Death of an Honest Man

by M C Beaton

  Nothing happened. The sun beat down. Hamish sat in the shade of the Land Rover and soon was asleep.

  The nights were still light, darkness being replaced by gloaming. A crack of gunshot and a screaming yowl jerked Hamish from his heavy sleep. Lugs let out a bark. A wild cat, blood pouring from its side, staggered into the road and fell down.

  Sonsie!

  Hamish made up his mind. Whoever had done this could wait. He must try to save Sonsie’s life. That meant getting the cat back to Lochdubh because anywhere nearer they would simply take her away.

  With feverish fingers, he prised open the lid of the medical kit. He injected the cat with morphine and put her on a saline drip after he had bound up the wound. Then he sped out of Ardnamurchan and as soon as he hit the road, he put on the siren and the blue lights.

  A crowd of villagers gathered outside the police station. They watched as Dr. Brodie rushed in with his medical bag, followed later by the vet, Peter Abraham. “Sonsie,” the crowd whispered. Mr. Patel came out with candles and the villagers started a vigil, Mr. Wellington at one point leading them in prayer.

  At four in the morning, a gold disk of sun rose over the pine trees on the far shore and the birds began to sing.

  At last Angela Brodie came hurrying along with a hospital trolley. Slowly the police station door finally opened and the cat with tubes attached to it was solemnly wheeled up the road to the vet’s surgery, the candles flickering in the dawn breeze. Someone started a weird high-pitched highland Gaelic lament, and Hamish gave a superstitious shiver and began to pray as he had never prayed before. The villagers had covered up the fact that Hamish kept a wild cat before and they were determined no one should find out that Sonsie was back again.

  The younger members often laughed at the old ones for their belief that people came back as seals, but deep in all their superstitious souls was the feeling that Sonsie used to be someone, someone special. Hamish was only vaguely aware that George, Colonel Halburton-Smythe, had joined the watchers.

  The colonel was lonely without Charlie. Because his fortune had come from his father’s shops, he had become a snob. He had married into the untitled aristocracy, but always he could feel that everyone knew of his common background. He could not sleep that night and saw his manager about to leave the hotel to join the vigil and, hearing about it, suddenly decided to go as well. That’s what Charlie would have done.

  Outside the surgery, after the cat had been wheeled inside, Mrs. Wellington boomed out that Mr. Patel would supply tea and breakfast at the church hall, everybody welcome. And somehow the colonel became part of it all, drinking tea, eating bacon baps, and listening to the soft voices of the villagers, feeling part of something at last.

  * * *

  When Hamish emerged, Angela Brodie went up to him and hugged his lanky figure. “Come home with me,” she said.

  “How is she?” asked Archie Maclean.

  “Awfy bad,” mumbled Hamish, and a long sigh went from mouth to mouth, like the wind crossing a wheat field.

  * * *

  Hamish was drinking tea laced with whisky when the doctor came in. “You’ve one bit of luck, Hamish,” he said. “They used a rifle and not a shotgun. A shotgun would have blasted Sonsie out of this world. She’s a rare big cat. If the rangers were out, they’ll wonder what you were doing running away from the sound of a shot. We just have to hope they didn’t see you take the cat.”

  “They didn’t. I’ll say I was chasing the men but the fact is I thought if I didn’t get some help quick for Sonsie, she’d die.”

  “Go home to bed, man. There’s nothing more you can do.”

  * * *

  The next day, as the cat seemed to hover between life and death, Hamish decided to visit Blair. Jimmy had phoned and said Blair was still demanding to see him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  There’s one way to find out if a man is honest: ask him; if he says yes, you know he’s crooked.

  —Mark Twain

  Hamish headed for police headquarters, Jimmy having explained that the detective had been transferred from the hospital to a police cell. He felt weary after the worry and the long night’s vigil. He expected Blair to be ranting and raving, but it was a subdued man he almost didn’t recognise who rose to greet him when Hamish was ushered into the cell.

  Usually Blair was flushed and florid but his time off the booze had thinned his face and brought back some of its natural colour. “You’ve got tae help me, Macbeth,” he said.

