by M C Beaton
She eyed Hamish up and down and then said, “Who’s dead?”
“No one,” said Hamish.
“Pity. My aunt Agnes is due to push up the daisies any day now and I am in her will. So what is it?”
“The fox.”
She gave a bleating laugh. She is so like a sheep, thought Hamish.
“My dear Foxy,” she said.
“You’ve been seen feeding the beast.”
“So what?”
“So this, madam,” said Hamish sternly. “Forget about your children’s stories and Aesop’s Fables. Foxes are simply vermin like rats, but with one difference. It’s the only animal I know that kills for pleasure. There are plenty of crofters in the Highlands who have found their newborn lambs with their throats ripped out and left to die. I am sure you want to settle in here and live peacefully with your neighbours. But if you continue to feed that wretched beast, God knows what will happen to you. One thing I am sure of, there will be a campaign to drive you out.”
“I have a bond with Foxy,” she said. “I am close to nature.”
Was she mad? Hamish looked at her curiously. “You did know, when you bought this cottage, that there had been a murder here?”
“Of course. I got it for a very low price. Useful thing, murders.” She laughed again, this time revealing large white teeth.
“I am warning you for the last time,” said Hamish. “Stop feeding that fox!”
She slammed the door in his face.
As he drove back to Lochdubh, Hamish wondered whether to visit the Wright brothers to judge for himself whether they were afraid of anything. He decided to call on them. The funeral parlour was in Strathbane itself, the crematorium being situated outside the town.
A secretary ushered him into Mr. Kenneth Wright’s office.
“What brings you here, Mr. Macbeth?” asked Kenneth.
He was wearing funereal black which accentuated the whiteness of his old face.
“Just this and that,” said Hamish. “Mind if I sit down?”
Without waiting for a reply, he pulled forward a chair opposite Kenneth’s desk. The walls of the little office were covered in photographs of funerals dating back to Edwardian times. The large mahogany desk boasted an antique silver-and-crystal inkwell. Sunlight shone through the dusty window above Kenneth’s head onto the inkwell and sent harlequin sparkles of light across the desk.
“Would you care for some tea?” asked Kenneth as he raised a fine bone china cup to his purplish lips.
“I just wondered if anyone was frightening you,” said Hamish bluntly.
Kenneth dropped the cup. It shattered and a pool of tea spread across the desk. He called, “Etty!” and the secretary came rushing in.
“Please clear this mess up, Etty,” said Kenneth. “I am afraid I am very clumsy.”
Hamish and Kenneth waited in silence while Etty mopped up the spilled tea with paper towels and then carefully gathered up the pieces of broken china.
“Will youse both be wanting tea?” asked Etty. She turned to Hamish. “Mr. Kenneth aye likes his lappysiching but I’ve got Tetley’s.”
“Mr. Macbeth is just leaving,” said Kenneth.
“You haven’t answered my question,” said Hamish.
“Because it was a ridiculous question,” said Kenneth. His shoulders were hunched and his head seemed to have shrunk down into his shirt.
“If it was a ridiculous question,” said Hamish, “why are you afraid to answer it?”
“Show him out!” shouted Kenneth.
Etty was a small, plump girl with a round face. In the front of the funeral parlour, she threw the trash from the broken cup and spilled tea into a wastebasket and looked anxiously up at Hamish.
“Don’t pay any heed to the auld man. He’s aye flying aff the handle these days.”
“Have you been working here long?”
“No, just the past few months,” said Etty. “Afore me, it was some fellow, but he left to get a job in Glasgow. Cannae bring his name tae mind.”
“Etty!” came Kenneth’s voice.
“Gotta go,” said Etty. “See ya.”
Hamish drove slowly back to Lochdubh. He knew a retired locksmith who had previously skirted around the edges of the law. Perhaps he would visit him the next day and see if he could get a copy of Scully’s keys. There might be something in the crematorium which might give him a clue.
