by M C Beaton
Angela pushed a wisp of hair away from her thin face. “It’s not that, Hamish. It’s Clarry.”
“What about him?”
“Jessie overheard him in Patel’s on the evening Fergus disappeared threatening to kill him. Martha’s neighbours heard him before that threatening to kill Fergus. You’d better shut them up.”
“Like I told you, Clarry’s already been grilled by Blair and wonder upon wonders, he hasnae been arrested. And talking about shutting people up, I’d best go round to the Currie sisters.”
“What?” demanded Nessie Currie wrathfully. “Us gossiping? I thought it was too much to hope that a lazy loon like you might actually call to see how we were.”
“The situation is this,” said Hamish severely. “I sent Clarry up to Martha Macleod to look after her. If he wasn’t with her, he was with me.”
“Huh,” snorted Nessie, “and why would she need looking after?”
“This was afore the murder. Her husband had been beating her.”
“Beating her?” echoed Jessie. “But herself always said she was clumsy, was clumsy.”
“Well, he was beating her, and she’s a poor soul in need of friends. Angela Brodie’s getting some of the women together to help Martha clear out Fergus’s things.”
“And I suppose you want us to help?” demanded Nessie.
“It would be a Christian act.”
“But did I not hear Clarry Graham saying he would kill Fergus, would kill Fergus!” exclaimed Jessie.
“Come on. Half the village must have been heard saying they would kill Fergus.”
“And he was beating her?” said Nessie.
“That he was. Can you imagine what her life was like, ladies?”
“So she must be feeling glad that he’s dead.”
“Dead,” echoed her sister.
“It’ll be a long time afore she feels that way. She feels guilt, anger, remorse and fear. She’ll be worried sick about money.”
“She could get a job, get a job,” said Jessie.
“How? She’s got four young children.”
“Eileen, who works up at the Tommel Castle Hotel, told me she has an arrangement with the other workers. They work shifts, and the one that isn’t working at a specific time looks after the children of the others,” said Nessie.
“I’ll be looking into that. So you’ll help?”
“Yes,” said Nessie. “Only, if more women stayed unmarried like us, there’d be less grief in the world. And by the way, the new schoolteacher is arriving in a couple of days. I hope you’re not going to chase her like you did the last one.”
“Good evening,” said Hamish firmly, and made his escape.
♦
So Maisie, the previous schoolteacher, had decided not to come back. Hamish wondered what the new one would be like. Then he remembered Priscilla’s friend who would have arrived by now. He wished he had some lady friend to show Priscilla that he definitely did not care anymore who she invited or what she did.
But curiosity overcame him. He returned to the police station and got in the Land Rover. Before he switched on the engine, he heard Lugs scrabbling at the kitchen door. He sighed and got down from the Land Rover and opened the door. “Come on, boy,” he said. “I’ve been neglecting you.” When he straightened up after fastening a leash around the dog’s neck, he saw an empty plate on the kitchen table with a note beside it. It was from Clarry. “I heard you coming so I left your dinner on the table.”
Hamish looked down at his dog, who licked his lips and hung his head. “You’re full o’ boeuf bourguignon you lousy animal.” Lugs looked up at him imploringly out of his odd blue eyes.
“Oh, come on anyway,” said Hamish crossly. “But if you go on like this, you’ll be as fat as Clarry.” Hamish lifted his dog into the passenger seat, got in himself and drove off.
It took him just five minutes to drive to the Tommel Castle Hotel. The car park was full. He walked into the hotel foyer with Lugs on a leash. He looked in the bar and hurriedly retreated. It was full of journalists. One was trying to balance a glass of whisky on his nose and the others were cheering him on. Hamish retreated and then looked in the dining room. Priscilla was sitting at a table with a tall, good-looking man. She looked up and saw Hamish and waved him over.
Her companion, advertising executive Jerry Darcy, was a kind and amiable man. But the sight of the tall, gangly policeman with the flaming red hair leading an odd mongrel with big ears and blue eyes was too much for him. He began to laugh helplessly.
