Hamish Macbeth 03; Death of an Outsider

∨ Death of an Outsider ∧

6

Jenny kissed me when we met,

Jumping from the chair she sat in,

Time, you thief, who love to get

Sweets into your list, put that in

Say I’m weary, say I’m sad,

Say that health and wealth have missed me,

Say I’m growing old, but add,

Jenny kissed me.

—James Henry Leigh Hunt

Hamish awoke at dawn the next morning, dazed, bewildered, and happy. He would have liked to cuddle up to Jenny and spend a lazy morning in bed, but he did not want her to become the butt of Blair’s coarse remarks, and so he dressed quickly, picking up items of clothing from the stairs, and finally rescuing his trousers from under Towser.

He made his way quietly over to the police station and was just emerging innocently from his own bedroom when Blair came looking for him.

“Where was ye last night?” howled Blair. “Getting your leg over that artist bint?”

“I wass out looking for clues,” said Hamish. “Miss Lovelace is a highly respectable lady. I am furthermore quite prepared to put my job on the line if you make any more filthy remarks about her by sinking ma fist right into your mouth.”

Blair backed before the fury in Hamish’s eyes. “Cannae ye take a joke?” he said. “Me and the others are off to stay at the Anstey Hotel doon the road. The bigwigs are comin’ up from Inverness and Edinburgh to see what we can do about keeping thae lobsters quiet. In the meantime, you take those false teeth down to Mrs. Mainwaring and let’s hear what she says.”

Blair walked into the lounge as he talked. Hamish looked around the room in dismay. The ashtrays were overflowing, and there were greasy fish-and-chip papers on the coffee-table.

“And what am I supposed to do about this mess?” asked Hamish.

“Oh, get a wumman in tae clean the place and put the bill through your expenses as something else.”

Furious as he was at the state of the place, Hamish was only too glad to get rid of Blair and his detectives. It meant he would have the phone to himself again.

He got into the police Land Rover and drove off before Blair could commandeer it. It would be just like Blair to expect him to walk the miles to Mrs. Mainwaring’s.

And before he even reached Mrs. Mainwaring, he had to quieten his conscience by looking for Sandy Carmichael. The moors were covered with searching policemen, but there might be something he, Hamish Macbeth, could find that they could not. He could not in his heart believe Sandy responsible for the murder. He called at Sandy’s cottage after scouring the highways and byways, only to retreat quickly as Blair’s furious face appeared at the window.

On his way to Mrs. Mainwaring, Hamish dropped in to see Diarmuid Sinclair. He nearly didn’t recognize him, for Diarmuid had shaved off his long beard. “Why the new image?” asked Hamish. “Doing it for your public?”

“Aye, did you see me on the television?” said Diarmuid. “Grand, that was. John took a video o’ it and showed it to me and I thought I looked that old. Forbye, I’m off to Inverness soon to buy wee Scan a present for his birthday.” Scan was Diarmuid’s grandson. “Have ye any idea what I should get?”

“How old is he?”

“Eight.”

“Well,” said Hamish, “I would just buy the bairn something you would like to play with yourself.”

He then drove on to the Mainwaring bungalow.

Mrs. Mainwaring was packing clothes, boxes and boxes of them. There were no men’s clothes among the piles lying ready for packing, but Hamish recognized the blue-and-white sailor dress. She was obviously getting rid of all the clothes her husband had chosen for her. Mrs. Mainwaring believed her husband was dead.

“What can I do for you, officer?” she asked, as she competently went on with her packing, a cigarette drooping from her lips.

“Can you identify these? Don’t touch them.” Hamish took out the false teeth, enclosed in a polythene bag. She went very still. She took the cigarette from her mouth and tossed it into the fire.

“They’re William’s,” she said flatly. “He had them specially made, complete with nicotine stains, so they would not look too white and too false.” She sat down, her baggy tweed skirt rucked up, displaying large areas of muscled thigh.

“I’ll take a statement from ye,” said Hamish gently. “And then maybe you could call by later in the day at the police station and sign it.”

