by M C Beaton
“They don’t, but a fat hedgehog does.”
Priscilla returned to the subject of Peter Hynd but could not seem to get anywhere. In fact, the minister’s wife’s manner grew somewhat supercilious, as if Annie Duncan had decided that Priscilla Halburton-Smythe was a sort of peasant in couture clothing. Perhaps it was the suddenly dying fire—the coal was poor quality—but a frost seemed to be settling on the room. When Priscilla stood up to leave, Annie barely managed to disguise her relief.
“One of the troubles about being a minister’s wife,” said Annie brightly, as she showed Priscilla out, “is that people will drop in unannounced. Do phone next time to say you are coming.”
“And so I left with a flea in both ears,” said Priscilla to Hamish when she arrived back at Edie’s. “Where is Edie?”
“Gone to bed.”
“And how did you get on, Hamish?”
“It was pretty awful,” said Hamish. “Before Peter came to this village, Nancy, Betty, Edie, Alice, and Ailsa were all the best of friends. Peter knew that and set out, I am convinced, quite deliberately, to put one against the other. Alice swears she didn’t have an affair with Peter. A boy-girl romance, she said, poor soul. Och, I’m tired.” He stood up and walked round the kitchen table and put his hands on her shoulders, feeling them stiffen at his touch. He bent down and placed a swift kiss on her cheek. “I’ll need to tackle Jock Kennedy tomorrow,” he said.
“Next to Harry Baxter, he must be prime suspect,” said Priscilla. “Peter beats him in a fight in a particularly nasty way and Peter lays his wife. It’s funny, usually you can’t cough in a Highland village during the night without everyone next day asking you if you’ve caught a cold, and yet Peter went off, car, papers, bags, and baggage without anyone hearing a thing.”
“There are times of the night when no one notices anything,” said Hamish, thinking of his own poaching forays. “Round about three in the morning until five, everything’s as dead as the grave. Are you coming?”
“I’ll just wash up these cups for Edie,” said Priscilla evasively. Hamish looked down sadly at the back of her smooth bright head. He’d tell her tomorrow that the engagement that never was, or whatever it had been, was at an end. He could not spend another day with all the unspoken words lying between them.
TEN
The expense of spirit in a waste of shame.
Is lust in action; and till action, lust
Is perjur’d, murderous, bloody, full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust.
—Shakespeare
Hamish could feel the tension and anxiety in the air as he pushed open the door of Jock’s shop in the morning. Customers had been chatting before he went in—he had heard them through the open door—but as soon as he walked in, all fell silent, and then, one by one, they gradually faded away in that Highland style of departing without apparently actually going.
Jock glared at him. “I hope you’re here to buy something because you’re driving my customers away, so you are!”
“It’s time you and I had a talk,” said Hamish. “You close at twelve-thirty, don’t you? I’ll be back then.”
As he turned and walked out, he could feel Jock’s hot and angry eyes boring into his back.
The good weather was holding and even Drim looked passably pretty in the autumn sunlight. Only the waters of the loch remained black, seeming to absorb, rather than reflect, the light from the sky above.
Hamish walked up to Peter Hynd’s cottage. Mr. Apple and his builders were hard at work. He waved when he saw Hamish and walked down to the garden gate. “Everything’s coming along fine,” he said. “We’re going to start draining the peatbog out back tomorrow.”
“On the Sabbath?” Hamish looked amused. “You’ll have the minister up here waving the Bible at you.”
“He’s already called,” said Mr. Apple, leaning on the gate and taking a battered pipe and leather tobacco pouch out of his pocket. “Read me a lecture. I told him he had no right to inflict his views on me. He said that I would put up the backs of the villagers, and I pointed out that as their backs were permanently up about anything and everything, I wouldn’t notice the difference. Then that wife of his turned up with some ecological mumbo-jumbo about me destroying the habitat of the rosy-breasted pushover or some damn-fool bird. All I wanted was a quiet holiday home and I think I’ve made a mistake coming here, but until I make up my mind what to do I’ll carry on, because if I decide to sell, I mean to make sure I get my money back.” Mrs. Apple, a small, sturdy woman, appeared to tell them that she had tea and scones ready and invited Harnish into the mobile home. Hamish passed a pleasant hour with them and then walked back to the shop in time to catch Jock as he was putting up the lunch hour CLOSED sign.
