by M C Beaton
It was a still, calm autumn day without a breath of wind. A light grey sky stretched above them, and the waters of the loch were still and glassy. A scent of pine wafted over from the forest on the far shore. Looking back at Lochdubh, Hamish could see that most of the curtains in the windows of the cottages had been drawn closed as an old·fashioned mark of respect for Mrs. McClellan’s death.
“Do you believe in the afterlife, Elspeth?” asked Hamish.
“Yes, and if you’re worried about poor Mrs. McClellan, she’s happy now.”
“You believe that?”
“I know it.”
“How?”
“Just a feeling.”
“You and your feelings. I wish you had a feeling about the murderer.”
“You mean Felicity’s murderer?”
“Aye,”
“It’s someone I haven’t met yet.”
“Havers. You mean if you met the murderer, you could tell?”
“Probably.”
They had reached the middle of the loch. Hamish shipped the oars and studied her. “You really believe that, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do.”
“But why? Has it happened before?”
“Not with murder, no.”
Hamish shook his head in bewilderment. “Why are you so puzzled, Hamish?” she teased. “Some police forces employ psychics.”
“So you’re psychic?”
Elspeth shifted uneasily. She took off her fishing hat and ran her fingers through her thick brown hair. “I was just joking, Hamish.”
But Hamish thought that she really believed she could tell a murderer if she met one. And she had prophesied Crystal’s death.
Hamish unwound the line until the silver spinners drifted out over the water. Then he let the boat move along on the current. “Do you mind not talking for a bit, Elspeth?” he said. “I want to be quiet for a bit and think.”
“Okay, Sherlock.”
Lugs put his head on Elspeth’s lap and she stroked his ears. Hamish tried to think of the case but found his mind fairly empty. He really didn’t want to think of much more than the water and the sky and the peace of the loch around him. The water chuckled around the boat and a heron soared lazily overhead.
He found himself beginning to wish for the first time that he wasn’t a policeman. But crofting did not pay these days, he did not want to leave Lochdubh, so what else could he do? If only he had Johnny’s talent for making furniture. If he were not a policeman, and had just a little bit of money, then he could let the lazy days drift past like this.
There was a violent tug on the line and he began to reel it in, hand over hand, and then with a sudden jerk, he landed six mackerel. Elspeth quickly removed the hooks and killed the fish, and Hamish threw the line back in again. Another six and Lugs, leaping up and down, nearly fell into the water. “I think that’s enough,” said Hamish. “More would be greedy. We’ll give Archie some.”
“Just in time,” said Elspeth, looking down the loch in the direction of the sea. “Here comes the rain.”
Grey curtains of rain moved lazily towards them as Hamish began to row back. Soon they were drenched and Lochdubh was blotted from sight.
They were soaking and shivering when Hamish beached the boat and helped Elspeth and Lugs out. “Back to the station,” he said, “and we’ll get dried out.”
“What about Archie’s fish?”
“He can get them later. Come on.”
They scrambled up the beach and then up the steps to the harbour.
When they were in the police station, Hamish said, “Do you want to run home and get changed? Or there’s a dressing gown in the bedroom you can use.”
“I’ll use the dressing gown.”
“The water’s hot. I’ll run a bath for you.”
Hamish returned with a scarlet velvet dressing gown. It had the name Olivia embroidered on one pocket. “Who’s Olivia?” she asked.
“Sad story. Tell you sometime.”
While she was in the bath, Hamish dried himself and changed into clean clothes. He stoked up the stove in the kitchen and began to clean the mackerel. Then he lowered the old·fashioned pulley, as it used to be called, a wooden clothes rack, down from the ceiling and arranged his wet clothes on it. Elspeth emerged from the bathroom, carrying her wet clothes. “Where’s your tumble drier?” she asked.
“I don’t have one. Put them on this rack.”
“I’ve seen one of those in a museum recently,” said Elspeth. “My mother used to have one. She said all her clothes used to smell of cooking.”
