Death of a Dustman

∨ Death of a Dustman ∧

5

Dear, beauteous death, the jewel of the just!

Shining nowhere but in the dark;

What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,

Could man outlook that mark!

—Henry Vaughan

Hamish took out his mobile phone and called Jimmy Anderson. “I just wondered,” said Hamish, “whether you had ever managed to trace that phone call? You know, the one Fergus got before he went out?”

“Oh, that,” said Jimmy. “Useless. Came from that phone box on the waterfront.”

“Get Clarry to ask if anyone saw anyone in the box. A light comes on at night.”

“Aye, but it was still light at the time he got the call. What are you up to?”

“Just doing a few inquiries about Mrs. Fleming.”

“Waste of time,” said Jimmy. “I’ll get Clarry to ask around and see if anyone saw anyone phoning.”

Hamish rang off and then on impulse dialled the minister’s wife. “I saw the new schoolteacher arrive,” he said.

“So?” barked Mrs. Wellington. Hamish began to curse himself for phoning her. He should have tried Angela instead.

“I thought maybe I should take her out for dinner, it being her first night.”

“What a good idea!” exclaimed Mrs. Wellington, much to Hamish’s surprise.

“I have the schoolhouse number, but what is her name?”

“Mrs. Moira Cartwright. A divorcee.”

Hamish thanked her. After he had said good-bye, he wondered how he had got information about the new schoolteacher so easily from Mrs. Wellington. It would have been more her style to caution him against romancing the new teacher. He phoned the schoolhouse and a brisk voice answered the phone. “Mrs. Cartwright?”

“Yes, who is this?”

“This is Sergeant Hamish Macbeth. I heard you had just moved in. You must be too busy to make a meal this evening. I wondered whether you would like to meet me for dinner at, say, eight o’clock at the Italian restaurant?”

“Is that the place on the waterfront?”

“The same.”

“That’s very kind of you. I’ll be there. Good-bye.”

Hamish beamed as he tucked his mobile phone back in his pocket. Forget Priscilla. Or maybe, just maybe, Priscilla might see him with such a beauty.

He then made his way to the Grand Hotel and went into the cocktail bar to wait for Mrs Fleming’s secretary.

♦

Clarry was moving patiently from house to house, particularly those near the phone box. No one so far had seen anything. He was walking back along the waterfront when he saw the Macleod children coming towards him.

“How’s your mother?” he asked Johnny.

“She’s trying to get rid o’ that man from the restaurant,” said Johnny. “She telt him the house was clean, but he’s cleaning everything again.”

“I’ll see to it,” said Clarry. “Come with me.”

From Hamish, Clarry had heard tales of Willie Lament’s fanatical cleaning. Followed by the children, he marched up to Martha’s cottage.

Martha was sitting on a chair outside the front door. From inside came the frantic sound of scrubbing.

“I can’t seem to stop him,” said Martha helplessly.

“I’ll stop him. When’s the funeral?”

“They’re going to release the body next week, they say. If only you could find out who did it. I’ll never be at peace until then.”

“I’ll find out,” said Clarry stoutly. He went in to confront Willie.

“Get out of here!” roared Clarry. “And stop persecuting a poor widow woman!”

Willie, who was down on his hands and knees with a scrubbing brush, turned a pained face up to Clarry. “I was just doing my bit for the community.”

“Well, do it somewhere else. Out!”

“Weellie!” called a voice from outside.

Willie leapt to his feet. “The wife!” He went outside and Clarry followed him. Clarry had not met Willie’s wife before, and he blinked at the vision of Italian loveliness facing him.

“Weellie,” said Lucia Lamont severely. “You are wanted in the restaurant.”

“Right,” said Willie meekly.

Lucia gave Martha a dazzling smile. “You must not mind him. He loves cleaning.”

The odd couple walked off arm in arm.

“Come inside,” said Martha to Clarry. “I’ll make us some tea.”

Clarry happily went with her into the cottage, followed by the children. Johnny came in carrying the baby, which he put on Clarry’s lap. “So how are you all bearing up?” asked Clarry.

“We’re still in shock,” said Martha.

“What you all need,” said Clarry predictably, “is a good feed and a funny video.”

“Oh, Clarry,” said Martha, and she began to cry.

Clarry handed the baby to Johnny and went and clumsily patted Martha’s shoulder. “Don’t cry. Clarry’s here. I’ll look after you all.”

Johnny grabbed his arm and looked up into his face.

“Forever?” he asked.

“If your mother would like that,” said Clarry, feeling bolder now, gathering Martha into his arms.

♦

Hamish left the Grand Hotel feeling flat. He had elicited nothing much from the secretary that he did not know already – that since the death of her husband, Mrs. Fleming had gone power mad. But whether her craving for power and fame would drive her to killing one dustman seemed too far-fetched.

Then he brightened. There was dinner with the new schoolteacher to look forward to. Just time to get back and change.

Clarry was not there. Hamish let Lugs out into the garden at the back and then prepared some food for the dog. He had a quick bath and shave and then was brushing his teeth when he realised with horror that he had forgotten to buy a new toothbrush. He was brushing his teeth with the brush he had used on Lugs. He shuddered and rinsed out his mouth.

