by M C Beaton
“Thank you,” said Heather, taking the paper, but Hamish noticed she crumpled it up in her hand.
He returned to Priscilla and drove off. Up the twisting road they went, crawling through the now-thick mist until, at the top, they moved out into brilliant sunshine and blue sky. Hamish stopped and looked back. Below them, shrouded somewhere in the mist and at the foot of those black mountains, lay Drim. He shivered.
“I’ve done my best,” he said to Priscilla. “That place gives me weird fancies. Best leave it alone.”
And indeed, among the bright heather and with the warmth of the sun striking through the glass, he could feel all his fears melting away. There were a lot of strange places in the Highlands of Scotland where the very earth gave out a bleak atmosphere of misery, as if years of hardship had been recorded in the ancient rock and thin poor soil. They made things seem exaggerated. With a feeling of relief, he drove home to Lochdubh.
♦
That night at two in the morning Peter Hynd was awakened by a sound of breaking glass. He struggled out of bed and climbed down the ladder from his bedroom under the roof. He went into the kitchen and switched on the light. A brick with a piece of paper wrapped round it was lying below the shattered kitchen window. He unwrapped the paper and smoothed it out on the table. In capital letters was the message:
GET OUT OF DRIM OR WE’LL KILL YOU
Betty Baxter descended the ladder from the bedroom with Peter’s dressing-gown wrapped around her. “Whit’s happened?” she asked.
He showed her the message. “Maybe you’d best go home,” he said.
“Harry’s out with the fishing and won’t be back until the morn,” she said. “It’s probably Jock and the others. You’d better put something on,” she added, looking at Peter’s naked body.
“Why? I’m going back to bed. You don’t think. I’m going to let any of that lot spoil my sleep.”
“I’m frightened,” whispered Betty.
He pulled her against him and kissed her lips, and neither saw the blur of a face which peered for a moment in from the mist and then disappeared.
♦
Life picked up for Hamish Macbeth in the following weeks, so that he almost forgot about Drim. There had been a series of burglaries over in Carrask, a small village forty miles away but still on his beat. To his distress, his suspicions began to focus on a newcomer, even though Hamish thought most newcomers suffered from undeserved bad reputations. But in this case he believed the culprit was one Sammy Dolan, an itinerant Irish worker who was, at that moment in time, out of work and drawing the dole. He was beginning to despair of getting any hard proof when one of the locals told him that Dolan had been seen earlier in the day prowling around Miss Tabbet’s. Miss Tabbet was the local schoolteacher who lived in a neat bungalow outside the village and whose home had so far appeared burglar-proof.
Hamish visited her and suggested he spend the night in her front-room. Miss Tabbet was one of those no-nonsense, brisk women who, despite excellent academic qualifications, was quite stupid.
“Nonsense, Mr. Macbeth,” she said. “Any burglar would have more sense than to come here.”
Hamish stifled a sigh. Why did he always have to be patient and restrained? He felt like taking hold of her by her scrawny neck and shaking her. He said aloud, “Well, I’ll type out a letter which says that I was sure. Dolan would break into your premises this night and you refused our help. I’ll do two copies, one for headquarters at Strathbane and one for your insurance company…”
“No need for that,” she said, looking alarmed. “I’m sure I’ve done all I could to help the police when the occasion arose.”
“This is the occasion.”
“Oh, well,” she said ungraciously, “you can wait in the living-room, but make sure you wipe your feet. I’ve just shampooed that carpet. But don’t expect me to make cups of tea for you. I pay my taxes and that should be enough. You’re wasting your time. This house is burglar-proof.”
“How?”
“Come here,” she said, and Hamish thought for a moment that she was going to take hold of him by the ear and lead him by it like a bad child. She led the way to the front door and pointed triumphantly to an array of bolts, chains, and safety locks.
“What about the back door?” asked Hamish.
She snorted and led the way through to the kitchen. The back door was similarly armed. Hamish stood back and looked at the kitchen window and a smile crossed his face. “All the man need do is smash a pane in your kitchen window, put an arm in and open the catch.”
