Death of a Kingfisher

by M C Beaton

  The answer came in Gaelic. “Find out for yourself,” and the door was slammed in his face.

  Hamish started off to see if he could find a stream with fresh water and at last located one on the far side of the small island. Puffins popped out of their burrows and stared at this newcomer. A herring gull flew past and eyed him malevolently.

  No wonder Mrs. Colchester’s parents wanted to get off this place, thought Hamish. What was her maiden name again? It was somewhere in his notes. Mackay, that was it. He had passed a couple of ruined cottages in his search. Maybe she had been brought up in one of them.

  The stream ran down to a small sandy beach dotted with smooth black rocks. Two seals heaved themselves out of the water and climbed onto the rocks.

  He erected his tent, lit his camping stove, and began to cook sausages and bacon on a frying pan. After that, he boiled up a billycan to make tea and began to feel more cheerful. Little waves lapped on the beach, and the sun was warm on his back.

  After he had finished eating, he packed everything away in the tent, propped his back against a rock, and started to read. In no time at all, he was asleep.

  He awoke an hour later and then sat up with a jerk. The calm blue sea had turned blackish grey, and a stiff gale was blowing. He had placed his tent in the lee of one of the island’s only small hills, but the wind was increasing as were the waves.

  Cursing, he dismantled the tent, rolled it up, and repacked his backpack. He set off inland, staggering now before the force of the gale. Hamish reached the first of the ruined crofts, but there seemed to be no shelter even there, for the gale was now shrieking and tearing at him.

  A small, male figure suddenly seemed to materialise in front of him. He jerked his head and Hamish followed him, from time to time almost being swept off his feet by the force of the gale. No rain fell although black clouds hurtled past overhead.

  The man led the way to the croft house Hamish had first visited. Hamish followed him in. “We cannae be leaving you out in this weather,” said his host. “I’m Ezekiel McSporran, and thon by the fire is my brither, Abraham.”

  Abraham, whom Hamish had spoken to earlier, looked like a troll-like copy of his brother. Hamish wondered if they were twins. He stacked his tent and backpack just inside the door and gratefully joined them in a seat in front of the fire.

  “This is right kind of you,” said Hamish, glad that they could speak English after all because his Gaelic was pretty rusty.

  “You shouldnae be bringing her back here,” said Abraham. “They don’t like it.”

  “Who are they?” asked Hamish.

  They both looked at him in silence.

  The living room was stone-flagged with a box bed in a recess in one corner. He could see there was a small kitchen at the back. There didn’t seem to be any other rooms in the tiny house. A small window revealed that the walls were very thick.

  There were a few brass ornaments on the mantelpiece. Otherwise, the room was bare except for the three battered armchairs they were sitting on.

  Hamish remembered he had a bottle of whisky in his backpack. He went and got it and presented it to Ezekiel.

  “My, that’s grand,” said Ezekiel, showing the first signs of animation. Abraham went into the kitchen and came back with three glasses. Hamish then unpacked all the groceries he had left and followed him into the kitchen. He placed his offerings on the counter: half a packet of bacon, sausages, bread, milk, cheese, tea and sugar, two cans of beans, and a loaf of bread.

  “I need to use the toilet,” said Hamish.

  “Out the back,” said Abraham.

  Hamish opened the back door and plunged out into the storm. A hut lashed down with ropes was, he assumed, the lavatory. It smelled horribly inside but he realised he would have to use it.

  When he returned to the house, the brothers had put a battered card table in front of the fire with three glasses on it. Abraham filled three small glasses with whisky.

  “Slainte!” said Hamish.

  They nodded and clinked their glasses against his own. Outside, the gale had risen to an eldritch shriek as if all the spirits of hell were riding the heavens.

  “Why did Mr. Mackay leave?” asked Hamish.

  “They frightened him off,” said Ezekiel, after a long pause.

  “Who?”

  “We don’t talk about them. It’s bad luck,” said Abraham.

  I’m sure this daft pair think the fairies drove them away, thought Hamish, when any man can see you’d need to be mad to stay in a place like this.