“You’re not here offically and you’ve got no right to ask me questions,” growled Jock. But he turned away with Harnish and began to walk along beside the loch. “I know what you’re after,” said Jock, “but himself just upped and left. He was showing the signs of getting fed up with the place.”
“I don’t suppose you saw much of him,” said Harnish. “But I did, that’s the odd thing. He come in for his groceries the day after the fight and he held out his hand and he say, “I’m sorry. Women aren’t worth fighting over.” And before I knew what I wass doing I had shook that hand, for at the time I thought my Ailsa had gone a bit silly about him like the other women, and you know, us men have tae stick together. After that, we chatted a bit every time he came in. He said something about he wass getting tired o’ the place and might sell. I wass still a bittie jealous, so I said, “So, you’ll be kissing all the ladies goodbye,” and be said, and I think he meant it, “I’m sick of the ladies, Jock, and that’s a fact.”
Hamish cast a quick glance at Jock’s large face but could see no signs of guile or deception. He could hardly point out to Jock that his wife had been having an affair with Peter. He tried another tack.
“Look, Jock, the men must have hated him, and I believe it was you and some o’ the others who heaved a brick through his window.”
“You going to charge anyone?”
“Can’t,” said Hamish. “I’m here on holiday.”
“It wass silly,” said Jock. “We got that mad wi’ our silly biddies flaunting themselves in front o’ him. We thought we’d scare him away, and truth to tell, although he laughed about it next day, I think we did. Mind you, we got scared ourselves and left him the money for a new window on the doorstep. Don’t stir things up, Hamish. This business nearly tore the village apart. Let it be.”
“I could do that,” said Hamish wearily, “but for the fact that Betty Baxter received a mysterious phone call, got all excited, dressed up, hair done, and went out to her death.”
“Can’t you chust believe she fell? That’s what the police said.”
“No, I can’t believe that. But thanks for talking to me, Jock.”
Hamish returned to Edie’s, determined to take a break from his investigations and sort out his private life, but Edie told him that Priscilla had gone to Lochdubh and would be back late afternoon.
He walked off again, turning over in his mind what to say to Priscilla. Until she was prepared to let him get close, and that might never happen, it would be best to put an end to any thoughts of marriage. Also, he could change his life-style to please, her but he was shrewdly sure that once they were married and the first fine careless rapture was gone, he would begin to resent her bitterly for what she had done.
He felt sad and yet could not see any alternative. He found his steps were taking him towards Jimmy Macleod’s croft. Jimmy was moving sheep from one field to the other, his two collies running low, herding the beasts. Although he saw Hamish he did not raise his hand in greeting. Once the sheep were in the field, Jimmy shut the gate, whistled the dogs to heel and turned in the direction of the house. He would have walked past Hamish if Hamish had not stepped forward to block his path. “We have to talk, Jimmy,” said Hamish. �
�Can’t you leave us alone?” muttered Jimmy. “Look here, Jimmy, don’t you want to find out what your wife has been up to?”
“No, I chust want to get on with ma’ life. Leave us be.”
“All right, Jimmy, I’ll take the gloves off. Did it ever occur to you that there might have been something between your wife and Peter Hynd?”
Jimmy swung a blow at Hamish but Hamish caught his wrist and held it in a firm grip. “That won’t solve anything. Answer me, Jimmy.”
“You an’ yer dirty mind,” panted Jimmy. “Nancy wouldna’ hae done sich a thing. She iss a good woman.” Hamish held him tightly. “She is a woman who you hit and threatened.”
Jimmy began to sob, half in fury, half in a sort of despair, tears running down the wrinkles of his face.
The dogs growled softly, menacingly.
Hamish released him and stood back. “You’d feel better if you told me the truth Jimmy. You know where I am staying. Call on me any time you feel like talking.”