When he let Lugs in, the dog glanced up at him and, as if registering the glory of suit, collar and tie, crept to his food bowl with his tail between his legs. Hamish dressed for the evening meant no company for Lugs.

Hamish found he was excited with anticipation. He remembered the glorious beauty of the vision he had seen beside the removal truck. All thoughts of the murder of Fergus, all speculation about who had murdered Fergus, had gone from his head. Although the nights were drawing in, it was still light and the flanks of the two mountains which soared above the village were bright with heather. One early star shone in the clear, pale greenish-blue of the evening sky, and the setting sun sent a fiery path across the black waters of the loch. The air was full of the smells of a Highland village: tar and peat smoke, strong tea, pine and the salt tang of the waters of the sea loch.

He straightened his tie and went into the restaurant. There were various customers, some he recognised and some he did not. People came from far and wide to dine at the restaurant.

Willie appeared at his elbow. “I’ve put her at your usual table, over by the window.”

Hamish looked across. A squat middle-aged woman was sitting there. She had a greyish heavy face with a great wide mouth. Her large pale eyes had thick, fleshy lids. Her salt and pepper hair was secured at her neck with a black velvet bow. She looked like an eighteenth-century man from a Hogarth engraving.

“There’s some mistake,” hissed Hamish. “I’m meeting the new schoolteacher.”

“Well, that’s her.”

“You sure?”

“Introduced herself,” said Willie. “Said she was meeting you.”

The sun disappeared outside the restaurant windows and the sun set in Hamish’s heart. He cautiously approached the table.

“Mrs. Cartwright?”

She grinned up at him, exposing yellowing and irregular teeth. “Mr. Macbeth, how kind of you to entertain me on my first night.”

Hamish sat down opposite her. “We’re a friendly village. What would you like to drink?”

“Campari and soda, please.”

“So I gather you’ve just arrived,” said Hamish. “I saw the removal van. Come from far?”

“From Edinburgh. I hate moving. But I have a super-efficient niece, Flora. You fuss too much, Auntie, she said. Let me organise the whole thing.”

“You should have brought her with you,” said Hamish.

“Oh, she went straight back to Edinburgh. She’s an advocate, and she’s got a case coming up tomorrow.”

There was a silence while they studied the menu. When she had selected what she wanted, Hamish gave their order.

He thought of Priscilla and felt a weight of unhappiness settle on his stomach. He wasn’t still in love with her, he told himself, but somehow he didn’t want her to get married.

“Is it this murder?” he realised Moira Cartwright was asking him. “You look quite gloomy.”

“Yes, it is,” lied Hamish. “I’m hoping one of the locals didn’t lose their rag and hit him too hard.”

“Tell me about it.”

So Hamish did and found, as the meal progressed, that he was beginning to relax. She was that rare thing, an excellent listener.

“What puzzles me,” ended Hamish, “is why no one saw him.”

“I know this seems a bit way out, but if this Fergus got a phone call and went off without telling his wife who he was meeting…”

“That wouldn’t be unusual. The only communication Martha Macleod had with her husband was the occasional fist in her face.”

“I was going to say he might have been in disguise. But now you’ve told me about the wife, surely the answer’s obvious. She did it. Or someone close to her. You know, murder, like charity, usually begins at home.”

Hamish was about to say stoutly that when Martha hadn’t been with him she’d been with Clarry, but that was what he wanted to think. He had slept heavily that night. Clarry could have nipped out if it transpired that Martha really knew where Fergus had gone.

He had not told Moira about the blackmail. But that was one thing he could not keep to himself for much longer.

“What is it?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Nothing. I just wish it were all over.”

“Have you considered these Currie sisters as suspects?”

“What! That iss ridiculous. Neither of them would hurt a fly.”

“I find you think you know people just because they’re under your feet the whole time, so to speak. But there can be a lot of passions burning below the surface.”

“You speak from experience?”

“I was married once. I reverted to my maiden name after the divorce but I still use the ‘Mrs.’ Vanity! I don’t want to be thought a spinster.”

“What happened?”

“I had a very strict upbringing and John was a bit wild. That was what attracted me. My parents were against it. He turned out a bad lot. He stole cars. Then it was armed robbery. Finally he killed a night watchman. He’s out now. Isn’t it incredible that somewhere that murdering rat could be walking the streets?”

“Not the streets of Lochdubh, I hope.”

“He doesn’t know where I am. It all happened thirty years ago anyway. So what do you lot do for amusement round here when you’re not murdering each other?”

“There’s no theatre and no cinema, so the younger ones go down to Inverness or over to Strathbane. There’s the occasional dance or ceidlih, you know, where we dance and then everyone does something, sings or recites a poem, that sort of thing. Then there’s the television.”

“What did they all do to pass the time in the winter before television?”

“They sat around each other’s peat fires and told stories. It’s an art that’s nearly gone. Not many young people stay in the Highlands. It’s a place where incomers choose to retire, but often they don’t last long. The dark winters usually get to them.”

“I’m not that much of a stranger to the Highlands. I taught over in Dingwall in Cromarty. Lively town, nice people. But I was much younger then, and I wanted to travel. I learned teaching English as a foreign language and then I taught in Italy for a bit, then Japan and then Thailand.”

