by M C Beaton
Then she said, “He was arrested for armed robbery. We were living in Glasgow at the time. I saw my chance to get free and took it. My mother had died and left me money. I managed to keep that fact from him. I drew out all the money and came up here.”
“Look, what’s his full name?”
“Why?”
“Because,” said Hamish patiently, “I can check up on him. I can find out where he is and what he’s doing. He could be dead. Think of that. The man could be dead and here are you, talking to no one and living scared.”
“Hugh,” she said. “Hugh Gallagher.”
“Last address?”
“Springburn Road, number 5-A.”
Hamish scribbled rapidly in his notebook. “And when was he arrested?”
“In nineteen seventy-eight. In March. It was the eighteenth when they came for him.”
“Right, I’ll get onto that right away.”
He stood up. She rose as well and clutched at his dark blue regulation sweater. “You won’t let him know where I am.”
“No, no,” he said soothingly. “I’ve told the schoolchildren to help look for your cat, so if you see any of them about, don’t be chasing them off.”
She sank back in her chair and covered her face with her hands.
“You should have friends,” said Hamish.
“You can’t trust anyone,” she said from behind her hands.
Hamish left and drove back to the police station. He phoned Strathclyde Police Headquarters in Glasgow and put in a request to find out what had become of an armed robber called Hugh Gallagher, arrested in March of 1978 for armed robbery.
They said they would phone him back. He fed his sheep and hens and decided to drive up to the Tommel Castle Hotel to see if there was any news of Priscilla Halburton-Smythe.
He was welcomed by the manager, Mr. Johnston. “Come to mooch a cup of coffee, Hamish?”
“Aye, that would be grand.”
“Come into the office. Herself won’t be home for Christmas.”
Hamish blushed. “I didn’t come here to ask that. But I thought she would come home to see her parents.”
“She’s working for some big computer firm and they’ve sent her to New York.”
So far away, thought Hamish. So very far away.
“So how’s business?” he asked with well-manufactured cheeriness.
“Business is booming. We’re fully booked for the Christmas period.”
“No news about the old Lochdubh Hotel down by the harbour?”
“Some Japanese put in a bid but then the Japanese recession hit. Then other folks seem to think there isn’t room up here for more than one hotel.”
“It’s a grand building. Could do for a school.”
“So how’s policing?”
“Nice and quiet.”
“No juicy murders for Christmas?”
“God forbid. I’ve got the case of the missing cat and the case of the missing Christmas lights at Cnothan.”
“Ach, Cnothan! That’s such a sour wee place they probably took away the lights themselves, them that thinks Christmas is sinful.”
“I think it was youths. Petty theft. Anyway, Cnothan may be a sour place but at least they wanted to put up some decorations. Look at Lochdubh, as black as the loch.”
“Well, Mr. Wellington the minister was all for putting up a tree this year on the waterfront but he came up against Josiah Anderson.”
“What! Him that lives in that big Victorian house?”
“The same. A real Bible basher. I’m sorry for that wee daughter o’ his.”
“He’s got a wee daughter?”
“So you don’t know everything. Josiah and his wife were trying for years to have children.”
“Probably didn’t know how to go about it,” said Hamish maliciously. “They should have asked me and I’d have given them a map.”
“Anyway, the wife went down to Inverness for the fertility treatment and she had a girl. Josiah was fifty when the bairn was born and the wife, Mary, forty-five. The wee girl, Morag, she must be about nine now. What a life for her, they’re that strict. No presents for her.”
“She goes to the village school?”
“Aye.”
“I gave a talk to the kids there and asked them what Santa was bringing them and they were all expecting something.”
“What child wants to be different from the others?” asked Mr. Johnston.
“What does Morag Anderson look like?”
“Like a waif. All eyes. And clean. Oh, so clean. I think they scrub her every morning.”
Hamish’s hazel eyes narrowed. “Sounds like cruelty to me. I’ll have a talk to the schoolteacher.”
“I’ve heard you’ve been romancing her—dinner at the Italian place.”