Jimmy scrubbed at his eyes with the rough sleeve of his jacket and then stood with his head hanging. Hamish sadly turned away. He was not like Blair and could not go on questioning anyone in such distress. He had a sudden feeling of revulsion for the whole business. Who was he, Hamish Macbeth, to go on like God Almighty? If someone had killed Peter Hynd, then good luck to them, he thought furiously. But someone who had killed and got away with it might kill again. And then what about poor, silly Betty Baxter?
He strode moodily in the direction of Edie’s, his mood as black as the loch. Priscilla’s car was drawn up outside Edie’s. He could hear the clatter of dishes from the kitchen. No doubt efficient Priscilla was getting a nourishing lunch ready.
He stood at the entrance to the kitchen door and watched her for a minute. She was wearing tailored trousers, a white cotton blouse and a cashmere cardigan. Her blonde hair was as bright as the sunlight and she was humming under her breath, as if she didn’t have a care in the world.
“Where’s Edie?” he asked, moving forward. She swung round. “It’s just us,” she said. “Edie’s gone to Strathbane with Annie Duncan to pick up the costumes, so I thought I would use the kitchen.”
“Nice of you to cook lunch,” said Hamish moodily, sitting down at the table.
“I’m only heating it up. It’s lasagne. I got it from the restaurant in Lochdubh.”
She deftly mixed a bowl of salad and then put a portion of lasagne down in front of him. He realized he was hungry and decided to put off the inevitable confrontation. He talked about Jock and Harry as he ate. “Why don’t you just leave it all alone?” said Priscilla, echoing his earlier thoughts. “Look what a fool you will feel if Peter Hynd turns up alive and well. I’ve been thinking a lot about it. There is a danger that you yourself, Hamish, might stir the whole mess up again so much that murder will be done this time.”
She put a cup of coffee in front of him.
“Maybe,” he said sourly.
“I know this may be upsetting to you,” she said quickly.
He pushed his cup away. “The main thing right now, Priscilla, that iss upsetting me, is us…you and me.”
“Oh, Hamish, don’t let’s quarrel.”
“It’s past that. I thought that once we were married, you’d be more affectionate…warmer. But I don’t think anymore that will be the case. Oh, I think I could even put up with promotion and a move to Strathbane in return for love and affection. No,” he went on wearily, “I don’t want a row. I’m not getting at you. It’s not in you. So instead of me dragging on, hoping and hoping, I think we should drop the idea of marriage.”
“I’ve always had trouble with…with that side of things,” said Priscilla desperately. “Give me a little more time, just a little more time, Hamish.”
“No more time.” He got to his feet. “I’ll go up on the Drim with my rod. Perhaps it might be a good idea if you were gone by the time I got back this evening.”
He collected his rod and fishing basket from behind the door and strode off, half dreading, half hoping to hear the sound of her voice calling him back.
He fished steadily, trying to fight down a dragging, aching sense of loss, wondering how one’s brain should know all the sensible answers while one’s emotions longed for the unattainable. Night was falling early and frost was beginning to rime the grass when he decided to pack up. Perhaps because there was no young Heather with her pagan incantations, the fish refused to rise to the bait.
As he approached Edie’s, he noticed Priscilla’s car had gone. Well, it was what he had asked her to do, so why did he feel so bereft?
“Would you like a bite to eat?” asked Edie, over-bright and avoiding his eyes with a sort of awkward sympathy. “We’re just on our own. Priscilla’s left.”
“Yes, I know,” said Hamish heavily. “How did you get on in Strathbane?”
“We got the costumes all right,” said Edie. “They looked awfully dusty and tacky to me, and some of them have half the sequins missing, but Annie said they would look just grand under the lights. We’re trying them on this evening. Sit down and have something. It’s fish pie. I made it myself.” Hamish accepted a portion of fish pie. It was quite disgusting and the pastry tasted like wet paper. He cut it up and moved it around his plate in the hope that Edie might think he had eaten some of it.
“I’ll come to that rehearsal with you,” said Hamish, “just to make sure there aren’t any more accidents.”