  “Where do you sell your sheep?” asked Hamish.

  “Every year. The Lairg sheep sales,” said Abraham.

  “That’s quite a bit o’ organisation,” said Hamish, thinking they would need to get their sheep to Tiree and then onto a lorry and then onto the ferry.

  “We’re used to it.”

  “Get a good price?”

  “Aye, we do well,” said Ezekiel. “It’s rough here but the grass is rare fine.”

  “This funeral,” said Hamish cautiously. “Where is it to be? I didn’t see any church on the island.”

  Ezekiel said, “Me and Abraham dug a grave already out by the old Mackay croft. Some of the men from Tiree came over to help us. It wass hard going.”

  “Do you play cards?” asked Abraham, refilling the glasses.

  “Not often,” said Hamish. “What’s your game?”

  “Snap,” said Ezekiel.

  “Oh, I can play that,” said Hamish, relieved to hear it was to be a children’s game of cards and not something like bridge of which he knew nothing at all.

  The brothers took the game seriously, roaring out a triumphant “Snap” when one got a matching card, hitting the table so hard in their enthusiasm that Hamish was afraid it might collapse.

  At last, the whisky being finished, Abraham went into the kitchen to prepare dinner. Ezekiel had found a Bible and had started to read. Hamish got a detective story out of his backpack and read until dinner was served.

  The meal was a simple one: boiled potatoes and oatmeal covered in shreds of seagull.

  “That’s baby cormorant,” said Abraham proudly. “They got a rare taste.”

  “I didn’t think you could get cormorants here,” said Hamish. “No cliffs.”

  “Get them over on Vole Bay in Tiree.”

  After dinner, Ezekiel read aloud from the Bible, a long chapter from the Old Testament which seemed to be full of begats.

  Then he held up a gnarled finger and said, “Listen!”

  The night had become quiet. Ezekiel rose and opened the door. Hamish followed him. Outside the night was calm, clear, and starry.

  “Grand thing, the Bible,” said Ezekiel. “We’re off to bed. You can put your bedroll by the fire.”

  The brothers undressed down to long grimy underwear and climbed, one after the other, into the recessed bed and drew the curtains.

  Hamish was wearing the casual clothes he had changed into before the storm had risen. He took out his uniform and cap and laid them across one of the chairs.

  Then he got into his sleeping bag and fell into a dreamless sleep, not waking until Abraham shook him in the morning.

  As the fishing boat approached the jetty, it was a clear, calm day, as if the horrors of the storm had never happened. The coffin was put onto a hospital trolley and wheeled along the jetty. The Palfours, the minister, and Hamish followed the coffin and the brothers across the grassy island to one of the ruined crofts, where a deep grave had been dug.

  The minister began the service. The Palfours stood holding hands, dry-eyed.

  When it was finally over, Fern Palfour, who had been carrying a small plastic bag, extracted from it a spray of hawthorn blossom and threw it down on top of the coffin. “Mother said in her will there were to be no flowers, but the coffin looks so bare and…”

  Ezekiel fell to his knees and began to pray. Abraham let out a screech of horror and jumped down into the grave. Hamish was frightened he would
split the coffin. Abraham grabbed the hawthorn and crawled out with it. His face was contorted with fury.

  “You stuppit bitch!” he howled at Fern. “That’s the fairy flower. You’ll bring bad luck.” Then he set off at a run across the island, holding the spray of hawthorn in his hand.

  “What have I done?” asked Fern, bewildered. But even highland Hamish knew the answer to that one. “It’s the fairy tree,” he said. “You’re not supposed to touch it. They don’t like it.”

  Goodness, he thought, I’m beginning to sound as daft as the brothers.

  Ezekiel had risen to his knees and was desperately shovelling earth down into the grave. Hamish saw another spade close by, stripped off his regulation jersey, and began to help him.

  When the sorry little procession finally made its way down to the fishing boat, the minister said to Hamish, “This is a bad business.”