“But I’d hear the breaking glass,” she said triumphantly. “I’m a very light sleeper.”
“I could break thon glass without you hearing a thing,” said Hamish. “Chust bear with me. I’ll be here at six o’clock.”
“Why so early?” she jeered. She was a very jeering sort of woman, made so by years of controlling pupils by sarcasm. “Is he coming for his tea?”
“I want to get in here early, before he starts watching the house,” said Hamish. He smiled down warmly into her eyes, and despite herself she smiled back and looked up at him in a dazed way.
“You silly man,” Hamish chided himself as he walked back down through the village. “You’re getting as bad as Peter Hynd.” And with that thought, he once more had a mental picture of the dark village of Drim with all those passions seething and bubbling at the end of the loch. He was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he almost walked past Sophy Bisset, who hailed him enthusiastically. “What are you doing here?” asked Hamish in surprise.
“It’s my day off and I’m playing tourist,” said Sophy. “What are you doing here?” She asked, just as if she had never overheard Priscilla telling Mr. Johnston that Hamish was investigating crime in Carrask.
“On duty,” said Hamish.
“Time for a cup of tea? There’s a place in the back of the craft shop at the end of the village.”
“Aye, that’ll be grand,” said Hamish. He felt a warm glow. He did not for a moment believe that Sophy had not known he was to be found in Carrask, and that meant she had come in search of him whereas Priscilla had not; Priscilla who, before their engagement, would have dropped over to see him. That Priscilla was badly frightened by any intimacy was becoming clearer and clearer, and Hamish was beginning to think that his hopes that it would “be all right on the night,” namely on their honeymoon, were beginning to look naive in the extreme. Meanwhile, here was pretty Sophy with her sparkling eyes appearing delighted with his company. And a friendly bird in Carrask was worth two chilly ones in Lochdubh any day. He was hurt and angry with Priscilla and it was with a feeling of revenge that he set out to be especially charming to Sophy in the pepper-scented back room of the craft shop.
At last he looked at his watch; “I must be on my way,” he said with genuine regret. They walked out together. “See you back in Lochdubh, then,” said Sophy. She stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek.
Across the street Mrs. Fair, who owned the small hotel called the Carrask Arms, watched curiously and then she picked up the phone. “Is that the Tommel Castle Hotel?” she asked. “Good. May I speak to Miss Halburton-Smythe?”
Hamish was glad of the tea and cakes he had shared with Sophy in the afternoon as the long evening wore on. He would have liked to watch television to pass the time but Miss Tabbet had recovered from the glow that smile of his had given her and said she “didn’t hold with it,” and Hamish wondered crossly why she had the thing in the first place. She sat and knitted fiercely while listening to a concert on the radio, a modern piece by a Hungarian composer full of crashing minor chords. At last, to Hamish’s relief, she went up to bed. He was amused to hear loud snores reverberating through the ceiling a short time later. Miss Tabbet slept like a pig, he thought. A whole gang of burglars could crash in without her hearing anything.
He looked at the clock. It was only ten. He switched on the television set and watched the news and then a programme in Gaelic, inevitably about
the history of the Highland Clearances, when the crofters were driven off their land. Then a very fat Glaswegian woman sang a dirge about the clearances she had written herself, and apart from being briefly fascinated to hear Gaelic sung with all the glottal stops of a Glaswegian accent, Hamish became bored and switched it off.
The minutes dragged on. At midnight, he switched off the downstairs lights and sat in the darkness. The nights were getting darker and he knew that by two o’clock there would be about one hour of guaranteed darkness and that, he guessed, would be when Dolan struck, if it was Dolan who hid been guilty of the other break-ins.
Two o’clock came and went and he yawned and stretched. Nothing was going to happen, he decided. Miss Tabbet was an old battleaxe and even Dolan must have decided to give her house a miss. The wind had risen and was howling outside. But suddenly he heard it. The tinkle of breaking glass coming from the kitchen.
