by M C Beaton
‘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 MacNeil, 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 dark and overfurnished. Victorian furniture designed for larger, grander rooms stood about looking as if it had been stored there before an auction. There were two black horsehair sofas, a Benares brass bowl full of dried pampas-grass, an 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 and waited patiently.
‘It wass herself that did it,’ said Mrs Mac-Neill 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 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 d
oing 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 hellfire 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 Dornoch or Golspie – and the minister would soon find the worthies of the town petitioning for his transfer. For goodness’ sakes, man, they still 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-the-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 frighten his missus into getting him to leave.’
‘But why should you three girls take it upon yourselves to do t
his?’
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 freelance 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 daft pillock. Didnae you charge them with something?’
‘I did better than that,’ said Hamish. He told Blair of giving the freelance 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.’