She nodded. “Where did you find them?”

“My dog found them in that patch of scrub at the turn of the road outside Cnothan as you go out toward Cnothan Game.”

“I knew he was dead,” she said dully. “I felt it. He wouldn’t have left me alone this long. He liked tormenting me too much. Poor William.”

“Mrs. Mainwaring, if that skeleton is your husband’s, have you any idea what might have happened to him?”

“No. I don’t like to think about it. It can’t be his. I don’t think it’s anything to do with him. It was put there for a bad joke.”

Hamish looked at her curiously. She seemed quite calm, but shock affected people in strange ways.

“Would it upset you to talk to me about him?” he asked gently. “Tell me about his army career. He said he had something to do with M.I.5.”

“Told you that one, did he?” Mrs. Mainwaring lit another cigarette. “He liked to play the retired army man, part of his act. He was a captain when he did his National Service. He was never a career officer. He just got drafted along with everyone else.”

“And how did he make his money?”

She gave a horrible kind of laugh. “He married me,” she said. “I was living in Maidstone in Kent with my mother, who was on her last legs. No man had ever proposed to me or looked at me, and then William came along.” Her eyes grew dreamy. “He was selling cars. Mother used to make nasty jokes about car salesmen and said he was only after my money. I didn’t believe her. He had very great charm. But I should have seen through him then. I told him Mother held the purse-strings and after that I didn’t see him for a week. At the end of that week, Mother died of a heart attack, the death was published in the local paper, and William came back again, just in time for the funeral. He was very supportive. He said he had inherited an estate in Scotland. We would be married and go and live there. Mother left me the house in Maidstone and quite a bit of money. I was tired. I was old–fashioned. I had been led to believe that women did not have heads for business. William said if I transferred everything to him, he would arrange for the sale of the house and take care of everything.”

“That was verra trusting of you,” said Hamish awkwardly.

She went on as if he had not spoken. “So I did, and we got married, and came up here to live. I know a lot of incomers don’t like Cnothan, but I loved it, and I still do. The women were so pleasant and gentle and friendly. Old-fashioned, just like me. But William changed. I forgave him for lying, you know. This place is hardly an estate. He started nagging me and nagging me from morning till night. He hated this place, and he began to enjoy people hating him. It made him feel important. I couldn’t walk out. He had control of the money. You’ve heard of the Duke of Sutherland, the one in the last century, who was responsible for the Highland Clearances – the one who had his factors drive the crofters out of their houses so he could turn the whole of the north into a sheep ranch?”

“Of course,” said Hamish.

“Well, you know how they still hate the duke in Sutherland. He had that statue of himself erected above Golspie and his memory is still so hated that people can’t bear to look at it. That tickled William. He liked going for long walks. He would often walk to the top of Clachan Mohr. He used to say that one day he would get a statue of himself put up there.”

“And what is his family background?”

“Surprisingly good. Went to Marlborough, then New College, although he left after only two years without getting his degree. Went to work for a family friend in the City as a stockbroker after he did his National Service. After that, I don’t know. He was always vague about it. But something happened. His family didn’t come to the wedding. He has two sisters and a brother living. They won’t have anything to do with him.”

“Have you their addresses?”

Mrs. Mainwaring went over to a desk and fished out an address book. She copied out three addresses on a slip of paper and handed it to Hamish.

“Can you put those bloody teeth away?” she said sharply.

Hamish put the polythene bag back in his pocket.

“You will inherit his money if he is dead, will you not?” asked Hamish.

“I’ll get my own money back, if that’s what you mean,” said Mrs. Mainwaring drily.

“Now about those houses and crofts he bought,” said Hamish. “What did he plan to do with them?”

“If you ask me, he planned to go on using the land for his sheep and let the houses rot. I pointed out time and again that he could sell the houses and keep the croft land, but he enjoyed the locals’ fury. They hated him for letting two good houses stand there decaying. Somehow, he had led them to believe he hadn’t much money. He worked hard in the beginning at getting everyone to like him. He wasn’t a complete stranger. He had been up on visits before; this aunt was the only member of the family who still liked him. And so they accepted him as a crofter without question.”

