Death of a Travelling Man

∨ Death of a Travelling Man ∧

5

There’s a great deal to be said

For being dead.

—E. C. Bentley

After a week of squally, sleety rain, the weather became balmy again and the waters of the loch still. Seagulls cruised lazily overhead, swooping occasionally to admire their reflections and then soaring effortlessly up again. On the surface, Lochdubh looked much the same as ever. Smells of strong tea and tar and peat smoke. Sounds of radio, clattering dishes, bleating sheep, and chugging boats.

But underneath it all the theft of the Mothers’ Union funds spread like a cancer. Hamish, after wondering how long Priscilla meant to ignore him, eventually caved in and took the single-track road up out of the village to the hotel.

He felt a slight pang when he saw her busy in the gift shop, her smooth blonde hair lit by a shaft of sunlight. She was selling expensive souvenirs to a group of men who, Hamish noticed with irritation, were taking a long time about their purchases.

At last the shop was empty. Priscilla gave Hamish a guarded look and said, “Coffee?”

“That would be grand. Haven’t seen you around for a bit.”

“I’ve been here, you know,” said Priscilla with an edge on her voice. “I gather you and Doris had a pleasant dinner last week.”

“She invited me,” said Hamish defensively, for he felt guilty at having accepted the invitation, knowing he had only done it in the hope that Doris would tell Priscilla, which she evidently had.

Priscilla handed him a mug of coffee. “Well, let’s hope our new receptionist doesn’t fall for you as well.”

“New receptionist? What’s happened to Doris?”

“Dear me. Didn’t she tell you? She left. She’s got a job in a hotel in Perth.”

Hamish felt nothing but relief. Doris had all but proposed to him and it had been an agonizing and embarrassing evening.

“Well, what’s been going on?” asked Priscilla. “I heard about the money disappearing from the Mothers’ Union.”

“Oh, it’s the bad business.” Hamish pulled a chair up to the counter and sat down. “All the women are at each other’s throats, the one accusing the other. Dr Brodie’s had four packets of morphine stolen and the only suspect was Sean, but he was searched and we couldn’t find anything. His girlfriend’s gone off but the bastard’s still there, like some canker in the middle of the village.”

“It’s those demonic good looks of his, Hamish. He’s just a small-time crook, not the devil. I know he took that scarf and then slipped it back somehow.”

“He’s doing a rare job, nonetheless. He’s managed to talk Mr Wellington out of his faith and Mr Wellington has been using some old sermons he found and it’s all hell-fire and damnation and they love it. Archie Maclean told me he gave up seeing a video of The Werewolf Women of Planet Xerxes because, to quote him, ‘the kirk was better fun’. You should hear those sermons. A real medieval hell, wi’ devils and pitchforks and weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. I tried to get him to talk to the priest, I tried to get him to preach kindness and love thy neighbour, but the man’s sunk in gloom. Mrs Wellington looks a wreck. Nessie and Jessie Currie are selling up and leaving, and what that’s got to do with Sean I don’t know, but I feel it has. Angela Brodie’s gone on the twitch again and this time is spending a fortune on clothes.”

“It sounds awful. How’s Willie?”

“I don’t know whether the lad’s smitten with Lucia Livia, or whether it’s the dirty stoves at the restaurant he’s after. He lives to clean. Look at that!” Hamish held up one glittering black boot for her inspection. “Even the insoles are polished. Look at my shirts! Starched, every one of them. I’ve got such knife-edged creases in my trousers, it’s a wonder I don’t cut myself.”

“Some people would think you were lucky,” pointed out Priscilla, “living as you do with a combination of housekeeper and valet.”

“No, it iss not! I sat down to my breakfast this morning and Willie screeches, “A fly! A fly!” seizes a can of fly-killer and pumps it all over the kitchen and all over my food. If they ever take a blood sample from me, it’ll be three parts insecticide and one part disinfectant. But I’ve got used to Willie. He’s a kind enough lad. He’s jist stark-staring mad, that’s all. No, I feel if I could sort Mr Wellington out and get him to put some sense into the villagers, things would get better.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Priscilla, unhitching her coat. “I’m just about to lock up for lunchtime anyway.”

“You? What can you do?”

“He might just listen to me. It’s worth a try.”

“Well,” said Hamish doubtfully, “do your best. Have you forgiven me?”

“For letting Blair get away with all sorts of mayhem? I still think that was bad of you, Hamish, but when have I ever been able to stay mad at you for long?”

“It’s a long time since you’ve been to see me.”

“I’m an old–fashioned girl. The gentlemen are supposed to call on me.”

“Well, I’ll call on you tonight and take you for dinner.”

“Can’t. The hotel’s too busy. Sunday’s free. Let’s catch the hell-fire sermon and then go to the Napoli.”

“Suits me. But see if you can do something with Mr Wellington!”