Edie brightened. Priscilla had said she had to return to the hotel to work, but her face had shown signs of recent tears, and Hamish looked depressed. Correctly interpreting that the couple had had a row and that they had possibly broken up for good, Edie looked at Hamish with new eyes. He was an attractive man with his flaming red hair, hazel eyes, and shy smile. Of course he was younger than she, but still…And to Hamish’s embarrassment, Edie took his arm as they walked towards the community hall. She smelled strongly of cheap perfume and her thin body was pressed against his side. With relief, he detached himself from her to hold the hall door open for her and then stood back to let her enter on her own.
Then he found a seat at the back of the hall. Jock Kennedy was there, arranging the lights. There were a lot of muffled giggles and scuffles from the direction of the dressing-rooms where the women were trying on their costumes. He waited, forcing his mind to concentrate on all the aspects of the case. The hall began to fill up as the women who were not in the pantomime and the men of the village came to watch. Heather was there with her father, sitting beside him, holding his hand. Most of her schoolfellows were there but Heather did not exchange one word or glance with them. Her concentration was all on her father.
The rehearsal began. Nancy, in a gown which was obviously straining at the seams, sang her song and exited without incident. Annie Duncan, as the Principal Boy, actually had a splendid pair of legs, Hamish noted. He also noticed that the minister had come in, had not taken a seat but was leaning against a pillar, his face tight with disapproval.
The choice of music was a mixture of Andrew Lloyd Webber and Scottish folk songs and a Gaelic song for the bit where everyone was supposed to join in. Heather, who had been persuaded to leave her father’s side and get into her costume, made an excellent cat.
Hamish sat back with his arms folded, his eyes moving from one face to another. There was one face that was tugging at his mind. He felt it was a face he had seen before. His eyes ranged from the stage and round the audience.
By the end of the rehearsal, there was a stabbing pain over his right eye. He did not wait for Edie but went back to her house and let himself in. He sat down at the kitchen table and put his head in his hands. It was like being haunted. Something, someone he had seen at the rehearsal, was the ciue to the whole affair.
Edie came in, rather huffy because he had not waited for her. She had had a lovely time at the rehearsal with Ailsa, Alice, and Nancy, hinting at a romance with Hamish, slyly implying that she, Edie, had seen Priscilla off and they had all gi
ggled over it, quite like old times.
“Coffee?” she asked.
Hamish opened his mouth to say yes and then he looked at her blindly.
“What’s the matter?” asked Edie. “I have a headache,” he said. “Got to lie down.” He went up and lay fully clothed on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Something in his gut was telling him how it had been done and who had done it, but he had not one shred of proof, and this, he was sure, was one criminal who would not break except under extreme pressure. But how to apply that pressure?
He lay awake long into the night, falling at last into an uneasy sleep, and waking late, still in his clothes, and with all the thoughts of the night before rushing into his head. He had an urge to go to Lochdubh, to see Priscilla, to tell her what he thought had happened and see what she said. And then he heard a furious knocking at the door downstairs and Edie’s voice raised in questioning alarm. Then he heard her running up the state and swung his legs out of bed and stood up, feeling dizzy and groggy.
“Come quickly, Hamish,” panted Edie. “It’s Mr. Apple. He’s found a body.”
§
Hamish followed the gesticulating and exclaiming builder up towards his cottage where his workmen were standing in a circle on the peatbog staring down at something.
“We were starting to drain the peatbog early,” said Mr. Apple, “and to dig it up for the drains and the men found the body.”
News had spread fast. People were running out of their houses.
Hamish went up to the circle of men. They parted to let him through. There, lying in the peat, was the figure of a man, black with peat mud, encrusted with peat mud. Hamish felt a red rage against the murderer, which he afterwards tried to explain allowed for his subsequent unorthodox action.
He turned to the men. “Get that body up and get it on some kind of stretcher and take it to the community hall. Get everyone in the village to the hall…now!”
He stood grimly while, with a terrible sucking sound, the bog gave up its prey. The blackened body was put on a door and a little procession of men carried it into the community hall. Hamish ordered them to place it on a table below the stage and stood beside it with his arms folded while the whole of the village filed in.