Death of an Honest Man

by M C Beaton

  “Are you absolutely sure these forestry workers are in the clear?” asked Dick.

  “Yes, Silas cleared that lot up once and for all.”

  “English was stabbed with a broad blade like a sword,” said Dick. “Anything there?”

  “Not that can be found,” said Hamish. “You can still buy all sorts of swords at car boot sales and at auctions. Somewhere in these notes that I’ve been going over and over, there’s a weak spot. I swear there’s something I’m missing.”

  Anka came in carrying a tray of desserts. “You must try these,” she said. “It’s fresh strawberries, jelly and fresh cream, crushed meringue, and with just a dash of kümmel.”

  “This is delicious. But how much are you charging? Liqueur like kümmel is expensive.”

  “Not really. There’s less than half a teaspoon in each one. We charge quite a lot. Four pounds and fifty pence and yet they fly out of the shop. We’re going to take some goodies up to Larry at the hospital when he’s up to eating proper food again. I gather he’s still not up for questioning yet?”

  “Not that I’ve heard,” said Hamish. “I don’t think he’ll really be able to tell us anything. Some idiot of a nurse passed him earlier and said he was asleep and she didn’t like to wake him. He probably didn’t see a thing.”

  “What about forensics?”

  “Nothing. Wore gloves and, what’s more, wore some sort of forensic suit.”

  “Could be one of you lot. Blair still crazy?”

  “No. Clean and sober. But cracks are beginning to show. He’s determined to find the murderer and so he’s turned to his old methods of bullying people and getting into trouble. It won’t be long now before we get some heavy mob up from Glasgow.”

  * * *

  Reluctant as they were to leave the bakery, Hamish and Silas went out into the deserted evening streets of Braikie. “It seems a shame to spoil such a visit with work,” said Hamish. “Let’s go to the hospital and see if by some miracle any of the night staff remembers anything.”

  But although they diligently questioned everyone who had been on duty on both the nights—the first attempt on Alison’s life and then the successful one—there seemed to be nothing new. Silas reflected that this was what was known as real police work, grinding boredom, asking the same questions over and over again. No wonder they call us plods, he thought.

  “Yes, I know,” said Hamish, as if Silas had spoken his thought aloud. “But there’s nothing else to do but go over and go over until something breaks.”

  But when they returned to the station, there was something that drove every other thought out of Hamish’s mind. There was a message on the office phone from the vet: “Your cat has made a miracle recovery.”

  Leaving Silas behind, Hamish pounded along to the vet’s. “It’s a real miracle,” said Peter. The large cat was free of tubes and wide awake. It lazily regarded Hamish and gave a slow rumbling purr.

  “Never seen anything like it,” marvelled Peter. “But Hamish, I’ve treated Sonsie in the past and I swear this isn’t Sonsie.”

  “I know my own cat,” said Hamish, “and I’ll take her now.”

  He gently lifted the large cat. Its rumbling purrs reverberated through him.

  Lugs was waiting outside. “Here she is!” cried Hamish, but Lugs ran away, scampering in front of them until he reached the police station. When Hamish entered, Lugs was hiding under the kitchen table.

  “You silly dog,” said Hamish. “Don’t you even recognise your old friend?”

  Silas came out of the living room. The cat eyed him balefully and Silas felt a superstitious frisson of fear. “Glad you got your cat back, Hamish,” he said. “I’m just going to take a walk before bedtime.”

  Silas went out into the cool calm of the evening. He saw a gnarled little man wearing a tight tweed jacket, sitting on the harbour wall, rolling a cigarette.

  “Ower here, son,” he called. Silas went to join him. “I’m Archie Maclean,” he said. “You’re Hamish’s new copper?”

  “Yes, I’m Silas Dunbar.”

  “Was that Sonsie I saw him bringing home?”

  “His cat’s made some sort of miraculous recovery.”

  “I used to give Sonsie a bit o’ fish. I’ve nothing but coley and I don’t know how folk can eat that. We used to throw the damn things back. Now the fish-and-chip shops try to pass it off as cod.”

  “What’s up with it?”