At the police station, Hamish was preparing his evening meal and tried not to miss Dick, who would have had dinner ready for him, the fire would have been lit in the living room, and they could have watched television together.
He fried two venison burgers and ate them with boiled potatoes washed down with a glass of water.
He had just finished when the phone rang. It was Dick.
“Are you getting on all right?” asked Dick. “No breakthrough?”
“Nothing. Although the funeral directors, the Wright brothers, seem scared about something. Gaunt used their crematorium for funerals.”
“Well, if you need a break, come up here and we’ll cook you a grand dinner.”
Hamish had just rung off when someone knocked at the kitchen door. For a brief moment he forgot his pets were with Dick and looked to see if there was any warning reaction from them.
He opened the door to find Jimmy there.
“Man, you are in deep doo,” said Jimmy, striding into the kitchen. “Got any whisky?”
Hamish immediately thought his idea of acting as bait had reached Strathbane. He put a bottle of whisky on the table and a glass. “What’s up?” he asked.
“A mass demonstration in Strathbane the morrow by the Highlands and Islands Furry Friends Society.”
“What’s that got to do wi’ me?”
“There’s some mad biddy up at Cromish claiming you were howling about death to all foxes.”
“Oh, for heffen’s sakes,” said Hamish exasperated. “There’s this woman, Sam Trent, who’s been feeding a fox and making a pet of it. So all the crofters round about are furious. A number of them probably lost lambs to this beast.”
“Blair is making the most of it, oiling around Daviot and saying if you had shown a bit o’ tact this wouldnae have happened.”
“It’ll all blow over,” said Hamish. “I’ve never heard of this society.”
“Well, you’ll get to see them. You’re to talk to the demonstration and say how sorry you are.”
“This is madness, Jimmy! I cannae do that.”
“Och, I’m sure that lot know bugger-all about foxes. Gie them a lecture.”
In Cromish, Sam sat drinking at her kitchen table. She had left the door to the garden open in the hope of seeing the fox. She looked at the vodka bottle in front of her. She could not believe she had drunk so much. Maybe just a glass more. Then she would have a bath because she had spilled some stew over herself while staggering around the stove.
Samantha reflected drunkenly that she should really get to bed early to prepare for the long drive to Strathbane, where she would lead the demonstration. She had found the Highlands and Islands Furry Friends Society on the Internet and had told them about the horrible fox-hating policeman. To her delight, she was informed of the demonstration. She was just planning what to wear when she suddenly fell asleep, lolling back in her chair, her mouth open.
The large dog fox she had been feeding slunk silently into the kitchen, drawn by the smell of stew. Some of the stew had spilled onto Samantha’s arm, and that arm was dangling near the floor, looking like a joint of meat.
It sank its teeth into that arm. The pain jerked Samantha awake. Terrified, she tried to beat the fox off. It wrenched a piece out of her arm and fled out the door.
Jimmy was just prepared to leave when the phone in the police station rang. Hamish went to answer it, saying over his shoulder, “You’d better wait in case it’s for you.”
He went into the office and closed the door.
When he came out, his face was grim.
“Wh
at’s up?” asked Jimmy.
“That fox has just bitten a chunk out of that silly woman. Tell Strathbane. Dr. Williams has just called. She’s been taken off to hospital in Strathbane. I’d better get down there and then do a report.”
“If I were you, Hamish, I’d get onto the website of those Furry Friends and tell them. That’ll kill that demo stone dead.”
“I hope so,” said Hamish. “But I call to mind a woman down in London who got bitten by an urban fox. The newspapers published her story. She got death threats from the animal libbers who seemed to think she had been cruel to the fox. Do you remember a few years ago when twin baby girls were left with arm and leg injuries after being attacked in their cots in their Hackney home? Then there was that poor wee baby boy, only four months, pulled from the sofa in his home by a fox and dragged out into the garden. He suffered injuries to his hand and face and a finger was almost severed. Mind you, that was London again where the townies will feed foxes.”
