by M C Beaton
Everyone cheered. Annie graciously waved a white-gloved hand. She was helped down from the platform and back onto the float. Her throne was carried up onto it. The pipe band struck up again and the float, pulled by a tractor, moved off.
“She’s off round the town,” said Hamish. “You stay here and I’ll follow and keep my eye on that tiara.”
Hamish loped off. Josie miserably watched him go. She had looked forward so much to spending the day with him. But she suddenly had work to do.
People who owned houses along the shore road leading into Braikie, and who had been unable to sell their properties because of the frequent flooding from the rising sea, were gathering in front of the platform, heckling Mr. Tarry. He was a plump, self-satisfied-looking banker.
The provost saw the arrival of his official Daimler on the road outside the field and, climbing down from the platform, he tried to ignore the crowd and make his way to it. “You listen tae me,” shouted one man, and, trying to stop him, grabbed him by the gold chain.
Josie sprang into action. She twisted the man’s arm up his back and dragged him to the side. “You are under arrest,” she said, “for attempting to steal the provost’s gold chain. Name?”
“Look, there’s a mistake. I chust wanted to stop him and get him to answer my questions.”
“Name?”
“Hugh Shaw.”
Josie charged him and then proceeded to handcuff him. She heard cries of “Get Hamish,” and “Whaur’s Macbeth?”
Hamish came running back into the field. A boy had sprinted after him and called him back.
Josie said, “This man, Hugh Shaw, tried to steal the provost’s gold chain.”
Hamish looked down at her wearily. He knew Hugh owned a bungalow on the shore road. “Were you just trying to get his attention, Hugh?” he asked.
“Aye, that I was, Hamish. Thon fat cat has bankrupted the town, and until that wall is built there’s no hope o’ getting my place sold.”
“Take the handcuffs off, McSween,” said Hamish.
“But-”
“Just do it!”
Red in the face, Josie unlocked the handcuffs. Hamish raised his voice. “Now listen here, all of you. The only way you’re going to get that wall built is to do something about it yourselves. There are out-o’-work bricklayers and dry-stone wallers amongst ye. We’ll work out some fund-raising scheme and build the damn thing ourselves.”
There was an excited murmur as the news spread back through the crowd. The local minister, Mr. Cluskie, mounted the platform and went to the microphone. He announced that Hamish Macbeth had come up with a very good idea to save the seawall. He said a meeting would be held in the church hall on the following evening to discuss ideas for the fund-raising. This was greeted with loud cheers. Then Hugh called for three cheers for Hamish Macbeth.
Josie stood off to the side. She was a small woman but she began to feel smaller and smaller, diminished, melting in the heat.
“The tiara!” exclaimed Hamish and set off at a run.
He knew that the tiara, when the procession reached the town hall, would be placed in a safe and replaced with a gold cardboard crown for the queen to wear for the rest of the day.
He jumped into the Land Rover and headed for the town hall in the centre. To his relief, Annie was being helped down from the float. The tiara was put back on the cushion, and Councillor Jamie Baxter took it off into the hall. Hamish followed.
“I just have to see it’s in the safe all right,” he said to Jamie’s back.
“Och, man, each year you worry and each year it’s fine. Sir Andrew Etherington’ll be down on the morrow to collect it as usual.”
Nonetheless, Hamish insisted on supervising the installation of the tiara in the town safe.
Then he returned to the fair and joined a miserable-looking Josie. After Hamish had run off, the crowd had shunned her as if she had the plague. “Let’s go over to the refreshment tent,” said Hamish. “We need to talk.”
Josie trailed after him. “Sit down,” ordered Hamish. “I’ll get some tea.”
He returned with a tray bearing a fat teapot, milk, sugar, mugs, and two sugar buns.
“Now,” he said, “you have to use your wits. You have to understand the local people. Where those bungalows are on the shore road was once considered a posh bit o’ the town. Then the sea rose and rose. They got flooded time after time. Times are hard and now the people who own these houses wonder if they’ll ever see their money back. A good seawall would stop the flooding. The houses could be repaired and be sellable again. Tempers are running high. They feel the provost and councillors have bankrupted the town. It should have been obvious to you that Hugh was just trying to stop the provost.”
