Death of a Village

by Beaton, M. C.

  He rose and dressed and was just looking through the fridge and kitchen cupboards when Jimmy Anderson turned up, announcing his arrival by shouting through the letter box. Hamish let him in. Jimmy was carrying a bottle of whisky and a large steak pie.

  ‘The whisky’s from Andy Crummack and the pie is from the minister’s wife.’

  ‘I’ll pop it in the oven. What’s been happening? Any more bodies?’

  ‘Aye, four more. German. But listen to this. The divers have found the wreck of a German submarine. They found some papers sealed in oilskin. Seems the gold was bound for Russia, when Russia had that Non-Aggression Pact with Germany and got a bit of Poland and the Baltic States in return. I don’t know what’ll happen to the gold but that’s up to the receiver of wrecks. I suppose it belongs to the German government. Still, it’s up to the powers-that-be to sort things out.’

  ‘How did the submarine get wrecked?’

  ‘Straight into a big underground rock in Scorie Bay.’

  ‘But couldn’t they have escaped? The water’s not deep.’

  ‘One man got to shore and then died, so the locals say, them that are old enough to remember. For some reason the others stayed too long. And it happened in the middle of winter, so the water must have been freezing. It depends on the Germans whether the skeletons are left down there as a sort of war grave or brought up for burial.’

  ‘They must have been heading up the coast of Britain to go round the top and over to Russia that way,’ said Hamish. ‘But why come in so near to the shore?’

  ‘Maybe they lost their bearings. Who knows? Oh, well, who cares anyway?’ said Jimmy callously. ‘Won’t that pie be ready by now?’

  ‘Give it time. It’s a stove, not a microwave.’

  ‘Why don’t you get a microwave, you old-fashioned thing?’

  ‘Never got round to it.’

  Jimmy grinned. ‘Blair’s real sore at you for getting all the limelight. He’ll push Daviot to promote you. Maybe even get you sent down to Glasgow.’

  ‘I’ll think of something.’

  ‘The only thing that’s going to rescue you this time from promotion is death or a nervous breakdown.’

  Hamish got to his feet. ‘I’ll check that pie now. If I had a nervous breakdown, they might pension me off and I wouldnae like that either.’

  ‘Maybe just a wee nervous breakdown.’

  ‘I’d need to get a certificate from Dr Brodie, and he’s an honest man and he wouldn’t be taken in by an act.’

  ‘You could put it to him this way. If they take you out of Lochdubh, they may just close down the police station here. They’ve closed down village police stations all over the country. Tell him it’s his duty to the village to certify you temporarily daft.’

  ‘I’ll maybe give it a try. Pie’s ready.’

  Hamish divided it up. He placed a large section on a plate for Jimmy, a small slice for himself, and a small slice for Lugs.

  ‘You’re never feeding good pie to that dog!’ exclaimed Jimmy. ‘Have you never heard of dog food?’

  ‘Lugs likes people food,’ said Hamish defensively. ‘Besides, he’s been left on his own a lot recently. He deserves a treat.’

  ‘Ach, get yourself a woman.’

  Lugs let out a menacing growl.

  ‘It’s all right. He was only joshing,’ said Hamish quickly, and Lugs bent his head and began to eat.

  ‘Talking about women . . . this is delicious,’ said Jimmy. ‘Aye, on the subject of women, what about that pretty reporter lassie?’

  ‘If she ever speaks to me again, it’ll be a miracle,’ said Hamish. ‘She found the chap to set up the hologram. She found me the maps. She went down the cliff with me to that cave. I should have taken time to tell her about the search today.’

  ‘Buy her some roses.’

  ‘In Lochdubh?’

  ‘There’s a grand florist’s in Strathbane.’

  Hamish looked at him. ‘I tell you what: if I give you the money, could you send a bunch of roses to her?’

  ‘Will do. What’s the message?’

  ‘Just say, “I’m sorry, Hamish.” That should do it.’

  The following day, Jimmy went to the florist’s. Next door to the shop was a newsagent’s with papers with black headlines about the find of the gold and in some, in a smaller box on the front, headlines trumpeting BRAVE PC RESCUES CHILD. Jimmy went into the florist’s and ordered a dozen red roses to be sent to Elspeth at the newspaper office in Lochdubh. ‘What message?’ asked the assistant.