“Have I no private life?” mourned Hamish.
“Aye, well, if you’d wanted a private life you wouldn’t have chosen to live in Lochdubh. But I’m in a generous mood. If you want to take her for lunch, I’ll let you have it on the house.”
Hamish drank his coffee, then headed for the schoolhouse. He looked at his watch. School would be breaking up any minute for the Christmas holidays. The children were singing carols, their voices carried towards him on the wind. He waited in the Land Rover until he saw them streaming out. Then he got out and went into the schoolhouse.
Maisie Pease was clearing up papers on her desk. She looked up and blushed when she saw him. “Why, Hamish! What brings you?”
Ask me out again, a voice inside her was urging. But Hamish perched on the side of her desk and said, “You’ve got a pupil here, Morag Anderson.”
“Yes, and I won’t believe for a moment she’s in trouble. She’s my star pupil.”
“No, she’s not in any police trouble. I heard an unsettling piece of gossip about her parents, that’s all. Seems they’re a bit too strict. No Christmas for Morag.”
“I can’t really do anything about that, Hamish. I would be interfering with their religious beliefs.”
“Nonetheless, I would like to talk to them.”
So you’re not going to ask me out, thought Maisie huffily. “I can’t stop you,” she said curtly. “Go ahead. Have a word with them if you want.”
“I thought maybe since it’s just noon you would like to come with me and then we could have a bite of lunch.”
“At the Italian place?”
“No, I’ll take you to the Tommel Castle Hotel.”
“Oh, Hamish. That’s so expensive.”
“Think nothing of it. My treat.”
Maisie’s face was now flushed with pleasure. “I’ll get my coat.”
Most of the houses in Lochdubh were eighteenth century when the then Duke of Sutherland had hoped to expand the fishing industry. But there were a few large Victorian villas built in the last century when the lesser orders copied their queen by having holiday homes in Scotland. But now that people who could afford it usually preferred their holiday homes to be in Spain or some other sunny country, the villas were no longer holiday homes but residences of the middle class. Josiah Anderson owned a clothing factory in Strathbane. Hamish opened the double iron garden gate and ushered Maisie inside.
“What are the parents like?” he asked in a low voice.
“A wee bit severe. I’ve met them on parents day. Morag always has top marks so I’ve never had any reason to talk much to them.”
Hamish rang the brass bell set into the wall beside the door. When he found himself looking down at Mrs. Anderson when she opened the door, he was surprised. He realized he had seen her about the village, had exchanged a few words with her in the general store, knew she was Mrs. Anderson. But he had forgotten, and had conjured up a picture of a grim matron.
Mrs. Anderson was small and neat with permed hair and a rosy face. She looked startled at the sight of Hamish. “Nothing wrong?” she cried.
“Just a friendly call,” said Hamish.
“Come in. My husband’s in the sitting room.”
They followed her into the sitting room which was large and dark, high-ceilinged, full of heavy furniture and impeccably clean.
“Josiah,” said Mrs. Anderson, “here’s our policeman and Miss Pease, Morag’s schoolteacher.”
He rose to greet them. He was wearing a charcoal grey three·piece suit with a white shirt and striped tie. His black shoes were highly polished. He had thinning grey hair, thick lips, small watchful eyes and tufts of hair sprouting from the nostrils of a large nose.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“Just a friendly call,” said Hamish again.
“Sit down, sit down, Officer. Mary, get tea.”
“It’s all right,” said Hamish. “We won’t be long. We’re on our way for lunch.”
They all sat down. Hamish looked at Maisie as a signal for her to begin.
“Christmas is very important for little children,” said Maisie.
“That is because each year they are brain-washed into a state of greed,” said Mr. Anderson.
“I don’t think that’s true,” said Hamish. “There’s an innocent magic about it. I hope Morag isn’t going to be left out.”
Mrs. Anderson opened her mouth to say something, but Mr. Anderson held up his hand. “Our Morag is a sensible girl. She knows such things as Santa Claus and presents are pagan flummery.”
