Death of a Nag hm-11

by M C Beaton

  “No, as far as I know, nothing’s going to happen to you,” said Hamish.

  “You’ve joined them,” she said. “You’re not one of us any more.”

  “It’s my job.” Hamish looked down at her ruefully. Maggie came into the dining room. “A car has arrived to take Mrs Harris to the police station.”

  Doris stood up. “Isn’t she even going to be allowed to eat?” demanded Andrew angrily. “I’m coming with you, Doris.”

  They went out together.

  “When you’re ready, Hamish,” said Maggie.

  “So that’s your policewoman,” said Miss Gunnery, looking older and shrivelled somehow. She said half to herself, “Sometimes I forget my age.”

  Hamish, sad and somehow still feeling guilty, was glad to get away from the atmosphere of the dining room and its smells of bad food.

  “I feel like a traitor,” he said as he and Maggie walked out together.

  “All part of being in the police force,” said Maggie cheerfully. She was pleased. Deacon had told her that as Hamish Macbeth obviously fancied her – having jumped to the idea that the only interest Hamish could have in the young policewoman was carnal – she should stick close to him because, “Macbeth is going to find out what he can for us, but I don’t want him hiding any evidence.”

  Maggie drove competently along the road to Dungarton. White sand whirled and danced in the sidelights. It never got dark enough on these northern summer evenings to put the full lights on. “I’ll be glad when this is over,” said Maggie. “I’m beginning to feel I’m getting sand-blasted. The wretched stuff gets everywhere as well. What on earth brought you to a place like Skag for a holiday, Hamish?”

  “I wanted a break,” said Hamish. “It looked a pretty place in a magazine someone gave me. And it was cheap. You know a policeman’s pay doesn’t go very far. I feel now I should ha’ been more adventurous, gone to a bucket-shop travel agency and risked one of those Spanish holidays and hoped they’d got around to building the hotel before I got there.”

  “I went on one of those last year,” said Maggie. “It was very good, and at least you know you’ve got a chance of fine weather. Mind you, it seemed odd to be all the way down in the south of Spain and surrounded by British. I don’t think I met any Spanish apart from the staff at the hotel.”

  “To get back to the case,” said Hamish, “why are they pulling Doris in again?”

  “Did you tell them about her going towards Skag when she said she went the other way?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that’s no doubt why they want to see her. But little Heather swears she saw Doris where she said she was.”

  “In order to see Doris,” said Hamish slowly, “she would need to have wandered away from her parents – sorry, you’ll find out if you don’t know already that Dermott and June aren’t married – but they both seem devoted to the children and I can’t see either of them letting young Heather wander off by herself.”

  “I heard about Dermott. They’re checking into his background. Has his name appeared in the press yet?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t see all the newspapers. It’s a shame,” he added. “I can’t help hoping it works out all right for them.”

  “It won’t work out all right if he’s guilty of bumping off Harris to shut his mouth.”

  They drove the rest of the way in silence until she pulled up outside an Indian restaurant in Dungarton. “I hope you like curry,” said Maggie as they walked up the restaurant steps together.

  “Anything’s going to taste marvellous after the cooking at The Friendly House.”

  As they ate, Hamish looked about the crowded restaurant. He never ceased to marvel at these Asians who came all the way to the north of Scotland to start a business, so very far from home. And thank God for that, he thought, as he ate his way steadily through a delicious lamb curry.

  “I’d like to find out where Rogers gets his supplies from,” he said as he finally pushed his empty plate away.

  “Maybe he’s just a bad cook,” volunteered Maggie.

  “No, there’s more to it than that. That meat tonight was bad.”

  “I think we’re concentrating on too many suspects.” Maggie looked at him seriously. “I think it was the wife. I mean, it usually is. No one else had any reason to kill him.”

  “It wass an act of rage.” Hamish’s voice, sibilant again, showed he was becoming upset. “It could have been any one of them.”

  Maggie’s voice was gentle. “I know you don’t want it to be her.”

