Death of a Snob

∨ Death of a Snob ∧

6

…the motive-hunting of motiveless malignity –

how awful it is

—SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

Hamish returned to the village alone and ran Angus Macleod to earth. After lecturing the unrepentant fisherman on his disgraceful behaviour, pushing Jane into the pillbox, Hamish asked him about that phone call from Diarmuid, requesting him to pick Jessie up at Oban.

“Oh, aye, he phoned in the middle o’ the evening in a rare state,” said Angus, “Asked me to take the boat out and go tae Oban. I telt him tae get lost, but he offered me a lot and the wind was dying, so ower I went.”

“Had you ever seen the girl, Jessie Maclean, before?”

“No, first time I’d seen her.”

Hamish then took himself along the main street to Mrs. Bannerman’s cottage. She was furious when he questioned her about her movements on the night of the murder, but eventually said she had been at a neighbour’s party. Hamish checked with the neighbour, a Mrs. Gillespie, who confirmed that Mrs. Bannennan had been there all evening. But the murder could have been committed earlier, thought Hamish. No pathologist could ever tell the exact time of any murder. The closest he could come to it was between about four in the afternoon and nine in the evening. Hamish asked Mrs. Gillespie if she had seen Mrs. Bannerman earlier and got the reply that Mrs. Bannerman had also been there in the late afternoon, helping Mrs. Gillespie with the arrangements for the party.

By the time Hamish returned to The Happy Wanderer, he was beginning to wonder whether Heather had actually fallen to her death after all. There did not seem to be any motive. He was told Diarmuid was still in his room. When Hamish opened the door, Diarmuid was lying flat on the bed, looking at the ceiling.

“I just want to ask you one thing,” said Hamish. “On Christmas Eve, Jane slipped you a note. What was that about?”

Diarmuid struggled up and smoothed down his ruffled hair with a careful hand, looking across at himself in the mirror. “Oh, that? I asked her if she had any contacts in the real estate business. I’m looking for a buyer. She gave me a note telling me to try James Baxter of Baxter, Fredericks and Baxter. James Baxter is an old acquaintance of hers. She bought the health farm from him. He’s expanding his business.”

“I don’t suppose you kept the note,” said Hamish suspiciously.

“Of course I did,” said Diarmuid crossly. He got up and went to the dressing-table and slid open one of the drawers. “Here it is. I meant to give it to Jessie so that she could make an appointment for me to meet Baxter when we got back to Glasgow.”

“I’d just take this for a while,” said Hamish.

“Don’t you think I have enough to bear?” demanded Diarmuid with a rare show of animation. “Good God, man, my wife’s dead! It’s an accident. Jessie says, and quite rightly, that you have no authority.”

“I’ll hae a word wi’ the lassie,” said Hamish grimly. “But I’ll be keeping this note for now.” He turned in the doorway, “By the way, where was your wife’s coat, the one she couldn’t find?”

“Hanging in the wardrobe,” said Diarmuid. “Over there. The police examined it but could find nothing sinister about it.”

Hamish ran Jane to earth in the kitchen. “I want to ask you about Diarmuid,” he said. Jane turned a little pink and stirred something she was cooking energetically. “What?”

“This note.” Hamish held it out. “Did you write it?”

Jane glanced at it. He sensed she was relieved and wondered why. “Yes, it’s the name of a big estate agent,” she said. “He wants to sell what’s left of his business.”

Hamish thanked her, returned the note to Diarmuid, and went back to the lounge, where Harriet drew him aside and repeated the conversation she had had with Jessie. “Are you sure it isn’t just an act?” asked Hamish. “I mean, she’s a wee bitch in my opinion, but there’s something, well – sexy – about her. Don’t you think she and Diarmuid…?”

“Nothing there that I can see except a lot of contempt for her employer on Jessie’s side,” replied Harriet. “How did you get on?”

Hamish told her in a low voice the result of his investigations while John Wetherby, reading a London newspaper that had come over on the Boxing Day ferry and had been delivered along with other newspapers and magazines, suddenly glared at them suspiciously over the top of it.

“I would like to think there might have been some sort of collusion between Jessie and Diarmuid,” Hamish said.

“That contemptuous manner of hers could be all an act.”

“But she wasn’t even on the island,” pointed out Harriet.

