Death of a Witch

∨ Death of a Witch ∧

2

La Belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall!

– John Keats

The woman who answered the door fit the description Angela had given him. And yet, as she stood there, looking at him enquiringly, Hamish decided there was nothing sinister about her. She had a dab of flour on one cheek and she was wearing an old Aran sweater, dusty blue corduroy trousers, and sneakers.

“I am the local constable,” said Hamish. “I have been away on holiday and have only just heard of your arrival.”

“Come in,” she said.

The kitchen-cum-living-room into which she led him was stone-flagged. A peat fire smouldered on the hearth. Bookshelves lined one wall and on another, on either side of the low door, shelves held a variety of glass bottles. In the centre of the room was a scarred oak table surrounded by six high-backed Orkney chairs.

The kitchen part consisted of a sink and butane gas cooker, a granite top with pine cupboards above and below. There was neither a fridge nor a dishwasher.

“Please sit down,” she said. Her voice was low and mellow with only a slight trace of highland accent.

Hamish sat down at the table and removed his cap. Despite the fire, the room was cold and the wind soughed through the heather outside the house with an urgent whispering sound.

“What brought you to this part?” asked Hamish.

“It’s a pretty village,” she said. “Would you like some tea?”

“I’d prefer coffee.”

“I only have herbal tea. Good for you.”

“All right,” said Hamish. “Although I find that things that are said to be good for me are not very appealing.”

She smiled an enchanting smile that lit up her face. “Oh, you’ll like this.”

“Where did you come from?” asked Hamish as she busied herself at the counter by putting a kettle on the cooker.

“Oh, here and there.”

“And where was the last there?”

“Dear me. You do go on like a policeman. So many questions!”

“What do you do for a living?” pursued Hamish. “I supply therapy and herbal treatments.”

“Have many of the villagers visited you? I believe quite a few men have called on you.”

“I have a good treatment for sexual dysfunction. Want some?”

“I do not haff the trouble in that department,” said Hamish, blushing. “What exactly is this treatment?”

“A secret recipe.”

Hamish said stiffly, “We do not go in for sex much in Lochdubh,” and immediately felt silly as she turned round and looked at him with amusement.

She put a cup of tea in front of him and said, “Now, try that.”

Hamish took a cautious sip. It was some sort of fruit tea, he guessed, very pleasant to the taste.

She sat down at the table close to him and raised her own cup to her lips. Catriona looked at him over the rim and smiled.

“Tell me about your sex life.”

“Chust keep your nose out o’ my private life,” said Hamish sharply.

“But you’ve been asking me so many personal questions. Isn’t it fair I should ask you some?”

“I didnae ask you about your sex life.”

Her knee pressed against his under the table.

“I don’t mind. For example, I’m very good in bed.”

“Are you running a brothel here?” demanded Hamish.

She threw back her head and laughed. Then she said, “My dear man, if I wanted to run a brothel, I would hardly settle in a village in the north of Scotland. Let’s not quarrel.” She covered his hand with her own. “I simply supply a few herbal medicines. I was teasing you. The main complaint here is indigestion.”

He felt a sudden tug of attraction. He drew his hand away gently.

“I must be off,” he said, standing up and putting on his cap. “I only called to introduce myself.”

“Call again,” said Catriona.

She turned in the doorway and kissed him on the cheek; “See you very soon,” she said.

Hamish walked off down the brae. He felt strangely elated. All of a sudden, he wanted to turn back and ask her out for dinner.

He half turned back. She was still standing in the doorway, watching him. Hamish forced himself to keep on going.

The desire to go back and see her lasted until he ate a substantial lunch and then he scratched his head in bewilderment. What had come over him? Had there been something in that tea?

He got a call from Jimmy Anderson reminding him that he was expected in the sheriff’s court in Strathbane at three o’clock that afternoon, along with Willie Lamont and Clarry Graham. Hamish phoned both Willie and Clarry and suggested they should all go together.

Willie was seated next to Hamish in the front passenger seat and Clarry was in the back. At one point in the drive, Hamish said, “Willie, are you scratching yourself?”

Willie removed his hand from his crotch. “I think I’ve got a wee bit o’ cystitis.”

“Then see Dr. Brodie as soon as possible. Man, what if ye were to go like that in court?”

The proceedings did not take long. In vain did the defence advocate plead that his clients were truly remorseful. The sheriff said the case was too severe to be tried in his court; he was remanding the burglars without bail to appear at the high court in Edinburgh.

“I’ll drop you off at Dr. Brodie’s,” said Hamish.