“Now, Mrs. Mainwaring, it takes a very strong motive to kill a man, that is, if your husband has been killed. Have you any idea who might have done it?”

“It could have been pretty much anybody,” she said. “I can’t help you there.”

Hamish asked several more questions, got the address in Edinburgh of the dentist who had supplied the false teeth, and then took his leave.

Mrs. Mainwaring shook hands with him, waved goodbye, and as soon as the police Land Rover was out of sight, she sank down in a chair, holding her large body in her arms to stop the uncontrollable shaking.

♦

As Hamish drove up to the Cnothan Game and Fish Company, he was stopped a few yards before he reached it by a police barrier behind which swarms of press were being held at bay. The barrier was raised to let him through. He saw the yard was full of plain-clothes officers. Blair and several high-ranking policemen were watching the operations.

Blair saw Hamish approaching and went to meet him as Hamish’s lanky figure descended from the Land Rover. Hamish grinned. Blair was determined that Hamish Macbeth should not meet any of the top brass.

“Did she recognize the teeth?” demanded Blair.

“Aye,” said Hamish. “They’re Mainwaring’s all right. How’s the big hush-up going?”

“It’s going jist fine. Nobody’s going to talk, least of all Jamie Ross.”

Hamish pushed back his cap and scratched his head thoughtfully. “Have ye thought what’s going to happen when you get your man, or woman, and he or she appears in the dock? What about the evidence? There’ll be an even bigger scandal in the press if they find out you’ve been suppressing vital evidence.”

Blair went scarlet. His mind hadn’t worked as far in advance as that.

“Don’t you worry, sonny,” he growled. “Leave important matters like that to the high-ups. Now, get back to that station and type up Mrs. Mainwaring’s statement.”

But instead of going to the station, Hamish drove back to Sandy’s cottage. There was a strange policeman on duty. He shrugged when Hamish said he wanted to look around and said, “Help yourself.”

Hamish pushed open the door and went in. Nothing, he reflected sadly, is more bleak than the home of a drunk. Unwashed dishes were piled high in the greasy sink. The wood-burning stove was black with old grease. The floor was covered with food and drink stains, the bedroom smelled appallingly. He poked about through closets, through piles of romances, through hidden stacks of empty, bottles, but there was no clue to where Sandy could have gone. There were no personal papers, no clue to relatives – unless Blair had taken them away. He went out past the policeman and round to the back. The garden was a tip of old rubbish, old tyres, broken cups, more empty bottles, a shattered hen coop, and a large oil drum with holes bored in the side for burning refuse. Hamish tipped up the oil drum and looked inside. It was empty, but no doubt Forensic had taken away the contents to examine them. He was about to turn away when he noticed a blacker patch on the earth at his feet. He bent down and poked a finger into the soil. The ground was soft, as if it had recently been turned over and raked. He stood up and pushed his cap on the back of his head and thought hard. If Sandy had burnt something in the garden recently, something so important that he had taken the ashes away and raked the ground, it followed that Sandy Carmichael could be the murderer. But Hamish still could not believe it.

When he left the cottage, he went on to where Clachan Mohr reared up against a milky-blue sky. It had turned mild, and a soft wind brought hope of spring. He suddenly remembered how Jenny’s lips had felt pressed against his own and smiled. And yet to Hamish’s old–fashioned way of thinking, there was something slightly sad about bed before courtship. He might have fallen in love with her. Not that he was a prude or thought that Jenny’s morals were lax in any way. But in affairs, it was sometimes better to travel slowly than arrive too quickly. Instant gratification certainly knocked the spiritual side out of romance, no matter how much the modern mind tried to shout down the primitive emotions.

He parked the Land Rover and walked around a track at the foot of the cliff that led to the easy way up at the back. He walked steadily up the twisting track. At the top, a magnificent stag raised its head and stared at him with sad, wary eyes, like a schoolmaster surveying a tormenting schoolboy. Then it dipped its antlers and began to move off with that characteristically odd jerking start which quickly changed into the supple speed of a full gallop.