  “You surely don’t believe in the fairies, sir,” said Hamish.

  “No, no. I was thinking of Mr. and Mrs. Palfour. Such an un-Christian exhibition.”

  “It seems there are some places in the world where people can believe in magic and religion at the same time,” said Hamish. “Besides, I get the impression the daughter is not exactly mourning the death of her mother.”

  “She is probably still in shock,” said the minister severely. “Her mother met a dreadful end.”

  On the long journey back to Sutherland, the Palfours avoided Hamish, and any attempts he made to speak to them on the Oban ferry were met with stony silence.

  It was only when he reached the police station and began to answer Dick’s eager questions about the funeral that Hamish realised he was very tired. He told Dick he was going to bed and retired with the dog and cat following him.

  He awoke the next morning to the throb of the dishwasher and the welcome smell of frying food.

  He rose, washed, dressed, and went into the kitchen, where Dick was frying up breakfast.

  “Sit down, sir, and get that down ye.” Dick put a plate of fried sausages, bacon, fried haggis, black pudding, and two eggs in front of Hamish.

  “You’re getting to be a grand cook,” said Hamish, realising he was ravenously hungry. “Any news?”

  “Jimmy Anderson is going to call this morning.”

  “Then let’s hope he has something for me,” said Hamish.

  “And that Mary Leinster came round. I reminded her you were at the funeral and she said she’d forgotten.”

  “Did she say what she wanted?”

  “I think she just wants you.”

  “Havers, Dick. I don’t mess around with married women.”

  “If you say so.”

  When breakfast was over and the dishwasher was finally silent, Dick opened it to take out the clean plates and put in the dirty ones. Hamish noticed to his irritation that Dick was taking out two mugs and one plate, two knives and forks, and a whisky glass.

  He was just complaining, “Man, you’re going to land me with a huge electricity bill if you don’t stop playing with that thing,” when Jimmy gave a perfunctory knock at the door then walked straight in.

  “Get anything out of the Palfours?” he asked.

  “Not a thing,” said Hamish. He described his time on the island and the funeral.

  “I think there’s insanity behind all this,” said Jimmy. “Some downright psycho. What about the Leinsters? Maybe the old girl had found a way out of them keeping the glen? Maybe they killed her to get their hands on the money. I wish to God we could trace those two men who claimed they were servicing the stair lift.”

  “But I assume you’ll be keeping a close eye on the trust’s accounts.”

  “Aye, but we can’t keep auditing them forever. And what happens then? A bit siphoned off here and there into their pockets.”

  “What about Mary Leinster’s husband and brothers?” asked Hamish.

  “That would be Tim Leinster and Brad and Angus Brooke. Aye, well, they were grilled by Blair shouting in their faces, Mary accused of nepotism in giving them the contract to build the gift shop, Blair suspended again as Mary threatened to sue. Daviot told us to back off for a bit, and it was a mess all round. There were no prints on that saw, but that in itself is suspicious.”

  “Mary’s keen on our Hamish,” said Dick cheerfully.

  Jimmy’s face looked even foxier than usual. “Is she now? You should make use of that, Hamish. Did she tell you she was unhappily married or something?”

  “Well, she did,” mumbled Hamish.

  “We’ve got to solve this case, Hamish, so you get over to that town hall and cosy up to her. Is she really unhappily married or just stringing you along?”

  “I’d like a word with her husband first,” said Hamish mulishly.

  “What? What are you going to ask him? Have you stopped beating your wife?”

  “Nothing like that. I want to get an impression o’ the man.”

  “All right. You’ll find them building that gift shop but suss out Mary whatever it takes, and that’s an order!”

  The brothers were taking it easy, drinking tea over a camp stove, when Hamish approached them.

  “What now?” demanded Angus. “We’ve been answering questions until we’re fair black in the face. Our Mary’s going to sue you lot for harassment.”

  Hamish surveyed them. It was hard to imagine they were Mary’s brothers. Their hair was brown and their eyes, pale blue. They were both tall with strong, muscular figures.