“Dingwall?” said Hamish. “Exactly when would that have been?”

“Fifteen years ago.”

“So you wouldn’t have been that young.”

“Do you usually shell out compliments like that?”

“Sorry. Tell me more about Dingwall.”

“You know Dingwall. I can’t tell you much more. The police there are very good.”

“Have much to do with them?”

She laughed. “You’re beginning to suspect I have a murky past. No, it was nothing like that. Some nasty person sent me a blackmailing letter.”

Hamish sat up straight. “What about?”

“I was to leave two hundred pounds in ten-pound notes in a bag on a bench at Dingwall railway station at midnight, or the blackmailer would tell everyone that I had been married to a murderer. So I went straight to the police. They got a bag and stuffed it with paper and told me to leave it on the bench as instructed. They kept watch but no one turned up. I didn’t hear any more, but it soured Dingwall for me, so I got the job in Edinburgh.”

“Did you have an accountant in Dingwall?”

“What an odd question! No, I had no need of an accountant. I did my taxes myself. Still do.”

Hamish wanted to tell her that Fergus had worked as an accountant in Dingwall, but she would ask if he had continued as a blackmailer, if Fergus had been the one trying to blackmail her in Dingwall, and Hamish did not want to say anything that might betray anyone in Lochdubh.

But he did not believe in coincidences. Here was a schoolteacher who had once worked in Dingwall, who had been blackmailed. And she had moved to Lochdubh.

“Why?” he asked abruptly. “Why Lochdubh?”

“I was working in a large comprehensive in Edinburgh. I could have got a job in a private school with smaller classes, but I was still idealistic, thought I could bring my educational skills to those who were not so fortunate in their upbringing.” She sighed. “It was a nightmare. The pupils were rowdy and noisy. Big loutish boys and girls who had so many parts of their body pierced, they were like walking pin cushions. I stuck it out for quite a while. I didn’t make many friends because most of the teachers moved away quite quickly and found work elsewhere, or, after their brutal experiences, left teaching altogether. I became weary. I wanted a quiet life until my retirement. I saw the job was going here and applied for it and got it.”

Hamish thought hard. He wondered if they had dug into Fergus’s past properly. He would suggest to Jimmy that a trip to Dingwall might be a good idea.

“That was a lovely meal,” said Moira. “Next time it’s on me.”

“That would be grand,” said Hamish, calling for the bill. “Look, you might hear or notice something which might relate to the murder. If you hear anything that might be relevant, please let me know.”

♦

With Jimmy’s permission, Hamish drove off the following morning to Dingwall with Lugs beside him. The wind had shifted around to the east and it was a bright, cold day.

Dingwall is blessed with convenient car parks at the back of the main street. Hamish drove into one of them, told Lugs to wait, and climbed down from the Land Rover and walked through one of the narrow lanes which led from the car park to the main street.

It is a busy, Highland town with a good variety of small shops, mostly Victorian, grey granite; prosperous, decent and friendly.

Hamish stopped in the main street and took out a piece of paper on which he had noted the name of the firm for which Fergus had once worked: Leek & Baxter, chartered accountants.

The office proved to be above a bakery. He walked up the shallow stone stairs, redolent with the smell of hot bread and sugary buns, and opened a frosted-glass door on the first landing, which bore the legend LEEK & BAXTER in faded gold letters.

Inside, at a desk, an elderly lady was hammering away at an old Remington typewriter. She looked up as Hamish entered, sighed, and then stood up, saying, “I suppose you want tea.”

“Actually, I came to see one of the partners.”

“Mr. Leek is busy and Mr. Baxter is out. Mr. Leek will be free in ten minutes so you’d better have tea.”

“Thank you.” Hamish sat down on a leather-covered chair. She walked to a kettle in the corner and plugged it in. He watched, amused, as she carefully prepared tea – tea leaves, not bags – and then arranged a small pot, milk jug, sugar bowl and plate with two Fig Newtons on a tray and carried the lot over to him and placed the tray on a low table in front of him.

“Thank you,” said Hamish again.

Her sad old face looked even sadder as she resumed her seat behind the typewriter. “I missed out,” she said.

“On what?”

“On women’s lib, that’s what. You won’t get the young things these days to make tea.”

“Then you shouldnae do it if you don’t want to,” Hamish pointed out.

“I can’t stop. I’m the generation that makes tea for men.” She sighed again. Then she said, “What brings you?”

“Fergus Macleod. Did you know him?”

“Yes, I was here in his day.”

“And what did you make of him?”

“I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”

“Try.”

“He was a wee scunner and that’s a fact. Always complaining and bullying. I got my own back, though.”

“How?”

“He had terrible hangovers, see, and when he had one, I’d wait till he got level with my desk and drop something noisy and make him jump and clutch his head.”

“Why did he get fired? He did get fired, didn’t he?”

“It was the drink. He was getting worse, and some days he wouldn’t even turn up.”

“Not fiddling the books, was he?”

Her face took on a closed look. “I wouldn’t be knowing about that,” she said. “If you don’t mind, I’ll get back to my typing.”

“Why don’t you have a computer?”