“Nonetheless, there could be something between them, and if there is, they’ll drop their guard pretty soon. I cannae stand that Diarmuid. His vanity is pathological.”

“Are you sure you are not letting this dislike of Diarmuid colour your attitude?” asked Harriet.

Hamish laughed. “I’ll try not to. Where’s Jessie?”

“Watching television.”

Hamish went into the television room. Jessie was sitting with the Carpenters. Hamish looked thoughtfully at the Carpenters. Was he right to dismiss them so easily as possible suspects? But he leaned over Jessie and said quietly, “A word with you, Miss Maclean, if you please.”

She followed him out. “We’ll use Jane’s office,” said Hamish.

“I asked Jane about you,” said Jessie when they were seated on either side of the desk. “You’re nothing but a bobby from some hick Highland village, and you have no right to bother my employer or me with questions. It was an accident.”

“Then if it was only an accident, you should not object to my questions,” said Hamish mildly. “I thought Diarmuid was your ex-boss anyway.”

“I’m working for him until the funeral arrangements are over and I’ve promised him I’ll pack up Heather’s effects.”

“And then what?” asked Hamish.

She shrugged her thin shoulders. “Probably go abroad for a bit.”

“Where?”

“Spain, somewhere like that.”

“Did Diarmuid ever have extra-marital affairs?”

Her reply startled him. “Lots.”

“And did Heather know about any of them?”

Again that shrug. “I suppose she did. He’s not good at keeping anything quiet.”

“Neither was she,” said Hamish drily, “She must have given him a rare blasting.”

“Not she. She didn’t mind what he did as long as he toed the line and paid out for all the entertainment for her parties and bridge clubs and golf clubs and what not. She wasn’t interested in sex. He tried to tell her the money was running out due to the housing slump. I tried as well. But she wouldn’t listen. She couldn’t imagine a life where she wouldn’t be lording it at one of her get-togethers and fancying herself as a leader of Glasgow society. This year was the worst.”

“Why?”

“Well, Glasgow got the award of Cultural Capital of Europe, and that meant more celebrities to try to get into her home.”

“Have you ever had an affair with him?”

“Don’t be daft,” said Jessie. “The man’s useless. All he’s ever really fancied in the whole of his life is his own reflection.”

Hamish told her that would be all for the moment, and once on his own, thought about her. He thought she was as hard as nails. Had she been Diarmuid’s Lady Macbeth?

After dinner, he tried to question John Wetherby, but John told him acidly that he had no right to question anyone.

Hamish retreated once more to the office and phoned Detective Jimmy Anderson in Strathbane. “You’re lucky,” said Jimmy. “Blair’s off on holiday. Never tell me it’s murder or he’ll be having your guts for garters.”

“I’ta trying to find out,” said Hamish. “That John Wetherby. I was wondering if he’s such a successful banister after all.”

“Believe me,” said Jimmy with a laugh, “Blair checked into everyone when he returned, just to make sure. I’ll get out the file if you want to hear it.”

Hamish readily agreed.

After a few moments, Jimmy came back on the line. “Here we are. Wetherby, John. Yes, rolling in money. Got family money as well as earned money. Very successful.

“Carpenters. There’s a surprise. Now they’re rich. Own a good part of north Yorkshire. Told friends they were looking forward to a free holiday. Like all rich people, they seem to love getting something free.

“Jane Wetherby. Good family. Not all that much money. Made a success out o’ that health farm o’ hers. Got a reputation of being a loose woman.” Hamish grinned: nothing like the Scottish police for using old–fashioned terms. If Jimmy had called her a harlot, it wouldn’t have been surprising either. “Not much known about her. Seems to have hundreds of dear acquaintances and not a single friend. Got a younger sister, Cheryl, who says Jane’s bats.

“Harriet Shaw. Successful writer. Talks on cookery on television and radio. Moderately well off. Knew Jane slightly, I gather. Widowed.

“Diarmuid. Well, we really dug into him. Business on the skids but nothing to gain from his wife’s death. Few affairs on the side but no grand passion.”

“What about the secretary, Jessie?” asked Hamish.

“She turned up on the island after the death. But she’s been employed by him for six years. One of the office staff said she ran the business, not Diarmuid.”

“So why did it become so unsuccessful? Jessie?”

“Naw. There’s estate agents closing down all over the place.”

“Well, thanks, Jimmy; I’m only surprised Blair went to so much trouble.”