Hamish suddenly felt deliriously happy. The warm day, the stag, Jenny, the springy heather, Jenny, the sun on his neck, Jenny – all crowded together and sky-rocketed in his brain. He did several cart-wheels across the springy heather and then fell on his back, laughing helplessly. His sadness about sleeping with Jenny had gone. He felt sure he loved her.

And then he longed for a cigarette. The Americans would call it the reward syndrome, he thought. Something good happens, and you deserve a treat. Surely the cleverest advertising slogan man ever created was ‘Have Some Cadbury’s, You Deserve It.’

He was clambering on his feet, reminding himself he was supposed to be looking for clues, when he saw a glimmer of white down under deep clumps of heather. He fished out two crumpled paper cups.

He turned them round and round in his hands. There was a smear of lipstick on one. He looked closer. No, it was not a smear of lipstick, it was a smudged fingerprint. Paint. Oil paint.

He sat down and put the cups carefully on the grass and looked at them.

A cloud swept across the sun and he shivered.

Paint.

Jenny.

Paint + paper cup = Jenny.

But it could have been a schoolchild.

There were traces of coffee in the bottom of the cup. Children these days did not drink tea or coffee. They drank Coke or 7-Up or Dr. Pepper or a Scottish soda called Ban’s Irn Bru, “made from girders.”

He clutched his head. Time. Think about time. Jenny had been crying on – when was it? Sunday. Her sister had died. She had received a letter. Funny, that. The police were usually informed. Wait a bit! Jenny could have been here with someone else. It need not have been Mainwaring. Oh God, let it not be Jenny.

He searched further under the heather clumps and came up with a pipe. Mainwaring had smoked a pipe. He picked up the cups and put them in a bag along with the pipe and carried them down from Clachan Mohr. He drove carefully back to the police station and then crossed the road to Jenny’s cottage.

He did not even have time to knock. She opened the door even as he was raising his hand to the knocker. Her black hair was endearingly tousled and her lips were still slightly swollen from love-making.

“Hamish!” she cried. And then the light slowly left her eyes as she looked up into his face. He silently held up the plastic bag containing the two crumpled cups and the pipe.

“I found these up on Clachan Mohr,” he said.

He brushed past her into the cottage. She followed him into the kitchen. “Where’s Towser?” she asked with a laugh that sounded false.

He sat down at the kitchen table and placed the bag with the cups in front of him.

“Now, Jenny,” he said quietly. “For a start, let’s see that letter from Canada. The one telling you about your sister’s death.”

Jenny slid onto his knee and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Hamish!” she said. “Don’t turn detective on me.”

“The letter, Jenny,” said Hamish, his hazel eyes hard and bleak.

He lifted her up like a child and placed her on a seat next to his own.

“The letter,” he demanded again.

“I threw it away,” said Jenny.

“I can ask the postie if you got a letter from Canada and if he says you didn’t get one, that will prove you’re lying. Don’t make me do that.”

“Oh, all right,” shouted Jenny. And then in a quieter, almost defeated tone of voice, she repeated, “All right.”

“Tell me about it,” said Hamish gently.

Jenny shrugged. “It’s all so silly, really. There’s nothing to tell. I was upset about my painting. I had doubts that I was any good, that I would ever be any good. I felt you wouldn’t understand, no one would understand, and so I told that lie.”

“Were you Mainwaring’s mistress?” asked Hamish brutally.

“No! Never! Damn you. You’re like all men. The minute you’ve slept with them, they’ve damned you as a whore.”

“Wait a minute,” said Hamish.

He got to his feet and went through and looked at the oil painting of Clachan Mohr that stood in the gallery.

Jenny went for walks, he remembered. This painting shrieked rage and sorrow and menace. And yet none of Jenny’s other paintings reflected anything at all. Powerful emotion had rocked her to the very foundations.