“And here endeth the first lesson,” said Jimmy. “Let’s get going.”
Chapter Eleven
Look here. Upon my soul you mustn’t come into the place saying you want to know, you know.
—Charles Dickens
“I hope she gets rabies shots, the silly cow,” said Jimmy as he and Hamish sat outside the hospital room where Samantha Trent lay, waiting for permission to speak to her.
“Shouldn’t think so,” said Hamish. “Foxes aren’t known to be rabid. The trouble wi’ foxes is they look right handsome and folk think of fairy stories and all that. If they looked like cockroaches, nobody would think twice of killing them. It’s survival of the cutest. I doubt if she’ll stay on in Cromish after all this.”
A doctor approached them. “Miss Trent is sedated but you can have a few words with her.”
“How is her arm?” asked Hamish.
“Badly damaged but the surgeons managed to save it.”
“You go in,” said Jimmy. “What are we wasting time on this silly woman for?”
Hamish entered the room where Samantha lay with her eyes closed, her arm thick with bandages.
She stared miserably at Hamish. “I’m going back to Edinburgh. This would never have happened in Edinburgh.”
“It might,” said Hamish. “There are urban foxes.”
A tear rolled down her cheek. Hamish dabbed it with a tissue. He felt a great wave of pity for her.
“Try to get some sleep,” he said. “Can I get you anything? Magazines or books?”
“A magazine, maybe.”
“A wildlife one?”
“No. Get me People’s Friend. I want to read silly romantic stories and forget about every damn animal on the planet.”
Hamish went out to join Jimmy. “Talk some sense into her?” asked Jimmy.
“I’m right sorry for her. Okay, she’s a daft romantic. But what would the world be without romantics? Where would some of the rarer species be today if folk didn’t care about them? I’m off to get her a magazine.”
“And I’m off to my bed,” grumbled Jimmy. “What a waste of time!”
When Hamish returned to Samantha’s room, she had fallen asleep. He left the magazine beside the bed.
The following day was fine with a frisky wind. Hamish felt restless. Never before had he been left with so many unsolved murders. The Wright brothers were afraid. Their funeral parlour was in a busy street, but the crematorium was more isolated.
He drove over to Bonar Bridge where he knew former burglar Alex Cromarty lived. Alex was old now and bent over with gnarled arthritic hands, but he said if Hamish gave him an hour, he could make keys from the impressions.
His thoughts turned to Samantha. The far north of Scotland could come as a shock to incomers. A lot of people could not grasp the idea that the people in the Highlands were a different race from the lowlanders.
Certainly most were rightly famous for courtesy and hospitality. But there were the other types: malicious, petty, and vengeful.
The sky above was turning light grey and the wind was freshening. A storm was forecast.
He returned and collected the set of keys and paid for them.
As he approached the police station, he saw Christine Dalray standing outside. He mostly had seen her wearing her forensic whites, apart from that one date. But she was wearing high heels and a short skirt showing excellent legs.
“Can I help?” asked Hamish when he got down from the Land Rover.
“If it’s not too late, I thought I’d take you for lunch,” said Christine.
“That would be grand. Do you want to wait until I change?”
“No, you’re fine as you are.”
Hamish heard the phone in the police station ringing. “I’d better get that, Christine,” he said. “Won’t be long.”
It was Priscilla. “Where are you?” asked Hamish.
“London. How is everything?”
“Not very good.” Hamish suddenly wondered whether the police station phone was bugged. He said, “I’ve just found out where the loot the murderer has hidden is stashed.”
“Where?”
“I cannae tell ye over the phone,” said Hamish. “I’m keeping the news to myself for the moment. I want to score one over Blair.”
“I’ll be coming up next week,” said Priscilla. “Maybe we’ll have dinner together.”
“Let me know when you arrive.”