“Jerry, please,” admonished Priscilla. “This is our policeman, Hamish Macbeth. Hamish, Jerry Darcy.”
Jerry wiped his streaming eyes and got courteously to his feet. “Something amusing you?” demanded Hamish.
“Sorry,” said Jerry with a grin. “It was you and that dog.”
“And what iss up with my dog?”
“It’s an odd-looking animal, you must admit.”
“There iss nothing whateffer up wi’ my dog,” said Hamish, furious because he felt ridiculous, furious because Priscilla’s beau was handsome and well-dressed.
Lugs, sensing his master’s rage, grabbed hold of the tablecloth and began to back away, pulling it. Wineglasses and two plates of food tumbled onto the floor.
“Lugs!” shouted Hamish, his face red with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Priscilla. I’d better take him away. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Hamish dragged Lugs back into the foyer, only to find himself surrounded by reporters. To all their questions, he said, “Call Detective Chief Inspector Blair at Strathbane,” and made his escape.
Once in the Land Rover, he sat there for a few moments, cursing Lugs and cursing his own bad temper. Lugs let out a pathetic little whimper, and Hamish patted the animal’s rough coat. “It wasnae your fault, laddie. But he shouldnae have laughed at me.”
♦
Hamish had set the alarm and woke early and roused Clarry. “I want you to go to the Currie sisters and take them through their story again. I mean, that pair are always peering through their net curtains at what’s going on. I’ll start with the fisherman. Blair’ll be here soon so we’d best get out and about. I gather you got out of being arrested. How?”
Clarry told him how and Hamish laughed and laughed. “Man, I’d have liked to see Blair’s face when you threatened him with the Race Relations Board. Now let’s get a move on.”
Hamish headed for the harbour. He saw Callum McSween, who said he was ready to start work. Hamish gave him the keys to the garbage truck. Callum walked off. Hamish saw Archie, sitting disconsolately on the harbour wall.
“Nowhere to drink?” asked Hamish, who knew the fisherman usually headed for the Lochdubh bar after a night’s work.
“That foreigner bought it over,” said Archie, “and he iss going to turn it into the gift shop. So I’m stuck out here in the open where the wife can find me.”
“Archie, you didn’t like Fergus much, did you?”
“No, that I didn’t, and nobody else did either. We didnae notice him much until he got that stupid uniform and started bossing us all around. But none of us would ha’ touched him, Hamish. You know that.”
“Any gossip? Anyone see him around?”
“Well, there was one odd thing. One person seemed to like him.”
“And who was that?”
“Josie Darling.”
“Her? She’s getting all ready for her wedding.”
“Aye, she’s taken time off work, too.”
Hamish thought hard. Josie was young and frivolous. She lived with her mother in a cottage up a lane at the back of the new hotel. “I’ll go and see her.”
He walked towards Josie’s cottage, glancing up at the sky. It was a milky blue but there was a dampness in the breeze on his cheek. Rain coming soon, he thought.
He turned over in his mind what he knew about Josie. She worked in a bank in Strathbane and was engaged to someone from Inverness. Her father was dead. Her mother worked as a maid at
the Tommel Castle Hotel. She planned to live in Inverness after her marriage. A big wedding was to be held in the Church of Scotland in Lochdubh, and, as was the tradition at Highland weddings, the whole village was going. The wedding was to be in two weeks’ time.
He knocked on the cottage door and then turned around and surveyed the view while he waited for someone to answer it. Down on the waterfront, he could see the white-overalled figure of Callum McSween working busily. He turned back as the door opened.
Josie stood there. She was a small girl with dyed blonde hair and a pug face. She had large, rather protruding eyes. She was wearing a short skirt which displayed fat legs to disadvantage and a low-cut blouse. Those eyes goggled when she saw Hamish.
“What is it?” she asked harshly.
“Can I come in?”
She backed away reluctantly. He followed her into the living room. On a coffee table were many glossy magazines, Brides, Your Wedding, Hair and Beauty.