“But he grabbed his chain! If that’s not theft then at least it’s assault.”
“Look here, I go out of my way not to give normally respectable people a criminal record.”
“What about targets?”
“I never bother about government targets. Do you want me to get like thae English-arresting wee kids for carrying water pistols and giving some child a criminal record for carrying a dangerous weapon, and all to meet targets?”
“But if you don’t get enough targets, you don’t get promotions!”
“I didn’t even want this promotion. I want to be left alone. Now drink your tea, and if you are not happy with the situation get back to Strathbane.”
One fat tear rolled down Josie’s hot cheek, followed by another.
“Oh, dinnae greet,” said Hamish, alarmed. “You’ll need to toughen up if you want to keep on being a policewoman. It’s not your fault. They’d love you in Strathbane for any arrest. Things are different up here.” He handed her a soot-stained handkerchief which he had used that morning to lift the lid of the stove. He had to keep the stove burning if he wanted hot water from the back boiler. He had an immersion heater on the hot water tank but he found it cheaper to use peat in the stove because peat was free. He had a peat bank up at the general grazing area.
Josie sniffed and wiped her face with a clean part of the handkerchief.
“Drink your tea and we’ll go out. Look as if you’re enjoying the fun of the fair and folks will forget all about it. That Annie Fleming must be about the most beautiful girl in the Highlands.”
“Oh, really?” said Josie. “Didn’t look anything special to me.”
Josie thought hopefully that by enjoying the fun of the fair, Hamish meant they should go on some of the rides together, but he ordered her to police the left-hand side of the fair while he took the right.
It was a long hot day. Josie had set her hair early in the morning but it was crushed under her hat, and trickles of sweat were running down her face. By evening, when Hamish briefly joined her, she asked plaintively when they could pack up.
“Not until the fair closes down,” said Hamish. “There’s sometimes a rough element in the evening.” And he strolled off, leaving Josie glaring after him.
By the time the fair began to close down at eleven in the evening, Josie was tired and all her romantic ideas about Hamish Macbeth had been sweated out of her system. He was an inconsiderate bully. He would never amount to anything. He was weird in the way that he shied away from making arrests.
She sat beside him in mutinous silence on the road back to Lochdubh, planning a trip to Strathbane on the Monday morning, turning over in her mind the best way to get a transfer back again.
“You may as well take the day off tomorrow” were Hamish’s last words that evening to her.
Hamish was outside the police station on the following Sunday morning, sawing wood, when he heard the shrill sound of the telephone ringing in the police office. He ran in and picked up the receiver. Jimmy Anderson was on the line. “You’d better get over to Braikie, Hamish. We’ll join you as soon as we can.”
“What’s up?”
“Sir Andrew Etherington collected thon tiara from the town hall first thing this morning. He was on the w
ay back to his home when there was a blast up ahead and a tree fell across the road. Four fellows he didn’t know appeared and said they’d move the tree if he’d sit tight. Now Sir Andrew gets out of the car to go and help. He gets back in his car and waves goodbye to those helpful men. He’s nearly at his home when he realises that the box wi’ the tiara is no longer on the seat beside him.”
Hamish scrambled into his uniform and then phoned Josie and said he’d be picking her up in a few moments. Josie complained that she was just out of the bath.
“Then take your car and follow me over,” said Hamish. “The tiara’s been stolen. Get on the road towards Crask. Take the north road out of Braikie and you’ll see my Land Rover. Some men got a tree to fall over the road, blocking Sir Andrew’s way, and when he got out to help them someone nicked the tiara.”
Hamish was cursing as he took the Braikie Road. Every year the safety of that tiara was his responsibility.
As he drove through Braikie and out on the north road, he slowed down until he saw a rowan tree lying by the side of the road. He stopped and got out.
