Death of a Travelling Man

∨ Death of a Travelling Man ∧

4

They flee from me, that sometime did me seek.

—Sir Thomas Wyatt

The good weather did not come all at once. At first there was a lessening of the wind, then the rain decreased to a thin drizzle and soon the rain ceased altogether, letting fitful rays of watery sunlight through the clouds. The days grew perceptibly warmer until even Hamish Macbeth, who delighted in his new central heating, was forced to admit that the police station was becoming like a hothouse. And then one day all the clouds rolled back and pale-blue skies stretched above Lochdubh, and the River Anstey at long last settled back down into its familiar banks, leaving a path of torn trees and bleached grass on either side as a record of its recent fury.

But the coming of the idyllic weather made Hamish Macbeth realize that he was becoming oddly unpopular. Angela Brodie, the doctor’s wife, went out of her way to avoid him, as did Mrs Wellington. No more did Priscilla drop in on him for a chat. Even Nessie and Jessie Currie, the village spinster sisters, dived indoors and left their gardening tools scattered on the lawn when they saw him coming.

And for some reason, Hamish felt it all had something to do with Sean Gourlay. The bus was still there, looking to Hamish like a cancerous sore in the heart of the village. But he could not ask Sean to move on because of a feeling of evil, or rather a premonition of evil to come. He knew several of the villagers, the Misses Curries and Angela among them, had been visitors to the bus. Cheryl was occasionally to be seen about the village, much cleaned up and quiet, always on her own and talking to no one. Hamish was sure Sean had started some campaign to turn the villagers against him.

And then there was the strange behaviour of Mr Wellington, the minister. Like most churches these days, Mr Wellington’s was sparsely attended, although the organizations connected with the church were as busy as ever. Most women in the village belonged to the Mothers’ Union, of which Mrs Wellington was the chairwoman. The Boy Scouts and Girl Guides were both well attended. But gradually the church began to fill up on Sundays and Hamish was surprised to see members of the Free Presbyterian Church, members from the Free Church of Scotland, and from the Unitarians all neglecting their own kirks to go and hear Mr Wellington preach. What could be the reason? Hamish decided to find out. He told Willie to man the phone in the police office and went along to the church himself, meeting the fisherman, Archie Maclean, and his wife on the way.

“I’ve never known you to go to the kirk before,” said Hamish.

“Aye, but this is different,” said Archie. “Mr Wellington preaches a rare sermon. We’ve heard naethin’ like it since the auld days.”

Hamish was intrigued. On his rare visits to church, he had tried to keep awake as Mr Wellington’s gentle scholarly voice wrestled with one of the more esoteric points of the Bible. Hamish often thought it sounded as if the minister were reasoning with himself.

He slid into a pew at the back.

The hymns were of the variety now frowned upon by liberal churchmen of all denominations as being too militant: ‘Stand Up, Stand Up for Jesus, Ye Soldiers of the Lord’, and ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers’.

Then the minister climbed up into the high pulpit and looked down at a sheaf of yellowing notes. Hamish was surprised. Before, the minister’s sermons had been extempore, or rather so well rehearsed that he spoke without notes.

Then he suddenly looked down at his flock and said in a harsh voice Hamish had never heard him use before, “There are many of you here who will all burn in hell!”

There was a pleasurable indrawing of breath. Mrs Maclean edged a peppermint into her mouth. For some reason it was considered all right to eat peppermints in church, although chocolates would be considered downright sinful.

“Yes,” went on the minister, “there are many of you who are liars and fornicators, and your lot will be to be cast into the pit where your flesh will fry, yea, and your crackling skin will be pricked with pitchforks by demons.”

The sermon ranted on for one hour and forty minutes. Hamish sat stunned. It was only when the minister summed up by asking them all to pray to God to protect them from the evil that was Napoleon Bonaparte that a glimmer of understanding began to dawn in his hazel eyes.

Curious and beginning to be half-worried, half-amused, he also went to the evening service. He was late and had to stand at the back, for the church was full to overflowing.