“I’ve got to get to the restaurant,” said Willie. “I’ll maybe drop along later.”

“Don’t leave it too long. Cystitis can be nasty,” said Hamish.

♦

Hamish found a message from Dr. Brodie when he got to the police station, asking him to call urgently.

He said to Sonsie and Lugs, “No, you pair stay here. I think Angela’s had enough of ye.”

As he walked along the waterfront, he felt the village was strangely quiet. Again he was assailed by a feeling of foreboding.

Dr. Brodie led Hamish into his cluttered living room. Cold ash spilled out over the grate.

“What’s the problem?” asked Hamish.

“Several of my male patients have been coming to me with swollen genitalia and inflammation of the urinary tract.”

“So?”

“I treated a case like this when I was much younger and an army doctor. It turned out to be Spanish fly.”

“I’ve read about that somewhere. Isn’t it an aphrodisiac?”

“It’s supposed to be. It’s from a beetle that is crushed into powder. It creates the illusion of increased sexual activity but all it does is harm, and it can damage the kidneys badly.”

“I’ve heard a lot of the men have been visiting Catriona Beldame,” said Hamish. “Do you think she’s been supplying the stuff?”

“I tried to get them to admit it but not one of them would. I believe they think she’s a witch thanks to Angus shooting his mouth off. People here are still very superstitious.”

“I’ll get up to her place right away,” said Hamish. “Either she lets me examine what she’s got in those bottles or I’ll get a search warrant.”

Hamish hurried to the police station to get some material and put in a request for a search warrant, deciding it would be a good idea to get one in case she proved difficult. Then he went along the waterfront, stopping abruptly at the sight of Archie Maclean hurling a small glass bottle into the loch.

“What are you doing?” asked Hamish, hurrying up to him.

“Naethin’. Chust some medicine that didnae work.”

“You got it from the Beldame woman. You, Archie? Wanting to improve your sexual prowess?”

Archie hung his head. “It seemed like the good idea, but, och, herself wasnae having any of it. “Leave me alone,” she says, “or I’ll throw ye in the loch.” I went tae the doctor and he telt me to get rid of it.”

“I wish you’d kept it,” said Hamish. “I’m off up there now to put a stop to her. God, I could kill that woman.”

♦

After Hamish strode off, Archie went into the bar on the waterfront and bought himself a pint of Export. “She’s getting her comeuppance,” he said to the men gathered at the bar. “Our Hamish says he’s going tae kill her.”

♦

Once again Catriona opened the door to Hamish and invited him in. “This is not a social call,” said Hamish, taking out a number of glassine envelopes. “Either you let me examine what you have in those jars or I’ll get a search warrant.”

“My dear man, go right ahead. I have nothing to hide.” Her eyes widened as Hamish took out packets of glassine envelopes and a small spoon. “I’ll just collect a bit of each,” he said, moving towards the shelves.

She darted in front of him.

“Get the search warrant,” she hissed, “and a curse on you.”

“So you do have something to hide.”

“I’ve nothing to hide,” she panted. “I don’t like you ferreting around and poking your nose into my affairs. Get out!”

♦

On his return to the police station, Hamish got a message to phone Blair. Reluctantly, he called police headquarters and was put through to Blair.

“Whit’s this about a search warrant?” chuckled Blair.

“It’s important,” said Hamish.

“Important, what?”

“Important, sir. The damn woman is poisoning the village.”

“You’re all sae backwards up there, it’s a wonder ye ken the difference.”

“I wanted to examine her potions,” said Hamish patiently, “and she refused to let me take samples.”

“Anyone died?”

“No, but…”

“Listen, laddie, we’ve got real crimes here – gangs and drugs and mayhem. Until you’ve got yourself a real crime, forget it.”

“What do I have to do?” raged Hamish. “Kill her?”

Blair slammed down the phone.

Hamish sat until his rage had died down. He decided to make himself some comfort food for dinner. He boiled a small haggis and served it with mashed turnip and mashed potatoes. His pets had already been fed and were fast asleep.

He allowed himself one small glass of whisky while he wondered what he could do about the witch.

I’ll threaten her, he decided. I’ll go up there right now and tell her I’ll make her life one hell on earth unless she either leaves or quits selling quack medicine.

The wind had dropped. There was a clear starry sky and frost glittering on the ground as he set off.

But although there was a light shining through her cottage window, there was no reply to his knock.

♦

Ina Braid was sixty-three. She was married to Fergus, who worked at a paper mill over in Strathbane.

