by M C Beaton
Hamish retired to bed early. Once, more he felt gloomy. Once more he wished he had never come.
≡≡≡
The next day was a hell of low cloud and driving rain. House-bound, the guests idled about. Hamish began to read some of Jane’s magazines to pass the time. He found a serial in Women’s Home Journal that was extremely good and rifled through the back numbers until he had got the whole book and settled down comfortably to read.
“I’m going out for a walk,” called Jane. “Anyone coming?”
Diarmuid half-started to his feet but his wife pulled him back down. No one else moved.
“Then I’ll go myself,” said Jane. She was wearing a bright-yellow oilskin. She hesitated at the door and looked at John Wetherby. He grunted and picked up his newspaper and hid behind it.
Jane walked out.
The day dragged past. But at four in the afternoon, Hamish realised it was pitch-black outside and Jane had not returned.
“Where’s Jane?” he asked suddenly.
“Probably in the kitchen,” said John. He was now playing chess with Diarmuid.
“I’ll look,” said Harriet quickly.
She came back after about ten minutes. “She’s not in her room, and not in the kitchen, not anywhere. Her oilskin’s missing.”
Hamish got his own coat and made for the door. “Wait a bit,” called Harriet. “I’m coming with you.”
They collected torches from a ledge beside the door and made their way out into the howling gale. “Where would she go?” shouted Hamish.
“The beach,” said Harriet. “She usually walks on the beach when she’s on her own.”
They walked rapidly along the beach. The tide was coming in and great waves fanned out at their feet. Hamish was cursing himself. He had taken his duties too lightly. He should never have let her go off on her own. “You’d better take my hand,” he shouted at Harriet. “I don’t want you getting lost as well.”
Harriet had a warm, dry hand. Despite his anxiety, Hamish enjoyed the feel of it.
And then the wind dropped, just like that, as it sometimes does on the islands, with dramatic suddenness. There was no sound but the crashing of the waves.
They stopped and listened hard.
Harriet squeezed his hand urgently. “Listen! I heard something. A faint cry.”
“Probably a sheep.”
“Shhh!”
In the pause between one wave and the next, Hamish heard a faint call. It was coming from someplace in front of them. It could be a nocturnal seabird, but it had to be investigated. They walked slowly on, stopping and listening.
And then they heard it, a cry for help. Hamish swung the torch around and its powerful beam picked out a pillbox on a bluff above the beach, one of those pillboxes built out of concrete during the Second World War. Dragging Harriet after him, he ran towards it. “Jane!” he called.
“Here!” came the faint reply.
A door had been put on the pillbox, quite a modern door with a shining new bolt. Hamish jerked back the bolt and Jane Wetherby tumbled out. As Harriet comforted her, he shone the torch inside. It was full of old barrels and fishing nets and bits of machinery. Someone was using it as a storehouse.
He went back to Jane. “What happened?” he asked.
“I was walking along the beach and I saw the pillbox door open. It was the first time I had seen it open. It was a bit nosy of me, but I went to have a look inside. Nothing but nets and things. And then someone pushed me and I went flying inside and the door was slammed and bolted behind me. Those village children, no doubt.”
“Are you all right?” asked Harriet anxiously.
“Yes, fine. I wasn’t scared. I just didn’t want to spend the night in there. It was getting so cold.”
The night was bitter cold. Hamish walked back, worried. A less healthy and robust woman than Jane, locked up there and left for, say, twenty-four hours before she was found, might have died of exposure. “Who owns that pillbox, or rather, who uses it?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” said Jane.
Back at the health farm, and after Jane had answered all the guests’ questions, Hamish took her aside and said it was time he had a quiet talk with her, perhaps when the others had retired for the night…
“Come to my room,” said Jane.
Hamish eyed her nervously and scratched his red hair. “What about the kitchen?” he suggested, and Jane agreed. Twelve o’clock was decided on.
The guests retired early. Hamish lay reading more magazines until midnight. Then he left his room and went through to the kitchen. He pushed open the door.