He was among the last to leave. He shook Mr Wellington’s hand and said quietly, “Can I drop up to the manse and have a word with you?”

“Yes, Hamish,” said the minister absent-mindedly. “I shall be there to hear your troubles.”

“It’s your troubles I’m thinking about,” said Hamish, but the minister was already shaking hands with a couple behind him and receiving their plaudits.

Hamish went up to the manse later, glad to find the minister on his own.

“What can I do for you?” asked Mr Wellington.

“What’s come over you?” asked Hamish. “You never were a one for all that fire and brimstone.”

“It brings people to church and instills a fear of God in them which is what I am here for,” said the minister primly.

“But it’s not like you,” expostulated Hamish. “You know what I think? I think that one day you couldn’t think of a sermon and so you found some old ones and used one of them instead. Instant success! So you went on doing it. You’re a walking horror movie. You’ll have the children terrified to go to sleep at night. You don’t even listen to what you’re saying, which is why you left in the bit about Napoleon.”

The minister flushed angrily and glared at the wall.

“Come on, what’s been happening?” asked Hamish gently.

Mr Wellington clasped his hands and swung to face Hamish. “I’ve lost my faith,” he said. “No words of mine have any meaning any more. In despair, yes, I used old sermons I found in a box in the attic. It’s what they want. It brings them to the kirk.”

“Aye, so would a strip-tease. Surely you’ve lost your faith afore? It happens from time to time.”

“No, never.”

Hamish leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “Has this anything to do with Sean Gourlay?”

“He did question me,” said the minister awkwardly. “People here do not question ministers, and maybe they should. We get complacent, arrogant. He showed me pictures of refugees stumbling along roads pitted with bomb craters, of thousands dying after floods and tornadoes, and he asked me seriously how I could believe in a God of love.”

“But you can’t defend the indefensible,” said Hamish wearily. “Blind faith’s the only answer, you know that. You must have had all thae arguments dinned in your ears when you were a student.”

“I am out of the world up here, Hamish. As Sean rightly pointed out, I have an easy life while millions are starving and suffering under the lash of the God I worship.”

“There are millions who would suffer a damn sight more if they didnae have something tae believe in,” said Hamish angrily. “How dae ye think they would feel if they were told that this is it, this is all there is, and after the grave, there is nothing?”

“My wife feels the same as I do,” he said heavily. “It has affected her badly. She is a shadow of her former self.”

Spiritually but not physically, thought Hamish, who had seen the large tweedy bulk of Mrs Wellington in church that evening. “Don’t make any rash decisions,” said Hamish. “Give it a few months. Talk to some other members of the clergy. Father Peter along at the Roman Catholic church seems a good man, and a clever one, too. Have a word with him.”

The minister smiled wryly. “I do not know what my flock would think if they saw me consulting a Roman Catholic.”

“We’re all ecumenical these days,” pointed out Hamish. “Anyway, no one need know. Run along and see him. It’s all the one God.”

When Hamish left, he strolled along the waterfront wondering if he himself believed anything he had said, wondering if there really was anything far beyond the first stars which were beginning to glitter in a pale-green sky.

With a sigh he went into the police station, to be met with a delicious smell. “You’re late for dinner,” said Willie, sliding a plate of beef casserole, which smelt of rich wine sauce, on to the table.

“Where did this come from?” asked Hamish.

“Mr Ferrari,” said Willie, deftly opening a bottle of Italian wine.

He’s been cleaning the restaurant stove again, thought Hamish, but was too grateful for the delicious meal to say so.

After dinner, the phone rang. It was Jimmy Anderson from Strathbane. “I took pity on ye, Hamish,” said the detective, “and contacted the Yard. Sean Gourlay’s got a record.”

“Tell me about it,” said Hamish eagerly.

“Nothing great, mind you, petty larceny, possession of cannabis, disturbance of the peace. Nothing for the last three years. Was in Hong Kong, where he got his first driving licence. Let it lapse and took the test in Glasgow.”