“They are going to smell a bit fishy, but they’ll be dry soon,” said Hamish, hoisting the rack up to the ceiling. “Sit down and I’ll cook us some of these mackerel. I feel like a quiet, peaceful evening. No policing.”
Over in Strathbane, Detective Chief Inspector Carson felt weary. The results had come through from the lab. The hair that had been in the hat had belonged to Felicity Pearson. He picked up the phone to call Hamish and tell him the results and then decided to drive over to Lochdubh instead.
As he drove along the heathery one-track roads that led to the village of Lochdubh he felt he was leaving a rather nasty world behind him. The rain had eased off and stars were twinkling through a haze of cloud. As he parked outside the police station, he reflected that he should have phoned first. After all, the police station was also Hamish’s home.
But he had driven this far and was reluctant to turn back. He knocked at the door. Hamish opened it. He was wearing a flowery apron.
“It iss yourself,” he said pleasantly. “Would you like some fish? I was just about to cook some.”
Carson was about to refuse, to say he had come on police business, and then he saw a girl in a scarlet dressing gown. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m interrupting you.”
“Och, no, the pair of us got drenched. This is Elspeth Grant, our local reporter and astrologer. But she’s discreet and won’t go publishing anything you say. It’s going to be a bad night. Forecast’s terrible. Come along in.”
Carson took off his overcoat and hung it on a hook behind the door. He sat down at the kitchen table. Hamish placed a glass of whisky in front of him. “I’ll just be getting dinner,” said Hamish, “and then you can tell me your news.”
“I thought you would want to hear it right away.”
“I find,” said Hamish, taking down an enormous frying pan, “that a time away from police work clears the brain wonderfully.”
“You’ve been fishing,” accused Carson, half-exasperated, half-amused.
“Yes.”
Carson decided to wait until Hamish had finished cooking. The kitchen was warm and comfortable. Elspeth began to ask him how long he would be in Strathbane, and then, learning that he was from Inverness, told him about her upbringing there.
Hamish finally put fish in front of them and a bowl of potatoes, a bowl of oatmeal, and a large pat of butter. “You dip your potatoes in the oatmeal,” he said, “and then add a lump of butter. Wait a bit. Wine. I’ve got some white I won in a raffle. I’ll go out and get it.”
“Have you another fridge outside?” asked Elspeth.
“No, it’s in the henhouse.”
Hamish went out and reappeared after a few minutes with two bottles of wine.
“What is it?” asked Elspeth.
“That’s the pity of it. I’ve had it so long, the labels have fallen off. There was a leak in the roof of the hen house, right over where the wine was stacked, and by the time I repaired it, the bottles had got soaked.”
He opened one of the bottles. “It’s nice and cold anyway.”
He poured glasses all around. They sipped and guessed Chablis.
“I haven’t had fresh mackerel in ages,” said Carson. “They’re not the same fish when you buy them in the shop. Now, why I came is to tell you the lab result is through. That hair did come from Felicity Pearson’s head.”
“I thought it might,” said Hamish. “Listen to that w
ind. Up here, it rises out of nowhere. One minute it’s as calm as anything and the next it’s blowing a gale.”
“You don’t seem surprised by my news.”
“Och, no,” said Hamish. “I was sure she had done it. I wonder who did her.”
Carson was about to snap that it was Hamish’s job to find out, but the meal was delicious and he was filled with good food and lazy warmth. It was a private visit. Officialdom could wait.