  “That’s what’s puzzling me,” said Hamish. “Why me?”

  “Because you know I didnae do it. The rest are glad it’s all sewn up and me with it. Aye. Sewn up is the word because Daviot’s getting a psychiatrist to say I’m off ma trolley so I’ll soon be in a straitjacket.”

  “Okay. But I want your promise that in the future, you will do nothing to harm me.”

  “You got it. I’ll even put it in writing.”

  “Right. Let’s go back to the beginning. You find out English has complained about me and you see a way of me getting it in the neck so you rush over to Lochdubh. Go on from there.”

  “The phone box is empty. I’m right puzzled because he’d said on the phone you’d put the cuffs on him. I hadnae passed a soul on the road. Then I thocht that the bastard had phoned a pal and gone off, like, so I went hame.”

  “So now we come to the sword. Someone would have to have got into your apartment to put it there. Any sign of forced entry?”

  Blair shook his head like a bull being tormented by flies.

  “Think, man. Did Mary have any odd callers? Strange postman? Anyone she would let inside the house?”

  “God knows I’ve asked her and asked her,” said Blair.

  “I think I’ll have a word wi’ her,” said Hamish. “You were on drugs. Right?”

  “Aye, and I’ll stick tae whisky in future. They drive you daft.”

  * * *

  Mary Blair had been crying and she had a black-and-blue bruise on one cheek. “Did he do that?” asked Hamish. And when she nodded, he said furiously, “Och, why do we bother wi’ the auld bastard. Let him rot in prison and give us all peace and quiet.”

  “But Hamish,” wailed Mary. “I’d be the wife of a murderer. He never saved a penny. I’d be back on the streets. I tried to talk to Mrs. Daviot but she let out a squawk and hung up on me.”

  “Okay. Was there anyone in the house? Anyone collecting for something?”

  “Some biddy from cancer research. But she wasn’t inside the house. I had a couple o’ pounds in my pocket and I put those in her collection box.”

  “Anyone else? Think!”

  “The usual. Like the man to read the electric meter.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Small. Blue overalls. Thick wee glasses. Grey hair.”

  “Voice?”

  “He didnae speak. Just took a note, nodded his head, and made for the door.”

  “Where is the electric meter?”

  “In the bedroom.”

  “In the…! Mary. He could be fake. He could ha’ slipped that sword under the mattress. This was after they had found your man’s funny drugs? So why did the police come back?”

  “Some phone call. A woman. Couldnae be traced.”

  “But you didn’t leave him alone? The electricity man.”

  “Just to answer the door to the cancer research woman.”

  Hamish groaned. “Don’t you see? Two of them could ha’ been in cahoots. He’s in the bedroom, she rings the bell. Takes a moment to slide that sword under the mattress.

  “So. When forensics came to do the search, who was the main guy?”

  “Don’t know their names. But Jimmy Anderson should know.”

  “I didn’t know he was actually here for the search.”

  “Aye, and a bit heartless he was. Kept saying I should be grateful to him for getting the old bastard banged up.”

  Hamish sat frowning. Jimmy had long coveted Blair’s job. Jimmy ha
ted Blair.

  Hamish told her he would be back and went to the forensic lab. As usual, they all looked hungover, there having been a shinty game the night before. Their team had lost and they had consoled themselves with large quantities of cider.

  Hamish asked if the result of the blood test on the sword had come through. “Oh. Yeah,” said a skinny, geeky-looking fellow in a white coat. “Pig’s blood. Always knew Blair had a good bit o’ the pig in him, haw, haw, haw.”

  Hamish stood, puzzled. Either the setting up of Blair for the murder was a malicious prank, or the real murderer was a panicked amateur.

  He slowly left the forensic laboratory and went in search of Jimmy. “Heard the news?” asked Hamish.

  “Aye, but Blair’s not off the hook. Questions still being asked. Why didn’t he report he had been there and so on? And about being on that wonky drug. The deal seems to be he’s heading back for the rehab for six weeks minimum. Oh, well, I’ll just need to be grateful for small mercies.”