“Well, send me up a report,” said Hamish. “It might do to get him off the manse field and out of this village.”

Willie came into the police office. “The doctor’s here tae see you,” he said.

Hamish rang off and turned to face an agitated Dr Brodie. “I was making an inventory of the drugs cabinet, Hamish, and there’s four packets of morphine missing.”

“I’d better come down and have a look at the cabinet. I cannae remember. Is it easy tae get into?” asked Hamish.

“No, it’s padlocked and it’s got a metal grille over it.”

“And nothing’s been broken?”

“Not that I can see.”

Hamish dialled Strathbane and reported the theft, asking for a forensic team to be sent up in the morning. “And while you’re at it,” he said, “get me a search warrant for Sean Gourlay’s bus.”

“What, the traveller?” exclaimed the doctor. “But he hasn’t been near the surgery.”

“Well, we’ll see,” said Hamish. “Come on, Willie. Let’s go and have a look.” They followed the doctor to his home.

Angela, the doctor’s wife, gave Hamish a nervous look. “Isn’t it terrible?” she gasped.

“We’ll see if we can find any clues,” said Hamish. Dr Brodie collected the keys to the surgery, which was along the road from his home.

Hamish examined the locks of the surgery carefully and then, inside, inspected the cabinet. “When do you think the packets of morphine were taken?” he asked.

“That’s the devil of it,” said Dr Brodie. “I haven’t really checked anything for six months. This is all I need.”

“Well, we’d best lock everything up again and let no one near it until after the forensic team’s arrived,” said Hamish.

Hamish fully expected Detective Chief Inspector Blair to arrive on the following morning, but it was an Inspector Turnbull, a dour Aberdonian who arrived with Detective Jimmy Anderson and three uniformed policemen as well as the forensic team. He had a search warrant for Sean’s bus and listened carefully as Hamish described Sean’s criminal record.

Sean and Cheryl were brought down to the police station, where they were both searched, and then Sean was asked to take them to the bus.

Sean opened the door for them and then examined the search warrant again carefully. “If you and your lady will just step outside,” said Inspector Turnbull, “we’ll be as quick as we can.”

The day was fine and mild. Sean and Cheryl sat side by side on a large packing case on the grass. Hamish noticed that they did not speak to each other.

He found himself praying to the God he was not quite sure he believed in for drugs to be found. He felt Sean was an evil influence on the village and wanted him out of it.

At long last, Turnbull emerged. “Nothing,” he said to Hamish.

“Great stinking pigs,” muttered Cheryl, but Sean put a hand on her arm and remarked pleasantly, “You really must stop harassing us, Inspector, just because we don’t fit into any conventional pattern.”

“Oh, I wouldnae say that,” said Turnbull. “There’s a lot o’ you long-haired layabouts crawling about Scotland.”

“My hair is not long, and if you don’t watch your mouth, Inspector, I shall sue you for harassment. You’ve found nothing, so shove off.”

Hamish suddenly said, “Better check under the bus, Inspector, just in case.”

He had the satisfaction of seeing a look of alarm on Cheryl’s face.

Sean lit a cigarette and eyed Hamish through the smoke. “Determined to find me guilty, eh? I think it’s time I phoned the press.”

He loped off in the direction of the manse. Hamish watched while the Calor gas tank outside the bus was unhitched, as were the cables from the bus to the manse, Sean obviously leeching electricity supplies from the minister. The keys, as Cheryl informed them, were in the blank, blank, blanking ignition. The bus roared into life and moved forward.

To Hamish’s delight, there were loose sods of earth under the bus which, when lifted, revealed a hole about three feet square, recently dug. But it turned out to be full of rubbish – Coke cans, bottles and scraps of paper.

Whatever had been hidden there, and Hamish was sure something had been hidden there, had gone. But who could have alerted Sean? Willie was a gossip, but Willie had been close to him, Hamish, since the doctor had first reported the theft.