He remembered that tree, for trees were scarce in Sutherland apart from the forestry plantations, and such as survived were miserable stunted little things bent over by the Sutherland gales. The rowan tree, however, had been a sturdy old one sheltered from the winds in the lee of a hill that overshadowed the road. The bottom of the trunk had been shattered by a blast. He went across to where the tree had once grown and studied the blackened ground. He guessed a charge of dynamite had been put at the base of the tree.
He straightened up as Josie’s car came speeding along the road. He flagged her down and said, “You wait here for the forensic boys. I’ll go on to the shooting box.”
The shooting box was a handsome Georgian building, square-built with a double staircase leading up to the front door.
Hamish knew that the front door was never used so he went round to one at the side of the building and knocked. A grisled old man, Tom Calley, who worked as a butler during the shooting season, answered the door. “It’s yourself, Hamish. A bad business.”
“I’d like to speak to Sir Andrew.”
“I’ll take you to him.”
“Has he got a shooting party here?”
“Not yet. The guests are due to arrive next week for the grouse. There’s just Sir Andrew and his son, Harry.”
“No other help but yourself?”
“A couple of lassies frae Braikie, Jeannie Macdonald and her sister Rosie.”
Hamish followed him up stone stairs to a square hall, where the mournful heads of shot animals looked down at him with glassy eyes.
Tom led the way across the hall and threw open the door to a comfortable drawing room, full of shabby furniture and lined with books.
Sir Andrew put down the newspaper he had been reading. He was a tall, thin man in his late fifties with a proud nose, thin mouth, and sparse brown hair. His son, Harry, was slumped in a chair opposite his father. Harry, in contrast, was short and plump, owlish looking with thick glasses.
“This is infuriating,” said Sir Andrew.
“Could you just describe to me exactly what happened?”
Sir Andrew went through his story again. When he had finished, Hamish said, “You don’t have much of a description of the men.”
“They were wearing those baseball caps with the peak like a duck’s bill pulled down over their faces. They all wore sort of working clothes, grey shirts and jeans.”
Hamish’s eyebrows rose. “All wearing the same type of clothes?”
“Well, yes.”
“What sort of accent?”
“ Highland, I suppose, although one sounded a bit Irish.”
“How Irish?”
“At one point he said, ‘Faith and begorrah, ’tis a black thing to happen on a fine day.’ ”
“You’re sure?”
“Would I make that up?”
Hamish glanced out of the corner of his eye at Harry. There was a certain rigid stillness about him.
“If you don’t mind, sir,” said Hamish, “I’d like to search the house.”
“You need a search warrant!” shouted Harry.
“Go ahead,” said Sir Andrew. “Pipe down, Harry.”
Detective Chief Inspector Blair arrived followed by the scenes of crimes operatives. Then Jimmy Anderson along with a van full of police officers arrived at the bombed tree.
“Where’s Macbeth?” demanded Blair.
“Gone to speak to Sir Andrew,” said Josie.
“He should ha’ waited for me.”
“I’ve remembered something, sir. It’s important.”
“Spit it out!”
“I went to a fortune-teller at the fair yesterday…”
“God gie me patience.”
“No, wait. She said something about a bang and flames.”
“Oh, she did, did she? I might ha’ known. Sodding Gypsies. I might ha’ known they’d be behind this.” Blair called everyone around him. “Get back to that fair. The caravans should still be there. Search every single one. Get it!”
Hamish met Tom in the hall. “Which is Harry’s room?” he whispered.
“Follow me.”
Up more old stone steps worn smooth with age. “This is it,” said Tom, opening a door.
The room was dominated by an old four-poster bed. On either side of the bed were side tables covered in paperbacks. There was an enormous wardrobe. Hamish opened it. It was of the old kind with room for hats, drawers for ties and shirts on one side, and space for hanging clothes on the other.
“I’ll leave you to it,” said Tom.
“You’d better stay,” said Hamish. “I might need you as a witness.”
