by M C Beaton
He opened the door as Hamish reached it. “So ye’ve come at last,” he said. “I knew you’d be by. Cannae solve the case?”
“And I suppose you can,” said Hamish, following the seer into his small kitchen-cum-living room.
“Aye, maybe, maybe,” said Angus. “Whit have ye brought me?”
“Nothing. What did you want? Your palm crossed with silver?”
“Folks aye bring me something. A bit o’ salmon, or a piece of venison or a homemade cake.”
“I am here to ask you to tell me as an officer of the law what you know about Trixie Thomas.”
“She’s dead,” said the seer and cackled with laughter.
“When she came to see you, what did you tell her?”
Angus lifted a black kettle from its chain over the open fire and took it over to the sink and filled it with water and then hung it back on the hook. “I’ve a bad memory these days.” he said. “Seems tae me that there’s nothing like a wee dram for bringing it to life.”
“I haven’t brought any whisky with me,” said Hamish crossly.
The seer turned from the fire and bent a penetrating gaze on Hamish. “She’ll never marry you,” he said.
The Highland part of Hamish repressed a superstitious shudder. The policeman part decided to be diplomatic.
“Look, you auld scunner,” he said, “I’ll be back in a bit with a dram. You’d better get your brains working by then.”
Angus smiled when Hamish had left and then set about making a pot of tea. The wind howled and screeched about his cottage like a banshee. He could hear nothing but the fury of the wind. He hoped Hamish would be back soon with that whisky. The wind depressed him. It seemed like a live thing, some monster howling about his cottage, seeking a way in.
It was probably playing havoc with his garden at the back. He put the teapot on the hearth beside the fire and then opened the back door. His raspberry canes were flattened and the door of his garden shed was swinging wildly on its hinges. He went out into the small garden and shut the shed door and wedged a brick against it.
A fitful gleam of watery sunlight struck through the clouds as he turned and shone on something lying beside his back door. He went and looked down. A full bottle of whisky.
He grinned. Just like devious Hamish Macbeth. Leaving the whisky and hoping he’d get well oiled before the constable came back to ask his questions.
He carried the bottle inside. Time to switch on the television and watch the long-range forecast. People were always amazed at his ability to predict the weather so accurately although they watched the same programme themselves. He settled down in his battered armchair by the fire and poured himself a glass of whisky, noticing that the top had already been opened. “Decided to have a dram himself and thought the better of it,” reflected Angus with amusement.
The wind increased in force and shrieked and battered at his cottage like a maniac. As he raised his glass to his lips, the room whirled away and he suddenly saw his long dead mother. She was looking surprised and delighted, the way she had looked when he had unexpectedly come home on leave during the war. And then the vision faded. He sat very still and then put the glass down on the floor beside him with a shaking hand.
As a youth, he had been sure he had been gifted with the second sight, as that ability to see into the future is called in the Highlands. He had had it during the war. He had seen in his mind’s eye his friend getting shot by the Germans and sure enough that’s exactly what had happened. He had gradually built up the reputation of a seer. The gift had never come back, but he had found it easy to impress the locals as he knew all about them anyway and listened to every bit of gossip.
He was sitting, staring into space, when Hamish came back.
“Here’s your whisky,” said Hamish, holding up a half bottle. “Why, you greedy auld pig, you’ve got a whole bottle there.”
“It’s death,” said the seer in a thin voice. “Oh, tak’ it away, Hamish. I saw death in it.”
He was white and trembling.
“Where did you get it from?” asked Hamish sharply.
“It was outside the kitchen door – at the back. People aye leave me things, you know that, Hamish. I didnae hear anyone because o’ that damn wind.”
“And what stopped ye?” asked Hamish, looking at him intently.
Angus shook his head as if to clear it. “I saw my mither,” he said. “She was standing by the door and she looked surprised tae see me as if I’d jist crossed over tae the other side.”
“And ye hadn’t been drinking anything before that?” asked Hamish cynically.
“No, man, no. I swear it.”