“Blair! It was me he got to go to the trouble, Hamish. He’s that frightened you’ll spring a murder on him and make him look a fool.”

Hamish thanked him and rang off. He sat chewing the end of a pencil, thinking over the case. Why? Why had anyone wanted to murder Heather? She had been a nasty woman. But there was no motive. Diarmuid did not stand to get any money from her death. Why?

He decided to stay awake that night, to wait and watch and see if anyone else also stayed awake. If, say, Jessie and Diarmuid were involved, then they would be desperate to speak to each other.

He waited until they had all gone to bed and then went into the lounge and sat down in the darkness. The hours passed slowly. There was still no wind outside and the silence was eerie.

And then, at two in the morning, just as he thought he could not keep his eyes open any longer, the light in the corridor leading to the bedrooms went on.

Hamish rose silently and crossed to the window and hid behind the curtains. He peered through the thick folds.

Jane came in, followed by Diarmuid. “What is it, darling?” asked Diarmuid. “What’s happened?”

“I’m worried,” said Jane in a low voice. “That secretary of yours is very much in your confidence. You must not ever tell anyone what we did.”

“Are you mad?” demanded Diarmuid. “Get rid of that tame copper of yours, for God’s sake.”

“There’s a ferry the day after tomorrow,” said Jane. “Believe me, you’ll all be on it.”

“But the ferry left on Boxing Day. There won’t be another for a week. I was going to hire Angus to take me across.”.

“This is an Oban company. It’s a small ferry which doesn’t take cars, only passengers. I suggest you and Jessie get on it. You can hire a car in Oban and get from there to Strathbane.”

Diarmuid shivered. “I’ll send Jessie. I couldn’t bear to see Heather’s face again.”

“That’s understandable. Now get off to bed, Diarmuid, and let me get to mine. I’m tired.”

He stretched out his arms. “Jane…”

“Oh, leave me alone,” said Jane crossly.

Hamish waited until all was quiet and went to Harriet’s room and walked in. He woke her up and then switched on the bedside light and sat on the edge of her bed.

“What is it?” demanded Harriet.

“I hid in the lounge and heard Diarmuid and Jane talking.” Hamish told her what they had said. “So it’s plain to me they arranged this murder between them.”

“No, Hamish,” said Harriet. “Look, Jane would never be involved in any murder. I’ve changed my mind about her. She couldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Oh, no? What do any of us really know about Jane? Everyone here only knows her slightly. Diarmuid’s had affairs before because Jessie told me. But just think. Jane is now rich. She’s attractive. Without Heather around, he can marry her.”

“But you have no proof,” wailed Harriet. “An overheard conversation is no proof. What are you going to do?”

“Shock tactics,” said Hamish. “Just wait and see.”

≡≡≡

Hamish waited until they were all gathered in the lounge after breakfast and then stood in front of the fire facing them.

“I think I have discovered why the murder of Heather Todd was committed,” he said.

There was a long silence and then a babble of outraged voices. “It was an accident,” snapped Jane. “You insensitive, posturing clod,” commented John Wetherby. “Really!” screamed the Carpenters.

Hamish held up his hands for silence. “Hear me out,” he said.

“The murder was committed by Jane Wetherby and Diarmuid Todd.” They gazed at him open-mouthed.

“It was all planned,” said Hamish. “All they needed was the opportunity. The stage had been set by having so-called attempts on Jane’s life. I was invited over to make everything more realistic. With everyone going for a walk on a wild day, Jane suggested that Heather take her coat so that she could claim, as she later did, that she, Jane, had been the intended victim, not Heather. Either Diarmuid followed Heather and murdered her, or he returned to the hotel and collected Jane and they murdered her together.”

Jane burst into tears and Diarmuid slowly rose to his feet, ashen-faced.

The others sat around stricken.

“I am afraid I hid in the lounge last night and listened to your conversation,” said Hamish. “I heard you, Jane, tell Diarmuid that no one must ever know what you had done.” He looked steadily at the weeping Jane.

Then Jane straightened and marched up to Hamish, proud bosoms jutting, head thrown back. “I know how it must look,” she said, “but you see…” She swung round and shouted at Diarmuid, “For goodness’ sake, tell him! Do you want to be tried for murder?”

Diarmuid just stood there, looking miserable.