“Okay,” said Jenny’s voice from behind him. “I went for walks with William Mainwaring. I saw a side of him that no one else saw. He was charming and kind.”

“Mrs. Mainwaring saw that side,” said Hamish. “That was before he married her and got her to sign her money over to him.”

A dry sob answered him and he turned round and looked compassionately at Jenny’s bent head and then back to the picture again.

“He could never stop being the know-all, could he, Jenny?” said Hamish. “He was flattered to have a pretty woman going along with him on his walks. But he had books on art appreciation on his shelves. He just had to tell you what he thought of your painting and it was Canada and your husband all over again. You painted Clachan Mohr right after that. You told me you had had a death in the family, because to you it was a bereavement. Another man you had admired and trusted had jumped all over your soul.”

Jenny slumped down on the floor and began to cry.

“I’m sorry,” said Hamish. “This is going to look to you like another betrayal. I have to tell Blair. I don’t think you killed him, but I have to tell Blair. You can’t keep anything in the Highlands quiet, and sooner or later someone is going to tell Blair you went for walks with Mainwaring.”

♦

To Hamish’s relief, Blair did not take the news about Jenny’s friendship with Mainwaring very seriously. His prime suspect was Sandy Carmichael. He sent MacNab and Anderson up to the gallery to grill Jenny and then leaned forward and said threateningly, “Carmichael is our man. Don’t go digging up any mair suspects.”

“Meaning you want it to be Carmichael,” said Hamish cynically. “A drunk can be shut up before he gets to court and starts talking about lobsters easier than anyone else. But you’ll always have a problem. The press are getting tired of the witchcraft angle. They want to know about that skeleton and whose it was.”

“Bugger the press,” said Blair viciously. “Why isnae there something to distract them? Why doesn’t another Russian reactor blow? Why doesn’t someone assassinate Maggie Thatcher?”

“If we could solve the witchcraft bit, they might begin to cool off,” said Hamish thoughtfully. “That scaring o’ Mrs. Mainwaring, I’m sure it wasn’t connected with the murder.”

“Then go and see what you can find out,” howled Blair.

Hamish was ambling down the main street in the direction of the manse when a voice behind him said, “Psst!”

He turned about and found himself looking down at Mrs. MacNeill, she who had been so reluctant with directions when he first came to Cnothan.

“I know who murdered Mr. Mainwaring,” she muttered.

“Tell me about it,” said Hamish.

She was carrying a heavy shopping bag. “Look as if you’ve offered to carry this home for me,” she hissed.

Hamish looked at her curiously. The woman’s eyes were glittering with excitement.

He took the bag from her and she led the way to the bungalow called Green Pastures.

The living-room of the bungalow was gloomy and and overfurnished. Victorian furniture designed for grander rooms stood about looking as if it had been there before an auction. There were two black sofas, a Benares brass bowl full of dried pampas-grass, enormous glass case that held a moth-eaten golden eagle, a carved oak sideboard like an altar, and black leather, horsehair-stuffed, high-backed chairs.

“Now,” said Mrs. MacNeill, “take out your notebook, Constable.”

Hamish dutifully produced pencil and notebook waited patiently.

“It wass herself that did it,” said Mrs. MacNeill triumphantly.

“Mrs. Mainwaring?”

“Och, no. Mrs. Struthers.”

“The minister’s wife?” Hamish was tempted to put away his notebook. “Why on earth would she do that?”

“It wass the microwave cooking class for the Mothers’ Meeting,” said Mrs. MacNeill eagerly. “Herself wass giving the talk and very proud of herself and puffed up wi’ vanity she was, too. Then Mr. Mainwaring came in and he starts to criticize her and then he takes over the lecture himself. We all just went away, but I crept back after he had left, for herself said we could try the cooking and I saw no reason to waste money on my own dinner when I could eat some of the things she’d offered. She didnae see me, but I saw her. She was drinking sherry from the bottle, like a harlot.” Hamish blinked. “And then she mutters something about killing Mr. Mainwaring.”

Hamish’s pencil stopped gliding over the pages of his notebook. An idea struck him. “I’ll just be off and have a word with Mrs. Struthers.”