“It’s a bit of a burden to put on a wee girl,” protested Hamish. “All her friends at school will be excited about it.”
“I see you will need to talk to Morag herself. Get her, Mary.”
Mrs. Anderson went out to the foot of the stairs and called, “Morag, come down here a minute.”
They waited until Morag came into the room. She looked at Hamish and her face turned white and her eyes dilated.
“Now, then, Morag,” said her mother quickly, “there’s nothing to be afraid of. Constable Macbeth and Miss Pease have called because they are worried you might be feeling left out of the Christmas celebrations.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Morag faintly.
In the rest of the modern world, when people didn’t understand what you were saying, they said “What?” or “Excuse me?” But in the Highlands, they still used the old·fashioned “I beg your pardon?”
“They’re worried that you might feel different from the other children because we don’t have anything to do with Christmas.”
Morag stood there and slowly color returned to her face. “Oh, no,” she said softly. “I don’t bother about it.”
“Are you sure?” asked Maisie.
“Oh, yes.”
“There you are,” said Mr. Anderson. “You’re a good girl, Morag. You can go to your room.” He turned to Maisie. “You may think we’re a bit hard about Christmas but we have our religion and we live by it. Morag gets plenty of presents on her birthday.”
Maisie looked helplessly at Hamish. He indicated to her that they should leave. But as Mrs. Anderson was showing them out, he turned and looked down at her. “Did you never think it might not be a good idea to let Morag make up her own mind about what she wants to believe in when she’s older?”
“No, children need to be guided young. As you can see, she is not troubled at all. She has everything a little girl could desire. She has her own room and bathroom and a little sitting room at the top of the house where she can entertain her friends.”
“Does she bring friends home?”
A shadow crossed Mrs. Anderson’s face. “Not yet, but she will when she is older. She is a very happy, self-sufficient girl. She does all the housekeeping for her part of the house herself. She volunteered. And she even asked if she could cook some meals for herself.”
They thanked her and left. As they drove towards the Tommel Castle Hotel, Hamish said, “That was one very frightened little girl.”
“People are always frightened by the sight of a policeman.”
“Not of me. She saw me in the classroom and I was with you. I thought for a minute she was going to faint.”
“I tell you what it could be. Mr. Patel? He sometimes catches little kids stealing sweets from his store. He doesn’t call you, he calls me. I see the parents and the matter’s settled. Maybe Morag took something and thought the forces of law and order had descended on her. I mean, imagine her parents’ reaction if they found their precious child was a thief.”
“Could be. There’s such a thing as a child being too good. But her strict upbringing doesn’t seem to have affected her studies.”
“No, she’s bright and she likes learning. She has a terrific imagination. She writes very colorful essays.”
“I’d like to see some of them.”
“You’re worrying too much, Hamish. How did you ever get time to catch all those murderers I’ve heard you arrested if you fret so much over a wee schoolgirl?”
“I’m curious,” was all Hamish would say.
When they entered the dining room of the hotel, the maître d’, Mr. Jenkins, who had once been butler to the Halburton-Smythes, ushered them to a table. “You’re to have the cock a leekie soup, followed by the venison,” he said. He flicked a napkin open and spread it on Maisie’s lap and departed.
“How odd,” said Maisie. “Don’t they give you a menu here?”
“It must be a set meal for lunch.”
Maisie glanced around. Some diners were holding large leather-bound menus. She decided not to comment on it. Perhaps the maître d’ knew that Hamish liked the set menu.
“Would you like some wine?” asked Hamish.
“That would be nice. Can you drink and drive?”
“Not really and I shouldn’t be driving you around in the police vehicle, either. But I’ll get us a couple of glasses. Excuse me a minute.”
Hamish went through to the hotel office and said to Mr. Johnston, “It’s kind of you to give me lunch. I want to order wine but that snobby scunner Jenkins’ll make a fuss.”
Mr. Johnson laughed. “You don’t want your date to know you aren’t paying for it. Okay, I’ll bring you something.”