Theirs had always appeared to be a comfortable marriage. Tucked up beside her husband in their double bed that evening, Ina opened a romance called Highland Heart, removed the bookmark, and settled against the pillows to read. She had just got to the exciting bit where the laird grabbed the village girl in his strong arms and bent his head to hers.

“What about a wee bit o’ a cuddle,” said Fergus, trying to put his arms round her.

“Get off!” snapped Ina. “What’s come over ye?”

“We havenae done – you know – in a long while.”

“Because neither of us has wanted to. Leave me alone!”

“I want ma marital rights. Come here!” Ina leapt out of bed and stood there, panting. “Keep away from me or I’ll stab ye wi’ the bread knife.”

“Ye frigid wee hoor!” roared Fergus.

♦

Something very like that confrontation went on behind several closed doors in the village of Lochdubh.

Hamish was approaching his station from a field at the back where he had been giving his small flock of sheep their winter feed when he found the minister’s wife waiting for him.

Mrs. Wellington was the epitome of Highland respectability from her waxed coat and brogues to the felt hat with the pheasant’s feather in it on her head.

“Come ben,” said Hamish. “Trouble?”

“Bad trouble,” said Mrs. Wellington.

“Coffee?”

“Strong, black, and with a dram in it.”

“Bad night?”

“Up most of the night with calls from distressed women.”

“Wait till I get your coffee and you can tell me all about it.” Hamish put on the kettle and took a half bottle of whisky down from a shelf.

When he had served Mrs. Wellington, he asked, “Now, what is going on?”

Mrs. Wellington took a fortifying pull of her brew and said, “Sex.”

“Sex?”

“I am being asked for help by some women in the village whose husbands have started pestering them just when they thought all that nonsense was over. Just imagine it, Hamish. A woman settling down for the night as she has done for years with a good book and being subjected to…that.”

Poor old minister, thought Hamish.

“I think I know what’s at the back of it,” said Hamish, “and yes, I can put a stop to it. Tomorrow is the Sabbath. Tell your man I want to borrow his pulpit to make an announcement.”

“What about?”

“I’d rather break the news all at once.”

♦

After the opening hymn was sung on Sunday, the villagers looked in surprise as Hamish climbed up to the pulpit.

“This may hardly seem a fit topic for a church,” said Hamish, “but as it is causing misery in the village, I want to give all the men of Lochdubh a warning. If you have been going to a Miss Beldame for a potion to help your sexual prowess, it is the firm belief of Dr. Brodie that what you have been taking is Spanish fly. This does not enhance your prowess. It swells the genitals and could cause damage to your kidneys. I will deal with Miss Beldame myself. None of you is to go near her.”

Shocked faces stared up at him. He surrendered the pulpit to Mr. Wellington and went and sat in a pew at the back.

At the end of the service, he slipped out of the church and went back to the police station. He planned to visit Catriona after he had eaten his lunch.

But there was a knock at the kitchen door and then the Currie sisters walked in.

“This is a bad business,” said Nessie.

“Bad business,” echoed Jessie, who always repeated the end of her sister’s sentences.

“I thought you pair would ha’ known about it before this,” said Hamish.

“We did,” said Nessie. “But she’s a witch!”

“A witch,” said Jessie.

“Look here. There are no such things as witches.”

“Keep your voice down,” hissed Nessie, looking furtively around.

“Voice down,” came the Greek chorus.

Hamish sighed. He knew the highlanders were deeply superstitious.

“I’m going to deal with her,” he said firmly. “By tomorrow, you’ll have nothing to worry about. I’ll kill her if I have to. Don’t look like that. Just joking. Now, off with you.”

♦

Hamish ate his lunch, fed his pets, told them to stay behind, and set off for Catriona Beldame’s cottage. A group of villagers followed him. He kept turning and shouting “Stay back!” and they would stop, but as soon as he moved on, they would follow again, keeping a discreet distance.

He knocked at the door. Catriona answered his knock and stood there, one hand on the lintel. She was dressed in a long black velvet gown that made her look like the witch she was supposed to be.

“Well?”

“I am here to tell you,” said Hamish, “that if you continue to supply drugs to the people of this village, it will be the worse for you.”

She gave a mocking laugh. “Couldn’t get your search warrant, could you?”

He turned and looked at her Volvo, parked at the side of the cottage. He went over to it and shone his torch on it. “You need new tyres,” he said. “You cannot drive that car until you have them fitted. Your vehicle is not roadworthy.”

She followed him. The wind had risen and was whipping her hair about her face.

She pointed a long finger at him. “I cursed you, remember?” she said. “Black days are coming, Hamish Macbeth.”