  “Oily, that’s what. I was thinking o’ going to the pub. Fancy a wee dram?”

  Silas hesitated only a minute. One could do no harm. He would not admit to himself that the cat had scared him and that he was reluctant to return.

  He spent a pleasant time in the pub but then decided two drinks were enough. Somewhere at the back of his mind was a feeling that something important had been said and it was something he ought to tell Hamish. But Hamish had gone to bed, and no doubt the cat had gone with him. He went into his own bedroom after undressing and washing. He was just climbing in when the door was nudged open and Lugs came in and jumped up on the bed. “No you don’t,” said Silas, trying to push the dog off, but that was when he realised Lugs was trembling. “There, now,” said Silas. “You can stay. Did the cat frighten you?” He patted and hugged Lugs until the animal stretched out beside him on the bed, heaved a little sigh, and fell asleep.

  “Can’t blame you,” was Silas’s last remark. “That damn cat scares me as well.”

  * * *

  The following weekend, late in the evening, Priscilla Halburton-Smythe arrived at the hotel and found that Elspeth Grant was one of the guests. The two met in reception. “Been to see Hamish yet?” asked Priscilla. She had heard all the rumours about Hamish having had an affair with Elspeth but did not want to believe it.

  “Not yet. In fact, I was just on my way. I hear he’s got his wife back.”

  “What wife?”

  “Sonsie. I think he’s tied closer to that animal than to any woman.”

  “I’ll come with you,” said Priscilla. “I rather liked Sonsie. But isn’t it a bit late for a visit?”

  “If he’s asleep, the bedroom door will be closed and we can just walk away.”

  They entered quietly by the kitchen door. The bedroom door was open. “Must be in the living room,” said Elspeth.

  They stood in the doorway of the living room. Hamish was asleep on the sofa. On his lap was the large cat. As they stood at the entrance to the room, the cat slowly turned its large head, stretched up one large paw possessively on Hamish’s chest, and gave them both a yellow stare of such malignance that Elspeth gasped and drew Priscilla away.

  Outside, Elspeth, her odd silver eyes gleaming in the twilight, said, “I don’t know what Hamish brought in from the moor but it’s evil and it’s not Sonsie.”

  “You must tell him!” said Priscilla.

  “He won’t listen to me. The only thing that’s going to get rid of that creature is a silver bullet!”

  CHAPTER NINE

  I would like to be there, were it but to see the way the cat jumps.

  —Sir Walter Scott

  To Silas’s relief, Sonsie would not get into the police Land Rover. To go off with Hamish and Lugs, leaving that sinister beast behind, gave him a feeling of reprieve. There had initially been many visitors, but they soon found out that Hamish would not listen to any remarks about the cat not looking like Sonsie. Even his friend Angela Brodie said sadly to her husband that she thought Hamish was bewitched.

  Also to Silas’s relief, Blair had stopped calling, demanding results. So the days of cruising around Hamish’s extensive beat were relaxed and pleasant.

  One day when they had been fishing on the River Anstey and caught four trout, Hamish said, “Well, that’s one each and two for Sonsie. They are not getting much out of the loch these days, mostly things like mackerel and coley, and I cannae stand coley.”

  Something tugged at Silas’s memory. “I’ve got something!” he cried.

  “Doesna
e seem to be anything on your line,” said Hamish.

  “Not that! Mrs. Mackenzie. Don’t you remember? She said she had gone all the way to Strathbane because Harold, the fishmonger, had a special on coley. That’s how she got tickets for the raffle and won that television. But why go all that way and pay the expense of the bus fare to buy a type of fish that Archie might have given her for nothing?”

  “You mean, could the raffle have been rigged?”

  “Something like that.”

  “What are the reports on this sheik?”

  “Highly respectable. Bought Ferry Castle from the Urquhart family. Long name but shortened locally to Sheik Khalid al-Faher. Comes for the shooting every August but usually stays on until the end of the year. Contributes a lot to local charities. I see you’ve got a silver cup in your living room that you won at a clay pigeon shoot. Well, I saw in the paper that there’s one at the sheik’s this Saturday. Let’s see if there’s time to put your name down. See, he’ll probably award the prize, and if you win maybe you could be having a wee word.”