Hamish returned and sat down. Soon Mr. Johnston arrived, bearing a bottle of claret which he deftly opened. Hamish introduced him to Maisie. “We keep a special claret just for Hamish,” said Mr. Johnston.
“I hope you’re not going to live on baked beans for a month after paying for this,” said Maisie.
“Och, no. I’ve got a bit saved up.” Hamish thought about his bank account, which was sinking rapidly into the red after his Christmas shopping. Maisie was just gathering courage after they had finished their soup to invite Hamish out for a meal, when he said suddenly, “Are you doing anything on Christmas day? I mean, are you going to be with your family?”
“No, my parents are dead and my sister’s in Australia. I was going to cook a small turkey and toast myself. Would you like to join me?”
“If you’ll join me in something first.” He told her about the old folks home in Inverness and ended by saying, “I thought of dropping down there on Christmas day to hear the concert.”
“Of course I’ll come,” said Maisie delightedly, “and then when we get back you can join me for Christmas dinner.”
Hamish beamed at her. It looked as if it was going to be a good Christmas after all.
In the hotel office, the phone rang. Mr. Johnston picked it up. “It’s me, Priscilla,” came Priscilla Halburton-Smythe’s voice. “How are things?”
“We’re fully booked. Do you want me to get your father or mother for you?”
“No, I spoke to them yesterday.” There was a pause and then Priscilla said, “I’ve just phoned the police station. Hamish isn’t there. I didn’t bother leaving a message, but you haven’t seen him, have you?”
“Yes, he’s right here in the dining room.”
“Well, if I could…”
“He’s having lunch with his lady friend.”
“Oh, who’s she?”
“Maisie Pease, a right pretty lass, the new schoolteacher. I think there’ll be wedding be
lls soon. Do you want me to get Hamish to the phone?”
“No,” said Priscilla quickly. “Don’t bother.” She asked some more questions about the hotel and then rang off.
The manager looked at the now silent phone. He felt guilty but, on the other hand, he told himself, how was Hamish ever going to get over Priscilla if she kept jerking his chain?
Hamish drove Maisie back to her cottage and then made his way back to the police station. He switched on the answering machine. The first was only a silence and then a click as someone rang off. The second was from Strathclyde Police from the policewoman who had been searching the records for Mrs. Gallagher’s husband. “I’ve got something,” she said. “Ring me.”
Hamish phoned up Glasgow and was put through to her. “I don’t know if this is good news or bad, Hamish,” she said, “but he’s dead.”
“That’s good news. When and how?”
“He got knifed in a drunken brawl in the Govan area two years ago.”
“Thanks,” said Hamish. “That wraps that up.”
He set off once more, heading towards Mrs. Gallagher’s croft. No more lame ducks, Hamish Macbeth, he told himself severely. Give her the good news and then leave her alone, apart from still trying to find out if her cat’s about.
“Macbeth!” he called loudly as he knocked on the door.
She opened the door on the chain. “Have you found Smoky?”
“No, but I’ve got some news for you about your husband. Can I come in?”
She dropped the chain and held open the door.
In the kitchen she turned to face him. “He’s dead,” said Hamish.
She sat down abruptly as if her legs had given way. Hamish took off his cap and placed it on the table and sat down opposite her.
“How? When did he die?”
“Two years ago. A drunken fight in Govan. He got knifed.”
“Thank you,” she said faintly. Then she said, “I’m a silly old woman. If only I’d asked for help before.”
“He probably terrorized you. What were you about to get involved with a man like that?”
“I didn’t know he was a man like that,” she snapped, all her old crustiness returning.
“Like I said, I lived on a farm near Oban with my parents, well, just outside Oban that is. He stopped by one day on his motorcycle. He wanted to know if we did bed-and-breakfast. My mother said, yes, even though we didn’t have a sign on the road. She usually only catered for a few regulars who came year after year. He said he would book in for two nights.” Her silver eyes grew dreamy as she seemed to look down some long tunnel into a bright past where life had still been innocent.