“You’ll break the news gently to Mr. Struthers,” said Mrs. MacNeill eagerly. “He’s a fine man and he disnae ken he’s married to an evil woman.”

“I won’t be making any arrest yet,” said Hamish stonily. “Thank you for the information.”

“‘A fine polisman you are,” said Mrs. MacNeill waspishly. “Mr. MacGregor would have had her in the handcuffs.”

Hamish got to his feet. “If ye can think o’ anything else, Mrs. MacNeill, let me know,” he said. And deaf to the complaints that followed him out of the house, he went on his way.

Mrs. Struthers looked glad to see him. She fussed over him and gave him tea and scones. After they had exchanged some gossip, Hamish said, “I have just been hearing about your lecture on microwave cookery.”

The minister’s wife turned red. “That was the most awful evening of my life,” she said. “I could have killed that man.”

“But you didn’t?”

Mrs. Struthers sighed. “I hadn’t even the courage to stand up to him. I just stood there like a…like a…humiliated rabbit.”

“Aye, well, to get back to the original crime, the witchcraft scare. I was hoping your husband could help.”

“What on earth could he do? That’s him coming now.”

“Och, I’ll just have a wee word with him.”

♦

That Sunday, Mr. Struthers preached the most fiery sermon of his life. He claimed the three women who had frightened Mrs. Mainwaring by pretending to be witches were as good as murderesses. They were murdering their own souls with malice and spite. With great relish, he outlined what would happen to them when they got to hell, and being jabbed by pitchforks was the least of what was waiting for them. He thundered and he blasted and he called down the wrath of God on Cnothan. He compared Cnothan to Sodom and Gomorrah. Unless the guilty confessed, there was no hope for them and no hope for Cnothan. Fire from Heaven would consume them all. The church was crowded.

As Mr. Struthers leaned over the pulpit, the congregation cringed back.

When Hamish left the church, he was surprised to see the sharp, foxy features of Detective Jimmy Anderson peering at him from the church porch.

“What are you doing here?” asked Hamish. He felt lightheaded from a long night on the moors searching for Sandy,

“Blair’s idea,” said Anderson gloomily. “Some woman called round at the hotel to make a statement that the minister’s wife had done it. Blair tells me to go to church and clock the congregation. Seems Sandy Carmichael never missed a service. Blair didnae believe the woman’s story but he gets this mad idea that Carmichael might turn up. Any chance o’ a dram?”

“I have some whisky at the police station,” said Hamish.

“Lead on, Macduff,” misquoted Anderson cheerfully. “I need a good belt to get rid of the taste of all that hell-fire and damnation.”

When they were seated in the police station on either side of the desk, Anderson asked curiously, “I didnae know they still went in for sermons like that. No one’s going to take it seriously, though.”

“You don’t know Cnothan,” said Hamish. “When approaching Cnothan, set your watch back one hundred years. It’s a time warp here. Preach a sermon like that anywhere else in Sutherland – Lairg or Domoch or Golspie – and the minister would soon find the worthies of the town petitioning for his transfer. For goodness’ sakes, man, they stil believe in fairies in this part o’ the world.”

“Talking about fairies, one of the local louts is going around saying you’re one yourself.”

“And which lout would that be?” asked Hamish curiously.

“A great big turnip heid called Alistair Gunn. Said you stank o’ scent.”

“That wass my aftershave,” said Hamish stiffly. “Or rather, it’s MacGregor’s. And if ye don’t stop sniggering, I’ll take that glass away from ye.”

Anderson changed tack. “We didnae get much out o’ that artist o’ yours, Jenny Lovelace. Sticks to her story. Said he insulted her art. Said she was crying. Said she thought she’d sound daft if she told you what it was about, so she said her sister had died. She doesnae have a sister.”

“It’s odd,” said Hamish. “Her ex-husband in Canada did the same thing and she told me about that readily enough.”

“She’s a grand painter,” said Anderson. “My type of stuff. I cannae thole thae paintings o’ people wi’ two eyes on the one side of their head. Think she did it?”

