by M C Beaton
“Why?”
Those beautiful eyes filled with tears. “I’ll tell you over dinner.”
“What about this evening?” asked Hamish. “There’s a good Italian restaurant in Lochdubh.”
“I’d like that. Shall we say eight o’clock?”
“Fine. I’ll be there.”
Elspeth was now in the middle of making a commentary. Cunningham raised his long skinny arms to the heavens. “Oh, God on high,” he intoned, “bless these poor wee birdies and take them to Thy bosom where they may sit with the Lamb.”
Bollocks! thought Hamish sourly as Cunningham droned on and on. At last he got to “Amen.”
Two schoolgirls approached the pyre, which was in fact a charcoal barbecue, carrying a white cardboard box with a gold cross painted on top of it. The Braikie Ladies’ Choir burst into a rendering of “Amazing Grace,” their voices nearly drowned out by a piper.
The box was placed on the charcoal over a metal tray, where it burst into flames. Cunningham began to dance around the “pyre” chanting in tongues. He was wearing open-toed leather sandals.
The choir at last fell silent and the pipes died away with a final wail. Cunningham danced on.
And then at the back of the crowd, someone burst out laughing. Soon, it seemed as if the whole crowd had fallen helpless with laughter. Cunningham stopped cavorting and glared. The laughter grew louder. He gathered his robes around him and stalked off.
Mary marched forward and nodded to the two wardens who, with gloved hands, retrieved the tray of ashes.
The crowd, now in party mood, followed Mary and the wardens into the glen and onto the repaired bridge. She solemnly scattered the ashes over the bridge into the water. She raised her voice. “The ladies of Braikie have supplied refreshments in the car park.”
Everyone scrambled back to the car park, where tables of food had been laid out. There was even a refreshment tent.
Hamish found himself accosted by Elspeth. “Going to make a fool of it?” he asked.
“Not me,” said Elspeth. “Not with a country full of bird and animal lovers. But, Hamish, couldn’t you have found a way to persuade them to do something a bit more dignified?”
“It’s all the work of Mary Leinster,” said Hamish. “She’s passionate about bringing trade into Braikie, and the glen seems a good way of doing it. You look different.”
Elspeth’s normally no-colour frizzy hair had been straightened and highlighted. Her face was carefully made up for the cameras. Only those silvery Gypsy eyes of hers seemed familiar.
“You know how it is, Hamish. Can you think of a plain-looking woman presenter? The men can be fat and old, but not the women. I’ve already picked up rumours that the glen is haunted by fairies. Looks more like it’s being haunted by saboteurs. Who doesn’t want an interest in the place?”
“Can’t find anyone except perhaps Mrs. Colchester, who lives at the old hunting box. Mind you, she’s got two hellish grandchildren, but I can’t see either of them having the power to wield a chain saw.”
“I’ll go and pay her a visit,” said Elspeth. “Why don’t we have dinner tonight and talk it over?”
“I’ve already agreed to have dinner with Mary Leinster,” said Hamish, “but come along as well.”
“Quite beautiful, isn’t she? Married?”
“Yes,” said Hamish stiffly. “So you wouldn’t be butting in on a date.”
“Okay. What time?”
“Eight o’clock. The Italian place.”
“I’ll see you there.”
Hamish sent Dick off to pick up gossip and then walked down into the glen and leaned on the bridge. Everyone was in the car park, eating and drinking. It really was a beautiful spot, he thought. The peaty water of the pool glowed with a golden light. A fuchsia bush leaned over the water, its blood-red blossoms looking down at their reflection.
He felt he should not have asked Elspeth to join them for dinner. Mary had said she would tell him about her divorce. Perhaps her husband had turned against her and wanted to sabotage her pet project. He decided to put Elspeth off and arrange to see her on the following day.
But when he went back to the car park, it was to be told by Dick that the television crew had moved on to interview Mrs. Colchester.
He and Dick drove up to the hunting box. Once more the front door stood open.