Cheryl put up an arm to brush her hair out of her eyes. Her loose sleeve rolled back. Hamish saw ugly bruises on her thin arm.

But there was nothing he could do about that unless Cheryl showed any signs of wanting to report Sean for beating her up, and from the way she had suddenly started to scream obscenities at the police, it was highly doubtful if she ever would. But what did Mrs Wellington think when she heard the girl running off at the mouth like that? Possibly she hadn’t heard her. Possibly Cheryl reserved her swear-words for the police.

Next day the Strathbane and Highland Gazette carried a photograph of Sean and Cheryl on the front page. Sean was looking like a film star and Cheryl was attired in a pretty flowered cotton dress, with her hair done in two pigtails. The article quoted Sean as saying that they were a couple who only wanted to be left alone to enjoy the beautiful Highlands of Scotland but that they were being persecuted by the police. Inspector Turnbull was correctly quoted, describing Sean as a long-haired layabout. The article finished by saying that the couple were living in a converted bus on manse land with the full approval of the minister and his wife.

So that was that, apart from a stern warning from Strathbane not to go near the couple again unless evidence was concrete.

♦

Sean and Cheryl had purchased from somewhere a small motor scooter, and one day, they roared off on it. But their bus still stood up on the manse field. Hamish, however, was glad to see them go, and hoped they would stay away for a few days at least.

But while they were gone, Hamish received an agitated caller, the treasurer of the Mothers’ Union, Mrs Battersby. She was a thin, pale woman in her mid-forties with thick glasses, wispy hair and dressed in a wool two-piece she had knitted herself out of one of Patel’s ‘special offers’, a sulphurous-yellow yarn. “There’s one hundred pounds missing from the kitty,” she said.

Hamish’s thoughts immediately flew to Sean. “When do you think it was taken?” he asked.

“Let me see, I counted it on Sunday, for Mrs Anderson had given me ten pounds. We have been collecting for Famine Relief. Then this morning, Mrs Gunn gave me five pounds and I opened up the box to add that money to it and thought I’d better just count it all over again and log it in the book and I immediately saw that one hundred pounds had gone!”

Hamish’s heart sank. Sean and Cheryl had left last Saturday. They couldn’t have taken it.

“How much was there altogether?” he asked.

“One hundred and forty-five pounds and twenty-three pee.”

“It’s a wonder the lot wasn’t taken.”

“Ah, you see, the hundred was in notes and the remainder is just in small change.”

“I’d better come along and hae a look,” said Hamish. “Willie, you come as well.”

Willie, who had come through from the kitchen, began to remove his apron. “Aye, thon’s the grand lad you have there,” said Mrs Battersby despite her distress at the theft. “Always cleaning.”

Hamish, in order to keep relations with Willie as easy as possible, had allowed the policeman to continue housekeeping. It seemed to be Willie’s only interest in life. A new cleaner on the market was judged by Willie with all the care of a connoisseur sampling a rare wine. It was a pity, thought Hamish, that he had under him a policeman who showed so little interest in policing.

They walked together towards the church hall. “So the funds are kept here,” said Hamish. “I would have thought you would have kept them at home.”

“The reason I did not,” said Mrs Battersby, “is because of the great responsibility of it all. If any went missing in my home, then I would get the blame.”

“There’s a lot o’ wickedness around,” said Willie. “The minister was saying only last Sunday that it creepeth like the serpent and stingeth like the adder.”

“That’s booze, not burglary,” snapped Hamish, distressed at this evidence that the minister was still reading out ancient hell-fire sermons.

There was a small group of women outside the church hall, headed by Mrs Wellington, her face white with distress.

“Who could have done such a thing?” she cried when she saw them.

“Chust let me see where the money was kept,” said Hamish.

Mrs Wellington produced a massive key and unlocked the church hall. She led the way into the kitchen and opened a cupboard under the sink. There, among the cleaners and dusters, was a tin box with a small padlock. The padlock had been broken.

“Now that’s verra interesting,” said Willie.

