canada for the funeral?’
‘No point.’ Jenny shrugged. ‘We’re not a close family.’
‘What did she die of?’
‘Look, Hamish Macbeth, it’s over and done with. I don’t want to talk about it. Now, have a drink and tell me about your witch-hunt.’
She produced a bottle of Barsac, a sweet dessert wine, from the fridge, opened it, and poured it into two water glasses.
‘Do you often drink this stuff?’ asked Hamish, wrinkling his nose.
‘What’s up with it? It’s a drink, isn’t it? I forget when I bought it. Oh, I remember. It was last year. It was for some recipe. It’s been in the fridge ever since.’
A fat tear rolled down her cheek and splashed into her glass.
Hamish decided to do what he’d been told and chattered on nervously about the fake assault, about how Diarmuid Sinclair was slowly coming out of his shell, about the difficulty of getting any information at all out of the locals.
She drank and listened and seemed soothed. Hamish finally felt he could not talk any longer. He got to his feet. ‘I’ll be off to my bed, Jenny,’ he said. ‘Maybe I’ll drop by tomorrow, if it is all right with you.’
‘Sure. I’ll be here.’ She came round the kitchen table and stood in front of him, her head bent. ‘You don’t need to go,’ she said.
‘Whit?’
‘Stay the night … with me,’ said Jenny.
Hamish bent and kissed her cheek. ‘It wouldna’ work,’ he said softly. ‘Not when you’re this miserable. I’d be someone tae cling to the night, and someone to hate in the morning.’
Jenny remained standing, her head still bent.
Hamish turned and walked away and let himself out into the night.
Hamish’s first visitor early next morning was Jamie Ross. ‘I don’t know whether I’m doin’ the right thing or not,’ said Jamie. ‘I got back last night and found everything in order, but no sign of Sandy. I went out to his place, but there was no one home.’
‘Maybe he’s indoors, dead drunk, and cannae hear you,’ said Hamish.
‘No, the door wasn’t locked. I took a look inside. He’s gone all right, but his Land Rover’s still there. I’m wondering whether to report him missing.’
‘It’s early days,’ said Hamish. ‘Had he been drinking?’
‘Well, that’s what worries me. He had. Worse than that, he told Hector at The Clachan that I had kindly left a glass of booze for him on one of the tanks. I wouldn’t dream of doing a thing like that. Hector said he was drinking himself silly. I got mad and asked why no one had stopped him. But far from stopping him, the locals seem to have gone out of their way to buy him drinks.’
‘Why would they do that?’
‘Jealousy,’ said Jamie simply. ‘You know what they’re like around here. They don’t like me showing I have any money at all. You’re supposed to be like the crofters and plead poverty. That’s why a lot of these crofters don’t buy their land, you know. They could force the landowner to sell it to them for a song, but then that’d mean they’d need to pass a means test in order to get the government grants, and not one of them could pass it. Sandy’s a good soul when he’s not drinking. I’d hate to see him have an accident. It would be just like him to wander off and fall asleep somewhere and die of exposure. Besides, I owed him the second half of his wages and it’s strange he didn’t turn up to collect. He went away and left the office locked up and took the key with him. I had to break in.’
‘I’ll have a look around,’ said Hamish. ‘So you think someone deliberately left that drink so as Sandy would go on drinking, once started?’
‘Aye, sheer spite.’
‘I’ll do my best. How was the wedding?’
‘Oh, just grand. Everything went off like clockwork. They’re off to the Canary Islands on their honeymoon.’
When Jamie left, Hamish washed his breakfast dishes and prepared to go out to look for Sandy Carmichael. He was on the point of leaving when Jenny arrived, looking shamefaced.
‘Thanks for last night,’ she said awkwardly. ‘I wasn’t myself.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Hamish. ‘I was just on my road out. Jamie Ross says that Sandy Carmichael is missing. But there’s time for a coffee. You wouldn’t happen to know if Sandy’s ever gone missing before?’
‘Not that I know. Drunk or sober, he always hangs about the town. Oh, here’s Mrs Mainwaring,’ said Jenny, spotting a massive figure passing the kitchen window. ‘I wonder what she wants.’
Hamish went through to the police station annexe in time to open the door to Mrs Mainwaring.