Jane was standing by the table in the centre of the room. She was wearing a black, transparent nightie over a suspender belt and black stockings and very high-heeled black shoes. “Good evening, copper,” she said.
∨ Death of a Snob ∧
4
And sadly reflecting,
That a lover forsaken.
A new love may get,
But a neck when once broken
Can never be set.
—WILLIAM WALSH
Hamish stood in the doorway, his eyes averted. “I’ll chust wait here, Jane, while you go and put something on.”
“Oh, come on, Hamish,” she said breathily, and moved towards him.
“I’ll wait for you in the lounge,” said Hamish crossly. “Don’t you dare come near me until you make yourself decent.” And he stalked off, as stiffly as a cat.
Jane appeared in the lounge five minutes later. She had put on a housecoat that covered her from throat to heel. “Better?” she queried, tossing her hair.
“Much better,” said Hamish. “Now, lassie, chust you sit yerself down and tell me what on earth you were playing at.”
“Hamish Macbeth, I shouldn’t need to spell it out for you. A bit of fun.”
He shook his head in amazement. “That’s hardly the way to go about it. What would you have felt like in the morning?”
“Much better,” said Jane earnestly. “Sexual intercourse is a very healthy exercise and good for the skin.”
“So’s jogging. Jane, Jane, have you no feelings at all? Do you never feel rejection when a pass is turned down, shame when it isn’t?”
Jane looked at him in a puzzled way, one finger to her brow. Then her fece cleared. “Calvinism. That’s it!” she cried. “You have been brought up to have your mind warped by repressive religion.”
“And you haff been brought up to have your mind warped by women’s magazines. I thought all this free love was out of fashion anyway,” said Hamish wearily. “We’re not getting anywhere. I must tell you flat that when John told me about your affairs, I felt sick.”
“Which one in particular?” asked Jane curiously.
“Some truck-driver.”
“Oh, that. The fellow was as queer as a coot. I only brought him around to annoy John.”
“Why?”
“He kept accusing me of having loose morals and he hurt me by his constant criticism of what he called my dizzy mind, so I decided to get my revenge. The laugh is that I was faithful to him right up till the divorce.”
“Then why try to get me into bed?”
“Oh, well, I thought if I did that, there would be a certain something between us and John would notice…”
Her voice trailed away.
“I’m not going to discuss this any further,” said Hamish. “I am here to do a job and I didn’t do it very well by letting you wander off on your own. I’ll go into the village tomorrow and report it to the local policeman. I couldn’t phone tonight. The man would be drunk as usual. Have you any idea if it was a man or a woman who pushed you?”
Jane shook her head.
“The pillbox is quite near the hotel. Haven’t you seen anyone coming and going – using it?”
“Oh, yes,” said Jane, “some little man.”
“Description?”
Jane shrugged. “They all look the same to me, small and bitter and prematurely
old.”
“So you do know there’s a lot of hostility against you on this island? Why on earth do you stay amidst such hatred?”
“Hamish, I barely see them, and they’re cheerful enough when the health farm opens up to visitors because it means cleaning and serving jobs for the local women. They never did like me. There’s been a sort of intense hatred started up just recently.”
“The Bannerman woman?”
“I can’t see how she can have anything to do with it. She’s always been one of the women who’ve actually talked to me when I’ve gone into the village. Look, Hamish, I’ve made a success of this place. People who wouldn’t dream of going to a health farm in the home counties come up here. It has a romantic interest and I attract walkers and outdoor types as well as those who want to lose weight. I showed that ex-husband of mine I could do it and made him eat his words.”
“I’ll let you know how I get on with my investigations tomorrow,” said Hamish. “Goodnight.”
She threw him a look, half-mocking and half-appealing. One hand toyed with the long zip at the top of her housecoat and Hamish was frightened she meant to pull it down and fairly scampered from the room.
≡≡≡
The next day, he made his way towards the village. He had hoped Harriet might have wanted to accompany him, but that lady had gone out walking with Heather, of all people.