♦

Priscilla found the minister in his study. He was sitting in front of the fire, reading a book. “Oh, Miss Halburton-Smythe,” he said in a dull voice, “what can I do for you?”

“I’ve been hearing about you from Hamish,” said Priscilla.

The minister gave her a tortured look. “Ah, yes,” he said with a weary sigh, “about my loss of faith.”

“I am more concerned about you losing your marbles,” said Priscilla incisively.

He turned his head away. “There is so much suffering in the world,” he moaned, “and what can I do about it?”

“You could do something with your own parish. If everyone did some good about themselves, their family and their neighbours, the ripples might begin to spread outwards. I spoke to several of the village women before I came here. The place is riddled with spite. Instead of being sunk in self-absorption and self-pity, you might get off your bum and write a sermon to change the horrible spite and gossip of your parishioners. If you want your faith to come back to you, then you might start by acting as if you’ve got a heart and soul!”

Mr Wellington’s head jerked round and he glared at Priscilla. “There has often been talk that you might marry Hamish Macbeth,” he said, “but now I think I know why the man is so reluctant to propose.”

“Why, you old horror!” said Priscilla, quite unruffled.

He rose to his feet. “How dare you attack a minister of the Church!”

“Take a look at yourself in the mirror,” said Priscilla. “Take a good hard look and then ask yourself if you are not looking at the most selfish man in the whole of Lochdubh. Forget about your lost faith. If it’s such a terrible thing, don’t you think you might try instilling some thoughts of faith, charity, and goodness into your flock? Why should they lose their faith, just because you’ve lost yours? I am going to hear your sermon on Sunday and I warn you, if you start reading out one of those old sermons, I will get to my feet and attack you in the middle of the church for being a fraud.”

She marched out. Hamish was strolling along the waterfront. He came up to her. “How did you get on?” he asked.

“All right. I think a few gentle words were all that was needed.”

♦

The church was crowded as usual on Sunday. Priscilla and Hamish managed to find space in a pew at the back. “Look,” said Priscilla, nudging Hamish. “There’s your devil.”

Sean Gourlay was standing beside a pillar at the side of the church but where he could command a good view of the pulpit. He was wearing a black shirt and black cords. His odd green eyes glittered strangely in the light.

“Come to see his handiwork,” muttered Hamish.

There were hymns, a reading from the New Testament, and then the minister leaned forward over the pulpit.

A rustle of papers as peppermints were popped in mouths and then the congregation settled back to enjoy what Archie Maclean called ‘a guid blasting’.

In a quiet, carrying voice, the minister began to talk of the theft of the funds. Sean crossed his arms and looked amused. The minister went on to say that this had caused malice and gossip in the village, turning one family against the other. His voice rose as he begged them to love their neighbour as themselves. His whole sermon seemed to be spoken directly to Sean. He spoke of the suffering in the world and reminded them that Jesus Christ had died on the cross for them. He said that the suffering in the village had been brought about by themselves. They had let one common theft poison their lives. “There is no place for evil in this village,” he said. “Look into your hearts and pray for charity, pray for kindness, and pray to the Good Lord for forgiveness for your sins. Let us pray together.”

Before he bent his head; Hamish noticed Sean walking quickly out of the church. It was silly, he told himself, to be so worried about one mere mortal, to be so superstitious, but somehow the minister’s confrontation with Sean, and that was surely what it had been, reminded him of old tales he had heard when he was small in the long dark winter evenings of the black devil in man’s form, walking into a Highland village one day and causing ruin and disaster.

A very subdued congregation shuffled out of the church. Mrs Gunn shook hands with Mrs Wellington and said they must think up a scheme to raise money to restore what had been taken and another woman patted Mrs Battersby on the back and said she had been doing a grand job as treasurer and hoped she would go on doing so. Groups of people were standing around the graveyard outside, talking to each other.

Hamish shook Mr Wellington’s hand and said, “A grand sermon.”

“Thank you,” said the minister. Then he suddenly added, “Do not worry about Sean. I have a feeling he will be leaving us.”

“And what was that supposed to mean?” asked Hamish over lunch. “Knowledge or the second sight?”

“I think, like you, he’s decided Sean is the real reason for all the misery. When you think of it, who else could have taken that money?”

“But he and Cheryl weren’t even here!”

“They could have slipped back during the night. It’s a simple matter to find the key and open up the village hall.”

“Well, let’s hope the minister’s right. If Sean doesnae move on, I’ll need to think of some way to get him moving! What did you say to Mr Wellington to get him to see sense?”

“Just a few gentle and womanly words,” said Priscilla.

Hamish looked at her with admiration. “Aye, it’s a grand thing, a woman’s touch,” he said. “I must have been ower-blunt.”