As he searched the wardrobe, he turned over in his mind what he’d heard about Harry. He had a reputation of being a bit of a wastrel. His mother was dead and Sir Andrew was rumoured to be strict, always finding some job or other for his son and raging when Harry usually only survived a few weeks in each.
The wardrobe yielded nothing sinister. He turned and surveyed the room.
Then he dragged a hard-backed chair over to the wardrobe and stood on top of it, his long fingers searching behind the wooden pediment on top of the wardrobe.
He slowly dragged forward a black leather box.
Chapter Three
O Diamond! Diamond! Thou little knowest the mischief done!
– Sir Isaac Newton
Blair, originally from Glasgow, detested Gypsies even more than he detested highlanders. It was this, fuelled by his glee when Josie whispered to him that she wanted a transfer back to Strathbane and that Hamish Macbeth was useless, that caused him to make one of the biggest mistakes of his career.
He did not have search warrants but he ordered his men to search every caravan. The Gypsies howled their protests and then fell ominously silent. The reason for their silence was soon proved as no fewer than three lawyers, the sum total of the lawyers in Braikie, arrived, demanding to see the search warrants.
And as they were making their demands, Superintendent Daviot arrived on the scene.
Red-faced, Blair was just spluttering that it was a matter of urgency and that PC McSween had given them proof that the Gypsies were involved when Jimmy Anderson came hurrying up, clutching a mobile phone. “Hamish has just arrested Harry Etherington,” he said. “He found the tiara hidden in Harry’s room.”
Daviot stared at Blair and then at Josie. “You, Detective Chief Inspector Blair, and you, Josie McSween, are suspended from duty pending enquiries. Where is Macbeth now, Anderson?”
“Taking Harry to Strathbane.”
“I’ll go there directly. Blair, make your best apologies and get your men to put everything back neat and tidy just the way they found it. Who is the head man here?”
“Me,” said a small wrinkled man. “Tony McVey.”
“Mr. McVey, you have our deepest apologies.”
“Aye,” said McVey. “And your damp apologies are
not going to stop the lawsuit.” He turned on his heel and walked away.
Harry Etherington had pleaded with his father not to press charges. He said it was all a bit of a joke and he’d got some friends up from London to help him. Sir Andrew simply looked at Hamish coldly and said, “Do your duty, Officer.”
Hamish demanded the names and addresses of Harry’s friends and learned they were staying at a hotel over in Dornoch. He phoned the Dornoch police and told them to bring the men in. Then he took Harry off to Strathbane.
He put Harry in a cell at police headquarters, went into the detectives’ room, sat down at Jimmy’s computer, and began to type out his report.
He was still typing when Jimmy arrived. “Where’s His Nibs?” asked Jimmy.
“In the cells. Where were you?”
Jimmy explained what had happened and said that Blair and McSween had been suspended from duty pending a full investigation.
Blair marched past them into his office and slammed the door. Then Daviot appeared. “Come with me, Anderson,” he ordered, “and we will interview Hetherington. First of all, Macbeth, what happened?”
Patiently, Hamish explained about having Sir Andrew’s permission to search the house and how he had suspected Harry because of Harry’s bad reputation and because he had been sure he was lying. Also, he said, Sir Andrew’s description of the men-particularly the one with what had sounded a fake Irish accent-had alerted his suspicions. He said that the butler had been witness to him finding the tiara.
“Good work,” said Daviot. “Do you want to sit in on the interview?”
“Och, no,” said Hamish, not wanting to show any sign of ambition or desire to rise in the ranks. “I’ll be off when I’ve finished this.”
Daviot’s temper was not helped because, before he could start the interview, Sir Andrew arrived and said he would not be pressing charges; he accepted that it had all been a joke. Harry’s four friends were to be charged with possession of dynamite, malicious damage to a tree, and obstructing the road, thereby endangering drivers, and bound over to appear at the sheriff’s court. Harry was charged not with the theft of the tiara but with conspiring to cause malicious damage and told he would be expected to appear in court as well.