  ‘I’ll write it for you,’ said Jimmy.

  He chewed the end of the pen. Hamish’s message was too blunt. The man needed some romance in his life. In block capitals, he printed: ‘I am very sorry. All my fondest love. Your Hamish.’

  The next day, Hamish got out of the police station by way of the kitchen window at the back after having lifted his dog out. The press were hammering on the door at the front. He made his way up the hill through the field where his sheep grazed and by a circuitous route went round the back of the village, down the lane next to the Currie sisters’ cottage, and so to Dr Brodie’s surgery.

  The surgery was full and Hamish began to feel more hopeful. He knew half the layabouts were there for certificates about their fictitious bad backs, and if Dr Brodie could go along with them, he could go along with his supposed nervous breakdown.

  He read the romance stories in several old numbers of the People’s Friend to pass the time. Forestry workers and people who worked in offices in Strathbane filed in clutching their backs and came out walking upright and with smiles on their faces.

  At last it was his turn.

  ‘Sit down, Hamish,’ said Dr Brodie. ‘What’s up with you? I can’t remember the last time you were ill. Have you seen the papers? You’re being hailed as a hero.’

  ‘In a way, that’s why I’m here,’ said Hamish. ‘It’s like this: I know they’re going to offer me a promotion, which means moving to Strathbane or, worse, maybe even Glasgow.’

  ‘Maybe it’s time you moved on. But what’s this got to do with me?’

  ‘I want you to certify that I am having a nervous breakdown.’

  ‘I can’t do that. That would be an outright lie.’

  ‘So what about all the certificates you’ve been writing out for bad backs?’

  ‘That’s different. Some do have bad backs. Some have psychosomatic bad backs because they hate their work but can’t afford to be unemployed. A couple of days off every so often keeps them employed.’

  ‘Then to ease your conscience, look at it this way: if they move me, they’ll probably close down the police station in Lochdubh.’

  ‘You can’t get me with that,’ said Dr Brodie. ‘Look at all the cases you’ve solved recently.’

  ‘They’ll argue that Sergeant Macgregor, who’s a lazy hound, could well cover the extra area with help from Strathbane, and the reason they’ll do it is because Blair is so anxious to get me into the anonymity of a large police force, he’ll back any proposal to move me. You won’t have a policeman in Lochdubh.’

  ‘Maybe. But if I lie and say you’ve had a nervous breakdown, they might get a trained psychiatrist to look you over.’

  ‘I could handle that. I could just sit there and look vacant.’

  ‘Then they might not notice the difference from your usual self. Okay, let’s handle it this way. You’ve done a lot recently, no one can deny that. Let’s say you are suffering from a mild depression and exhaustion. I will recommend rest and a break from your duties. That’s the best I can do. And if I were you, I would take a holiday and clear off. I will send a report to Strathbane along with a certificate.’

  ‘Grand. I owe you. There’s one more thing.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Could you phone the wife and ask her to stroll along to those pressmen outside the police station and tell them all if they want to find me, I’ll be down in Strathbane at police headquarters?’

  ‘I’ll do that.’ Dr Bro
die picked up the phone and rang his wife. When he rang off, he said, ‘She’s on her way to the police station now. Wait here and she’ll ring back when the coast is clear. You are my last patient, aren’t you?’

  ‘Very last one.’

  ‘Are you leaving today?’

  ‘I’d better do that. But I’ll go to Stoyre first.’

  ‘You’ll find press there as well.’

  ‘Not if I leave it until later. There’s nowhere for them to drink in Stoyre now the pub’s wrecked and nowhere to settle down for the night.’

  Dr Brodie studied the lanky red-haired policeman. ‘It’s odd to know a truly unambitious man.’

  ‘You’re one yourself,’ said Hamish defensively. ‘You could have a large practice in the city but you stay here.’

  ‘That’s different. I have a loyalty to my patients.’

  ‘And I have a loyalty to the people of Lochdubh,’ said Hamish gently.

  ‘Well, let’s hope my explanation about your ill health works.’