He went quietly to the back of the house. A hand crept through a hole in the glass of the kitchen window and released the catch. Then the burly figure of a man climbed in over the draining-board and jumped lightly onto the floor.
Hamish switched on the kitchen light.
Sammy Dolan stood there, blinking at him. But before Hamish could charge him, Dolan whipped a wicked hunting-knife out of his boot.
“Stand back,” he said, “and no one will get hurt.”
Hamish reached behind him, picked up a frying pan from the cooker and then, darting forward like lightning and ducking to avoid a vicious stab of the knife, brought it down with all his force on Dolan’s forehead.
The Irishman groaned and fell to the kitchen floor. He was down but not out, so Hamish dragged him across the floor and handcuffed him to the iron leg of the cooker, read out the charge and then went through and called Strathbane and asked them to send help to pick Dolan up.
He returned to the kitchen. Dolan looked up at him hatefully and let out a stream of oaths. “Shut up,” said Hamish. He went upstairs in the direction of the snores. Miss Tabbet was lying on her back, her face glistening with cold cream. He put a hand on her shoulder and shook her awake.
“Get out of my bedroom, you…you rapist,” she screamed.
“The day I even think about raping someone like you I’ll check into the loony-bin,” said Hamish brutally. “I’ve caught your burglar.”
“What?” Miss Tabbet was obviously reluctant to let the thought of rape disappear.
“I’ve caught the burglar. I’m waiting for the van from Strathbane to take him away.”
She struggled up. “Where is he?”
“Handcuffed to your kitchen cooker.” Hamish turned and walked out and went back down to the kitchen.
Dolan was quieter, but at the sight of Hamish he said, “I’m going to charge you with police brutality.”
“Suit yourself,” Hamish shrugged and went to plug in the kettle. He felt he deserved a coffee.
Miss Tabbet appeared in the doorway wrapped in a pink chenille dressing-gown and stared at the figure of Dolan on the floor. Then her eyes went to the frying-pan, which Hamish had tossed onto the counter. She picked it up. “Why has my best frying-pan got a dunt in it?”
“Because I hit Dolan on the head with it.”
“Police brutality, that’s what it is,” whined Dolan.
“My best frying-pan,” screeched Miss Tabbet. “And what are you doing with that kettle?”
“You can put in a bill for the frying-pan if you like,” said Hamish coolly. “And as I have chust saved you from being robbed, you can allow me one cup of coffee.” His voice was quiet, but something in it made Miss Tabbet blink rapidly and retreat. To Hamish’s relief, he heard her going back upstairs. He made himself a cup of instant coffee and took it through to the living-room and waited patiently until a police van arrived from Strathbane and took Dolan away. It was six in the morning. He should really wake the schoolteacher again and ask her to lock up after he went but he could not bear any more of her grumbling, and besides, the burglar had been caught. He took a childish delight in leaving his unwashed coffee-cup on the living-room table. He went out into the light of a sunny morning, climbed into the Land Rover, and with a feeling of gladness, of release, set off for Lochdubh.
♦
After filing his report he slept most of the day and then awoke and phoned Priscilla. Sophy answered the phone and said she would find her. After quite a long time she came back and said in an amused voice that Priscilla had said she was out. “And what’s she miffed about?” asked Hamish.
“Some biddy reported we were seen kissing outside the craft shop in Cairask,” said Sophy gleefully.
“I hope you told Priscilla there was nothing in that,” said Hamish sharply.
“Oh, sure. But she wasn’t inclined to listen to me.”
“I’ll be right up.” Hamish slammed down the phone, cursing Sophy under his breath.
He could feel his engagement, unofficial though it still was, falling apart. He no longer knew what he wanted. Why had Priscilla turned into such a managing female? Why couldn’t she have left him alone? He suddenly wondered if she would ever change. Would she clatter around the police station in Lochdubh eternally unforgiving when she finally realized he had no intention of leaving the village? Why couldn’t people realize it was a rare gift to be happy with one’s lot? Although this particular policeman’s lot at the present moment, and thanks to Priscilla and Sophy, was not a happy one.
