by M C Beaton
“Now, Mrs. Mainwaring, it takes a very strong motive to kill a man, that is, if your husband has been killed. Have you any idea who might have done it?”
“It could have been pretty much anybody,” she said. “I can’t help you there.”
Hamish asked several more questions, got the address in Edinburgh of the dentist who had supplied the false teeth, and then took his leave.
Mrs. Mainwaring shook hands with him, waved goodbye, and as soon as the police Land Rover was out of sight, she sank down in a chair, holding her large body in her arms to stop the uncontrollable shaking.
♦
As Hamish drove up to the Cnothan Game and Fish Company, he was stopped a few yards before he reached it by a police barrier behind which swarms of press were being held at bay. The barrier was raised to let him through. He saw the yard was full of plain-clothes officers. Blair and several high-ranking policemen were watching the operations.
Blair saw Hamish approaching and went to meet him as Hamish’s lanky figure descended from the Land Rover. Hamish grinned. Blair was determined that Hamish Macbeth should not meet any of the top brass.
“Did she recognize the teeth?” demanded Blair.
“Aye,” said Hamish. “They’re Mainwaring’s all right. How’s the big hush-up going?”
“It’s going jist fine. Nobody’s going to talk, least of all Jamie Ross.”
Hamish pushed back his cap and scratched his head thoughtfully. “Have ye thought what’s going to happen when you get your man, or woman, and he or she appears in the dock? What about the evidence? There’ll be an even bigger scandal in the press if they find out you’ve been suppressing vital evidence.”
Blair went scarlet. His mind hadn’t worked as far in advance as that.
“Don’t you worry, sonny,” he growled. “Leave important matters like that to the high-ups. Now, get back to that station and type up Mrs. Mainwaring’s statement.”
But instead of going to the station, Hamish drove back to Sandy’s cottage. There was a strange policeman on duty. He shrugged when Hamish said he wanted to look around and said, “Help yourself.”
Hamish pushed open the door and went in. Nothing, he reflected sadly, is more bleak than the home of a drunk. Unwashed dishes were piled high in the greasy sink. The wood-burning stove was black with old grease. The floor was covered with food and drink stains, the bedroom smelled appallingly. He poked about through closets, through piles of romances, through hidden stacks of empty, bottles, but there was no clue to where Sandy could have gone. There were no personal papers, no clue to relatives—unless Blair had taken them away. He went out past the policeman and round to the back. The garden was a tip of old rubbish, old tyres, broken cups, more empty bottles, a shattered hen coop, and a large oil drum with holes bored in the side for burning refuse. Hamish tipped up the oil drum and looked inside. It was empty, but no doubt Forensic had taken away the contents to examine them. He was about to turn away when he noticed a blacker patch on the earth at his feet. He bent down and poked a finger into the soil. The ground was soft, as if it had recently been turned over and raked. He stood up and pushed his cap on the back of his head and thought hard. If Sandy had burnt something in the garden recently, something so important that he had taken the ashes away and raked the ground, it followed that Sandy Carmichael could be the murderer. But Hamish still could not believe it.
When he left the cottage, he went on to where Clachan Mohr reared up against a milky-blue sky. It had turned mild, and a soft wind brought hope of spring. He suddenly remembered how Jenny’s lips had felt pressed against his own and smiled. And yet to Hamish’s old-fashioned way of thinking, there was something slightly sad about bed before courtship. He might have fallen in love with her. Not that he was a prude or thought that Jenny’s morals were lax in any way. But in affairs, it was sometimes better to travel slowly than arrive too quickly. Instant gratification certainly knocked the spiritual side out of romance, no matter how much the modern mind tried to shout down the primitive emotions.
He parked the Land Rover and walked around a track at the foot of the cliff that led to the easy way up at the back. He walked steadily up the twisting track. At the top, a magnificent stag raised its head and stared at him with sad, wary eyes, like a schoolmaster surveying a tormenting schoolboy. Then it dipped its antlers and began to move off with that characteristically odd jerking start which quickly changed into the supple speed of a full gallop.