“They should be a wee bit more careful,” said Dick. “Anyone could walk in.”
The television van was parked on the drive outside. They walked into the house and followed the sound of voices.
Out on the terrace, Mrs. Colchester was giving an interview. “No, I did not go to the funeral,” she was saying, “nor would I let any of my family be a part of such nonsense.”
“I believe you are against the glen being made into a tourist attraction,” said Elspeth.
“On the contrary, I am very much for it. I am all for helping the townspeople find work. But I do not hold with funerals for birds. Such rubbish. Do you know I was told that I would make the fairies angry if I did not go?”
“Who told you that?” asked Hamish walking forward.
“Get out of the shot!” howled the cameraman.
“I can’t remember,” said Mrs. Colchester. “And you”…she glared at the cameraman…“will refrain from giving orders on my property.”
The two grandchildren, Olivia and Charles, were sitting on the ground beside her, looking up at her with adoring expressions. Ralph and Fern Palfour were standing a little to one side, gazing fondly on the scene.
It all looked like a television soap to Hamish.
“And I’m tired,” said Mrs. Colchester. “Shove off, the lot of you. Fern, help me inside, dear.”
“Yes, Mother. Of course, Mother.”
With Fern on one side of her and Ralph on the other, she went inside to her stair lift and buckled herself in. Hamish had followed her in.
“You,” she said to him. “Come back tomorrow. I’ve decided to tell you something.”
“Can’t you tell me now?”
“No. This lot will be away by tomorrow. I don’t want them hearing what I have to say.”
She started the stair lift and glided smoothly upwards.
Hamish went back out to the terrace to join Elspeth. “I can’t join you this evening,” she said. “I’ve been summoned back. It’s all these price cuts. If anything happens, Hamish, follow the money.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mrs. Colchester is worth millions. Her son-in-law is nearly bankrupt. I feel something bad about this place.”
Dick said, “I don’t think anyone’ll try anything again. A lot of the townspeople are forming a Protect Our Glen squad. They’re going to patrol it at night as well.”
Charles Palfour tugged at Hamish’s sleeve. “Is the party still on?”
“If you mean the funeral, yes, I should think so.”
“Come on, Olivia,” called Charles. The pair ran off.
“Don’t go falling in love with Mary Leinster,” cautioned Elspeth.
“I haff no intention of doing such a thing. Mind your own business. Come along, Dick.”
Dick winked at Elspeth and then trotted after Hamish.
Hamish appeared in the kitchen that evening with his fiery hair brushed and his tall, thin figure wearing his one best suit. Dick was extracting two clean cups from the dishwasher.
“You’re supposed to wait until the machine is full,” complained Hamish.
“Och, I’m just playing with it for a wee bit. I should go with ye.”
“Why on earth?”
“Mary Leinster is a married woman.”
“May I remind you this is the twenty-first century?”
“Oh, aye? Well, set your watch back two hundred years. This is Lochdubh. There’ll be a right bit o’ gossip in the morn.”
“There’s always a lot o’ gossip. Lugs and Sonsie have been fed so don’t feed them again.”
“She like one o’ thae china dolls,” sai
d Dick meditatively.
“Who?”
“Mary. You feel if you tilted her up, her eyes would close and if you pressed her belly button, she would say ‘Mama.’”
“Stop havering. I’m off.”
Mary was wearing a simple black sheath of a dress with a row of pearls. She smiled as Hamish joined her, and he felt a bit shy and uneasy.
Willie Lamont, the waiter who had once worked as a policeman, came bustling up. “The advocates with shrimp are good,” he said, “and the veal misery is the special.”
“He means the avocados with shrimp and the veal Marsala,” translated Hamish.
She gave a little shudder. “I don’t eat veal.”
Willie leaned a confidential elbow on the table between them and said in a low voice, “It isnae really the veal, see, it’s the pork fillet in disguise.”
“Willie, go away and let us look at the menus in peace.”