When he got to the hotel, Sophy said happily she would fetch Priscilla while Hamish paced up and down the reception. When Priscilla and Sophy walked in, Sophy went back behind the reception desk and leaned on it.
“Yes, Hamish?” asked Priscilla frostily.
He gathered her in his arms and she suddenly gave a little sigh and leaned against him. Sophy watched wide-eyed as Hamish, with his arm about Priscilla’s shoulders, led her outside.
“Now what’s all this?” asked Hamish gently.
“I couldn’t help remembering your reputation as a philanderer,” said Priscilla in a low voice.
“Look, you must know that Sophy found out that I was at Carrask and followed me over. We went for tea and then she kissed my cheek on leaving. That was all. But I couldnae help remembering the days when you yourself would have come over to see me.”
“I’ve been pretty bad, haven’t I, Hamish? Forget about promotion and houses in Strathbane. I’m sure we’ll be happy enough in the Lochdubh police station.”
“Come back with me now,” urged Hamish. “We never have any proper time together.”
For one awful moment, she hesitated and then she nodded her fair head.
Hamish’s excitement rose as he approached the police station, with Priscilla following in her own car. This was it, at last! Were there clean sheets on the bed? Damn, he needed a bath. He hadn’t had any supper and his stomach grumbled and rumbled. But food could wait.
Once inside the police station, he brushed aside Priscilla’s suggestion that they should have a cup of coffee and gathered her firmly in his arms. The time had come for action. He swept her up to carry her to the bedroom but she was a tall girl and her feet got jammed in the kitchen door.
“Put me down,” laughed Priscilla. “I can walk.”
Hamish put her down and just as he did so, the bell at the front police-station door rang shrilly and urgently.
They both looked at each other. The locals all used the back door. Only strangers rang the bell at the front…
“It’ll only take a minute,” said Hamish breathlessly. “Probably one o’ thae tourists lost something up on the moors.”
The wind was buffeting the police station and the blue lamp outside was swinging wildly as he opened the door. He dropped his gaze.
The small figure of Heather Baxter stood on the doorstep.
In her lilting Highland accent, she said, “I haff come to report a murder.”
∨ Death of a Charming Man ∧
5
No, no, he as dead;
Go to thy death-bed,
He will never come again.
—William Shakespeare
“Come in,” said Hamish quietly. He took Heather’s cold, damp hand and led her through to the kitchen. “Hot, sweet tea,” he said to Priscilla.
He pushed Heather into a chair and crouched down in front of her. “Who’s been murdered?”
“Thon Sassenach, Peter Hynd.”
“How wass he killed?”
She shook her head dumbly.
“Where wass the body found?”
“It has not been found.”
Hamish straightened up and sat down next to her. “Then how do you know he has been murdered?”
She looked at him with those odd grey eyes and then she pointed to her head. “I saw it in here,” she whispered. “They all say he’s gone. He left a note. His things are gone. But I know he’s been murdered. I feel him around the village.”
Hamish took a mug of tea from Priscilla and handed it to Heather. “Drink this,” he urged. “How did you get here?”
“I drove in my faither’s truck. I tied blocks on my feet and drove. He’s drunk asleep. He did not go to the fishing.”
“You’ve had a hard time at home recently, Heather,” said Hamish, “and maybe that’s what’s been putting these thoughts in your head.” She shook that head stubbornly. “This is what we’ll do. I won’t be booking you for driving without a licence. That will be our secret. But neffer do such a thing again. Then I will drive you back in the truck and Priscilla here will follow us. She’ll bring me back and then I’ll return in the morning and start asking questions.”
Heather looked up at Priscilla and a strangely feminine look for one of her tender years crossed her face. Her grey eyes slanted at Hamish. “I don’t want her.”
“Then how am I to get back?”
“I’ll drive myself,” said Heather. “I’ve already broken the law driving here. One more time won’t matter.”
Hamish sighed. “I’d better get her back, Priscilla.”
“That’s all right, Hamish,” said Priscilla, making for the door. “See you tomorrow.”