“I asked them, but they said no, that if they got me a computer they would need to send me on a course, and they couldn’t afford to let me have the time off.”

She started to bang away at the keys again. Hamish drank tea and ate biscuits. The door to an inner office opened, and a man came out. He nodded to the secretary, looked curiously at Hamish, and then made his way out. The secretary rose and went into the inner office and closed the door behind her. Hamish could hear the murmur of voices. Outside, somewhere at the back of the building, children were playing, their voices shrill and excited. The fruit crop was late this year, so the children were being allowed extra holidays to help with the picking.

The secretary emerged. “You’re to go in,” she said.

Mr. Leek was as old as his secretary, small and stooped with grey hair and gold-rimmed glasses. “Sit down,” he said. “I do not know what more I can tell you than I told that detective from Strathbane.”

“I am just trying to build up a picture of Fergus Macleod,” said Hamish patiently.

“He was good enough when we took him on, or rather, he seemed good enough. Then he began to get a reputation as a drunk and then there were too many absences from work, and we had to let him go.”

“That doesn’t give me much of a picture of the man. What, for example, did he say when you told him he was fired?”

“Nothing, at that time. He just went.”

“But later?” prompted Hamish.

“He came back a week later, very drunk, and started cursing and threatening and throwing things about the office. I called the police, and he was taken away. But we did not press charges.”

“Was there anything else?”

“Like what?”

“Like fiddling the books?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“Like blackmail?”

There was a silence. “It’s mine, it’s mine,” screamed a child from below the window.

Then Mr. Leek said slowly, “Who told you that?”

“Chust an educated guess,” said Hamish, beginning to feel a buzz of excitement.

“I wouldn’t want the poor woman to be bothered.”

“I’ll be discreet. But it is important, and you cannae be withholding information from the police.”

“Very well. Her name is Mrs. Annie Robinson. He had been having an affair with her, and she was one of our clients. She ended the affair and thought that was that. But he said if she didn’t pay him, he would go to her husband and tell him of the affair. She came straight to us. It was enough. We fired him.”

“Did her husband ever find out? Did Fergus get revenge on her?”

“No, he didn’t tell her husband. Her husband was a big powerful man. I told Mrs. Robinson that Fergus would not dare tell her husband, but she did not believe me, so she told him herself. He divorced her.”

“And where will I find this Mrs. Robinson?”

“I suppose I am obliged to tell you. She lives in Cromarty Road, number ten, Invergordon. It’s just near the station. She’s going to be so upset.”

“I think for Mrs. Robinson’s sake,” said Hamish cautiously, “that we should for the moment keep this blackmail matter between ourselves. I will only tell Strathbane if I think it’s relevant.”

The interview was over. Hamish shook hands with Mr. Leek and made his way out. The secretary was now dusting bookshelves. “Have you noticed something else about women of my generation?” she said. “We’ve aye got a duster or cloth in our hands. Wipe, wipe, wipe, like a nervous tic.”

“You could always change,” pointed out Hamish.

“What? At my age?”

He left her to her dusting and made his way back to the car park. Lugs eyed him sourly when he climbed in.

“Don’t look at me like that,” said Hamish severely. “You’ll get a walk after I’ve finished wi’ my business in Invergordon and not before.”

The Land Rover door had been open as he addressed Lugs. A child was standing outside. She then ran away shouting to her mother, “Mither, there’s a daft polisman talking to his dog.”

Hamish reddened and drove off, past where the child was now clutching her mother’s skirts.

He found the address in Invergordon, and once more leaving his sulky dog in the vehicle, he knocked at Annie Robinson’s door.

A middle-aged woman with one of those faded, pretty faces and no-colour hair opened the door to him. “Mrs. Robinson?”

“I read about his death in the newspapers,” she said, “and I was frightened you would come.”

“I don’t think it’s relevant to the case, Mrs. Robinson. I’m just trying to build up a picture of Fergus Macleod.”

“You’d best come in.”

The living room was small and dark and very clean. It had a sparse look about it, as if Mrs. Robinson could not afford much in the way of the comforts of life.

Hamish removed his cap and sat down.

“Now, then, Mrs. Robinson…”

“You can call me Annie, everyone does.”

“Right, Annie it is. I am Sergeant Hamish Macbeth. Tell me about the blackmailing business.”

“I’m not…I wasn’t…the sort of woman to have an affair,” she said. “It’s just I didn’t know much about men or marriage. My husband, Nigel, always seemed to be complaining. You know. The washing machine would break down, and he would blame me. Everything was always my fault. I know now that men are like that and that’s marriage, but I’d grown up on romances. They still pump romance into girls’ heads, you know. Nothing about the realities of life. Nothing about men still being aggressive and bullying and faultfinding. Nothing about little facts like when men get a cold, it’s flu, when women get a cold it’s nothing but a damn cold and what are you whining about? Nothing about being taken for granted. Nothing about the new age for women meaning you have to work and be a slave at home and a tart in the bedroom. Nothing like that.”

“We’re not all like that,” said Hamish defensively.

“Are you married?”

“No.”