Once again, he came across Geordie and his truck stuck on the road, Geordie, Hamish had decided, staged these breakdowns for some mad reason of his own, and so he ignored Geordie’s meanings and waitings and offered to drive him: He had been unable to borrow Jane’s jeep because it was insured to cover only her driving.
The truck started amiably enough. “He likes you,” said Geordie, shaking his head. “An odd beast.”
“Forget about the truck,” said Hamish. “Who uses that pillbox on the beach?”
“Angus Macleod. Him and his son have a fishing boat. It wass the wan that brought yourselfs over.”
“Well, last night, someone pushed Mrs. Wetherby into that pillbox and bolted the door. She could have died of exposure.”
“Och, it’s all right,” said Geordie. “Angus wass in the bar last night and he wass saying he would let herself out at midnight when he had given her a rare fright.”
“I’ll be seeing Angus, then,” said Hamish grimly.
“Ye won’t be able to dae that. Himself took the boat out this morn.”
Hamish stopped the truck. Geordie screeched, “He dis-nae like tae be stopped for no reason at all.”
“Forget the truck. Listen. Do you hate Mrs. Wetherby?”
“Naw, I hivnae the time to hate anybody what with bringing the lobsters over frae the west and collecting the goods for people to deliver when the ferry comes in.”
“Well, she’s hated nonetheless. When did it start?”
“Och, nobody likes incomers, and the wimmen are fair scandalized with the leg show she puts on, but it must hae been recently they all started cursing and blinding. Don’t know what started it.”
“Well, I’ll find out.” Hamish turned the key in the ignition. Nothing happened, not even a choke. “I telt you he didnae liked to be stopped for no reason,” said Geordie patiently.
“I’m fed up wi’ your nonsense.” Hamish opened the door. “I’m walking.”
He slammed the door behind him and strode off down the road. “Comeback!” screeched Geordie’s voice. “He’s following you!”
Hamish turned around, and with a feeling of superstitious dread, he saw the truck rolling silently towards him. He stopped and the truck stopped beside him. He climbed in, checked the brakes, turned the key in the ignition, and the engine roared to life.
He drove silently into Skulag, vowing that once he had a bit of time, he would find a mechanic to check Geordie’s truck.
The police station was locked. Hamish leaned on the bell for a considerable time until at last the blear-eyed constable, still in his pyjamas, answered the door.
“And they call me lazy!” marvelled Hamish.
“What d’ye want?” growled Sandy.
“I want you to put on your uniform and go and charge Angus Macleod with assault.”
“He’s awa’.”
“Well, when he comes back.”
Sandy looked at him with contempt. “You mean, for pushing thon Wetherby woman into the pillbox? That’s naethin’s but mischief. Look, Macbeth, I’m no’ going tae arrest anyone. When I first got here, I arrested two o’ the fishermen for stealing the council’s wire wastebaskets off the jetty to use as lobster pots. The islanders gathered around the polis station calling for ma’ blood and I had to climb out on the roof and sit there most o’ the night. If you think I’m arresting Angus for a little bit o’ fun, think again.” He slammed the police station door in Hamish’s face.
Hamish strolled thoughtfully along the jetty. He could phone Strathbane and report Sandy, but he did not want to do that. There would be a full-scale inquiry and he, Hamish, would be made to look ridiculous. Besides, all the islanders, he was sure, would gang up and swear Angus had been with them all day. He saw one of the fishermen, and remembering Geordie’s truck, asked him if there was a mechanic on the island…
The man stood for a long time and then decided to reply. “There’s Bert Macleod down the village! He does the MOTs and things like that,” meaning the annual Ministry of Transport checks on all vehicles over three years old.
“And where does he live?”
“Opposite Mrs. Bannerman.”
Hamish walked along the village street, all too aware of the twitching curtains. Mrs. Bannerman was working in her patch of front garden. She saw him and scurried inside.
Opposite her house on the other side of the street was a cottage with a shed at the side, with the legend A. J. MACLEOD, MOTOR MECHANIC, above the door.