Hamish had an awful feeling that his beautiful love-triangle-murder theory was falling into ruins somewhere in his head. “You tell me,” he said to Jane.

Jane said loudly, “We couldn’t have done it. Either of us. We were in bed together. I was lonely. I needed someone. Then Diarmuid came back. He needed someone, too. He was dejected because his business had collapsed and Heather was treating him like dirt because he couldn’t finance her little salons any longer. We had just got dressed and were back in the lounge when you all came back. Don’t you see, that’s what I meant when I said no one must ever know.” She rounded on John Wetherby. “You’re sitting there smirking; well, hear this! This was the first affair I’ve had in years. I was never unfaithful to you. I only pretended to be to get revenge for your insults and slights and nasty remarks. And all that’s happened is that I’ve been to bed with some useless geek. I hate men!

“So did we bash Heather while pretending to look for her? No, we did not, for I wouldn’t go anywhere with Diarmuid, not ever again.”

John Wetherby came to her side and put an arm about her waist. “I‘ll sue this copper for harassment, Jane.”

“Piss off, all of you,” shouted Jane, her face contorted with rage. “There’s a ferry leaves tomorrow. Be on it. All of you!”

She stormed out.

Hamish stood silent, feeling like an utter fool. How could he have ever suspected Jane? Harriet had been right. It was his dislike of Diarmuid that had coloured his judgement.

Jane’s voice had held the ring of truth.

“Let’s get out of here.” It was Harriet at his elbow.

Sadly Hamish trailed out after her. The tide was out and they walked side by side over the hard white sand towards the sea. The sand was covered at low tide by an inch of water and the flat island soon disappeared behind them, leaving them walking across a mirror of water. Large clouds sailed overhead and under their feet. The absence of any feeling of land or place gave Harriet a slight feeling of vertigo. They came to a stop and stood together.

“How weird this is,” said Harriet softly. “Standing in the middle of nowhere. In the cities there are lights and people and noise. No wonder poor Geordie is mad. I would go mad myself if I lived on this island for very long.”

“I think it hass affected my wits.” The sibilancy of Hamish’s accent showed how distressed he was. He hadn’t even phoned Priscilla, he had been so hell-bent on finding a murderer. Let it go, his mind told him, it was an accident. Let it go.

“Let’s go down to Skulag,” said Harriet.

They walked back together. A wind sprang up and began to ruffle tile surface of the water beneath their feet. They had reached the road and had gone a little way along it when an islander stopped his car beside them and offered them a lift. They gratefully accepted, remorseful Hamish glad of this sign of the islanders’ new tolerance for Jane; before Heather’s death, no one would have stopped to offer any guest from The Happy Wanderer a lift.

But to his fury, when they reached The Highland Comfort, the driver stretched out a dirty paw and said, “That’ll be twa pund and fifty pee.”

“Two pounds and fifty pence for what?” demanded Hamish.

“That’s whit ye’d pay for a taxi,” said the driver.

Harriet turned away as the normally mild Hamish Mac-beth told the driver what to do with his car and where to put it before joining her in front of the hotel.

“That was all I needed,” said Hamish angrily.

“Whisky’s what we need,” said Harriet bracingly. “I can’t drink any more of that gnat’s piss they call beer.”

When they were seated by the window in the bar, each nursing a large glass of whisky, Harriet looked at gloomy Hamish and said gently, “You mustn’t give up now. You were so sure it was murder.”

“Aye, but I’m right sorry about Jane. I cannae bring to mind a time before when I made such a fool of myself.”

“It’s the motive that‘s lacking,” said Harriet.

Hamish looked at her. “The motive usually lies in the person themselves. That is, the murderee. What are the usual motives? Passion and money, but usually money. Of course, there’s drink or drugs, but I think whoever it was put an end to Heather had all their wits about them. I cannae think what else I can do. I am sure that the clue to the whole business, lies somewhere in Glasglow. Talk to me about Heather.”

“There’s nothing more than I’ve already told you.” Harriet looked out at the jetty. Geordie’s truck was parked there, and as she watched, the small figure of Geordie came round the side of it and gave the truck a savage kick in the tyre. “Geordie’s just kicked his truck,” said Harriet. “He shouldn’t have done that.”

“You’re getting as bad as him.” Hamish cast an indifferent glance out of the window. “Go on about Heather.”