“Well, there you are. Anyway, I was made redundant from my job. I worked in a dress shop which closed down. Nigel said until I got another one, I could make myself useful and sort out the accounts and take them to the accountants. I met Fergus. He flattered me and flirted with me. He suggested we meet for lunch to discuss the accounts. He encouraged me to complain about my husband and exclaimed in horror over Nigel’s treatment. One thing led to another, and we started to have an affair. But I grew tired of the secrecy and the shame. Also, Fergus had hinted that he would marry me, but after I started sleeping with him, he dropped the hints, and I knew he never would. I told him the affair was over. He said he would tell Nigel unless I paid him. I couldn’t believe it. I was frightened to death. I told his bosses. I had a letter he had written to me, a threatening letter demanding money. I showed that to them. They were very kind. They said my husband would never know, but I was sure Fergus would tell him. Mr. Leek said Fergus would never dare tell Nigel, but I thought Fergus might write to him. I watched the post every morning, dreading the arrival of that letter. It never came but I couldn’t stand the shame, the fright, the waiting, and so I told Nigel. He said he had always known I was a slut and started divorce proceedings. It was only after the divorce – I’d agreed not to contest it because he said if I did, he’d tell everyone about the affair, and that meant no settlement, no money. So I was on my own, trying to meet the bills, looking for another job. I should never have broken up my marriage.”

“Why?” asked Hamish. “It sounds to me like a horrible marriage.”

“Other women put up with it.” Her face was crumpled with self-pity.

Hamish’s treacherous Highland curiosity overcame him. Instead of sticking closely to the case, he asked, “But at the beginning of the marriage, the honeymoon period, why didn’t you stop his criticisms then? Why did you just let it go on, and why did you run after him, keeping down a job and doing the housework? Couldn’t you have asked him to help?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. You ask men to help in the house, and they’ll leave you.”

Hamish was about to point out that she was the one who strayed, but he bit the remark back in time. “So what did you think when you heard about Fergus’s death?”

“I assumed he had been up to his old tricks, making some woman’s life a misery, and got what he deserved at last. But a dustman! I couldn’t believe he had sunk so low.”

“That’s what the drink does.”

“I don’t want everyone knowing about me and Fergus.”

“I’ll do what I can to keep it quiet. Do you know if he was blackmailing anyone else?”

She shook her head.

“Well, if you think of anything that might help, let me know. I’m at the Lochdubh police station.”

“Won’t you stay for some tea?”

“No, I have to be going.”

He had a feeling of escape when he walked outside.

She had had a hard time, and yet he had not liked her one bit.

He drove a little way and then stopped beside the Cromarty Firth and took Lugs for a walk. He turned the little he knew about the case over and over in his head. He would need to find out who did it quickly or hand those letters over to Strathbane.

He put Lugs in the Land Rover and drove the long way back to Lochdubh, feeling tired when he arrived and hoping for a quiet evening.

Clarry looked up from the kitchen table when he came in. His face was radiant.

“What’s happened to you?” asked Hamish. “Win the lottery?”

“Martha and I are getting married,” said Clarry happily.

Hamish sat down suddenly. “I’m happy for you, Clarry, but you’re going to need to keep quiet about this.”

“Why? I want to tell the world.”

“You’ll be telling no one until this case is closed. Blair gets wind o’ this, and you’ll be suspect number one again. Get round there and tell Martha and the kids to be quiet about it.” The phone rang in the police office. “I’ll get that,” said Hamish. “Off you go now!”

Hamish ran into the office and picked up the phone. At first he could not make out anything but a screaming babble coming over from the other end. Then he made out a woman’s voice shouting, “It wass the dog. You brought the evil.”

“Kirsty!” he said with a stab of alarm. “What’s happened?”

“He’s dead!” she screamed.

“What happened?”

Her voice sank to a whimper. “Blood. Blood everywhere.”

“I’ll be right there.” Hamish slammed down the phone and fled out to the Land Rover.

His heart was beating hard. If this turned out to be another murder, he would need to hand those letters over. He phoned to Strathbane from the Land Rover and reported a suspected murder, hoping all the time that it would turn out to be an accident.

The Land Rover bumped over the heathery track leading to Angus Ettrik’s croft. He parked outside the cottage. The door was open. He went inside. Kirsty Ettrik was sitting on the kitchen floor, cradling her husband’s bloody head in her hands and keening.

“Get away from him, Kirsty,” ordered Hamish, “and let me have a look.”

He knelt down on the floor and felt for Augus’s pulse. No life. No life at all.

He pulled out his mobile and called Strathbane again and reported a murder. He called for an ambulance, and then called Dr. Brodie and told him to come quickly. Then he took Kirsty by the shoulders and lifted her up onto a chair.

“When did you find him?” he asked.

Between sobs, she choked out that she had gone into the village to do some shopping and had returned and found him lying on the kitchen floor.

Dr. Brodie was the first to arrive. He examined Angus and then shook his head. “A murderous blow,” he said.

“Do something about Kirsty then,” said Hamish. “She’s falling apart with shock.”

While the doctor attended to Kirsty, Hamish had a look around the flagged kitchen. A bottle of whisky was open on the table with two clean glasses standing behind it. Angus had been expecting someone. Highland hospitality decreed that the whisky bottle was always left open when a guest was expected.

Kirsty had just swallowed two pills. Hamish went over and crouched down beside her. He said gently, “Kirsty. Angus was expecting someone. Who was it?”