“I don’t know,” said Hamish. “It takes a bit of strength and bottomless callousness to dump a full-grown man in a tank of lobsters.”

“He was dead at the time he hit the water,” said Anderson. “The pathologist says as how someone struck him a blow on the back of the head which near broke his neck, so Mainwaring could’ve fallen over into the pool and the murderer could’ve run off and come back later to get rid o’ the skeleton. Anyway, we know it’s Sandy Carmichael. He probably got a fit o’ the horrors and thought Mainwaring was a bunch o’ green snakes.” He glanced up at the window. “If I’m no’ mistaken, here comes the village lout. Leave you to it.”

He scampered off just as Alistair Gunn came ambling in.

“Hoo are ye the day?” said Alistair with a great turnip grin and his eyes as hard as Scottish pebbles.

“Sit down,” said Hamish, eyeing him coldly. Alistair Was wearing his usual hat, the leather one, peaked and shaped like an American baseball cap. He was wearing a game coat with rips in the sleeves, and his rubber boots exuded a strong smell of sheep dung.

“Now what do you want?” demanded Hamish.

“I’ve found your murderer for you,” said Alistair.

“That being?”

“Harry Mackay, the estate agent.”

“And why would Harry Mackay want to kill William Mainwaring?”

“Because Mainwaring was competing with him,” said Alistair triumphantly.

“Oh, aye, in what way?”

Alistair hitched his chair forward. “Mainwaring bought thae cottages and crofts. Right? He got the land decrofted. He did it under false pretences. He disnae belong here. I put in ma objections to the Crofters Commission when I learned what was going on, but they told me the time for objections was long past.”

“I checked up on those houses,” said Hamish wearily. “One had a damaged roof and the other had no bathroom and no electric light laid on. Mainwaring bought the one for ten thousand pounds and the other for eight. Small beer to a man like Mackay who sells castles.”

“You’re all the same,” said Alistair bitterly. “Mackay’s a toff and ye willnae touch the toffs. It’s one law for the rich and one for the poor.”

Hamish fought down his temper. He had heard Alistair trapped and shot game for sport, unlike most Highlanders, who only killed what they needed to eat. A brace of dead rabbits hung from his belt. He exuded a sort of peasant cruelty.

“I’ll look into it,” said Hamish abruptly.

“Well, I’m sitting here until I get you to take down a statement,” said Alistair threateningly.

Hamish looked at him thoughtfully and then his thin face lit up in a charming smile.

“Stay as long as you like, you handsome brute, you,” he said softly.

Alistair Gunn stood up so quickly that the chair went flying.

“Oh, don’t go,” cried Hamish. “We have lots to talk about.”

The only answer was the slamming of the police-station door.

Hamish leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head and fought down the desire to go and see Jenny.

Any attraction she’d held for him had surely died when she had confessed to liking Mainwaring and to having lied about her sister. He had an uneasy feeling he had been allowed to share her bed to keep him quiet. And yet he wanted her. He wanted her very badly. Then he wanted a cigarette. Then the longing for her hit him in a second wave, more powerful than the first.

He was just convincing himself that it was all in the order of duty to ask her more questions when there was a commotion outside and then the doorbell rang.

Outside stood three couples, three schoolgirls, and the minister, Mr. Struthers.

The minister herded the party into the police station as Hamish stood aside.

“Behold the guilty!” cried Mr. Struthers, his pale eyes flashing with triumph.

Hamish collected chairs from the kitchen and waited until everyone was seated. Then he took out his notebook. He looked at the three schoolgirls, who were sitting with their heads hanging.

“I guess I am looking at the Mainwaring witches,” said Hamish. “Names?”

Mr. Struthers acted as spokesman. The girls were all fourteen years old. They were Alison Birrell, Desiree Watson, and Marleen Macdonald.

Hamish pricked up his ears at the sound of the names Birrell and Macdonald.

He interrupted Mr. Struthers. “Mr. Birrell and Mr. Macdonald – you are both crofters?”