  “Aye, that’s a fact. But concentrating solely on Doris might make us miss someone else.” He fell silent as his mind ranged over the possibilities. He saw Tracey and Cheryl, giggling and laughing, coming across Bob Harris at the edge of the jetty and deciding on impulse to commit the murder they had so recently talked about committing for ‘kicks’.

  Then the picture faded to be replaced by one of Dermott, having left his ‘family’ on the beach, creeping forward with a piece of driftwood in his hand. After that came a bright image of Miss Gunnery whacking Harris on the head as efficiently as she would have whacked a pupil with a ruler in the old days of teaching. But that picture was immediately replaced by one of Doris again, a Doris driven mad with years of bullying and abuse.

  “I haven’t got down to questioning any of them properly,” said Hamish. “I’ll start tomorrow. What about you? Tell me about yourself. How long have you been in the police force?”

  “Two years. I was teaching infants before then and I wanted a bit of excitement. It hasn’t been all that exciting. Not what I expected. In these days of female equality, I didn’t expect to be treated as some sort of servant by the men.”

  “You’re young and attractive,” said Hamish cynically. “By the time this job has eaten into you, you’ll begin to look like a hard old bat and then they won’t even know the difference.”

  She raised her glass of wine. “I’ll drink to that. Why are you in the police force, Hamish?”

  “It suits me fine. It wass getting the police station at Lochdubh. Man, it’s a lovely village.” He felt a sharp pang of homesickness. “The people are nice and it’s a gentle life.” He temporarily forgot about all the animosity against him. His eyes grew dreamy. “Often when I hae a break, I chust stay at home in the police station, go fishing, and I’ve got a bit o’ croft land up the back and some hens and ducks. We’ve had the murder or two, but, och, everything worked out chust fine.”

  “I’d like to see Lochdubh,” said Maggie.

  He smiled at her pert little face. “Maybe you can pay me a visit when this is all over.”

  “And do you think it will be?”

  “It’s got to be. There’s a murderer in the middle o’ us and I keep thinking that if we look at all the suspects the right way around, we’ll have him…or her.”

  “Tell me about some of your other cases,” Maggie said.

  Although Hamish was not much given to talking about his exploits, he found it a relief to talk about other cases, other murders, and forget about the present tragedy.

  It was nearly midnight when they finally left the restaurant and drove through the half-light. “Quite suddenly it changes,” said Hamish. “Soon the nights will be back again, and in the winter, there’s only a few hours of light during the day.” Outside the boarding-house, he thanked her for dinner. “My turn to take you out next time,” he said.

  “What about tomorrow night?” asked Maggie.

  “Aye, that would be fine, but I don’t know this area, so I’ll leave the choice of restaurant up to you.”

  She gave him a swift kiss on the cheek, and feeling more light-hearted than he had felt since the murder, Hamish got out of the car, waved good night and went into the boarding-house. He made his way upstairs, planning to give Towser a last walk.

  He unlocked the door of his bedroom and went inside. Towser lay stretched out on the bed. “Come on, lazybones,” called Hamish.

  The dog did no
t move. “Come on, old boy.” Hamish walked up to him. He put his hand on Towser’s rough coat and then went very still. Then he shook the dog.

  He suddenly withdrew his shaking hand, a great black wave of misery engulfing him.

  Towser was dead.

  ∨ Death of a Nag ∧

  5

  There is sorrow enough in the natural way

  From men and women to fill our day;

  But when we arecertain of sorrow in store,

  Why do we always arrange for more?

  Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware

  Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.

  —Rudyard Kipling

  Early the following morning, Maggie was summoned by Deacon.

  “I want you to get along to that boarding-house and get hold of Macbeth.”

  “Why, what’s happened?”

  “His dog’s dead.”

  Maggie stared. “Did someone kill it?”

  “The vet who was hauled out in the middle o’ the night says it’s natural causes. No autopsy necessary. The thing is, Macbeth wants to take the dead beastie back to Lochdubh to bury it. Did ye ever hear the like?”

  Maggie shifted uncomfortably. “He was probably fond of it. People get very fond of their pets.”