Hamish took out a clean handkerchief and lifted the bottle of whisky. “Have you a bit o’ kitchen paper or something so I can take the glass as well?” he asked.
Angus nodded in the direction of the sink where there was a roll of kitchen paper standing on the draining board.
“I’ll just be off,” said Hamish, tenderly carrying both glass and bottle.
“Dinnae leave me,” wailed Angus, getting to his feet.
“Aye, I suppose ye’d better come with me to Blair, although what he’s going to make of this, I shudder to think.”
Blair was in the police station office when Hamish returned with the seer. The police station, like most of the houses in Lochdubh, was hardly ever locked.
“I know you’re not staying at the hotel,” said Hamish crossly, “but I thought Johnson had given you the free use of a room.”
“Aye, well I jist happened to be passing and needed tae use the phone. Who’s he? And whit are ye daein’ stinking o’ whisky?” Hamish was carefully carrying a glass of whisky and the bottle he had taken from Angus.
Hamish and the seer sat down and Hamish in a colourless voice recounted Angus’s vision.
Blair laughed and laughed, slapping his knees in delight. “Daviot’s arrived from Strathbane. He’s along at the hotel now tae see how the investigation’s going on. Wait till he hears aboot this.”
Blair gleefully picked up the phone and started to dial. If ever the superintendent needed extra proof that Hamish Macbeth was a simpleton, this was it.
“You’ll never guess what I have tae tell you, sir,” said Blair. “Macbeth has brought the local seer, Angus Macdonald in. Someone left this local weirdo a bottle o’ whisky on his doorstep and he’s about to drink some of it when he sees his dead mither calling to him from the other side and decides it’s poisoned.” Blair laughed and laughed. The voice at the other end of the phone squawked and the laughter died on Blair’s lips. Mr Daviot was a Lowland Scot in love with the Highlands and everything Highland. Seers were Highland and therefore to be treated with respect. “Well, if you say so, sir,” mumbled Blair and put the phone down.
“I’ve to take this whisky tae Strathbane fur analysis,” he growled, “and you and Macdonald here are tae go along to the hotel and see the super. They’ll be naethin’ in that bottle but straight Scotch, and then you’ll look like the fools you are.”
Mr Daviot treated Angus with great courtesy, ushering him tenderly to an armchair and handing him a cup of coffee.
Angus told his story to an appreciative audience this time. “And I gather that Macbeth here went to see you to ask what Mrs Thomas had wanted to know,” said Mr Daviot. “Did you tell him?”
“I was about to,” said Angus, “when I got that fright. Och, she didn’t want to know anything. She offered me a fiver for thae wally dugs on my mantel, but I ken they’re worth a bit these days. I told her greed would be the end of her.”
“And why did you say that?” asked Mr Daviot sharply.
“I hae the second sight,” said the seer.
“You may just have had it today,” said Hamish. “But it’s my guess you’d heard about Trixie already and you were cross because she was trying to cheat you out of your china dogs. I’d better take you back, and look about and we’d better get forensic up to your cottage.”
“You gang
along yourself,” whined the seer. “I’ve a mind tae stay here wi’ Mr Daviot. He has the sign of greatness in his face.”
That was enough for Mr Daviot so Hamish left with only Towser for company.
The wind had dried the ground and he was doubtful whether the forensic team would be able to find a footprint. The path to the back door was formed of paving stones and outside the back gate was springy heather moorland.
If someone had tried to poison Angus then that someone must have known Hamish was going to call on him. But according to Blair, the whole village knew of Hamish’s proposed visit. He strolled over the moorland at the back of the cottage and found himself looking down on Iain Gunn’s farm. He wondered whether either Blair or his detectives had interviewed Gunn. He had not told Blair about the bats, having felt it to be of not much importance. Now with the cloud shadows chasing each other across the moorland and with the soughing of the wind, Iain Gunn seemed like someone who ought to be taken seriously. All he would have had to do was to run up the hill to the back of the seer’s cottage and leave that whisky. Hamish suddenly remembered the look of hate on Iain’s face as he watched Trixie leaving. He would need to tell Blair and Blair would rightly point out that he had been withholding valuable information.