“He didn’t tell me,” she said in a trembling voice. “He was excited. He said to take myself off and not hurry back. He said our troubles were over.” And she fell to weeping again.

“Leave her,” said Dr. Brodie quietly. “She’s too distressed.”

The ambulance arrived. Hamish went out and told the ambulance men they’d have to wait until the police and forensic team arrived. His heart was heavy, but deep inside he still had this stubborn loyalty to the people the horrible Fergus had been blackmailing.

The wail of sirens sounded in the distance. Hamish hoped that Blair was off work, but as the first car swept up, he saw that familiar heavyset figure in the backseat.

♦

It was a long night. If whomever Angus had been expecting had arrived by car, it was difficult to tell, for the heathery rough track leading to the croft had not retained any tyre marks. Dr. Brodie said firmly that Kirsty was too deeply in shock to be interviewed further that night and had her taken off to hospital in Strathbane. Blair, furious, tried to protest, but Dr. Brodie’s decision was backed by the police pathologist.

Jimmy Anderson took Hamish aside. “I dialled 1-4-7-1 on the phone to see if he had any calls, and he had the one, from a call box, the same call box which was used when Fergus got his call. What’s going on? Were they friends?”

“He said he had no quarrel with Fergus,” said Hamish. “This is bad.”

“Aye, they’re out combing the countryside, waking up people and asking if they saw a strange car, or any car, heading in this direction. Where’s your sidekick?”

“I left him to man the phone at the police station,” lied Hamish, who realised with horror that he had completely forgotten about Clarry. “We can’t get much further, it seems to me, until the wife recovers enough to speak to us.”

“Did you find anything over at Dingwall?”

Hamish realised in that moment that he would need to let something out. He hoped Annie Robinson would forgive him.

“Blackmail!” exclaimed Jimmy. “Man, now there’s something. Say Fergus was murdered for blackmailing someone, and Angus knew who it was, and took over where Fergus left off, it stands to reason we’re looking for the same murderer.”

“Aye, it looks like that.”

“So,” said Jimmy, his foxy face alight, “he could have maybe – Fergus, I mean – have been blackmailing more than one. And how would he have found out anything, hey? By raking through the garbage to see if folks had got everything into the right containers. Better tell Blair.”

Hamish waited for the inevitable. He was standing outside the cottage when Blair barrelled truculently up to him. “What’s this about that woman over in Invergordon?” he snarled. “Where’s your report?”

“I had just got back and wass going to type it up,” said Hamish, “when I got the call from Kirsty.”

“You get back down there and start typing. I want all of it. We’ll pull her in for questioning.”

Hamish drove off. His heart was heavy. Just because he had not liked Annie Robinson, just because she did not live in Lochdubh, he had turned her over to the police.

Clarry was just returning to the police station when Hamish drove up. “Get yourself up to Angus Ettrik’s,” said Hamish. “He’s been murdered. See if they need you.”

Clarry hurried to his old car, which he kept parked out on the road. Hamish went into the police office, switched on the computer and began to type while the pale dawn rose outside the window. When he had finished, he sent over his report and decided to get some sleep. He washed and changed into civilian clothes and decided to sleep with them on in case he was roused by Blair. Blair would no doubt howl at him for not being in uniform, but he did not want to sleep in all that scratchy serge. With Lugs curled against his side, he fell into a deep sleep, only struggling awake at ten in the morning as he heard a knock at the kitchen door.

The banker’s wife, Mrs. McClellan, stood there. “Come in,” said Hamish. “I was just about to make some coffee. Like some?”

“No, I won’t be long. I remembered one little thing.”

“What’s that?” asked Hamish, plugging in the kettle. He felt he needed a cup of strong coffee to help him wake up properly.

“The last time Fergus Macleod called to see me, he was quite genial – I mean, he wasn’t his usual sneering self. He was bragging how he would soon be getting out of Lochdubh to start a new life. That’s it, I’m afraid.”

“Nothing more?”

“No, but it occurred to me that what he might get out of me was hardly enough to enable him to start a new life somewhere else. And it almost seemed as if he had lost interest in what I could give him. I mean, maybe he’d found someone rich.”

“I’d best ask around again,” said Hamish. “Have you heard? Angus Ettrik has been murdered.”

“The crofter?”

“Himself.”

“That’s terrible. What evil’s come to Lochdubh?”

“Whatever it is,” said Hamish grimly, “Fergus Macleod did something to bring it here.”

♦

He had just changed into his uniform when Clarry arrived, tired and unshaven. “Phew!” he said, sinking down into a chair in the kitchen. “That Blair had me going round all the outlying crofts. I’m knackered. I told Blair I’d nothing, and he said you were to get out there and go round everyone again.”

Hamish looked gloomily out of the window. A steady drizzle was falling, what the sturdy locals called ‘a nice, soft day.’

He put on his oilskin and said to Clarry, “Do me a favour and walk Lugs, or let him into the garden. I’ll probably be away all day.”

Hamish decided to drive up to Elspeth MacRae’s croft. She was a widow and ran her croft single-handed. She had a nose for gossip and her land bordered Angus’s.