“Where’s your husband the night?” Willie asked Mary.
Hamish stood up and marched Willie off into the kitchen and pushed him up against the wall. “You will quietly serve the meal or I’ll push your teeth down your throat.” He gave him a shake and went back to join Mary.
“Never mind him,” said Hamish. “He’s a bit eccentric.”
When a chastened Willie reappeared, Mary ordered a feta salad and lasagne. Hamish ordered the same and a bottle of Valpolicello.
“You wanted to tell me something?” ventured Hamish at last, as Mary seemed to have relapsed into silence.
“You seem so sympathetic,” said Mary. “I feel overburdened with trouble. People will be frightened to come to the glen now.”
“Mary, I am sure today’s publicity stunt will pay off. You’ll have more tourists than ever.”
“I resent you saying it was a publicity stunt.”
“Oh, come on, Mary. That long-legged loon dancing around a barbecue and chanting in tongues?”
“I didn’t think he’d turn out to be so weird,” said Mary defiantly.
“And thon barbecue was hardly a consecrated altar. They were frying sausages on it as soon as the birds’ ashes had been taken away.”
She half rose from her seat. “If you are going to mock me…”
“No, no, lassie. My apologies. I can see you’re sair troubled, and it’s not just this business o’ the glen.”
Willie put their starter down in front of them. “Feckit,” he said proudly.
“What did you just say?” demanded Hamish furiously.
“It’s the feckit cheese. A big Irish man was in here last night and that’s what he called it.”
“It’s feta cheese. Go away, Willie. Now, Mary,” Hamish went on gently. “Out with it.”
“Our marriage has just broken down in bits,” said Mary. “He hates the glen. He says I ought to be at home and start having children. I can’t stand any more of it, Hamish.” She reached across the table and took his hand.
Aware of the curious eyes of the other diners, Hamish gently removed his hand. “But you got him the contract to build the gift shop.”
“Yes, but all that did was seem to make him think he should be in charge of everything.”
“Mary, there’s nothing I can do about it. He doesn’t beat you, does he?”
“N-no.”
“Then you need a divorce lawyer.”
“Think of the scandal,” said Mary helplessly. “People associate the glen with calmness and goodness. I’ve had the magic stepping-stones put in above the falls and little fairy footprints in the clay near the river.”
Hamish felt he was being torn between cold logic and enchantment. The logic told him that he was dealing with a shrewd businesswoman who knew exactly what she was doing, but as he looked at her dainty, curvaceous figure and huge blue eyes, he felt he wanted her as he had never wanted any woman before.
Fern Palfour called down to her mother from the landing. Mrs. Colchester was sitting in an upright armchair in the shadowy hall. “Aren’t you coming up to bed, Mother?”
“No, I’ll sit here for a bit. There’s something I have to work out.”
“See you in the morning,” said Fern. “Don’t sit there too long. The evenings are getting cold.”
Mrs. Colchester sat on in the deepening shadows of the hall. It was at the time of year when the nights never get really dark, and there was a faint eerie blue light shining down from the glass cupola overhead.
At last, she grasped her stick, hobbled over to the stair lift, and strapped herself in. Something made her look down. A gloved hand with a lighted match was stretching towards something under her chair.
The something under her chair was a powerful rocket. “Go away you horrible children,” she shouted. “Just wait until I tell your father you’ve been playing with matches.”
She pressed the button to start the chair. It hurtled upwards with a great whoosh. She struggled with the seat belt but it had been glued into place.
Mrs. Colchester shot upwards—the chair lift wrenched from its moorings by the force of the rocket—headed straight through the glass cupola at the top. For one brief moment, she seemed to hang in midair, silhouetted against the moon, and then she crashed straight down onto the stone terrace where her body lay in a mass of shattered chair.
Rivulets of blood seeped out from her broken body across the flagstones.
Hamish was just thinking that comely was the very word to describe Mary Leinster. Her soft arms were rounded and dimpled at the elbow. Her thick strawberry-blonde hair was as fine as a baby’s and with a natural curl. And those eyes!