Birrell was a tough little dwarf of a man and Macdonald an enormous giant. Both nodded. Their wives were sitting holding hands and sobbing.

“And Mr. Watson?”

Jimmy Watson, a dapper little man in a blue serge suit, said, “Motor mechanic.”

Hamish looked at the minister. “I think it would be better, Mr. Struthers, if you took the parents through to the living-room and left me to have a word in private with the girls.” He saw the parents were about to protest and added quickly, “I will not be taking statements until you are present.”

Reluctantly, they shuffled out.

“Now,” said Hamish, perching on the edge of his desk. “We’ll just have a wee talk.”

The girls all looked remarkably alike. Two had red hair and one black, but they had the same sullen, pinched white faces and beaky noses. Bad diet, thought Hamish. Boil-in-bag meals and fish and chips.

He selected the more composed-looking girl, Desiree Watson, and said, “You, Desiree, what on earth were you thinking of to scare poor Mrs. Mainwaring?”

“We couldnae get rid o’ Mr. Mainwaring,” sniffled Desiree, “so we thought we could frichten his missus into getting him to leave.”

“But why should you three girls take it upon yourselves to do this?”

Alison Birrell spoke up. “Will we go to the bad fire, mister?”

Hamish decided that if he reassured them on that point, he would not get another word out of them.

“If you do not make a full confession,” he said, “I shudder to think what will happen.”

The girls clutched each other and began to cry again.

Hamish soothed them down. Haltingly, it all began to come out. They had heard their parents complaining and complaining about Mainwaring. Mainwaring had said that Mr. Watson, the motor mechanic, had overcharged him and had reported the garage to the Consumers Council. So the girls had planned to take matters into their own hands. They had waited behind the churchyard wall until they heard Mrs. Mainwaring coming along.

After half an hour of close questioning, Hamish called the minister and the parents back in and took statements from the girls.

“Will they go to prison?” asked Alec Birrell.

“Not if they co-operate,” said Hamish, thinking quickly. “This witchcraft nonsense is stopping anyone from seeing the facts of the disappearance of William Mainwaring clearly.” He saw the free-lance reporter, Ian Gibb, passing along the street outside and opened the door and called to him.

“Come along, Scoop Gibb.” Hamish grinned. “Another exclusive for you.”

♦

Blair was sitting in the television lounge of the Anstey Hotel, drinking beer, when Hamish reported to him.

“What?” roared Blair. “You draft pillock. Didnae you charge them with something?”

“I did better than that,” said Hamish. He told Blair of giving the free-lance reporter the story. “Don’t you see, man,” said Hamish, “the sooner the press stop asking questions about witchcraft and that skeleton, the better? We’re left with the skeleton, but at least this should take some of the heat off.”

“Damn waste o’ time,” growled Blair. “I can’t move without tripping over television cables. With Mrs. Mainwaring identifying these teeth and once the dentist in Edinburgh confirms it, the funeral will be held and that’ll be more mayhem in the press.”

“Have you considered it’s going to get out sooner or later?” said Hamish. “The lobsters, I mean.”

“It can’t get out,” said Blair. “If it gets out I’ll lose my job, and I’ll make sure you lose yours too. Shuddup. Here’s the news.”

He crouched forward, his fat hands clasped and his head bent in a ludicrous attitude of prayer.

The news started off with the headlines. A bomb had gone off in Number 10 Downing Street. Intended to kill the Prime Minister, it had not succeeded but had killed two members of the Cabinet, a policeman, two detectives, and a messenger. Hamish watched in a dazed way. The next headline was that the tail-end of the American hurricane Bertha had struck the Clyde estuary. Ships had gone down, people had been killed by flying slates, trees uprooted, and cars blown off bridges.

“Oh my God,” breathed Blair. “Saved by the bell. Was ever a man so lucky!”

Thoroughly sickened, Hamish walked out. The hotel was a buzz of activity with reporters packing up and photographers paying bills; the air was full of the sound of cars revving up in the car-park outside.