♦

Elspeth was returning home with her dogs just as he drove up. She was a tall, leathery woman with cropped grey hair. “Bad business, Hamish,” she said, walking up to meet him as he got down from the Land Rover.

“Yes, that’s why I’m here. Did you hear anything, notice anything? Anyone calling on Angus?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t have much to do with him. We had that row over the peats.”

Hamish nodded. Angus had been digging into Elspeth’s peats, and she had complained about him to the Crofting Commission. “Mind you, Kirsty and I often had a word if he wasn’t around. I had no quarrel with her. That fat policeman of yours, the one that’s been chasing after Martha Macleod, was up here during the night asking questions.”

“So there’s nothing you can tell me?”

“There’s someone might help you. I just remembered after your man had gone.”

“And who’s that?”

“Sean Fitz is back. He called here two days ago for a cup of tea. He might have called on Angus.”

Hamish brightened. Sean Fitz was the last of the genuine Highland tramps, roving through the mountains and moors.

“I’d best drive around and look for him,” he said. “Did he say where he was headed?”

“No, but he usually stays around the same area for a bit.”

Hamish drove slowly around the network of one-track roads joining the outlying crofts, and then out on the main Lochdubh-Strathbane road. The rain had stopped and the clouds had rolled back from the mountains. The blazing heather on either side of the road glittered with raindrops. He rolled down the window and breathed in the scent of wild thyme, heather and pine. The magnificence of the glorious landscape reduced the nasty little doings of men to insignificance.

And then, as he crested a hill, he saw the shambling figure of the tramp on the road ahead of him. He drove up and stopped just in front of Sean and jumped down.

Sean was a bearded old man with young eyes in a wrinkled and tanned face. He was dressed in the layers of clothing he wore winter and summer.

Hamish hailed him. “I need some information, Sean.”

“It wisnae me what took thon trout out o’ the colonel’s river,” said Sean, backing away.

“I’m not after poachers,” said Hamish. “Did you know Angus Ettrik had been murdered?”

“Him, too? My, the Highlands are becoming as violent as the cities. I wass up there the ither day. The wife gave me tea and a bit of money for chopping kindling.”

“Did you see Angus?”

“No, he wass out somewheres.”

“Did Kirsty say anything about them maybe getting some money from somewhere?”

“No, Hamish. Herself said as how the bank might be going to take the croft away. She only gave me a wee bit o’ money for the work, but I felt right guilty at taking it.”

“You see things. You hear things. You wander around. Let’s take Fergus, for instance. Two days before he was found, he disappeared after getting a phone call. No one saw him. No one saw him meet anyone. You didn’t see anything?”

Sean hesitated. “I am not interested in your poaching,” said Hamish sharply. “I can see by your face that you saw or heard something.”

“If you get me for this, Hamish Macbeth, I’ll neffer trust you again.”

“Go on, Sean. I’m getting desperate.”

“I wass up at the river…”

“The Anstey?”

“Aye, I was on the colonel’s estate…You will not be…?”

“No, I will not be. Go on, man.”

“I heard the cracking of twigs a bit downstream, and I thought it might be the water bailiff. I was guddling for the trout.”

Hamish nodded. He knew Sean meant that he hadn’t a rod; he had been standing in the shallows of the stream, hoping to hook a trout out of the water with his bare hands.

“I moved out of the river and edged back up the bank. Through the trees I could see the pair of them.”

“Who?”

“It wass the colonel and that dustman. The colonel, he wass red in the face. I couldnae hear what wass being said, chust the angry voices. I wass too far away.”

“So what you saw was Colonel Halburton-Smythe and Fergus Macleod having a row?”

“Aye, I thought maybe Fergus had been poaching and the colonel had caught him at it.”

“Thanks, Sean,” said Hamish. He dug out his wallet and took out a ten-pound note. “Keep this to yourself. When was this?”

“I’m bad at dates and time, but I ‘member it must have been around the time afore Fergus was found, for I ‘member reading it in the papers.”

“Anything else?”

“No. Fergus wisnae popular but you must know that yoursel’.”

“Right, Sean. I’ll look into it.”

Hamish climbed into the Land Rover, his mind racing. After Fergus’s death, the police had appealed for anyone with any information to come forward. The colonel must have heard it.

He drove to the Tommel Castle Hotel. He glanced in at the windows of the gift shop and saw Priscilla behind the counter. He parked the vehicle and walked into the gift shop.

“On your own?” he asked.

“As you can see,” said Priscilla. She was wearing a loose, scarlet cashmere cardigan over a white silk blouse and tailored tweed skirt. The gold bell of her hair framed her calm features. Hamish had a sudden, irrational desire to shake her.

“Where’s your friend?”

“Jerry? He’s gone back to London.”

Hamish glanced covertly at her hands. Ringless.

“Do you want coffee?” Priscilla indicated the coffee machine in the corner.

“No, I’m here on official business.”

She raised a pair of perfect eyebrows.

“Do you get those shaped?” asked Hamish.

“What?”

Hamish flushed slightly. “Never mind. Is your father about?”

“He’s over at the hotel. Why?”

“He was seen by the tramp, Sean, rowing with Fergus Macleod.”

“But that would be about the hotel garbage. Remember I told you we had to get a private contractor to pick it up?”