“What is?” demanded Hamish.

“Judge’s Lemon Shine,” said Willie, holding up a bottle. “That’ll no’ get ye verra far with the cleaning, ladies. It’s no good with the grease.”

“Get out of the way,” muttered Hamish, exasperated. He took a large handkerchief out of his pocket and gently lifted the box up on to the kitchen counter. “Any sign of a break-in?” he asked. “Any broken windows?”

“Nothing at all,” said Mrs Battersby.

“So who’s got the key to the hall?”

There was a shamefaced silence and then one woman said, “It’s kept under the doormat outside. Anyone could have got it.”

“There’s not much I can do, ladies,” said Hamish, “short of fingerprinting the whole village, and even then I doubt if I’d find the prints of the thief on the box. There’s probably only your fingerprints on it, Mrs Battersby.”

A small, angry-looking woman, Mrs Gunn, said, “I notice ye got a new microwave the last week, Mrs Battersby.”

“What are you saying?” squeaked Mrs Battersby. “Me, that’s worked so hard for Famine Relief, to take that money!”

“We won’t get to the bottom of this if you’re all going to maliciously accuse each other,” said Hamish sharply. “Now the money was all right on Sunday. This is Wednesday. Who’s been in the hall since then?”

“The Guides used it on Monday evening,” volunteered Mrs Wellington, “and the Boy Scouts on Tuesday evening.”

“Bessie Dunbar’s the Guide captain,” said Mrs Gunn, “and herself came back from Inverness ‘on Monday wi’ a new coat.”

“Enough!” roared Hamish, upset by the malice, upset by the fact that the usually indomitable Mrs Wellington had begun to cry. “I need a list of all the members of the Mothers’ Union. Willie, you start taking statements from those here. Mrs Wellington, go home and get a cup of tea or something and I’ll call on you later.”

By the end of the day, Hamish thought wearily that some of the murder cases he had previously worked on had been clean and innocent compared to the spite and malice roused by the theft of the Mothers’ Union funds. Everyone seemed eager to accuse everyone else. Any woman who had a new purchase of any kind was evidently suspect. He doggedly went round the village taking statement after statement, ending up at the manse with Mrs Wellington.

“This iss a bad business,” mourned Hamish. “I thought ye were all such friends, and now one’s accusing the other.” He turned on the minister, who was slumped in an armchair by the fire. “This village is in sore need of a lecture on common decency. I suggest you start thinking of them and less about yourself and give them a sermon about the wickedness of bearing false witness against their neighbour. I neffer thought to see the day in Lochdubh. If I believed in the devil, then I’d say he’d come among you!”

“Maybe he has,” said Mrs Wellington, scrubbing at her red eyes with a damp handkerchief.

“Havers,” snorted Hamish. “Where are the funds now?”

“Nobody trusts poor Mrs Battersby or anyone else,” said Mrs Wellington. “So I took what’s left to the bank and lodged it with the manager.”

Hamish asked a string of questions, trying to find out if anyone from outside had been seen in the village, but there was no one. There were guests up at Tommel Castle Hotel who had arrived on Sunday but none as yet had come down to the village, the guests having been out on the river on the colonel’s estate, fishing.

At last he made his way from the manse and then stopped in surprise outside the trim cottage owned by Jessie and Nessie Currie. A ‘For Sale’ sign was placed by the garden gate.

Now the sisters, although often a pain in the neck to Hamish with their frequent remarks that he was a lazy lout, were Lochdubh, as much a part of the scenery as the twin mountains which rose above the village, and the sea loch in front of it.

He had interviewed them earlier, for both, although spinsters, were members of the Mothers’ Union. He walked up to the door and knocked.

A lace curtain twitched beside the window and then there was a long silence. He knocked again. Jessie answered the door. “Oh, it’s yourself,” she said. “It’s yourself.” Jessie often repeated herself, like the brave thrush, as if she never could recapture the first fine careless rapture of her original sentences.

“You didnae tell me you were thinking of moving,” said Hamish.