She was wearing a squashed felt hat and a waxed coat over a navy dress with a white sailor collar, a photograph of which had appeared several months ago in one of the Sunday colour supplements: ‘Order now. Special offer. Flattering to the fuller figure.’ A strong smell of peppermint and whisky blasted into Hamish’s face as she cried, ‘William is missing. He hasn’t been home for two nights!’
‘Come in, Mrs Mainwaring,’ said Hamish. ‘Sit yourself down.’
Jenny came through and stood in the office doorway. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.
‘Mr Mainwaring is missing,’ said Hamish. ‘Look, Mrs Mainwaring, has he done this before?’
‘No, never. I mean, yes, he has, but he’s always told me or left a note.’
‘And where does he go?’
‘Glasgow or Edinburgh. He likes to go to the theatre.’
‘Alone?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Hamish thought that William Mainwaring might possibly have a mistress in Glasgow or Edinburgh – either that or be staying away out of sheer malice. ‘I think you should give it a little more time,’ he said soothingly. ‘He’ll be back.’
Jenny came forward and stood with her hand on Mrs Mainwaring’s shoulder. ‘And I think you ought to look for him,’ she said sharply. ‘Can’t you see how distressed Mrs Mainwaring is?’
‘All right,’ said Hamish reluctantly. ‘I’ve got to look for Sandy Carmichael, and so I may as well look for Mr Mainwaring at the same time.’
Ian Gibb was a budding reporter. He was on the dole, but he scoured the countryside in the hope of a good story. Occasionally one of the Scottish newspapers used a short piece from him, but he dreamt of having a scoop, a story that would hit the London papers.
That day, his sights were lower. With all the fuss about the decline in educational standards, he had decided to write a feature on Cnothan School. The school was run on the lines of an old-fashioned village school. It taught all ages up to university level. Education standards were high and discipline was strict. Teachers wore black academic gowns in the classroom and mortar-boards on speech days. The headmaster, John Finch, was an ageing martinet, the type of headmaster of whom people approve after they have left school and do not have to endure being taught by such a rigid personality themselves.
The headmaster had agreed to see him, but, true to his type, planned to keep Ian kicking his heels outside the headmaster’s study for a full quarter of an hour.
Ian was moodily wishing he could light up a cigarette. He was sitting on a hard bench with his back against the wall. But after five minutes of waiting, he was joined by a teenage girl. ‘Hallo,
’ said Ian cheerfully. ‘In trouble?’
‘Oh, no,’ said the girl. ‘I am one of the school prefects, and Mrs Billings, the English teacher, has sent me along to report that two of the girls are misbehaving in class. I’ll wait till you’re finished.’
‘Maybe you’d better go first,’ said Ian, feeling disappointed in this girl, whose Highland beauty had initially charmed him. There was something cold-bloodedly precise about her manner. ‘I’ll be a while. I’m interviewing Mr Finch for my newspaper.’
‘Which newspaper is that?’
Ian didn’t have a newspaper, being a freelance. He only hoped one of them would take his education article. But he said, ‘The Scotsman,’ hoping to impress.
‘Oh, that’s why he’s seeing you,’ said the girl sedately. ‘The Scotsman’s a good paper. I didn’t think he’d want to see a reporter, mind. I thought he would call it sensationalism.’
‘What? Education?’
‘No, the witchcraft story.’
Ian stiffened. ‘Oh yes, that,’ he said casually, although it was the first he had heard of it, as he lived in Dornoch. ‘Bad business.’
‘I don’t approve of it myself,’ said the girl primly. ‘But there’s no doubt in anyone’s mind the Mainwarings were asking for it.’
There came a commotion from the end of the corridor. Ian took out a small notebook, and as the girl turned her head away, he rapidly scribbled down ‘Mainwaring’. A harassed, middle-aged woman came along the corridor, dragging two weeping six-year-olds. She saw the girl and said, ‘Gemma, was there ever such a business! These two brats were supposed to be off school with the flu. Now they say they were playing up on the moors and there’s a skeleton in the middle of that ring of standing stones.’
She knocked sharply on the door of the headmaster’s study, and, without waiting for a reply, she went in, dragging the weeping children behind her.