“Getting ready for the wedding?” asked Hamish.
“Oh, that. I’m not having it in Lochdubh.”
“Why not? Everyone’s been looking forward to it.”
“Murdo wants to have it in Inverness.”
“Murdo being your fiancé?”
“Yes.”
“I thought the wedding was usually held in the bride’s parish.”
“Yes, but I’ve only got Mother. Murdo’s got loads of relatives, so we thought it would be more reasonable to have it in Inverness. Anyway, I’m sick of this place.”
“Lochdubh?”
“Where else?”
“Why?”
“It’s so provincial,” said Josie.
Hamish privately thought that Josie was hardly the picture of sophistication.
“Anyway,” said Josie, “is that why you came? To ask about the wedding?”
“No, it’s about Fergus.”
“The dustman? What about him?”
“I believe you were friendly with him.”
“Och, no. I just gave the wee man a cup of tea from time to time. That way he took all our rubbish.”
“Did you like him?”
Again that sort of false grande dame air. “He was just a dustman. I sometimes chat to the postman as well.”
“So is there anything you can tell me about him? Did he look frightened about anything? Did he say anyone was out to get him?”
“No, he just said they were all bastards, and he hated them. He didn’t say whether anyone hated him.”
“Well, if you remember anything, let me know.”
Hamish said good-bye. But as he walked down from the cottage, he thought, she’s lying. There’s something there. I’ll let her think she’s safe, and then I’ll go back. I’ll try Mrs. Darling up at the hotel.
He went to the police station to collect the Land Rover and was confronted by a raging Detective Chief Inspector Blair. He pointed to a torn trouser leg. “Look what your dog did!” he shouted.
“Did you just walk into the station?” asked Hamish.
“Yes!”
“Well, there you are. Lugs is a guard dog.”
“You’ll pay for this.” Blair was in a foul temper. Peter Daviot had called him in and had told him that Hamish had secured an excellent interview with the widow Macleod, much better than anything Jimmy Anderson had got out of her. Blair had gone in to see him with the full intention of asking that Hamish Macbeth be kept off the case. Instead, he had been told that Hamish had to be brought into everything.
“I’ve got someone to interview,” said Hamish, getting into the Land Rover. He drove off, leaving Blair glowering after him.
He stopped on the waterfront when he saw the foxy features of Jimmy Anderson. “I thought you were going to come and see me,” said Hamish.
“I did, yesterday evening, but there was no one there except that dog of yours up on the kitchen table scoffing something.”
“My dinner,” said Hamish.
“And now he’s ripped the boss’s trousers. Where you off to?”
“Tell you later if you come round.”
“Get the whisky ready.”
Hamish drove on to the hotel. The first person he saw when he parked the car was Jerry Darcy, who gave him a cheerful wave. Hamish scowled in reply, and then felt he was being petty. He got down from the Land Rover, meaning to chat to Jerry, but the man was driving off.
Hamish went into the hotel office where the manager, Mr. Johnston, was working on the accounts.
“What are you after, Hamish?”
“Mrs. Darling.”
“Heather Darling? Don’t tell me she’s a suspect.”
“No, I just want a wee word with her.”
“She’s just about to go off duty. Hang on here for a minute and help yourself to coffee, and I’ll fetch her for you.”
Hamish went over to the coffee machine and poured himself a mug of coffee. He had a sudden sharp longing for a cigarette although he had not smoked for some years.
The door opened and Heather Darling walked in, twisting her apron in red, work-roughened hands. She was a small, plump woman with greying hair and a round rosy face.
“Sit down,” said Hamish.
“What’s up? Is it Josie?”
“No, nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to ask you a few questions about Fergus.”
“The dustman?”
“Yes, him. I believe he was on friendly terms with you and your daughter.”
