by M C Beaton
"And why did she leave you?" asked Hamish.
Steel's face darkened. "Someone else came along," he said in his flat, nasal twang.
"Another pop singer?"
"No, Sir Benjamin Silver, head of Metropolitan Foods."
"The multimillionaire?"
"Yes."
"I see."
"I didn't at the time," said Steel. "That was the thing about Maggie. She went through a mint of my money but I never thought of it as paying her. I mean, she wasn't the kind you left the money on the bedside table for. I was in love and I thought she was. I thought she would come back to me."
"Are you married?"
"Separated."
"So how could you have married Mrs. Baird?"
"I'd have got a divorce. Never got around to it before."
What a weak bunch of men, thought Hamish. He took some more notes and then braced himself to interview Mrs. Todd.
He took down Mrs. Todd's account of her arrival on the scene of Maggie's death and then began to ask questions. Why had Mrs. Todd not rushed to see if she could help instead of going straight to the house and dialling 999? What had led her to believe no-one had yet dialled?
"I do not know," she said primly. "It all happened that quick. They're a useless bunch and wouldnae think o' doing anything sensible."
"Very well. Where were you last night and this morning?"
"I was at a meeting of the Women's Rural Institute at the school hall, went tae my bed, and then collected some groceries in the village and drove up here."
"Do you know where Mrs. Baird meant to go?"
"I don't know. Herself usually didn't move till the afternoon. Let me tell you this, Mr. Macbeth, you are making a lot of trouble over a mere accident. You are causing poor little Miss Kerr a lot o' strain."
Hamish ignored that and ploughed patiently on with his questions.
In the sitting room, Alison sat on the sofa with Peter Jenkins beside her. His arm was around her shoulders.
"So much for that helpful copper of yours," said Peter. "I'll have his guts for giving us all this trouble."
"He wasn't at all sympathetic," sniffed Alison. "Sitting there like the Gestapo. I don't know what's come over him."
"Power, that's what. These local hick types love a chance to push their betters around."
Alison leaned back and closed her eyes. She thought about her recent interview with Hamish. She and Hamish had been friends and yet he had asked her questions as if he had never known her. God! How she hated that study. She would have it turned into a breakfast room or a library.
She hated the functional desk where she had typed so much filth.
She sat up a little, frowning.
"What's the matter?" asked Peter.
"The manuscript," said Alison. "Maggie's book. I don't remember seeing it on the desk. I'd better tell Hamish about it."
"She was in there last night," said Peter. "She probably either took it to her room or put it in one of the drawers. But tell that dreary bobby if you like."
The four guests had been looking forward to the arrival of Hamish Macbeth's superior, and when he did arrive, Detective Chief Inspector Blair from Strathbane did not let them down. It was, he said, a clear case of accident. There was no need to use a squad of policemen to comb the area for clues. The car would be towed away to Strathbane and examined there. He was sure the wiring would prove to be faulty. He was so delighted at putting Hamish down before an audience that he was even nice to Steel Ironside, despite the fact that he remembered clearly that one of the pop singer's hits in the early seventies had been `Burn the Fuzz.' Mrs. Todd served him coffee with cream and some of her scones. His two detectives, Jimmy Anderson and Harry MacNab, stood respectfully behind his chair. Alison, who told him about Maggie's vicious treatment of the car, thought Blair a nice fatherly man. He was heavyset and spoke with a thick Glasgow accent and when not being nice to the company treated Hamish like a moron. And Hamish deserved it all, thought Alison fiercely. After all, Hamish was a Highlander and the Highlanders were another race entirely, sly and malicious and devious.
But as if remembering at last that he, too, was a policeman, Blair became mindful of his duties and told the four men to stay at the bungalow until the forensic report came through. In a quiet voice, Hamish told him of the missing manuscript and its contents.
"Hot stuff, hey?" said Blair with a salacious leer. "I may as well hae a gander at it. Go and find it, Macbeth, and dae something useful fur a change."