♦

Mr Wellington returned to the manse after evening service feeling comforted. By next week, he knew, his congregation would have dwindled to the usual small number, but instead of giving them what they wanted, he had given them what they sorely needed to hear. His wife had taken sleeping pills and gone to bed. He stared at the bulk of her sleeping form uneasily. She was taking a lot of sleeping pills these days.

He slept restlessly that night. At two in the morning, he got up to go to the bathroom. On his way, he peered out of a passage window which overlooked the manse field at the back. All the lights in the bus were blazing. He gave a little sigh. Supplying Sean with free electricity had been his wife’s idea. She would have to tell Sean that they could do it no longer. He would speak to her in the morning, although it would be a difficult scene. Hamish had told her, he knew, about Sean’s criminal record, but she had refused to take it seriously.

In the morning, on his way to the bathroom to shave, he once more looked out. It was a dark rainy morning and the lights were still blazing in the bus.

So when his wife tottered to the breakfast table, he snapped at her. “Get dressed and tell that young hooligan that you befriended that he is no longer to use our electricity. In fact, while you are at it, you can tell him to go. I am not letting him use the field any more.”

“But you said you were in sympathy with these travellers,” she protested.

“I’ve been a fool, but no longer. Go and give that young man his marching orders.”

“I c-can’t!”

His normally domineering wife was looking grey and crumpled.

Worry for her made him, like most husbands, angry instead of sympathetic.

“Don’t be silly. If it makes you feel any better, tell him I am ordering him to go!”

Mrs Wellington eventually, encased in a voluminous waxed coat and rain-hat and Wellington boots, walked across the wet field to the bus.

She could hear the chatter from the television set inside. She knocked at the door and waited.

“Sean,” she called tremulously, and knocked again.

No answer.

She longed to turn away, to forget about the whole thing, but her husband would want to know why. She knocked loudly this time and then, in sudden desperation, sudden longing to get the whole distasteful business over with, she rattled the handle of the door. It swung open.

“Look here, Sean…” she began, heaving her bulk inside.

She stopped short and her mouth opened in a soundless scream.

Sean Gourlay lay on his back on the floor. His face and head had been beaten to a pulp. Beside him on the floor lay a bloody sledgehammer. On the table, on the small television screen, a woman chattered in that inane way early-morning presenters have, as if addressing an audience of children.

Mrs Wellington backed to the door. Small thin sounds were issuing from her mouth. She felt faint but dared not faint and be found lying next to that…that thing.

She stumbled from the bus and weaved her way like a drunk across the field. She opened the back door of the manse and the sight of home and familiar objects loosened her vocal cords and she threw back her head and gave a great cry of “MURDER!” And once started, she could not stop.

♦

Hamish Macbeth stood miserably in the manse field in the driving rain, with Willie beside him, while a forensic team went over the bus inch by inch. Detective Chief Inspector Blair was pacing up and down, wearing a deerstalker and an old Inverness cape, looking like someone in an amateur production of a Sherlock Holmes mystery. The only thing that was lightening Blair’s gloom was the fact that it was a nice seedy murder: no toffs involved. Just a hippie with his head bashed in. He’d had a public row with his girlfriend, the girlfriend had killed him, it was only a matter of time before they picked her up. He loathed being back in Lochdubh, a locality he associated with success for Macbeth and failure for himself. There was no need for either Hamish or his sidekick to be hanging about in the rain, but Blair had kept them there to make them suffer; but as trickles of water began to run down inside his collar, he realized he was suffering as well and suggested they go back to the police station and discuss the matter there and let the forensic boys get on with their job.

“Well,” began Blair, pausing for a moment in surprise as Willie put a coaster under his coffee cup, “it’s straightforward enough. This creep has a row wi’ his lassie, lassie comes back and bang, crash, goodbye boyfriend.”

“Was it murder wi’ intentions?” asked Willie eagerly.

“If ye mean was her intention tae bash his head in, yes, you moron. Now the pathologist says death came frae thae blows from the sledgehammer. Sledge-hammer belongs tae the manse. Whit dae ye think, Sergeant, that yer minister friend was at the sauce and slammed Sean Gourlay’s head in?” Blair laughed heartily.

Hamish looked at him bleakly, his thoughts racing. He found he was hoping against hope that the murderer was Cheryl but for reasons he could not explain.

He began to give Blair a report on Sean’s criminal background, reminding him of the theft of the morphine and the theft of the church money, although adding that both Sean and Cheryl had been away from the village when the money was taken.

The police station was pleasantly warm and Willie’s coffee was good. “I’d best jist sit here by the phone,” said Blair, “while you two go off and take statements. I want to know anyone who saw hide or hair of Cheryl Higgins or anyone who heard the sound of that scooter you were talking about during the night.”

Hamish and Willie agreed to divide the village between them, Willie eagerly volunteering for the part which contained the Italian restaurant.

Despite the rain, little groups of people were standing about, peering anxiously up the hill towards the field at the back of the manse.