“Why should we? Why should we?” demanded Jessie and then slammed the door in his face.

Hamish walked sadly away.

He was hailed by Dr Brodie. “I’m going to the pub for a dram,” said the doctor. “Care to join me?”

“Aye, I’d be glad to get the taste of this day out of my mouth.”

“I heard what happened,” said Dr Brodie. “First the morphine and then this theft of money and the only people who might have taken the stuff are Sean and Cheryl, but the drugs weren’t found on them and they were definitely out of the village when the money was stolen.”

“Everything’s gone bad and wrong,” mourned Hamish. “You should have heard these women, all hinting that one or the other one of them had stolen the funds. Jessie and Nessie Currie have put their house up for sale.”

“What?” The doctor stopped short in amazement. “Why? What’s happened?”

“I don’t know. Jessie answered the door but she wouldn’t talk to me. Everyone in this village has changed for the worse since Sean arrived.”

They walked into the bar. Dr Brodie bought two double whiskies and they sat down at a small table in the corner. The juke-box was belting out a country-and-western number which eventually twanged to a halt, leaving a blessed silence.

“Angela’s gone funny again,” said the doctor.

“But she’s been doing so well, studying for her degree,” said Hamish, “and she’s been so happy.”

“She’s gone edgy of late and she keeps asking me for money for clothes. Angela! I could have sworn Angela didn’t know what was on her back half the time. Do you know, Hamish, she came back from Inverness last week with a dress that cost three hundred pounds! Three hundred! I didn’t know there was a shop in Inverness that sold anything as expensive as that.”

“Oh, Inverness is a boom town,” said Hamish. “There’s all sorts of shops now. Maybe we’re behind the times. Maybe three hundred pounds is not an odd price for a frock.”

“Maybe not in Bond Street, but it’s a hell of a price to pay for something to wear around the hills and glens.”

“Is it a verra grand frock?”

“I’m no judge. It’s just black, and the only thing about it is that it’s got a Christian Dior label.”

“Are you worried she’s fallen in love with someone else?” asked Hamish.

“There can’t be anyone else. If you’re thinking of Sean Gourlay, forget it. Oh, she took the odd cake and things over to the bus, but then she’s like that. Always ready to welcome any newcomer to the village. But after the initial visits, she lost interest. There’s something secret and nervy about her. I got out my torch and examined her eyeballs in case she had been taking the drugs for herself.”

“Well, that’s enough to put any woman off her husband, for a start,” said Hamish.

“Aye, but I had to know. It’s not drugs. She’s plain miserable. One minute she’s all over me, and the next, she’s telling me to get lost.”

“Sean Gourlay…” began Hamish.

“Forget it,” sighed Dr Brodie. “Admit it, you’ve had a bee in your bonnet about that one since he came here.”

“But everything’s gone wrong since he came here,” protested Hamish. “Everything’s wrong, everything’s polluted. Mr Wellington’s lost his faith and is ranting rubbish from the pulpit which was written in the last century, and he doesn’t believe a word of it. Mrs Wellington’s a wreck, Jessie and Nessie are selling up, and the women at the Mothers’ Union are that spiteful, you wouldnae believe it. There’s something at the back of it all, and I mean to find out!”

♦

The next morning, Sean and Cheryl returned. The next afternoon, they had a public row on the waterfront. Cheryl called Sean every name under the sun. She was astride the scooter and had a rucksack on her back. The fluency of her obscenities amazed the villagers, the mothers clamping their hands over their children’s ears but continuing to listen themselves.

Shorn of obscenities, Cheryl’s complaint was that she was sick of the village and sick of Sean and she was leaving and she would not be back.

Sean shrugged and smiled lazily and then loped off with long strides, up towards the manse. Cheryl drove off on the scooter, put-putting her way out of Lochdubh, over the newly repaired hump-backed bridge, up the long road which led past Tommel Castle Hotel and out of sight.

One down, thought Hamish Macbeth savagely, and one to go.