  The phone rang. ‘It’s Angela,’ said the doctor. He listened to what his wife had to say and then rang off. ‘She’s got rid of the press for you. What will you do for transport? If you are officially on holiday, you can’t drive around in the police Land Rover.’

  Hamish smiled. ‘I took it when the balance of my mind was disturbed. Besides, I don’t think they’ll come looking round the police station.’

  He left and hesitated outside the newspaper offices and then noticed the florist’s van driving up. Better leave seeing Elspeth until later, much later.

  Back at the police station, he packed a rucksack and typed out a notice referring all calls to Sergeant Macgregor at Cnothan. He then opened a cupboard and got out a tent and camping equipment. ‘Going to live rough, Lugs,’ he said. ‘No phone calls. No one to bother us.’

  He loaded up the Land Rover and waited for evening. From time to time, someone knocked at the door but he did not answer it. It might, of course, be Elspeth but he would phone her after he had been to Stoyre.

  Stoyre was in darkness when he drove down into it. The electricity had not yet been restored to the ruined village. He parked the Land Rover and with Lugs at his heels walked up to the manse and knocked on the door.

  Fergus Mackenzie answered and smiled when he saw Hamish. ‘Come in. What brings you?’

  Hamish followed him through to a living room where his wife was sitting bent over a piece of embroidery by the light of an oil lamp.

  ‘Sit down,’ said the minister. ‘Would you be so good as to make us some tea, dear? Or maybe you would like something stronger?’

  ‘Nothing for me,’ said Hamish. ‘I wanted to ask you how things were. Everyone got insurance?’

  ‘No, a lot of them never bothered. The fishing boats are wrecked but at least they were insured. This village has turned bitter. The newspapers all got the story about how we were tricked with holograms. They won’t speak to the press now.’

  ‘I thought something like that might have happened. I want you to get on to Strathbane Television . . .’

  ‘I know you’ve done a lot for us. But everyone feels they have suffered enough ridicule at the hands of the press.’

  ‘I’ll speak to them. Any way of rounding them up and getting them into the kirk?’

  ‘I could ring the bell. That would bring them.’

  ‘Do that,’ said Hamish, ‘and I’ll speak to them.’

  They walked together to the small stone church and Hamish rang the bell. The villagers began to straggle up the hill towards the church. Hamish waited until they were all in the pews. Then he stood up and addressed them.

  ‘I know the press have made you all look like fools but a lot of you are in sore need of money. You can make the media work for you. You’ve done nothing to excite the sympathy of the great British public. Do you want to be crippled by money worries for the rest of your days, or do you want help?’

  ‘We could all do wi’ a bit o’ help,’ shouted Andy Crummack.

  ‘Then the minister will get Strathbane Television along here tomorrow and we’ll set the stage. The minister will hold a brief service down at the harbour . . .’

  ‘We’re sick o’ religion!’ shouted a woman.

  ‘You’re sick o’ false gods,’ reproved Hamish. ‘Now, while the minister is giving his brief – and I mean brief – service, some of you must be crying. You’ve got to look really pathetic.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be hard,’ said Andy, and several people laughed.

  ‘Now, I need a pretty lassie with a good voice.’

  ‘That’s Elsie Queen,’ shouted a woman. ‘That’s my Elsie. She’s won medals at the Mod.’

  The Mod is the annual Gaelic singing festival.

  ‘Is she here? Bring her forward.’

  A slim teenager was pushed up to the front by a small aggressive woman whom Hamish judged to be the girl’s mother. Elsie was tall and slim with a long white Modigliani-type face and long straight white-blonde hair. Her eyes had the slightly oriental cast you see in some Highland faces.

  ‘Have you got a white dress?’ asked Hamish.

  ‘I’ve got a grand one I wore at the Mod,’ said Elsie.

  ‘Good. Now, all gather round and this is what you’ve all got to do.’

  Sharon Judge had not been working as a reporter for Strathbane Television for very long. She wondered as the television van drove towards Stoyre if she would ever get a real break. Stoyre had been covered. She had heard that the locals had clammed up again. There would be nothing to film and it would be a wasted day.

  The minister had said something about a service. The cameraman would film it, she would do her report, and the whole thing would be scrapped. She was often amazed at the wasted money spent on stories which were destined never to appear on the screen.