  “But he’s a policeman, lassie. And that wasnae even a police dog. Anyway, here’s what we want you to do. We’re giving you the day off. You’re to get along there and offer to drive him home. I’ve found he has a habit of playing his cards close to his chest and I want to know everything he thinks.”

  Maggie looked at him shrewdly. “So he’s as clever as that.”

  “Aye, so I’ve been hearing. I’m not going to make the mistake of his superior over at Strathbane of under-estimating him. A murder crosses Macbeth’s path and the murder is solved. But I don’t want tae end up wi’ egg all over my face because some visiting bobby’s solved a case instead o’ me. Get along wi’ you. And get out o’ that uniform first. Say it’s your day off.”

  “Yes, sir.” Maggie stood up, smoothing down her skirt. She did not feel anything for the loss of Hamish’s dog. She was pleased to be in favour with Deacon and she was looking forward to an unexpected day off. “Don’t you think that Miss Gunnery might already have offered to run him?”

  “If that’s the case, tell the old bat she’s wanted for further questioning and to stay put.”

  She drove home to Dungarton, scrambled out of her uniform and into a pretty summer dress with short sleeves and a low neckline. Then she set out for Skag again, taking the coast road which led straight to the boarding-house.

  They were all at breakfast when she walked into the dining room. The Brett children were sobbing. The death of Towser had affected them more than the murder. As she looked at Hamish’s grim and set face, Maggie experienced a qualm of conscience. But it did not last long. “I’m right sorry about your dog, Hamish,” she said. “I have the day off. They told me at the station that you wanted to go over to Lochdubh. I’ll be happy to drive you over.”

  “I’m taking Mr Macbeth,” said Miss Gunnery, her eyes glinting through her glasses.

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Miss Gunnery,” said Maggie. “You will be called on for further questioning.” She turned round and faced the rest of them. “That applies to the rest of you.”

  “Whit a holiday!” cried Cheryl. Doris turned a trifle pale and Andrew took her hand and stared defiantly at Maggie.

  “Oh, all right,” said Hamish ungraciously. “I’ll go and get the…body.”

  Maggie went out and waited in the hall. Hamish came down with Towser’s body wrapped in a tartan travelling rug which Miss Gunnery had given him. He nodded to Maggie. “Let’s go,” he said curtly.

  As they drove off, Maggie said tentatively, “I don’t want to distress you further, Hamish, with speculation, but is the vet sure it was a natural death?”

  “Yes.”

  “How old was Towser?”

  “Twelve.”

  “That’s a good age for a dog.”

  Hamish stared bleakly out of the window and did not reply.

  “Which way would you like to take?” asked Maggie. “The new bridge over to Dornoch?”

  “The Struie Pass and then Bonar Bridge, then Lairg.”

  “Right you are. I’ve never been to Sutherland before.”

  Hamish did not reply. Maggie switched on the radio. Moray Firth Radio sprang into life. The music of The Beatles filled the car.

  Correctly judging that Hamish did not want to talk, Maggie drove steadily ever westward. She looked at the sky ahead and began to wish that she had put a sweater in the car, or even a raincoat. When they reached the viewpoint on the Struie Pass, Hamish said, “That’s Sutherland.”

  Ahead of them lay range after range of mountains. The clouds above were cut by shafts of light, the kind William Blake has angels using as ladders. Maggie, not much given to sensitive feelings, none the less suppressed a little shiver. It was as if she were crossing the boundary into some weird savage land, so different from the tidy fields and towns of Fife, or the flat land around Dungarton in Moray. They stopped in Lairg for a bar lunch in the Sutherland Arms Hotel, hardly talking. Maggie was beginning to feel increasingly uncomfortable. She felt it was all a waste of time. Hamish, mourning his dead pet, was not going to talk about the case.

  As she drove deeper into Sutherland under the shadow of the pillared mountains along a one-track road leading to the coast, Maggie found her voice. “It looks as if it’s getting cold, Hamish. Can you lend me a sweater when we get there?”