“Let me see. Oh, I know.” Harriet’s fece lit up. “You’ll never believe this, but I came across her reading that romance of Sheila’s. She was so absorbed in it, she didn’t even notice me.”

“So much for her hating romances,” commented Hamish.

“She seemed to have an obsession about them,” said Harriet. “She cornered me and asked me to go for a walk with her, and then, as soon as we were walking along the beach, she started to grill me about how much romance writers made. I said there were romance writers and romance writers, you know, from the trash to the really top-level stuff. First-time authors in Britain often get as little as two hundred pounds a book. She said – let me think – she said that surely America was the market. What about New York publishers? I said I thought it was possible for a first-time author to get a lot of money, provided the book was a block-buster. I got the strange impression she had written one, but when I asked her, she denied it with her usual sneers.”

“We’ve got nothing else to go on.” Hamish sat and thought hard. “Look, do you have a New York agent?”

“Yes, and a very good one.”

“Would he know if there was a block-buster in the offing, say, one with a background of Glasgow? What else do we know about Heather? She claimed to have been brought up in the Gorbals, that horrible slum, or it was when she was growing up. See if there’s any hint of a book. It’s a bit farfetched. But if Heather had actually pulled it off and was due a large sum of money, which her husband would inherit, then Diarmuid might find it worthwhile to push her off that crag after breaking her neck.”

“So back to Diarmuid. Are you sure…?”

“No, I am not letting my dislike colour my judgement this time. Could you phone your agent?”

“All right,” said Harriet. “So long as Jane gives me permission.”

When they arrived back at The Happy Wanderer it was to find the place wearing an air of mourning caused more by Jane’s desire to get rid of her guests than by Heather’s death. It was a new Jane, tight-faced and brisk. She snapped at Harriet that, yes, she could use the phone in the office provided she paid for the call.

Hamish waited anxiously in the deserted lounge. The other guests were hiding in their rooms, either to pack, but mostly, he guessed, to keep out of Jane’s way.

Harriet emerged from the office, her face shining. “Where can we talk?”

“Television room,” said Hamish. “I don’t think there’s anyone in there.”

They walked in together. For once the television set was silent. “My agent says there’s a block-buster all right, but he doesn’t know who it’s from or what it’s worth, or what it’s about. But it might just have a Scottish background. He says he’ll ask around. I’ve to phone back in a couple of hours.”

Elated, Harriet gave Hamish a kiss, but he was too absorbed in this new information to take much notice of it.

The next two hours seemed to drag past. They sat and watched a rerun of a Lassie movie without either of them seeing much of it, Then Harriet rose and went to phone her agent again.

“Come with me, Hamish,” she said. “Let’s see what he has found out.”

Hamish waited, tense, while she spoke to her agent again. Finally she put down the phone and took a deep breath. “Oh, Hamish, he found out the publisher and editor responsible for this book, but in fairness he cannot be expected to be told the details of a book not yet published. But get this! The word is that the advance was half a million dollars!”

Hamish performed a mad, erratic sort of Highland fling round the room while Harriet called the New York publisher and got through to the editor who was handling the book. Hamish stopped his cavorting and listened. He quickly gathered that the editor was amazed that a stranger should ask such questions about an unpublished book. He grabbed the phone and introduced himself. “I am a policeman investigating a death in Scotland,” he said. “The name of the dead woman is Heather Todd. Is that, by any chance, the name of the author?”

“No,” said the editor reluctantly.

“I can at least tell you that much. Heather Todd is not the name of the author.” Hamish thanked her nonetheless, and said he would be most grateful if he could call again. She agreed and he sadly put down the phone.

“Damn,” he said. “I’m now sure there’s something there. Damn. If only I could get to Glasgow.”

“We’re leaving tomorrow. We could go together,” said Harriet eagerly.

“I’ll need to find out if one of my relatives can put me up,” said Hamish cautiously. “My mother’s from Glasgow.”

“Be my guest,” said Harriet. “I’ll get us both hotel rooms.”

“But hotels are awfy expensive,” protested Hamish.

“Don’t worry. I’m enjoying this. Say yes, Hamish. You wouldn’t want the murderer to get away with it, now would you?”

“All right.” Hamish capitulated. “If you’re sure.”