“The thing that bothers me,” went on Hamish, dipping a potato in oatmeal, “is that not one of those people on the list had done anything really bad. I would have thought a murder not detected would have prompted someone to commit murder. Maisie Gough, her over in Cnothan, now she was accused of pinching the Mothers’ Union funds, but she had just forgotten she had given them to her friend for safekeeping. A verra respectable body she is and horrified and terrified by the television programme, but not a murderer. Then there is the woman at Bonar Bridge, accused of murdering her two bairns, but it was cot death, that’s all. The chip shop man was a wife beater, but he hasnae got a wife to beat at the moment and there’s an awful lot of wife beating goes on. Mrs. Harrison’s got two nasty sons but they’ve got alibis. And poor Mrs. McClellan, God rest her soul. I can’t think one of them did it. The only thing I can think of is checking up on Mrs. Swithers, the chip shop man’s wife, and see if she’s still all right. With your permission, I’ll get on to Inverness police station in the morning and find out if they’ve got an address for her. It’ll be a start.”
Hamish smiled at Elspeth. “Of course, our astrologer here might solve the case for us.”
“How’s that?” asked Carson.
Elspeth blushed and glared at Hamish.
Had Elspeth not looked so very attractive in that dressing gown, then Hamish would not have gone on. But she disturbed him. He was off women and he wanted to keep her at arm’s length.
“Oh, she says if she meets the murderer, she’ll be able to tell right away.”
“Do you believe that?” Carson asked seriously. “I mean, I have heard of psychics helping the police.”
“I was pulling Hamish’s leg,” said Elspeth crossly.
“And are you pair an item?” asked Carson.
“Oh, no,” said Elspeth sweetly. “I am never interested in philanderers. I mean, take this dressing gown and the name on it. Who’s Olivia and why do you have her dressing gown, Hamish, dear!”
“Olivia Chater was Detective Chief Inspector Chater from Glasgow,” said Hamish sadly. “She worked with me on a case. I had hoped we could get married but she went back to Glasgow.”
“Oh, I remember,” said Carson. “The poor woman died of cancer.”
Elspeth looked down at the table, suddenly feeling shabby.
“It’s difficult to pinpoint the exact time of Crystal’s death,” said Carson quickly, changing the subject. “We feel it could have been early in the morning and that would be before Felicity reached Lochdubh officially. You would think someone would have seen something. I thought in these villages they knew every time you changed your underwear.”
“Normally that’s the case,” said Hamish. “But that back road is not overlooked by any cottages. No one uses it much, except Willie Lament, who walks his dog there, and that morning he decided not to. But I’m thinking, what if someone did see something and was trying to blackmail her?”
“Possible,” said Carson, pushing his plate away. “You’re a grand cook.”
There came a knock at the door. Hamish opened it and found Archie Maclean there. “Come in, Archie. Too bad to go out tonight?”
“Aye,” said Archie, “and it’s going to get worse.”
“I’ve got some mackerel for you.”
“Thanks, Hamish. I didn’t come about that.”
“We’ll go through to the living room,” said Hamish. “This is Detective Chief Inspector Carson, Archie, and Elspeth, you know.”
They walked through to the living room. Hamish lit the fire and they settled in chairs around it while the increasing force of the wind beat against the windows.
“I’ve come because we’re planning to give Mrs. McClellan the grand send-off,” said Archie.
Again, there was a knock at the door. This time it was Mrs. Wellington and the Currie sisters.
Hamish took them into the living room and introduced them to Carson. “It’s about the funeral,” boomed Mrs. Wellington. She looked at Carson. “When will the body be released?”
“I should think next week. It seems a straightforward case of suicide.”
“Mr. McClellan is in no state to handle the arrangements, so we thought we would organise the food and drink at the church hall. The whole village will be going,” said Nessie.
“I’ll do what I can,” said Hamish.
“You’re to read the eulogy,” said Mrs. Wellington.
“I wasnae that close to her,” said Hamish, alarmed.
“No one really was,” said Mrs. Wellington, “and as a village policeman, it’s your duty. We’re all going to do our bit.”
Another knock at the door. This time Dr. Brodie and Angela; Willie Lamont and his wife, Lucia; and Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, Willie’s neighbours.