  “Yes, I can find you something. No, don’t turn off. Go straight towards Lochinver and then take the coast road north.”

  “Far to go?”

  “Not far now,” said Hamish.

  The wind of Sutherland had begun to blow, rugging savagely at Maggie’s small car, roaring across the sky above, sending ragged clouds streaming out above their heads.

  She turned off at Lochinver and headed along a twisting coast road. The full force of the Atlantic thudded in on the rocky beach below the road. Weird twisted mountains reared up on the other side. A pair of buzzards cruised effortlessly on strong wings through the gale.

  “That looks a posh place,” commented Maggie as she drove past the wrought-iron gates leading to Tommel Castle Hotel.

  “Fairly pricey,” said Hamish, averting his eyes.

  The one-track road plunged downhill again.

  “Here’s Lochdubh,” said Hamish.

  Maggie drove over a picturesque humpbacked bridge. Lochdubh straggled along beside the sea loch of Lochdubh, whitewashed cottages, pretty gardens, a harbour with fishing boats riding at anchor on the choppy waves.

  He directed her to the police station and told her to park at the side. He was just tenderly lifting Towser’s dead body out of the back of the car when Mrs Wellington came bustling up.

  “So you’re back,” remarked the minister’s wife. Maggie saw a large tweedy woman with a heavy face, a heavy bust, and an efficient air about her.

  “I’ve come to bury my dog,” said Hamish flatly.

  “Oh, Hamish,” said Mrs Wellington weakly. “What happened?”

  “Chust died. Chust like that,” said Hamish. “I’m going to bury him up in the field at the back o’ the station.”

  “Now?”

  “In about an hour. This is Policewoman Maggie Donald. Miss Donald, Mrs Wellington, the minister’s wife.”

  Maggie held out her hand, but Mrs Wellington did not seem to see it. Her large features were puckered up in distress as she watched Hamish carry the tartan rug-covered bundle out of the car. She turned abruptly and marched away. Hamish walked up the side of the house, and holding the bundle in one arm, fished in his pocket for the key and unlocked the door.

  “I’ll make us some coffee,” said Maggie. Her voice sounded too bright and hard in her own ears. “Where’s the cooker?”

  “It’s that stove over there. I’ll light it in a min
ute.” Hamish walked through to the bedroom and laid Towser gently on the bed.

  He came back into the kitchen and handed Maggie a sweater which she gratefully pulled on. He took kindling and newspaper from a basket next to the stove and got to work. Then, when the stove was roaring away, he put the kettle on the top. “It won’t take long,” he said. “I’d better check my machine for messages.”

  He went off into the office part of the station. Maggie opened cupboard doors until she found the one with cups and a jar of instant coffee. “No milk,” she called.

  “There’s a box of powdered milk on the counter,” Hamish shouted back.

  When the kettle boiled, Maggie made a couple of mugs of coffee. Hamish reappeared and sat down heavily. “Nothing much to worry about on the machine,” he said. “It’s been nice and quiet. I phoned Sergeant Macgregor at Cnothan – him that’s covering for me – and he says nothing at all has been happening.”

  He pushed the cup of coffee away from him. “I think I’ll go up back and dig the grave. I cannae relax until this is over. No, you stay here,” he added quickly as Maggie rose to her feet. “There’s a television in the living room if you want to watch anything.”

  “All right,” said Maggie awkwardly.

  When he had gone, she carried her coffee-mug through to the living room and looked curiously around. There were a few battered chairs, a worn Wilton carpet, a bookshelf crammed with paperbacks, a stand full of sticks, crooks and fishing-rods, a good painting over the fireplace of a Highland scene, and a table at the window piled high with official papers and forms that had found their way from the cluttered office next door. There were some photographs on the mantelpiece. She studied them, cradling the cup in her hands. There was a family group, Hamish in the forefront, all of them with red hair like his. Then there was a photograph of Hamish standing on the waterfront beside a beautiful and elegant blonde. He had his arm around her and both looked radiantly happy. There was another of Hamish in a deck chair outside the police station, fast asleep.