Hamish rang off and went out to join Christine. “Where are your pets?” she asked as they walked along the waterfront.
“Having a holiday wi’ Dick.”
“Do you miss Dick?”
“I’ve got used to my own company again,” said Hamish.
In the restaurant, Willie Lamont fussed about them, finding a table at the window.
“So is there any news at all?” asked Christine.
“Not a thing,” said Hamish gloomily.
Priscilla, too, was having lunch. Paul Dubois, the attractive Frenchman who had stayed at the Tommel Castle Hotel, had phoned up to invite her.
When they were seated in Rules restaurant in Covent Garden, he talked about his wine business. Then he said, “There was news of awful murders when I was up north. Anyone found anything?”
“I just spoke to my friend, Hamish Macbeth, the local police sergeant. He’s playing at being the Lone Ranger again.”
“In what way?”
“Evidently the murderer or murderers had hidden something valuable. He’s found out where it is, but he’s not telling his bosses. He wants to produce it himself and get all the kudos.”
“Excuse me,” said Paul.
Priscilla waited for his return—and waited. But the handsome Frenchman never came back.
She returned to the office but could not settle down to her work. What did she know of Dubois? And why had he rushed off after she had told him about Hamish?
At last, she phoned Elspeth Grant and told her about her broken lunch date and about Hamish saying that he knew where the loot was stashed.
“He’ll get himself killed,” said Elspeth. “Strathbane will need to be told.”
“If I do that, he’ll never speak to me again,” said Priscilla. “Dubois was in London. What can he do?”
“He can get a plane to Inverness and drive like the clappers to Lochdubh,” said Elspeth. “I know. I’ll phone Dick.”
Hamish meanwhile was wondering what was up with him. Christine was attractive and intelligent, and yet he did not fancy her. He suddenly wanted the meal to be over and when Christine said it was her day off and they could spend the afternoon together, he said, “There’s a big storm coming up. You’d better leave for Strathbane or you might not get back.”
She looked disappointed, but when they left the restaurant and walked back to where she had parked her car, the wind was shrieking along the waterfront and choppy waves on the loch were crashing down on the shingle beach.
Hamish rather sadly watched her go. He decided that her lack of attraction for him was cause
d by the buildup of nerves he was feeling at the thought of breaking into the crematorium.
At one in the morning, he almost decided to call the whole thing off. The storm was raging in its fury. Thunder crashed overhead. But he realised that the storm was good cover. No one would be out on a night like this.
There are few trees in Sutherland, but two of them had managed to become uprooted and block the road to Strathbane and he had to bump the Land Rover round over the moor to get past them. Great buffets of wind tore at his vehicle, and lightning lit up the sky. It was as if the whole countryside was involved in a hellish dance.
Hamish parked at the back of the crematorium. Bending before the wind, he made it to the side door that Scully had used.
He opened the door and let himself in. He silently made his way to Kenneth Wright’s office. He searched through all the papers on and in the desk without finding anything incriminating.
He made his way to the coffin store. He searched coffin after coffin, his pencil torch flickering from one to the other. He stopped abruptly at one point. He sensed something. But he could not hear anything sinister because of the noise of the storm.
Scully was awakened from a peaceful sleep. The call was from a girl he had met in the rehab. “I was coming back frae a club in Inverness,” she said. “I saw a wee light in the crematorium. Maybe you’ve got burglars.”
“I’ll go and hae a look,” said Scully.
“Aren’t you going to call the police?”
“Aye. O’ course.”
But Scully had no intention of calling the police. That awful man Blair might turn up. Scully had met him before on one of the times he had been caught with drugs. Blair had punched him in the face.
He dressed hurriedly, got onto his scooter, and set off for the crematorium.
“He must be somewhere,” Dick was saying to Anka. “He’s not at the police station and the Land Rover’s gone.” Anka sat beside him, cradling a deer rifle. “Do you know how to use that?” asked Dick.