“Oh, go to hell,” shouted Hamish. “I’ll haff ye out o’ my village and on your broomstick if it’s the last thing I do. Catriona Beldame, indeed. What’s your real name, lassie? Tracy Smellie, Josie Clapp, something like that? I’ll find out, you know.”

She flew at him, her hands clawing at his face.

He gave her a hearty push and she went sprawling in the heather.

Hamish went and stood over her. “Take my advice and leave by tomorrow.”

He turned and strode away down the brae. The watchers had vanished.

♦

The next day, a case of shoplifting took him over to Cnothan, his least favourite place. It turned out to be the theft of nothing more than chocolate bars. He identified the two culprits from the security camera, persuaded the angry shopkeeper not to press criminal charges, and went off to see the boys’ parents. He was damned if he was going to give two little boys a criminal record this early in their lives. It all took more time than he had expected between getting the boys, two brothers, from school, and taking them home to their shocked mother. Mother and boys were then taken to the shop, where they apologised while the mother paid for the stolen goods. After that, he stopped off to see some friends in Cnothan before heading home.

He took his binoculars and went out onto the waterfront and focussed them on the ‘witch’s’ cottage. Her car was still there. He wondered what to do. He was sure that if he arrested her, they would now not find anything sinister in those bottles of hers. She would have destroyed anything incriminating. If he threatened her any more, he could be charged with police harassment.

He returned to the station to find Jimmy Anderson waiting for him. “You’re going to be up on a disciplinary charge, Hamish, unless you can come up with a good explanation.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your newcomer, Catriona Beldame, has reported you for assault.”

“She tried to claw my face, I pushed her over, and I’ve got witnesses. Come ben and get your whisky and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Seated at the kitchen table a few minutes later, Jimmy listened to Hamish’s story.

When Hamish had finished, he said, “Why didn’t the bampots just order Viagra from the Internet?”

“I don’t think they’d know how to,” said Hamish. “We’re still a superstitious lot here. I checked the police files under her daft name, but I couldn’t find anything. That woman is evil!”

“What is it with women?” asked Jimmy. “You see all these magazines telling them how to enhance their sex life.”

“I think you’ll find the complaining women all had children and were past the menopause. They’d rather read a romance or fantasise about a film star than have their old man fumbling again.”

“Miserable old biddies. They should let the old man get his leg over occasionally.”

“I hate it all,” said Hamish. “I’m telling you, Jimmy, the two biggest motives for murder are sex and money.”

“Maybe she was supplying one and getting the other for services rendered,” suggested Jimmy.

“There’s not that much money in Lochdubh.”

“Come on, man! I bet there’s money hidden under some of the mattresses here. They’re a canny lot. Probably have been saving for years.”

“I chust wish she would go away,” mourned Hamish. “The men know she made a fool of them.”

♦

The following two days were quiet. No sign of the witch, and yet Hamish swore he could almost see a miasma of evil hanging over his beloved village.

Then on the third morning, he received a visit from the milkman, Hughie Cromart. “The milk outside the Beldame woman’s cottage hasn’t been taken in,” he said. “You should get up there and see if anything has happened to her.”

Hamish felt a spasm of black dread. The fear that one of the men in the village would do something to the ‘witch’ that had been lurking around his subconscious now came roaring up into his brain.

“I’ll get up there right away,” he said.

It was a crisp cold morning. There had been a thick frost during the night. The loch lay as still as a sheet of metal under a grey sky. The tops of the two mountains soaring above Lochdubh were covered in snow.

Two buzzards sailed lazily above the cottage as Hamish approached.

He knocked at the door and waited.

No reply.

He tried the handle but the door was locked. He then tried to peer into the two windows at the front of the cottage, but the curtains were drawn.

Hamish wondered what to do. If he broke in and she was all right, she would add the charge of breaking and entering to the one of police harassment. He walked round to the back.

There was one door and one window at the back, but the door was locked and the curtains were tightly drawn across the window.

He studied the lock. It was a simple Yale one. He took out a thin strip of metal and forced the lock.

Hamish switched on the light. He found himself in the room where she kept all her potions, the room he had been in before. He went across the tiny hall and opened the door to the room opposite.

It had been fitted up as a bedroom. He could see that in the dim light filtering through the curtains. There was a figure on the bed. He switched on the light and let out a gasp of dismay.

Catriona was lying naked on the bed. Her throat had been slashed and there were stab wounds on her chest. Blood seemed to have spurted everywhere. He backed out slowly and made his way outside the way he came in.

Hamish phoned police headquarters and stood there, looking down the brae to the village, wondering who the murderer was and praying it wasn’t one of the villagers.