≡≡≡

The guests assembled on the wind-swept jetty at dawn the following day. “Going to be a rough crossing,” volunteered John Wetherby, practically the first words he had said to anyone since Jane’s outburst. Jane had run them all to the jetty in relays and had left without saying goodbye to any of them.

Hamish saw Angus Macleod walking up the jetty and went to meet him. “I’ve been thinking,” said Hamish, “when you went to get Jessie Maclean, was there any other passenger?”

“No, only herself,” said Angus.

“I don’t suppose you do these passenger trips often. I mean, the islanders will usually wait for the ferry.”

“Aye, that’s right. The only private passenger I’ve had was that sulky bitch o’ a maid from the hotel.”

“When was that?” asked Hamish sharply.

“Och, when I wass going to pick up that Jessie female at Oban. The maid heard I wass going and asked me to take her across.”

“What did she look like?”

“Red hair and a fat face.”

Hamish walked back to join Harriet. “Do you remember the first time we went to the bar in Skulag?” he asked.

Harriet nodded.

“Do you remember that maid at the hotel? She was just about to come down the stairs when she saw us and darted back.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Get a good look at her?”

“Good enough. She was fat with red hair. Why?”

“I thought I was on to something for a moment. When Angus went over to pick up Jessie, he took that maid across to Oban. I was hoping for a moment it might have been Jessie herself, trying to fool us.”

“But it couldn’t have been Jessie, even a Jessie in disguise,” said Harriet.

“Why?”

“Because immediately after Heather was found dead, Diarmuid phoned Jessie in Glasgow.”

“Aye, I’m grasping at straws. Here comes the ferry.” Hamish pointed out to sea, where a small boat was bucketing through the waves.

“And here comes Jane,” cried Harriet.

The jeep drove onto the jetty and Jane climbed out. She was wearing a pair of jeans which looked as if they had been painted on, high-heeled sandals, and a low-necked blouse worn under a short blue jacket.

She approached the shivering group with hands outstretched. “My dear friends,” she cried, “I could not possibly let you go like this. I have been in communion with my inner being and found peace. I do not bear any resentments, even to you, Hamish Macbeth. Let us all shake hands and part friends.”

Only John Wetherby made a sound of disgust. Sheila hugged Jane to her maternal bosom and thanked her for her hospitality with tears in her eyes. Diarmuid shook hands with Jane but did not raise his eyes to her face. Jessie gave her a firm handshake and the rest followed suit.

“I’ll stay if you like,” said John Wetherby harshly.

“I’ll be all right,” said Jane, the smile of rather fixed serenity she was wearing fading, to be replaced by a puzzled look. “Why?”

“I’ve got two more weeks’ leave and I can’t stand the idea of you being here on your own.”

“All right then,” said Jane, a genuine smile illuminating her face.

“Oh, dear,” said Hamish, watching the odd couple walk off together to the jeep. “I hope I’m not barking up the wrong tree.”

The ferry bumped against the jetty and bucketed up and down as they walked on board, carrying their luggage. Hamish and Harriet stood side by side at the rail, watching fish and lobsters being loaded on. “Where’s Geordie with his load, I wonder?” said Hamish.

“Here he comes.” Harriet pointed. The Fiat truck was racing down the village street. It hurtled onto the jetty. They could see Geordie’s face behind the wheel contorted with fear.

The truck kept on going, plunged over the corner of the jetty, missing the end of the ferry, and sank into the sea like a stone.

Hamish ran down the gangplank, tearing off his coat as he went. He was about to plunge into the sea when Geordie’s head appeared above the waters, bobbing like a cork. He swam to the iron ladder at the side and crawled up it, dragged the final few rungs by helping hands.

“What happened?” demanded Hamish.

“He tried tae kill me,” said Geordie. “But I got the better o’ him. Himself’s dead now.”

“Was your truck insured?” asked Hamish.

“Tae the hilt, man,” panted Geordie. “Tae the hilt. I’ll hae a bran” new beastie soon enough.”

Hamish darted back to the ferry and ran on board, picking up his coat on the way.

The gangplank was pulted up, the ropes released, and the ferry chugged out to sea.

“He shouldn’t have kicked it,” mourned Harriet.

“Havers,” said Hamish bitterly. “That brother o’ Angus’s tricked me and did a shoddy job.”

But Harriet said nothing. She leaned on the rail and watched until the small figures gesticulating around Geordie slowly disappeared from view.