Hamish went off. He searched Maggie's desk and then moved quietly upstairs to her bedroom and went carefully through all the drawers. But there was no sign of the manuscript and no sign either of any report from a detective agency.
At last Blair left, and the shaken guests and Alison settled down to have lunch in the kitchen.
James looked out of the window and muttered something and then got to his feet and went over and stared out. "Someone had better get on to Strathbane," he said. "That local bobby's making trouble."
The others joined him at the window.
The rain had started to fall quite heavily, but Hamish Macbeth, accompanied by a large mongrel dog, was down on his hands and knees on the gravel in front of the garage, slowly going over every inch of ground.
"Oh, let him get on with it," said Peter Jenkins impatiently. "He's better out there than in here bothering us with a lot of questions."
They all returned to the table but no-one seemed to feel much like eating and at last with a clucking noise of impatience, Mrs. Todd removed the plates of unfinished food.
Hamish, oblivious to the rain, slowly edged backwards over the gravel, his nose almost on the ground. Then he moved over to the narrow strip of grass that bordered the right-hand side of the drive. He worked his way along, backing towards the two gateposts.
And then at the bottom of one of the gateposts he found a blackened piece of metal. He looked at it thoughtfully and then fished in his pocket for tweezers and plastic bag and popped it in.
He worked his way forward again while Towser let out a little whimper of dismay and shook himself violently, sending out a spray of water over Hamish's back. Hamish was just about to give up his search when close by where the car had stood in the garage he found a tiny piece of charred material like felt. He put that in the bag with the metal and then decided to go and see Ian Chisholm.
"Bad business up at the bungalow," said Ian. "Mind you, that car was a wreck. I hadnae seen it since I did the last repairs but it wisnae in very good shape then and that lassie, Alison, well, herself must hae driven it thousands o' miles. I suppose it just all blew."
"Maybe," shivered Hamish, steaming gently in front of the black cylindrical wood-burning stove in a corner of the garage. "But just suppose, Ian, just suppose you wanted a car tae burst into flames, would this mean anything tae ye?" He extracted the piece of blackened metal and the little bit of cloth from the plastic bag, holding each item up by the tweezers.
Ian scratched his grey hair. "My, my, ye're after another murder," he said. "Well, let me hae a think, but it'll cost ye."
"Come on, Ian, I'm not asking a favour, I am asking ye to help the forces of law and order solve a murder."
"A murder that Blair has decided is an accident?"
"Now how did you hear that?"
"Angie Burnside, him that did the garden for Mrs. Baird from time tae time, him was up at the house for he heard the siren and went for a look-see. He was still there when Blair and two fellows come out and he hears Blair say, 'I'll hae that Macbeth's balls fur trying to call an accident murder.'"
"I forgot about Angie," said Hamish. "I'd better hae a wee word with him. Anyway, use your brain, Ian."
"I hae a Renault, same age as hers, over here," said Ian. He went over to a corner of the garage where a battered Renault with a crushed side stood. He raised the bonnet and peered at the engine. Then he called Hamish over. "Let's see that bit o' metal again," said Ian.
Hamish took it out w
ith a pair of tweezers and held it up. "Don't touch!" he warned.
"Aye, that's a sparking plug," said Ian. "Look, it could just be done, Hamish, and here's how.
"Now, if someone removed the high-tension lead from a sparking plug, and stuck this lead onto another sparking plug and laid it on top of the engine, immediately someone tried to start the engine, a spark would ignite the fumes which could be coming from, say, a petrol-soaked mat of felt resting on the engine, and, man, you'd get a bonny fire. But it still cannae be murder."
"Why not?"
"Well, although the engine would burst into flames, herself would still hae time to open the door and get clear. She'd only get a fright."
"And if that someone knew she had a bad heart?"
"Aye, man, well in that case you'd have a murder."