His phone rang shrilly. He was just about to answer it when Dick erupted into the restaurant. “Come quick!” he gasped. “The auld woman’s dead. It’s murder!”
Hamish called to Willie to put the price of the meal on his tab, made his excuses to a white-faced Mary, ran to the police station where he undressed and then scrambled into his uniform before heading off with Dick, the siren on the Land Rover setting the curtains of Lochdubh twitching aside.
When he arrived on the scene, Blair and Jimmy, Daviot, and SOCO were all there in force. His eyes travelled from the shattered body on the smashed chair and then up to the broken cupola on the roof.
Daviot was barking to various police officers to keep the gates to the lodge closed and keep any press at bay.
“Sir,” said Hamish, “why couldn’t she get her seat belt undone? That way she could ha’ tumbled out of the chair before it hit the roof.”
Daviot called to the head of the SOCO team. “Had a look at that seat belt?” he demanded.
“We think it’s been superglued,” said the white-coated figure. “Whatever bastard did this thought of everything.”
Detective Chief Inspector Blair had seen Hamish talking to Daviot and lumbered forward. “You! Macbeth,” he snapped. “Get down into that glen and see if there’s anyone lurking around.”
“You don’t think it’s got anything to do with anyone in the house?” asked Hamish.
“Don’t you dare argue wi’ me, laddie. You’ve got your orders.”
“Come on, Dick,” said Hamish. “Let’s get down to the glen before the press arrive.”
“Waste o’ time if you ask me,” grumbled Dick.
They made their way through the car park and past the half-finished gift shop. Hamish stepped easily over the turnstile, which was locked, but had to help Dick over.
Hamish went down to the pool. The night was completely still, broken only by the sound of the waterfall. A reflection of the moon swam in the pool. Hamish unhitched a torch from his belt and shone it on the ground. “Someone’s been down here recently,” he said. “There are marks of footprints on the wet earth over by those rocks. You’d better hurry back and get someone down here to make casts of the prints. I’ll go farther into the glen and see if I can see anything.”
Hamish climbed up onto the bridge and followed the path on the other side. The glen had been planted at one time with a variety of deciduous trees, whi
ch were able to shelter there from the winds of Sutherland. A stand of silver birch stood out sharply against the moonlight, and the berries of the rowan trees looked as black as blood.
He stopped occasionally and stood, listening. There were various small tracks leading away from the main path amongst the trees, but he felt impatiently that he was wasting time.
When he returned to the pool, two lab technicians were taking casts of the footprints. He went on up to the house in time to see Fern Palfour weeping as her husband was being escorted to a police car.
“What’s happening?” Hamish asked Dick.
“Blair decided the son-in-law is guilty. Seems as though he was on the verge o’ bankruptcy.”
Hamish left him and went to join Jimmy Anderson. “What’s the verdict so far?”
“It seems as if a rocket was put under that chair of hers and the seat belt superglued. At the landing before her bedroom, the banister had been sawn through so there was nothing to stop the impetus.”
“How on earth could all these arrangements have been going on with people in the house?” marvelled Hamish.
“The rocket fuel was in a black canister right under the chair. Could have been put there anytime.”
“Why drag Palfour off for questioning?”
“Because traces of potassium nitrate were found and he works in a nursery.”
“It couldn’t be the children, could it?” asked Hamish.
“Bit sophisticated even for them. I mean it wasn’t any ordinary rocket. Took one hell of a thrust to send the old dear flying like that. Well, the mills of forensics grind slow but they grind exceedingly small. Blair’s been too precipitate as usual. My bet is that Palfour will be back before dawn.”
“Has Mrs. Palfour or the children been interviewed yet?”
“Need to wait until tomorrow. They’ve all been sedated.”
“I’d like to get a look at the starting-off point,” said Hamish.
“Don’t see why not. Get suited up and I’ll show you.”