  Sharon knew she was not aggressive enough – or sexy enough. She was cursed with a friendly open face under a mop of curls. Men teased her and said she looked like a schoolgirl but she was not the sort of girl they made passes at. Her glamorous friend Elena said that she was the kind of girl men liked to marry but Sharon found that to be little consolation.

  The soundman, who was driving, stopped the van down at the harbour. ‘Here we go,’ he said. ‘After I set up, ten minutes should be enough.’

  They all climbed out. Villagers were gathering at the harbour. They were all dressed in black apart from a fey-looking girl who was wearing a long white gown. A piper was standing by the harbour wall in full Highland dress.

  ‘Hey, this might be good,’ said the cameraman, brightening.

  ‘I’ll wait until the service is over and do some interviews,’ said Sharon.

  The cameraman, Jerry Mathieson, looked at her sympathetically. He knew she was always landed with lousy jobs. He had a fondness for her. She wasn’t like the other hardbitten women at the television station. He had volunteered to go on this job with her in the hope of getting to know her better.

  ‘I think we might be on a winner,’ he said. ‘Maybe if I get some good shots of the service, you can do a voice-over.’

  Sharon began to feel a surge of excitement as the black-clothed villagers gathered on the harbour in front of the dazzling blue of the sea. The pretty girl in white was having a tartan sash arranged over one shoulder by a small woman. The sash was pinned in place by a magnificent cairngorm brooch.

  The minister took his place in front of the congregation and raised his hands.

  ‘We are gathered here together,’ he said, ‘in memory of Mrs Tyle, who was drowned in the storm. May she rest in peace. We are also gathered here to draw comfort from each other in our suffering. You have ruined homes and ruined boats. You must wonder how you are going to cope with the dark days ahead . . .’

  ‘Look at those faces in the front row,’ Jerry whispered to Sharon. ‘Marvellous.’

  Arranged by Hamish Macbeth, the craggiest and therefore most photogenic of the villagers had been placed in front of the minister.

 
; ‘And so,’ the minister was going on, ‘you may feel forgotten by the world in your suffering. You may feel that this is a judgement on us for having been so tricked by a bunch of evil men. But I am asking you to have hope. There are good people in the world, and I am sure there are people who will help us. May the Lord bless you all.’

  The congregation fell silent. Then Elsie Queen began to sing a Gaelic lament. Her pure clear voice soared up the hills. Several of the women began to cry openly and some of the men had tears running down their faces. Sharon felt a lump in her throat.

  When Elsie’s voice finally died away, the piper tuned up and they all sang the Twenty-third Psalm. The cameraman could feel his excitement building. Those wonderful faces, and that girl in white contrasting with the black clothes of the rest, and the tall piper, all set against the harbour, would make tremendous pictures.

  After the singing, there was a short prayer.

  Sharon stepped forward to do some interviews, expecting to be rebuffed, but people talked to her movingly about their losses, about their shock, and about their shame at having been tricked by what turned out to be holograms.

  When they finally packed up and drove towards Strathbane, Jerry said, ‘We’ll get this one on the six o’clock news. You’re perfect for this, Sharon. Feel like a drink with me afterwards to celebrate?’

  ‘Are you sure we’ve got something to celebrate?’

  ‘Sure as sure.’

  She smiled at him. ‘I’d like that very much.’

  ‘I don’t know if my eyes were deceiving me,’ said the soundman, negotiating the big van round the hairpin bends, ‘but I thought I saw that tall copper, the one who saved the wee girl, at the back of the congregation, but when I looked again, he had gone.’

  ‘Red-haired, isn’t he?’ asked Jerry.

  ‘Yes, and taller than most.’

  ‘I interviewed a tall man with red hair,’ said Sharon, ‘but he was one of the villagers.’

  ‘Can’t have been the copper.’

  Elspeth switched on the six o’clock news to see if there were any further reports from the police in Strathbane about the wreck. Instead she found herself looking at the pretty face of Sharon Judge introducing the service at Stoyre. Elspeth had to admit it was very moving and was furious at having missed it. As it went on, she began to feel there was something staged about it. Then at one point the camera panned over the faces of the congregation and she got a glimpse of Hamish Macbeth’s face. Then he ducked down and was lost to view.