All day long, Hamish questioned and questioned, but no one had seen Sean after he had left the church and no one had seen Cheryl. Mrs Wellington had given the police a photograph of Cheryl which she had taken shortly after the couple had first arrived. It was shown on the six o’clock news. By seven o’clock, Cheryl Higgins had walked into the police station at Strathbane, and Blair, hearing about it, had driven back to headquarters. By nine o’clock, Detective Jimmy Anderson phoned Hamish.

“Bad news,” he said. “Cheryl Higgins has a cast-iron alibi.”

“She can’t have,” exclaimed Hamish.

“Aye, but she has. She’s been staying with a bunch of travellers in a field outside Strathbane and she’s been playing the guitar in a group called Johnny Rankin and the Stotters – she being one o’ the Stotters. The pathologist is checking the contents of Sean’s stomach and he says the man was killed at a rough guess between ten in the evening and midnight. Cheryl was playing in Mullen’s Roadhouse, you know, about two miles outside the town, from nine till one in the morning. Then she went on frae there to a party in Strathbane. Witnesses all along the way.”

“But how reliable are the witnesses?” asked Hamish. “Stotter means glue-sniffer, doesn’t it? Is that how the group got its name?”

“Probably. Most o’ them were away wi’ the fairies when we tried to talk to them, but there was the audience, about forty decent, or fairly decent, witnesses. She could ha’ slipped away from the party, for I don’t know if any of that lot knew whether they were coming or going, but the point is the time of the murder and during that time she was performing in front of about forty people at the Roadhouse.”

“I’m surprised any band is allowed to play on the Sabbath in Strathbane,” observed Hamish.

“It’s outside the town, so nobody bothers.”

“So where’s this field she’s living on?”

“On the Dalquhart Road out on the north side, about five miles out on the left. Belongs to Lord Dunkle, him what had the pop festivals back in the sixties. Still thinks he’s a swinger, silly auld scunner that he is. She’s living in a caravan with a couple called Wayne and Bunty Stoddart, old friends from Glasgow. She disnae look at all like the picture the minister’s wife gave us, but it’s her, all right. She’s dyed her hair orange since the photo was taken. In Cheryl’s humble opinion some bampot in Lochdubh upped wi’ the sledgehammer and give him fifty whacks, and good riddance to bad rubbish, she says.”

“Did she suggest anyone?”

Anderson chuckled. “Aye, she did that.”

“Who?”

“Sergeant Hamish Macbeth.”

“Silly bitch.”

“I’m telling you, that pleased Blair no end.”

Hamish sighed. “So I suppose Blair’ll be back tomorrow?”

“No, it’ll be me and Harry MacNab. There’s been a big robbery at the home of one of the super’s friends, so Blair’s jumped at that. He disnae care about the death o’ a layabout. No press coverage in it for him.”

“There’s been a fair amount of press about today,” said Hamish.

“Aye, but they willnae be there tomorrow. Nobody in that village of yours had a good word to say for Sean Gourlay. If they had all said something nice, then the press could have run a ‘much-loved’ type o’ bit. Even the Strathbane and Highland Gazette have dropped it in case anyone remembers their touching piece about what a charming couple Sean and Cheryl were and being hounded by the nasty cops. They’ve found out from you and then Blair that Sean had a record.”

“Any relative to claim the body?”

“Got a mother in London, respectable body by all accounts. Coming up tomorrow to see the procurator fiscal.”

“I’m surprised the villagers turned out to be so down on Sean. All I got when the couple first arrived was about the romance of the road and leave the poor souls alone.”

“Believe me, the romance wore off, or maybe it’s now that he’s murdered and his past has come out, none of them want to confess to having had a liking for him. But you see what this means, Hamish?”

“I don’t want to.”

“I can see that. It means that mair than likely someone in Lochdubh did it.”

Hamish groaned.

“Cheer up,” said Anderson. “You might find an itinerant maniac, if you’re lucky.”

Hamish said goodbye and replaced the receiver. He pulled forward a sheet of paper. He would need to start with any villagers who had been on friendly terms with Sean. Top of the list were Mr and Mrs Wellington. Then Angela Brodie had been seen visiting the bus. Then came Nessie and Jessie Currie.

He sat back and looked dismally at the short list. He would need to detach his mind from the sore fact that these people were friends. So what had he?

Mr Wellington: lost his faith after a discussion with Sean and started preaching old sermons.

Mrs Wellington: nervous and agitated and not at all anything like her old, confident, bossy self.

Angela Brodie: acting strangely and buying expensive clothes.

Nessie and Jessie Currie: house up for sale, tetchy and miserable.

Well, forget about the murder, he would have to try to find out what Sean had done to these people. In the meantime, Willie could forgo his visits to the Napoli and keep questioning and asking in case anyone had seen a stranger that day.