He knew before she opened her mouth that she was going to repeat word for word what Josie had said. But unlike her daughter, who had a hard streak, Heather Darling was frightened and trying hard not to show it. He wondered whether to use Blair’s methods, accuse her of lying and try to break her down. But he had a feeling she would stick to that story through thick and thin. In some way, she was protecting her daughter. To try to put her at her ease, he asked about the wedding.
“It’s fine,” said Heather curtly. “What’s it got to do with the murder?”
“Nothing,” said Hamish. “Look, maybe when you’ve had time to think you’ll remember something.”
Her face set in stubborn lines. Hamish said, “You know where to find me. I’ll be calling on you again.”
“What about?”
“About Fergus’s murder. Think about it.” He wondered how Clarry was getting on.
♦
Clarry was at that moment wishing himself anywhere else but in the Currie sisters’ cottage, faced by two pairs of baleful eyes behind thick glasses.
“I am just trying to find out if you can remember anything else,” said Clarry.
“And we are wondering,” said Nessie severely, “what you, an officer of the law, were doing romancing a married woman.”
“A married woman,” muttered the Greek chorus that was her sister.
Clarry turned red. “I was acting under orders from my superior officer. Martha Macleod was being beaten by her husband. Sergeant Macbeth wanted me to try to get her to make a complaint.”
“And did that mean you should take them out in a boat and turn the police station into a disco?”
“Yes. Kindness towards a family which is in sore need of it may seem strange to you ladies.”
“We are not forgetting our duty,” said Nessie. “We’re going to help her clean up.”
“So now we’ve got that out of the way,” said Clarry. “Sergeant Macbeth tells me that you are a very noticing pair of ladies. I would like to ask you if you noticed anything strange the night Fergus was killed.”
“When was he exactly killed, exactly killed?” asked Jessie.
Clarry strove for patience. “I mean the night you found him in your bin.”
The sisters looked at each other. Then Nessie said, “It was a quiet evening. That Josie Darling went past…”
“At what time?”
“About eight o’ clock. Teetering along on a stupid pair of high heels. If I had legs like that I would cover them,” said Nessie, glancing down complacently at her own
skinny shanks. “Before that, it was Mrs. Docherty who lives next door. She walked over to the waterfront and looked at the loch. Then she came back. Mrs. Wellington, the minister’s wife, went by, going to the school-house, I think. She’s supervising the arrangements for the new teacher, but that was earlier, about six o’clock.”
“Any strange noises?”
They both shook their heads of rigidly permed hair.
“Well, if you think of anything, let me know.”
Clarry made his way back along the waterfront. He was stopped by Angela Brodie, the doctor’s wife. “Could you give me a bit of help? I and some of the women want to go and help Martha clear out Fergus’s things. But we don’t want to call too soon and upset her. Do you think you could ask her, you being a friend of hers?”
Clarry’s round face brightened at the idea of a legitimate opportunity to go and call on Martha.
“I’ll go right away,” he said, touching the peak of his cap.
He swung round and with a light step headed towards Martha’s cottage. They were all sitting indoors, the old television flickering in the corner of the living room.
Martha had great dark shadows under her eyes, and she appeared to have lost more weight. Her clothes hung on her thin body.
“Had any supper?” asked Clarry.
“None of us are feeling very hungry.”
“Won’t do,” said Clarry. “You’ve got to keep your strength up for the children’s sake and for your own. Get ready. We’re all going down to the Italian restaurant. Dinner’s on me.”
Martha saw the way her children brightened up but she hesitated. “There’s the baby.”
“Put the baby in the pram and we’ll wheel the pram into the restaurant.”
“Won’t they protest, and I’m not properly dressed.”
“It’s not the Ritz,” said Clarry. “Come on.”
♦
Willie Lamont, who used to be Hamish’s constable and who now waited table at the restaurant, protested when Martha and Clarry lifted the pram with the sleeping baby into the restaurant.
Clarry took him aside and whispered fiercely, “They are all in need of a good meal so I won’t have any protests from you. That poor woman’s been stuck up there in that dingy cottage. The ladies of Lochdubh are going to help her clean up, so if they can help, so can you.”