Hamish suddenly felt deliriously happy. The warm day, the stag, Jenny, the springy heather, Jenny, the sun on his neck, Jenny—all crowded together and sky-rocketed in his brain. He did several cart-wheels across the springy heather and then fell on his back, laughing helplessly. His sadness about sleeping with Jenny had gone. He felt sure he loved her.
And then he longed for a cigarette. The Americans would call it the reward syndrome, he thought. Something good happens, and you deserve a treat. Surely the cleverest advertising slogan man ever created was ‘Have Some Cadbury’s, You Deserve It.’
He was clambering on his feet, reminding himself he was supposed to be looking for clues, when he saw a glimmer of white down under deep clumps of heather. He fished out two crumpled paper cups.
He turned them round and round in his hands. There was a smear of lipstick on one. He looked closer. No, it was not a smear of lipstick, it was a smudged fingerprint. Paint. Oil paint.
He sat down and put the cups carefully on the grass and looked at them.
A cloud swept across the sun and he shivered.
Paint.
Jenny.
Paint + paper cup = Jenny.
But it could have been a schoolchild.
There were traces of coffee in the bottom of the cup. Children these days did not drink tea or coffee. They drank Coke or 7-Up or Dr. Pepper or a Scottish soda called Ban’s Irn Bru, “made from girders.”
He clutched his head. Time. Think about time. Jenny had been crying on—when was it? Sunday. Her sister had died. She had received a letter. Funny, that. The police were usually informed. Wait a bit! Jenny could have been here with someone else. It need not have been Mainwaring. Oh God, let it not be Jenny.
He searched further under the heather clumps and came up with a pipe. Mainwaring had smoked a pipe. He picked up the cups and put them in a bag along with the pipe and carried them down from Clachan Mohr. He drove carefully back to the police station and then crossed the road to Jenny’s cottage.
He did not even have time to knock. She opened the door even as he was raising his hand to the knocker. Her black hair was endearingly tousled and her lips were still slightly swollen from love-making.
“Hamish!” she cried. And then the light slowly left her eyes as she looked up into his face. He silently held up the plastic bag containing the two crumpled cups and the pipe.
“I found these up on Clachan Mohr,” he said.
He brushed past her into the cottage. She followed him into the kitchen. “Where’s Towser?” she asked with a laugh that sounded false.
He sat down at the kitchen table and placed the bag with the cups in front of him.
“Now, Jenny,” he said quietly. “For a start, let’s see that letter from Canada. The one telling you about your sister’s death.”
Jenny slid onto his knee and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Hamish!” she said. “Don’t turn detective on me.”
“The letter, Jenny,” said Hamish, his hazel eyes hard and bleak.
He lifted her up like a child and placed her on a seat next to his own.
“The letter,” he demanded again.
“I threw it away,” said Jenny.
“I can ask the postie if you got a letter from Canada and if he says you didn’t get one, that will prove you’re lying. Don’t make me do that.”
“Oh, all right,” shouted Jenny. And then in a quieter, almost defeated tone of voice, she repeated, “All right.”
“Tell me about it,” said Hamish gently.
Jenny shrugged. “It’s all so silly, really. There’s nothing to tell. I was upset about my painting. I had doubts that I was any good, that I would ever be any good. I felt you wouldn’t understand, no one would understand, and so I told that lie.”
“Were you Mainwaring’s mistress?” asked Hamish brutally.
“No! Never! Damn you. You’re like all men. The minute you’ve slept with them, they’ve damned you as a whore.”
“Wait a minute,” said Hamish.
He got to his feet and went through and looked at the oil painting of Clachan Mohr that stood in the gallery.
Jenny went for walks, he remembered. This painting shrieked rage and sorrow and menace. And yet none of Jenny’s other paintings reflected anything at all. Powerful emotion had rocked her to the very foundations.
“Okay,” said Jenny’s voice from behind him. “I went for walks with William Mainwaring. I saw a side of him that no one else saw. He was charming and kind.”