“But that was after he had disappeared.”

“Hamish, my father is not a murderer.”

“But he was rowing with Fergus and never said a word about it.”

“You know what he’s like. Fergus was probably poaching. You all poach. Even you, Hamish.”

“I’ll just be having a word with him.”

“That might be a good idea,” said Priscilla coldly, “instead of talking to me. Unless you think I’m a suspect.”

“No need to get snappy. I’m off.”

“I’ll come with you.”

They walked across to the hotel after Priscilla had locked up the gift shop. “Things quiet?” asked Hamish.

“I’m afraid so. Twelve people from an engineering company had booked in for the fishing, and they cancelled at the last minute. Didn’t give any reason. You won’t find Daddy in the best of moods.”

“I thought he’d given up bothering about the hotel. I thought he left it all to Mr. Johnston.”

“Oh, he gets periods when he swoops down on everyone. Doesn’t last long.”

They walked into the reception. “Is the colonel about?” Priscilla asked the girl behind the reception desk.

“Colonel Halburton-Smythe’s round at the back, talking to the gardener.”

They walked through the hotel lounge and through the open French windows to the garden. It was not a flower lover’s garden. A huge lawn dipped down to the river, and under the windows were beds with laurel bushes and forsythia and ornamental heather.

“I don’t care how wet it’s been,” the colonel was shouting. “I want that lawn mowed now!”

“Daddy!” called Priscilla. The colonel swung round, his angry face relaxing at the sight of his daughter. Then he saw Hamish Macbeth behind her, and his scowl returned.

He walked up to them. “What is it?”

“Around the time Fergus Macleod disappeared, you were heard down by the river having a row with him.”

The colonel goggled at Hamish, and then he half turned away and stared down the lawn. “Oh, that? I caught him poaching and sent him off with a flea in his ear.”

Hamish looked at the set of the colonel’s shoulders and noticed the way he would not turn directly round to face them, and was sure the colonel was lying.

“It was on the radio and in the newspapers that we were appealing for anyone who had seen or talked to Fergus around the time he went missing, and yet you did not come forward,” said Hamish.

“I’d dealt with the man. I didn’t want to get him into trouble over poaching.”

Hamish reflected that the colonel reported every poacher he could catch to the police. “But Fergus was dead when we made that appeal.”

“It had nothing to do with me!” shouted the colonel. “If you go on like this, I will report you for police harassment.”

“And if you go on like this,” said Hamish evenly, “then Detective Chief Inspector Blair will be along to see you.”

“There’s no need to make such a to-do about it,” said the colonel, his manner becoming suddenly conciliatory. “Priscilla, why don’t you take Hamish into the bar and get him a drink?”

“I don’t need a drink. I’ll check with Mrs. Macleod as to whether Fergus was in the habit of poaching, and if he wasn’t, I’ll be back.”

Hamish walked off followed by Priscilla. She caught up with him and said soothingly, “Don’t worry. Whatever it is, I’ll get it out of him.”

“Give me a ring right away. I’m sure it’s really nothing, but I wish people wouldn’t lie to us. They often do over small matters, and all it does is muddy the waters.”

He drove back to Lochdubh, thinking about Priscilla, wishing she would go away again, back to London, and stop this haunting little feeling of something valuable lost.

♦

When Hamish drove up to Martha’s cottage, he was glad to see the children playing in the garden. Children were so resilient. If only this murder could be solved and the shadow lifted from Lochdubh. Johnny volunteered the information that his mother was in the kitchen. The door was open, so Hamish walked in. The place looked brighter and lighter already, he thought, and there was a vase of wildflowers on the kitchen table.

“What is it?” asked Martha anxiously when she saw him.

“It is just a little thing, Martha. Was Fergus a poacher?”

“No. I mean he couldn’t have been. He never cooked anything for himself, and if he’d caught a fish, he would have had me cook it. And he didn’t like fish at all. He was a meat and potatoes man. What’s this about?”

“Fergus was seen up at the Anstey on the colonel’s estate. I wondered what he would be doing up there.”

“He often took his bottle off somewhere quiet when he planned to get drunk.”

“Aye, that could be it. How are you getting on?”

“We’re doing fine.” She turned a rosy colour. “Did Clarry tell you…?”

“Yes, but I’d keep it quiet at the moment, Martha. You know what folks are like. They might think it odd you getting engaged so soon after your husband’s death.”

“I haven’t said a word. And I told the children not to say anything.”

“But you’re doing fine?”

“As well as can be expected. Everyone’s been awfully kind. Angela gave me a red carpet for the bedroom, but it was so nice, I put it in the living room. Brightens things up no end.”

“Take care of yourselves, then. Fergus didn’t have any dealing of any kind with the colonel up at Tommel Castle?”

“No, only that the colonel phoned when Fergus was missing and complained about the garbage not being picked up.”

Hamish left with a heavy heart. The colonel was involved in some way, but Hamish certainly did not feel he could possibly be guilty of murder. Certainly not of double murder. He must work harder, question and question and question, or he would need to turn those letters over to Strathbane. In all his worry, he forgot about the impending visit on the following Wednesday of Mrs. Fleming and her dignitaries.