6
I am a conscientious man,. when I throw rocks
at seabirds I leave no tern unstoned.
—OGDEN NASH
Now, thought Hamish Macbeth, if I phone Blair as a good copper should, Blair will tell me I'm talking rubbish and then slide along to the super and put it in as his own idea. If I am as unambitious as I keep telling Priscilla I am, then why should I bother? But damn it, I do bother.
He went into the police station office and pulled forward the typewriter and began to type out a report. When it was finished, he drove to the hotel, and despite Mr Johnson's caustic remarks about mooching scroungers, he ran off three copies of the report on the hotel's photocopying machine. Then he headed out towards Strathbane.
He found, as he drove into the town, that he was experiencing a slight feeling of dread, as if he would never escape again. He was glad he had left Towser behind in Lochdubh. The poor animal would probably think he was going back to the police kennels.
He drove to the police headquarters and left three of the reports plus the plastic bag with the sparking plug and scrap of felt at the desk: one of the reports to go to Detective Chief Inspector Blair, one to Superintendent Peter Daviot, and one plus the bag to go to the forensic department. Then he went back out into the night.
He decided to celebrate with a drink before returning to Lochdubh. He cast his mind back over his busy day. He had not had anything to drink so he could indulge in a small glass of whisky without being in any danger of being over the limit.
Soon Hamish was standing at the bar of an unlovely pub called The Glen, which he had recently patrolled on his beat. It still reflected the Calvinistic days when drinking was a sin and the only point in going to a pub was to get drunk. There was a bar along the end of a small room. The floor was covered with brown linoleum. There were two tables, a battered upright piano, a juke box, and a fruit machine. The whole place smelled of beer, disinfectant, damp clothes, and unwashed bodies, the habitués of The Glen dating from the days when a bath was something you had before you went to see the doctor.
"Evening, Hamish," said the barman. It had been a source of great irritation to PC Mary Graham that the locals on the beat all called Hamish by his first name. "Hivnae seen yiz for a long while."
"I'm back in Lochdubh," said Hamish. "I'll hae a dram."
"This one's on the hoose," said the barman. "Ye're sore missed, Hamish. That blonde scunner's aye poking her nose in here, looking for trouble."
Correctly identifying the 'blonde scunner' as PC Graham, Hamish thanked him and then turned and looked around the busy bar. Several of the locals called greetings to him and he nodded cheerfully back. The customers were not working class, rather they were underclass, the denizens of the dole world who lived from one drink to the next. The juke box fell silent. A local who rejoiced in the nickname of Smelly MacCrystal lumbered to the piano. It was rumoured he had once been a concert pianist, but Hamish took that with a pinch of salt. All the habitués of The Glen claimed to have been something important at one time, from professors of English literature to jet pilots. But when only half drunk as he was that evening, Smelly could play well and he played all the old and favourite Scottish songs.
"Come on, Hamish," shouted someone. "Gie us a song."
Hamish turned red with embarrassment. He had drunk far too much on the evening of that wonderful day when he was told he could go back home and he had celebrated in The Glen by entertaining the surprised locals to a concert. He shook his head but found himself being propelled towards the piano. He shrugged and gave in.
PC Mary Graham quietly pushed open the door of the pub, hoping, as usual, to catch someone breaking the law. She stood there amazed.
Hamish Macbeth was standing by the piano, his fiery hair gleaming in the harsh neon lights of the pub. He was singing 'My Love Is Like a Red, Red Rose.' Hamish was blessed with a good voice, that kind of voice which is often affectionately described as an Irish parlour tenor. But Mary noticed only that Hamish Macbeth was leaning on the piano, singing, and surrounded by a group of dirty drunks, and he was not in uniform.