  “It won’t take long,” said Hamish soothingly. “I feel somehow that the death of the kingfisher, the wreck of the bridge, and the murder of Mrs. Colchester are somehow all tied up. Have either of you any ideas about the matter?”

  “We’ve talked about it,” said Angus. “There’s only the one idea. On the council, there was only one man that was against the glen, Councillor Jarvis. He’s the one that has the hardware shop in the main street in Braikie. He said we were making a circus out of the place but he was voted down. Now, we aren’t saying he would murder the old woman, but I wouldn’t put it past him to try to spoil the glen and drive people away.”

  “Is he a powerful enough man to have been able to saw through the bridge?”

  “Well, he knows how to use a saw,” said Angus.

  “Now, I’ve one more delicate question to ask you. Is your sister happily married?”

  “Aye,” said Angus, looking surprised. “Someone’s been gossiping?”

  “Something like that,” said Hamish. “I’ll be having a word with this councillor.”

  The hardware shop had an old-fashioned front with JARVIS in gold letters over the entrance. Hamish pushed open the door and went in.

  “Mr. Jarvis?”

  “That’s me,” said the man behind the counter. He was wearing a brown overall over his clothes. He was tall and gangly with grey hair and a large nose which dominated his face. His hands, which were resting on the counter, were large and powerful.

  “I am Sergeant Hamish Macbeth from Lochdubh. I am investigating the sabotage to the glen.”

  “Wouldn’t you be better off trying to find out who murdered the old woman?” he demanded truculently.

  “One thing at a time,” said Hamish. “I believe only you were opposed to turning the glen into a tourist attraction.”

  “It should be left as a quiet place for the locals,” he said. “Not turned into some sort of Disney playground. But all that Mary Leinster had to do was seduce my colleagues into agreeing.”

  “You don’t mean she actually, physically seduced any of them?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest. Before the vote, I saw her out to dinner with one or t’other, flirting like mad.”

  “That bridge was sawn in such a way to make sure it would collapse when a busload of tourists walked on it,” said Hamish. “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to do that?”

  He gave a rather nasty laugh. “Meaning, did I do it? Forget it. Maybe it was the provost’s wife.”

 
“I can’t see a woman having the strength or knowledge to do that,” said Hamish.

  “Then you haven’t met Gloria McQueen.”

  “The provost’s wife?”

  “Aye, herself has been heard threatening to kill Mary.”

  “Maybe I’ll be having a word with her. Has anyone bought a power saw from you in, say, the past month?”

  “Wait a minute and I’ll check the book.”

  The shop was stocked from floor to ceiling with all sorts of tools and implements. Three lawn mowers stood just inside the door. The shop was dark and shadowy although there were two unlit fluorescent tubes overhead.

  Jarvis came back. “No. No one,” he said to one of the lawn mowers by the door.

  “Are you sure?” Hamish was suddenly convinced he was lying.

  “Of course I am sure. I am not in the way of being called a liar.”

  “Where does Mrs. McQueen live?”

  “A big villa up at the end of Barry’s Close. You can’t miss it.”

  Somehow glad to have an excuse to put off seeing Mary, Hamish drove up to Barry’s Close in the “posh” part of town. He parked and went up to the tall wrought-iron gates which guarded the entrance to the villa. He pushed one open and walked up a short curving gravelled drive to the large Victorian villa, home to the provost.

  He was just about to ring the bell when he heard the sound of a saw coming from the back of the house. He walked around the side of the building to the back.

  A burly woman wearing a checked shirt and men’s trousers with a headscarf over her grey hair was attacking a stand of silver birch at the corner of the back garden with a chain saw.

  She saw Hamish approach and switched off the saw. Her large round face was red from exertion. “It’s Macbeth, isn’t it?” she demanded. “What do you want?”

  Two birch trees had been felled, their silver trunks lying across the edge of the lawn.

  “Why are you cutting down those beautiful trees?” demanded Hamish.

  “It’s none of your business what I do on my own property,” she snapped. “What do you want?”