Hamish found more chairs. Carson was relaxed and amused as the villagers promptly seemed to forget the existence of Hamish and began to discuss funeral arrangements. Archie produced a bottle of whisky, the doctor another, and Willie another. Hamish fetched glasses. Drinks were poured all round. The talk moved from Mrs. McClellan’s suicide to village gossip. Archie went home and came back with his accordion. Soon they were all singing and clapping, and the drinks kept going round.
When at last they decided to go, Carson noticed with a shock that it was two in the morning and that he was unfit to drive. As the guests filed out, the Currie sisters took Elspeth to one side. “It’s a shame,” said Nessie. “Shame,” echoed Jessie. “Him parading you like that with hardly a stitch on,” said Nessie. “Get him to make a decent woman of ye.”
“We were fishing and I got wet,” said Elspeth desperately. “My clothes are drying in the kitchen.”
Nessie gave her a hug. “You get them on quick, lassie. No woman is safe with Hamish Macbeth around.”
When they had all left, Elspeth said, “I’d better change and get home.”
And Carson said, “I’m afraid I’m not fit to drive. Too much whisky.”
“You can have my bed. There’s a bed in the cell I can use.” There was one cell off the police office.
“Do you ever use that cell for criminals?” asked Carson.
“No, just for sobering up the occasional drunk.”
Hamish changed the sheets on his bed and then said to Elspeth, who had changed into her dry clothes, “I’d better walk you home. It’s a bad night.”
They headed out into the scream of the wind. The normally placid loch was full of pounding white horses, crashing on the shingly beach. He took hold of Elspeth’s arm as she swayed in a particularly vicious buffet of wind.
Then he stood outside the house where she had a flat. “I’m sorry I jeered at you in front of the boss,” he said. “But I’m off women at the moment.”
“And I’m sorry I asked about Olivia. Did you love her very much?”
“I don’t know now. Sometimes I think I just wanted to get married. But she was very special.”
“Never mind.” She put her arms round him and hugged him. He could feel the warmth of her body through her clothes. He bent his head to kiss her and then thought angrily, what on earth am I doing? and pulled away.
“Night,” he said gruffly, and, bending his head against the gale, he strode off down the waterfront.
ELEVEN
Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth
And ever changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?
—Percy Bysshe Shelley
Carson awoke the following morning and glanced at the alarm clock beside the bed. Ten o’clock! How could he have slept so long? He got out of bed and found that Hamish had washed and ironed his shirt and also washed and dried his underwear.
He washed and dressed and went through to the kitchen. There was no sign of Hamish. He then went into the police office and phoned headquarters to say that he would be in his office within the hour.
He heard the kitchen door open and went through. Hamish was wearing his flowered apron over his uniform. He grinned sheepishly. “I just had to fix the roof on the hen house again. Some damage from the wind last night.” He removed his apron and hung it on a hook. “Did you sleep well?”
“Very well, thank you,” said Carson. “I must be off. Are you going to Inverness?”
“With your permission, sir. I’ll phone first.”
“I’d like to attend that funeral,” said Carson.
“I’ll let you know the minute I get the date and time.”
As Carson approached Strathbane, he saw it spread out below him as he crested a hill and felt a sinking of his heart. It was a depressing, awful place. He could understand Hamish Macbeth not wanting to leave Lochdubh. He longed to be able to turn the wheel and go back there himself. But duty was duty. He drove on down into the city.
Hamish obtained an address for Ruby Swithers in Inverness. The police told him that two years ago she had taken an injunction out against her husband. She lived in a council house in an estate off the Beauly Road.
He wondered whether she would be at home or had gone out to work to support herself, but the prim little woman who answered the door confirmed that yes, she was Ruby Swithers and then asked eagerly, “Is he dead?”
“Your husband? No. Why should you think that?”
“It’s the drink. It’ll get him one day. Come in.”
He followed her into a pleasant living room. The furniture was old and had seen better days, but the upholstery was clean. The wallpaper was a noisy design of trellised roses and the carpet a screaming mixture of yellow and red, but it had an air of comfort. Cheery, thought Hamish, and what’s good taste anyway?