  “If he’s all that respectable, how could he have rigged the prize?”

  “I don’t know,” fretted Silas. “But we’ve got nothing else.”

  * * *

  They hurried back to the station. After various phone calls, they found there was still time to enter, but the fee was fifty-nine pounds, ninety-nine pence. “Why can’t they just say sixty pounds and be done with it,” complained Hamish. “Hey! Where’s Sonsie? Got some nice trout. Where are you?”

  But there was no sign of the cat. Hamish slumped down in an armchair and looked bleakly around. “Now what do I do?” he asked.

  “Just wait,” said Silas. “It’ll be back.”

  Before Saturday, Silas suggested that Hamish might like to get some practice in, but Hamish was afraid that if Sonsie came back the sound of his gun might frighten her away.

  * * *

  When they drove down to Ferry Castle on the Saturday, Hamish began to feel silly. It was all too far-fetched. It would have been cheaper to simply ask Mrs. Mackenzie about the peculiar lure of cheap coley and see if that made her look guilty. He brightened when he learned there was not only a trophy but a cash prize of one thousand pounds, for he still owed the vet money for Sonsie’s treatment, the money from the fund-raising having quickly disappeared. He glanced at the competition and recognised two crack shots up from Glasgow and began to wish he had practised.

  But when he started shooting, it seemed as if his eyes had never been so sharp or his aim so accurate.

  Silas joined in the loud cheers as Hamish went up to the rostrum to collect his prize. But it was being given by Lord Samson, an industrial bigwig, surrounded by the worthies of Strathbane. “I would have liked to thank the sheik himself,” said Hamish.

  “He’s down in London. He would have loved your performance. Never seen shooting like it.”

  “Now what?” asked Hamish when he joined Silas. “I cannae complain it’s been a waste o’ time, because I need the money.”

  “I remember now,” said Silas. “It was the kirk running the charity raffle. Probably that big Church of Scotland in Strathbane. My mother goes there. We’ll drop in on her. Maybe we might get Lugs a wee treat. He’s a grand dog.”

  “Funny how he and Sonsie used to be almost inseparable,” said Hamish.

  “Well, like I said, the general opinion in Lochdubh is that you want that cat so much to be Sonsie, you’ve become blind to the fact that it isn’t.”

  “Bad injuries and ill treatment change people’s characters,” protested Hamish. “Animals as well.”

  “But I found some photos o’ Sonsie. She looks a wee bit smaller and the markings are lighter.”

  “I’ll have a proper look when I get back,” said Hamish. “They say love is blind and I really do love that cat.”

  “That cat, whatever it is, is not lovable, sir. It scares the pants off me. Here we are. That wee bungalow.”

  It was a pebble-dashed building. The garden in front had been paved over and nothing planted. A fairly new Subaru was parked outside the front door.

  Mrs. Dunbar opened the door before they could ring the bell. She was a round woman with a dumpy figure wrapped in a cardigan and a long tweed skirt. Her face was round as well with faded-blue eyes and a button of a nose. Her hair was thin and wispy.

  “This is a treat,” she cried. “Come ben and I’ll put the kettle on.”

  Silas and Hamish followed into a small kitchen. “It’s like this,” said Hamish. “There was the grand prize of a big television set to be won in a raffle funded by the local sheik. Was there any chance that the lady who won it was told to buy tickets? That in some way she might have been selected?”

  “Oh, the kirk would never do that!” Mrs. Dunbar looked genuinely shocked. “But as my wee boy is a policeman now, I’d better hae a hard think.” She deftly tipped boiling water into a teapot and then proceeded to load a tray with all the things she considered necessary for afternoon tea.

  “I hope you are taking good care of my boy, Sergeant.”

  “Like a father,” said Hamish solemnly.

  “I must say I never thought that the police could be so caring. Thank you, Sergeant,” she added as Hamish relieved her of the heavy tray. “Follow me.”