She turned and sprinted for police headquarters. As she arrived, panting and breathless, Superintendent Peter Daviot was just coming down the stairs. Now Mary should have reported to the desk sergeant who would have taken the matter higher, but she was too desperate to get Hamish into trouble to bother about the niceties of police procedure. Daviot had been looking for Blair without success. He had Hamish's report in his briefcase. He had phoned the forensic department to learn they had not started to examine the car because Blair had told them the matter was not urgent.
He listened in amazement to Mary's story. One of his officers was howling drunk in one of Strathbane's sleaziest pubs.
"We'll use my car," said Daviot. He was always worried about the police force's public image. He prayed one of the local reporters would not decide to visit the pub before he got there, the super being rather naive about the press and not knowing that if the papers wrote stories about every roistering copper, there would be little room on their pages for anything else.
He entered the pub just as Hamish was entertaining the company with a rendering of 'The Rowan Tree.' Daviot stopped short, listening to the mellow voice soaring in the well-known sentimental ballad. Several of the drunks were crying.
Hamish finished his song to noisy applause and shook his head when they demanded more. Then he saw the super and walked forward with a smile which quickly faded as he saw PC Graham's avid face behind the super's shoulder.
"Evening, sir," said Hamish mildly. "Did you get my report?"
"Yes, thank you," said Daviot. "It should have gone to Blair, you know."
"I sent him a copy as well," said Hamish. "How did you know I was here?"
"PC Graham was most concerned about your behaviour. She said you were drunk."
"I wonder why," said Hamish pleasantly.
"I suppose because you are not in uniform and singing in a low pub."
"This pub," said Hamish firmly, "was on my beat. You are very concerned with police image, sir, and I think you will agree that if you get along with the local community, then people are more likely to come to you in time of need."
"Just so," said the super. "Just what I always say."
"You will also agree that it iss verra important to get the facts right before troubling anyone. PC Graham should hae asked me a few questions. That way, she would hae found there iss no reason for me to wear uniform when off duty and that I wass not drunk."
"You mean, she did not speak to you?"
"Not a word."
Daviot swung round. "Get back to your beat, Officer," he said sternly to PC Graham, "and then come and see me tomorrow."
"Aye, that's right," said one of the locals, peering over the super's arm. "Tell Typhoid Mary to get the hell oot."
PC Graham threw Hamish a venomous look before she left.
"Come out to the car, Hamish," said the super. "I can't talk in here."
Hamish waved goodbye and followed Daviot out.
In the car, Daviot opened his briefcase and took out Hamish's report. "You say here that Mrs. Baird had employed a private detective ag
ency to find out about these men?"
"Yes," replied Hamish, "but I couldnae find any sign of it, nor of that book she said she was writing."
"And what did Blair say to that?"
"He didnae seem interested," said Hamish, wondering at the same time why sinking the knife in Blair's fat back should make him feel so mean.
"Very well. Go back to Lochdubh and leave the matter with me. It is entirely your own fault, Hamish, that you are not in charge of this case. You have avoided promotion deliberately. I am not complaining. Good village policemen are hard to find. On the other hand, I think it is time you took a good look at yourself. You should be thinking of marriage, for example."
"I always wonder why detectives get married," said Hamish. "I mean, they're hardly ever home and the only friends they have outside the force are villains."
"A good, sensible wife would make allowances. It's time you settled down. I know my wife got some nonsense into her head that you might marry Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, but I said to her you would be better off with some strong village girl to look after you and iron your shirts."
"I am a dab hand wi' the iron myself," said Hamish defensively.
"Well, you'll just need to go back to your regular duties and assist the detectives when and where they need you. You are a sore disappointment to me, Macbeth."
And by that loss of his first name, Hamish knew the super was indeed angry with him.
But Daviot had given him a lot to think about. Blair would be back in Lochdubh on the morrow, throwing his weight around, and making life hell for everyone in general and Hamish Macbeth in particular. But to join the detectives, to live in Strathbane, thought Hamish as he drove slowly along the waterfront at Lochdubh. Would no-one ever understand the happiness and contentment of the truly unambitious man?