“Mrs. Mainwaring saw that side,” said Hamish. “That was before he married her and got her to sign her money over to him.”
A dry sob answered him and he turned round and looked compassionately at Jenny’s bent head and then back to the picture again.
“He could never stop being the know-all, could he, Jenny?” said Hamish. “He was flattered to have a pretty woman going along with him on his walks. But he had books on art appreciation on his shelves. He just had to tell you what he thought of your painting and it was Canada and your husband all over again. You painted Clachan Mohr right after that. You told me you had had a death in the family, because to you it was a bereavement. Another man you had admired and trusted had jumped all over your soul.”
Jenny slumped down on the floor and began to cry.
“I’m sorry,” said Hamish. “This is going to look to you like another betrayal. I have to tell Blair. I don’t think you killed him, but I have to tell Blair. You can’t keep anything in the Highlands quiet, and sooner or later someone is going to tell Blair you went for walks with Mainwaring.”
♦
To Hamish’s relief, Blair did not take the news about Jenny’s friendship with Mainwaring very seriously. His prime suspect was Sandy Carmichael. He sent MacNab and Anderson up to the gallery to grill Jenny and then leaned forward and said threateningly, “Carmichael is our man. Don’t go digging up any mair suspects.”
“Meaning you want it to be Carmichael,” said Hamish cynically. “A drunk can be shut up before he gets to court and starts talking about lobsters easier than anyone else. But you’ll always have a problem. The press are getting tired of the witchcraft angle. They want to know about that skeleton and whose it was.”
“Bugger the press,” said Blair viciously. “Why isnae there something to distract them? Why doesn’t another Russian reactor blow? Why doesn’t someone assassinate Maggie Thatcher?”
“If we could solve the witchcraft bit, they might begin to cool off,” said Hamish thoughtfully. “That scaring o’ Mrs. Mainwaring, I’m sure it wasn’t connected with the murder.”
“Then go and see what you can find out,” howled Blair.
Hamish was ambling down the main street in the direction of the manse when a voice behind him said, “Psst!”
He turned about and found himself looking down at Mrs. MacNeill, she who had been so reluctant with directions when he first came to Cnothan.
“I know who murdered Mr. Mainwaring,” she muttered.
“Tell me about it,” said Hamish.
She was carrying a heavy shopping bag. “Look as if you’ve offered to carry this home for me,” she hissed.
Hamish looked at her curiously. The woman’s eyes were glittering with excitement.
He took the bag from her and she led the way to the bungalow called Green Pastures.
The living-room of the bungalow was gloomy and and overfurnished. Victorian furniture designed for grander rooms stood about looking as if it had been there before an auction. There were two black sofas, a Benares brass bowl full of dried pampas-grass, enormous glass case that held a moth-eaten golden eagle, a carved oak sideboard like an altar, and black leather, horsehair-stuffed, high-backed chairs.
“Now,” said Mrs. MacNeill, “take out your notebook, Constable.”
Hamish dutifully produced pencil and notebook waited patiently.
“It wass herself that did it,” said Mrs. MacNeill triumphantly.
“Mrs. Mainwaring?”
“Och, no. Mrs. Struthers.”
“The minister’s wife?” Hamish was tempted to put away his notebook. “Why on earth would she do that?”
“It wass the microwave cooking class for the Mothers’ Meeting,” said Mrs. MacNeill eagerly. “Herself wass giving the talk and very proud of herself and puffed up wi’ vanity she was, too. Then Mr. Mainwaring came in and he starts to criticize her and then he takes over the lecture himself. We all just went away, but I crept back after he had left, for herself said we could try the cooking and I saw no reason to waste money on my own dinner when I could eat some of the things she’d offered. She didnae see me, but I saw her. She was drinking sherry from the bottle, like a harlot.” Hamish blinked. “And then she mutters something about killing Mr. Mainwaring.”