Iain Gunn was in his farmhouse kitchen, just removing his Wellington boots, when Hamish arrived. His son, a tall, gangling youth, was sitting at the kitchen table and Mrs Gunn was stirring something on a pot on the stove.
“It’s yourself, Hamish,” said Iain cheerfully. “Sit down.”
“I would like a wee word with you in private,” said Hamish.
Iain and his wife exchanged an odd look and then he said slowly, “Come ben.”
Hamish followed him through to the living-room. It was bleak and cold and had a little-used look despite the new, fitted carpet on the floor, the plastic flowers in vases, the noisily patterned nylon curtains at the window, and the three–piece suite of acid green uncut moquette.
There was a large television set in one corner but Hamish was sure the Gunn family hardly ever had time to look at it. They all worked hard.
“What’s the trouble?” asked Iain.
“Trixie Thomas’s death’s the trouble. I have to interview everyone who might have had a grudge against her. Now Angus Macdonald is swearing blind someone left a poisoned bottle of whisky outside his back door today.”
“Angus drinks so much it’s no wonder that whisky tastes like poison to him now,” said Iain. “And what could I have had to do with that silly bitch’s death?”
“With her out of the road, you could go ahead and bulldoze that ruin,” pointed out Hamish.
Iain gave a derisive laugh. “That damn fool bird society she started has no doubt written letters to every other bird society, telling them about the bats. I’ll have bird watchers trekking over my land and making a pest of themselves. Do you mind the days, Hamish, when bird watchers were nice kindly people you were glad to see? Oh, a lot of them are still fine, but there’s a new breed o’ militants. The men have got beards and wear camouflage jackets and those wee half-moon glasses and they’ve got bad teeth and the women have got their fat bums stuffed into jeans and wear anoraks covered with badges. I’d shoot the lot of them if I thought I could get away with it. No, I didn’t poison Mrs Thomas, Hamish.” He leaned forward. “Look, just think of all the hassle a man has to put up with from the government these days. Look how Scotland has changed with value added tax hit squads and petty little bureaucrats enjoying throwing their muscle around. There’s a lot more folk I had better reason to kill than Trixie Thomas. You’ll probably find her man bumped her off. It’s aye the husband.”
“Why?”
“Imagine living with a woman who irons creases in her jeans and wears white sneakers.”
“Aye, it’s enough to turn the strongest stomach,” said Hamish with a grin. Then his face grew serious. “Look, Iain, I didnae tell Blair about the bats and I’ll need tae tell him, so prepare yourself for a hassle.”
“Don’t worry. I had the income-tax inspector round last week. If I can put up with an income-tax inspector, I can put up with Blair.”
Hamish made his way back up past Angus’s cottage and met the seer coming up the hill.
“They are not interested in my story any mair,” said Angus peevishly. “They haff arrested the husband.”
“Paul Thomas? Why?”
“No’ him. Her first husband.”
“Her – ?”
“Aye, it turns out that lodger o’ theirs, John Parker, used tae be married to her.”
Hamish went straight to the hotel. John Parker was closeted with Blair and his two detectives in the hotel room allocated to the police. Hamish put his head round the door.
“Get lost,” snarled Blair.
Hamish walked away. He wondered where Daviot was. As the local policeman, he, Hamish Macbeth, should have been in on the interrogation.
He saw the hotel manager in the forecourt. “Where’s Mr Daviot?” asked Hamish.
“He’s gone back to Strathbane. There’s been a successful drug raid on one o’ the ships,” said Mr Johnson. “This murder’s become small beer.”
Hamish made his way to The Laurels. Paul Thomas was working in the garden.
“What’s all this about her first husband?” demanded Hamish.
Paul straightened up from his weeding slowly and passed an earthy hand over his forehead. “It was a surprise to me,” he said in a bewildered way. “Why didn’t Trixie tell me?”
“Did you hear them having a row or anything?”