  “Why has that horrible man still got his job?”

  “He crawls. He’s got it down tae a fine art. He should set up classes for crawling.”

  “If only we could find his phone,” said Hamish. “I mean English. He made a call from the pub to someone else. What about his fiancée? The minister?”

  “Nothing there. We checked.”

  * * *

  Hamish drove slowly back to Lochdubh. Summer had returned to the Highlands. When he got to the police station, he found Charlie and Annie waiting for him accompanied by the poodle, Sally. He took one look at their radiant faces and said, “When’s the great day going to be?”

  “Getting wed as soon as we can, and we’ve got a tidy wee bit o’ croft land in South Uist. Going to raise sheep. We’ve got a big caravan and a surprise for George.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We got a wee baby caravan for practically nothing. If George gets lonely, he can help on the croft. How’s Sonsie?”

  “Still somewhere between life and death. You can come to the games at Strathbiggie on Saturday. I’ve got to raise money to pay the vet and there’s a good prize for the hill run. Cheer me on. Come ben and have a coffee and I’ll tell ye all about Blair.”

  Over cups of coffee, Hamish told them about the planting of the sword and the pig’s blood.

  “We’ve only got two more weeks before we finish with the police for good,” said Charlie.

  “I’ll heave a sigh of relief when you’re gone. If Blair gets back on the drug or even the booze, I wouldn’t put it past him to come after you.”

  “Well, we’ll be on Uist by the time he gets out o’ rehab,” said Charlie cheerfully. “Och, Hamish, why don’t you chuck it all in as well? I mean, who cares about a scunner like Paul English. He’s insulted most of the Highlands, and anyone could have done it.”

  “I don’t like the idea of a murderer on my patch,” said Hamish. “Once they start, they often go on.”

  He walked out of the police station with them when they left. How simple love was if you were lucky enough to find the right woman, thought Hamish, watching the glow on Charlie’s face as he helped tall Annie into his car as if she were a fragile piece of china.

  He then visited the vet where Sonsie lay with tubes sprouting out of her body. Her eyes were closed. “She’s still in a coma,” said Peter Abraham. “You have to face up to it, Hamish. If she doesn’t come out of it soon, it would be better just to pull the plug.”

  “A bit longer,” said Hamish. “I’m trying for the hill run prize so I’ll be able to pay you.”

  “Aye, the news is round the village and they’re all going to be there to cheer you on. Good luck.”

  * * *

  Elspeth Grant arrived on Saturday to find the police station closed and the village largely deserted. Only Archie Maclean was there at the harbour to take a boatload of tourists round the loch as he augmented his fishing with tourism during the summer. He told Elspeth that Hamish had gone to try for the hill run prize so he would be able to pay the vet for Sonsie’s care. Elspeth often thought Hamish’s devotion to the cat bordered on the unhealthy but curiously, she asked the vet if she could see Sonsie.

  “He’ll need to make up his mind soon to end it,” said Peter.

  “Funny thing,” said Elspeth. “You would sometimes think Hamish was married to that cat. Is Hamish sure it is Sonsie?”

  “Sure as anything. Oh, there’s the door. Let yourself out.”

  Elspeth turned for a last look at the large wild cat. And as she looked, one slit of eye opened and shone with yellow malice.

  “Peter!” shouted Elspeth. “The cat’s awake!”

  The vet came running in. He bent over Sonsie and examined her. “No, it must have been a trick of the light,” he said, straightening up. “No change at all.”

  But Elspeth felt a superstitious frisson as she got in her car and headed for Strathbiggie.

  * * *

  Most of the village had turned out, even the Currie sisters. The prize was one thousand pounds and attracted runners from all over Britain. It was more like mountain running, being in part up the steep flanks of Ben Corm to near the summit. Most of the runners were defeated by this, being used to flat marathons.