  The living room contained the usual three-piece suite although this one was covered in frilly cushions and fake silk throws of an acid-pink colour. There was a copy of Landseer’s Stag at Bay over the empty fireplace and photos in silver frames of Silas at various ages on top of an upright piano. As instructed, Hamish put the tea tray down on a coffee table and they all sat around it.

  “The only thing,” said Mrs. Dunbar, “was about a month before the raffle was drawn, I was asked if I knew anyone worthy who deserved it. You know, a regular kirk member. I think the elders were beginning to be worried that such a prize should end up in the hands of some lowlife. I’ll give you the phone numbers of two of our elders and you can ask them. Now, fairy cakes, anyone?”

  * * *

  Once back in the police Land Rover, Hamish felt a little pang of guilt that Silas had brought two biscuits for Lugs. He felt he had been neglecting the dog for a long time. When he entered the police station, he knew immediately that the cat was missing. He had to admit to himself that when the cat was there, there was always an atmosphere of threat.

  He went up and down the village calling for the cat. He asked around but no one had seen it. He called at the vet’s but Peter had not seen the cat. “Tell me, Peter,” said Hamish, “did you ever think the cat might not be Sonsie?”

  “All the time. I tried to tell you, but you were so determined that cat was Sonsie, you wouldn’t listen. Don’t go rushing back to Ardnamurchan, Hamish. Sonsie’s in her proper place. And the other cat must have returned to the wild where it belongs.”

  Silas was surprised when Hamish showed every sign of pursuing the Mrs. Mackenzie angle. To even suggest the Church of Scotland had rigged the raffle amounted in his mind to sacrilege. The first elder he phoned, a Mr. Witherspoon, answered mildly enough that he had never been asked to suggest anyone and the idea was ridiculous. Such a great man as the sheik or any of his aides would not trouble themselves over fixing a raffle. The next elder, a Mr. Noble, immediately flew into a temper and threatened to report Hamish to his superiors. Hamish eventually managed to soothe him because any report to his superiors could mean Blair getting hold of this line of enquiry.

  There must be something in it, he thought. I mean, why would a woman go all the way to Strathbane to buy two cheap fish?

  Well, the simple way was just to go and ask her. Mr. Mackenzie answered the door to him and then stalked in front of him into her private parlour, where the large television set was showing the umpteenth episode of an Australian soap. “It’s only got a few minutes to go,” Mrs. Mackenzie shouted above the noise from the set. “You’ll have to wait.”

  Someone on the screen was in a coma in hospital. Hamish reflecte
d that when soap operas felt they were running out of plot, they always put one of their characters in a coma and someone at the bedside was always being told, “Do talk. She can hear you.”

  When it finished, Mrs. Mackenzie turned the sound down but left the picture on. Little coloured lights from the screen flickered across her thick glasses.

  “Why did you go all the way to Strathbane to buy coley?” asked Hamish. “I mean, it’s possible Archie would ha’ given you a couple for nothing, and Patel sells them cheap.”

  She turned and addressed the television set. “I just happened to be in Strathbane, that’s all. I often go on a Saturday.”

  “The buses are expensive these days.”

  “Not for me. I’m an old-age pensioner and I’ve got a free bus pass.”

  “You go to the kirk there rather than here?”

  “Not all of the time.”

  “Do you often buy raffle tickets?”

  “Why all these questions? If you must know, I was waiting for the bus when Mr. Alexander drove up and asked me if I would like a lift. I says, says I, ‘That would be real kind,’ because often the bus is late. He dropped me at the fishmonger’s shop and he says to me, ‘He’s selling raffle tickets. You should have a flutter.’ I was that amazed because Mr. Alexander is an elder o’ the kirk. Well, I didnae like just to ask which is why I bought the coley first. But Mr. Alexander fair urged me and he waited until I had bought the tickets.”

  Hamish studied her and Mrs. Mackenzie studied the floor. That was nearly the truth, thought Hamish, but there’s something she’s not telling me. On the wall was a piece of embroidery in a wooden frame bearing the legend HIS EYE IS ON THE SPARROW.

  Hamish pointed at it. “Believe that, do you? That he knows everything we say and do?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does he know when we are lying?”

  “What is this? Yes, if you must know.”