He went inside. There was a pair of legs in greasy overalls sticking out from under a car.
“A word with ye,” called Hamish.
The man wriggled out and scrambled to his feet. “Are you any relation to Angus Macleod?” asked Hamish.
“His brither,” said Bert sullenly.
“He’s in bad trouble. He’s assaulted Mrs. Wetherby.”
“It wis jist a joke and Sandy won’t be touching him.”
“No, but I’m a policeman, and if Sandy doesn’t do anything about it, I can report him to headquarters and he’ll be taken off the island and you’ll get a replacement who won’t put up wi’ your nonsense.”
Bert, a small man with weak eyes behind thick-lensed glasses, blinked up at Hamish. He jingled some change in his overall pocket and looked sly.
“We could aye come to an arrangement,” he said in a wheedling voice.
“Aye, maybe we could. Do you ken Geordie Mason, him wi’ the haunted truck?”
“O’ course.”
“Did the MOT, did you?”
“Last year. Naethin’ up wi’ it.”
Hamish looked at him cynically. He knew there were garages that would pass any old vehicle as being sound, provided the price was right.
“If you want me to leave Angus and Sandy alone, you’ll do this. Tell Geordie I’ve said there is something wrong wi’ his truck and get it in here and take it apart and make sure it’s sound.”
Bert pushed back a filthy cap and scratched his head. “It won’t mind that,” he said, “Geordie says it likes a bit of attention.”
“You’re all crazy,” said Hamish in disgust. “Just see to that truck.”
On the road back, he turned his mind to the problem of who could possibly have started the hatred for Jane Wetherby. Mrs. Bannerman? Someone from the health form? Did anyone from the health farm talk to the islanders? They had all been there two weeks before his own arrival, time enough to do damage. He would need to ask Harriet. The thought of Harriet Shaw cheered him immensely. The wind had dropped as he neared The Happy Wanderer, and snow began to fall in large feathery flakes. He stopped, amazed. He could
not ever remember having seen a white Christmas. Usually it snowed a bit before Christmas and a lot after Christmas. Perhaps this too would fade away before the twenty-fifth.
A Christmas atmosphere seemed to have fallen on Jane’s guests at last. They were all helping her trim a large synthetic tree in the lounge and hang decorations. Even John Wetherby was laughing as he stood on top of a ladder and tried to reach up to put the fairy on top of the tree…
When the tree was finished, Hamish took Jane aside and told her the result of his investigations. Jane clapped her hands in delight. To Hamish’s horror, she called out, “Listen, everybody! Isn’t Hamish clever? He went into Skulag and found out that it was Angus Macleod, a fisherman, who pushed me into that pillbox.”
John Wetherby slowly turned round. He had been bent over a box to start bringing out the tinsel and paper decorations with which to decorate the rest of the lounge and dining room. At Jane’s words he straightened up abruptly and swivelled to face Hamish.
“You reported this to the police, of course,” he said sharply.
“Of course,” said Hamish, dreading what was going to come next.
“Then why hasn’t the policeman been out here to take Jane’s statement?”
“Because Angus told everyone he only did it to give Jane a fright and that he was going to let her out at midnight. Sandy refused to charge him.”
“Well, he’ll bloody well have to charge him. All Jane has to do is make a complaint of assault and see he does his duty.”
“It’s not so easy,” said Hamish. “All the islanders will gang up and say that Angus was in their sight all day.”
“Forensic tests,” barked John.
“They wouldn’t get anywhere,” said Hamish wearily, “that is, if Strathbane even bothered to send anyone out here. Footprints? The tide’s been up as far as the entrance to the pillbox, not to mention the howling wind sweeping any marks clear. Fingerprints? Of course Angus’s would be on the bolt, for it’s where he stores his stuff.”
John Wetherby stared at him long and hard and then a smile curled his lips. “I’ve got it,” he said softly. “You’re a copper yourself. Not a private detective, not even a police detective. Who else, I ask you, would wear boots like that?”