  Hamish felt uneasy and wished he had trained for the run. Usually he made sure he was in peak condition. The weather could not have been better: sunshine and not a breath of wind. The heather was turning purple. The air was full of smells of candy floss, hot dogs, and car exhaust, and loud with noise from the usual fairground set up by the Gypsies.

  The gun was fired and they set off. Hamish realised dismally that he was not going to win. And then, standing up on a rise, he saw Elspeth holding a placard which said, CAT WOKE UP.

  Suddenly it seemed as if his legs had become like steel springs. He raced up the mountain as if jet-propelled followed by the hysterical cheers of the Lochdubh villagers. Then their noise faded and he seemed alone as he flew up over the mountain, plunging down the other side.

  Then back came the roar of the crowd and the finishing tape bright in front of him as he crashed through it and fell on the ground, his heart pumping. Elspeth heard someone say, “He ran like a man possessed,” and again felt that odd superstitious shudder. And who was that girl trying to wind herself around Hamish as he was led up to the judges’ table?

  “Get off, Alison,” Hamish was saying.

  “All that money,” cooed Alison Ford, putting on her best seductive pout. “You come along tonight and I’ll tell you something to solve yon murder.”

  “And I’ll book you right now for withholding evidence,” said Hamish.

  “I’ll deny the lot. Come along at eight o’clock and bring the champagne.”

  “Mr. Macbeth!” barked one of the judges. “We’re waiting.”

  Hamish accepted the prize money, held up the trophy, and then looked around for Alison Ford, but the nurse had disappeared. Probably just lying again, he thought. But she had seen Paul on the night he disappeared.

  Elspeth appeared at his elbow. “Well done, Hamish.”

  Hamish suddenly sank down onto the ground and put his head between his knees. “Feel a bit faint,” he mumbled. “Be all right in a minute. What’s this about Sonsie?”

  “When I was there, she opened one eye. The vet said I must have imagined it but I’m sure I didn’t. Let’s get you back to the station and you can have a rest.”

  * * *

  When Elspeth had made sure Hamish was tucked up in bed with Lugs beside him, she returned to the Tommel Castle Hotel in time to meet Charlie and Annie. She congratulated them on their engagement and admired Annie’s ring of gold and garnets. She said she was surprised they hadn’t gone to give Hamish a cheer.

  “We got there too late,” said Annie. “Headquarters is giving an engagement party for us tomorrow at three in the afternoon. Will you be able to come?”

  Elspeth felt that old superstitious fear. She felt she should hurry back to Glasgow and forget abo
ut Hamish and wild cats that did not look like Sonsie. But she nodded. “I’ll drop in. Then I’d better get off to Glasgow.”

  * * *

  Although not specifically invited, the villagers of Lochdubh hired a bus to take the old ones to the engagement party, the others following by car. Mild sunshine tamed the usually savage countryside, and the flanks of the tall mountains were purple with heather. Some of the villagers were clutching presents out of the “Hamish Macbeth cupboard,” having taken back presents when Hamish’s engagements had failed. None of them believed in what they thought was a mercenary idea of giving a store list and so it looked as if Charlie and Annie would have at least five crystal jam dishes and four toasters.

  The first person Hamish saw was Detective Chief Inspector Blair. He had thinned down and his normally groggy face was pale and his eyes clear. Really off the booze for once, thought Hamish. Trays of whisky were being carried around. Then the door opened and Charlie and Annie walked in. They were in civilian clothes. Annie had her fair hair tied in a loose knot on top of her head. Her large grey eyes looked luminous. She was wearing a low-cut white cotton blouse over a short blue linen skirt and high heels. A modern goddess, thought Hamish. And then he saw the way Blair was staring at her and experienced a shiver of fear. No policeman of any intelligence can serve any time in the Highlands of Scotland without knowing a good deal about drunks. Drunks, thought Hamish bitterly, did not fall in love, they fell into obsession.

  The look on Blair’s face was a mixture of adoration, longing, and hunger. That was until his eyes turned on Charlie and burned with savage jealousy and hate.

  He found Elspeth at his elbow. “Bad vibes, Hamish,” she whispered. “I think it’s the cat.”