Hamish’s pencil stopped gliding over the pages of his notebook. An idea struck him. “I’ll just be off and have a word with Mrs. Struthers.”
“You’ll break the news gently to Mr. Struthers,” said Mrs. MacNeill eagerly. “He’s a fine man and he disnae ken he’s married to an evil woman.”
“I won’t be making any arrest yet,” said Hamish stonily. “Thank you for the information.”
“‘A fine polisman you are,” said Mrs. MacNeill waspishly. “Mr. MacGregor would have had her in the handcuffs.”
Hamish got to his feet. “If ye can think o’ anything else, Mrs. MacNeill, let me know,” he said. And deaf to the complaints that followed him out of the house, he went on his way.
Mrs. Struthers looked glad to see him. She fussed over him and gave him tea and scones. After they had exchanged some gossip, Hamish said, “I have just been hearing about your lecture on microwave cookery.”
The minister’s wife turned red. “That was the most awful evening of my life,” she said. “I could have killed that man.”
“But you didn’t?”
Mrs. Struthers sighed. “I hadn’t even the courage to stand up to him. I just stood there like a…like a…humiliated rabbit. ”
“Aye, well, to get back to the original crime, the witchcraft scare. I was hoping your husband could help.”
“What on earth could he do? That’s him coming now.”
“Och, I’ll just have a wee word with him.”
♦
That Sunday, Mr. Struthers preached the most fiery sermon of his life. He claimed the three women who had frightened Mrs. Mainwaring by pretending to be witches were as good as murderesses. They were murdering their own souls with malice and spite. With great relish, he outlined what would happen to them when they got to hell, and being jabbed by pitchforks was the least of what was waiting for them. He thundered and he blasted and he called down the wrath of God on Cnothan. He compared Cnothan to Sodom and Gomorrah. Unless the guilty confessed, there was no hope for them and no hope for Cnothan. Fire from Heaven would consume them all. The church was crowded.
As Mr. Struthers leaned over the pulpit, the congregation cringed back.
When Hamish left the church, he was surprised to see the sharp, foxy features of Detective Jimmy Anderson peering at him from the church porch.
“What are you doing here?” asked Hamish. He felt lightheaded from a long night on the moors searching for Sandy,
“Blair’s idea,” said Anderson gloomily. “Some woman called round at the hotel to make a statement that the minister’s wife had done it. Blair tells me to go to church and clock the congregation. Seems Sandy Carmichael never missed a service. Blair didnae believe the woman’s story but he gets this mad idea that Carmichael
might turn up. Any chance o’ a dram?”
“I have some whisky at the police station,” said Hamish.
“Lead on, Macduff,” misquoted Anderson cheerfully. “I need a good belt to get rid of the taste of all that hell-fire and damnation.”
When they were seated in the police station on either side of the desk, Anderson asked curiously, “I didnae know they still went in for sermons like that. No one’s going to take it seriously, though.”
“You don’t know Cnothan,” said Hamish. “When approaching Cnothan, set your watch back one hundred years. It’s a time warp here. Preach a sermon like that anywhere else in Sutherland—Lairg or Domoch or Golspie—and the minister would soon find the worthies of the town petitioning for his transfer. For goodness’ sakes, man, they stil believe in fairies in this part o’ the world.”
“Talking about fairies, one of the local louts is going around saying you’re one yourself.”
“And which lout would that be?” asked Hamish curiously.
“A great big turnip heid called Alistair Gunn. Said you stank o’ scent.”
“That wass my aftershave,” said Hamish stiffly. “Or rather, it’s MacGregor’s. And if ye don’t stop sniggering, I’ll take that glass away from ye.”
Anderson changed tack. “We didnae get much out o’ that artist o’ yours, Jenny Lovelace. Sticks to her story. Said he insulted her art. Said she was crying. Said she thought she’d sound daft if she told you what it was about, so she said her sister had died. She doesnae have a sister.”
“It’s odd,” said Hamish. “Her ex-husband in Canada did the same thing and she told me about that readily enough.”