“No, they went on like strangers. It was probably him that did it. And I don’t care any more. Nothing’s going to bring her back.” Tears rolled down his cheeks and Hamish patted him awkwardly on the shoulder.
“Can I have a look at his room?”
“It’s full of forensic people, dusting everything in sight although they’ve already dusted everything and I don’t know what they hope to find. I wish everyone would go away and leave me alone.”
Hamish went back to the police station in time to meet Priscilla who was just driving up.
Although he was glad to see her, he found with surprise that his heart no longer gave a lurch. They sat in the kitchen and Hamish told her about the seer and the first husband.
“You would think it would be one of the locals trying to poison Angus,” said Priscilla after listening in attentive silence.
“Why?”
“Well, someone was very afraid that Angus might have divined something, and only the locals would think that. I can’t see either Paul Thomas or this first husband believing in the second sight.”
Hamish poured more tea. “I think that a frightened murderer might be prepared to believe anything. I hope he doesn’t go ahead and arrest John Parker without any evidence. I would like to have a word with him.”
“Blair’s capable of anything. Oh, that’s clever,” said Priscilla, noticing the screen door.
“It was a couple of American tourists gave me the idea,” said Hamish. “I wish I could have a word with that Carl Steinberger. He was staying there at the Thomases for a couple of nights. Where was he from again? I know, Greenwich, Connecticut. He may be back home now. Excuse me a minute, Priscilla. I’ll phone the police in Greenwich and ask them if they know Carl Steinberger’s phone number.”
He was halfway out of the kitchen when Priscilla rose to her feet. “Don’t worry, Hamish,” she said. “I think I’ll call on Angela Brodie. I’m worried about her.”
Hamish stopped. “Why?”
“She makes me uneasy. You can’t go around taking on someone else’s personality without something cracking,” said Priscilla.
She drove down to the doctor’s house, thinking about Hamish Macbeth. Although he had been as friendly as ever, something had gone out of that friendship. Hamish was no longer shy of her, she thought, nor was his whole mind on her when she was there. She felt uneasily that part of his mind had dismissed her.
>
Priscilla walked up the path to the kitchen door and then stood motionless, with her hand on the doorknob. From inside came a faint humming sound, a familiar sound. A picture of Trixie rose vividly in Priscilla’s mind. She pushed open the door and went in.
Angela was sitting spinning wool, her thin face intent. She was wearing jeans and sneakers and a shapeless white T–shirt with the legend Save The Bats emblazoned on the front.
She looked up and saw Priscilla. “Oh, Miss Halburton-Smythe,” said Angela, getting to her feet. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
Priscilla looked around the gleaming and sterile kitchen. Angela put beans – from Nicaragua, where else? thought Priscilla – into the coffee grinder. Priscilla sat down at the kitchen table. It was amazing, reflected Priscilla, how a hairstyle could alter a woman. Angela’s perm showed no signs of growing out. Hard little curls rioted over her head, making her hair look like one of those cheap wigs from Woolworths. Her mouth appeared to have become thinner with little tight lines at the corner of the mouth.
“I didn’t know you had a spinning wheel,” said Priscilla.
“Paul gave it to me,” said Angela. “Poor man. He didn’t want to keep it in the house. He said every time he looked at it, he could see Trixie sitting there.”
“How are things going?” asked Priscilla.
“Not very well,” said Angela, feeding coffee into the machine. “The meeting of the Anti-Smoking League was last night. And do you know how many turned up? Two. And one of them was that layabout, Jimmy Fraser, who thought it was a stop smoking class.”
“That might be a better idea,” said Priscilla. “You might get more results by helping people to stop smoking than by putting a sort of prohibition ban on the stuff.”
“Anyone in their right mind should know it’s dangerous to smoke.”
“But it’s an addiction, like drinking, like eating too much sugar. I read an article which said that addicts are more open to suggestion as to how to stop than outright militant bans. Look at Prohibition in the States with people drinking disgusting things like wood alcohol and going blind. I’m sure a lot of people drank more during Prohibition than they would have done if the stuff was available.”