by M C Beaton
Hamish trudged on, looking for a quiet reach or pool where he could fish without being accused of poaching. The path now ran parallel to the river, but high above it. Then he saw, below him, a quiet pool surrounded by tangled undergrowth. He could sit quietly and fish and he would be able to hear any water bailiff approaching since the spot could be reached only with difficulty.
He slipped and scrambled down, with Towser slipping and scrambling down behind him.
Hamish unstrapped his rod and began to put it together. It didn’t seem such a good idea now as it had seemed earlier when the sun had been shining. It was now bitter cold, the sky was changing from light grey to dark grey, and the wind scudded across the black surface of the water.
Towser, who always seemed impervious to the cold, sat down beside his master and watched the water.
Then the dog began to shift uneasily. It let out a faint whimper, sniffed the air, and pawed at Hamish’s arm. Hamish stiffened and sniffed the air too. The wind had shifted from the west to the north-west and on it came the sickly sweet smell of decomposing corpse.
Hamish got to his feet. “Fetch,” he said to Towser, but the dog backed away, whimpering dismally.
Hamish felt a sick lurch in his stomach. If the smell had come from a rotting animal carcass, then Towser would not have been upset.
He wedged his rod between two rocks and, still sniffing the air, he began to search around. Up to the left of where he had scrambled down, the smell grew stronger. Diligently sniffing, pausing, and sniffing again, Hamish got down on his hands and knees and crawled through the close-packed undergrowth of fem and bramble and gorse.
He stopped and crouched still. The smell was now so strong it made him want to retch. And then he saw it.
A pale hand was stretching out from under a bush.
Hamish lay on his stomach and looked under the bush and the dead eyes of Sandy Carmichael stared back.
He ran back to the pool and grabbed his fishing rod and collapsed it and fled up the hill with Towser at his heels.
♦
Blair, Anderson, and MacNab arrived just as the blizzard struck. With Hamish, they huddled under the bushes by the rotting corpse waiting for reinforcements. At one moment, it seemed as if they would never come, and then they were all there, glaring lamps lighting up the dreadful scene as a tent was erected over the bush and body. Then came the pathologist, who was hailed with relief by Blair.
“Ye’ll find it a clear case o’ death from exposure,” said Blair. “He was on the run, drunk, crawled under that bush, and never woke up. Ah, well, that wraps up the case.” Blair pulled a flask from his pocket and took a stiff drink. He winked at Hamish. “Nae problem about lobsters now, lad,” he said. “The murderer’s dead and we can say what we like.”
Hamish said nothing, but watched as the pathologist crept into the tent.
After what seemed a very long time, he backed out.
“Well?” demanded Blair eagerly.
“A clear case of murder,” said the pathologist. “Struck a heavy blow on the back of the head.”
“Couldnae he hae done it hisself?” pleaded Blair.
“Of course not,” snapped the pathologist. “I shall be phoning my report to the procurator fiscal. Get photographs quick or we’ll all be snowed in.”
♦
Hamish shovelled a path to the foot of the drive the next day. He had just reached the gate when a snow-plough passed and blocked him in again, throwing up a huge wall of snow against the front gate. By the time he had cleared it, he felt sweaty and gritty. He went indoors, had a shower, changed into his uniform, and went down to the Anstey Hotel.
The blizzard, luckily for Blair, had kept most of the press away, but Hamish arrived just in time to hear Ian Gibb asking, “Who found the body?” and Blair’s reply of “Some local idiot.”
Hamish felt too angry to stay. Blair would withhold all information possible from him. He bumped into Jimmy Anderson outside the hotel. “I’m frightened to go in there,” said Anderson with a grin. “Blair’s roaring mad. His chief suspect murdered.”
“Definitely murder?”
“Oh, yes. And another thing: he had a hundred pounds on him.”
“It couldnae ha’ been his savings,” said Hamish. “A drunk like Sandy wouldn’t have been able to keep a penny.”
“Aye, and he must have been trying to blackmail the murderer. A hundred pounds would have kept his mouth shut.”
“Until the next time he was drunk,” said Hamish sadly,
“It’s no wonder he was killed.”
Anderson went into the hotel and Hamish walked down to the waterfront. The snow was thinning and he could see the other side of the loch. An army rescue helicopter stood on a flat piece of ground by the jetty, the pilot standing outside it, smoking.
Hamish ambled up to the pilot. “You aren’t dropping emergency supplies yet?” he asked.
The pilot shook his head. “There’s more bad weather coming. I’m just about to go up to pick out the houses that’ll need it most and make sure there’s no one in difficulties.”
A pale ray of sunlight struck the loch. “Are you going up right now?” asked Hamish.
The pilot stubbed out his cigarette. “Aye, I’m on my way.”
“Any chance of coming along for the ride?” asked Hamish, who had a sudden longing to soar high above Cnothan and everyone and everything in it.
“Sure, hop in.”
Hamish felt his spirits lifting as the helicopter started to rise. The clouds were rapidly thinning. He sat very still, with his hands on his knees, like a child on a fairground ride, staring down at the Christmas-card countryside with delight. The pilot began to ask questions about the murder, and Hamish answered absent-mindedly, his eyes on the white scene spread out below.
“Needn’t bother about those two cottages,” said the pilot. “They’re empty.”
Hamish could see the two houses far below and then beyond them, towards Cnothan, Mrs. Mainwaring’s bungalow. He could see Mrs. Mainwaring herself, shovelling snow.
“Would you believe it,” said the pilot. “There’s the train. I wouldn’t have thought it would have got through. They must have had a plough out on the line early this morning.”
The helicopter banked. The railway line curving out of Cnothan disappeared into the hills in a fantastic loop. In the days when it had been built, it had meandered all over Sutherland to take in the country homes and shooting lodges of the rich. Then the whole scene was blotted out as the sun disappeared and the blizzard came roaring back.
♦
Like most people in Sutherland, Hamish had not bothered to lock the door when he had left. As he trudged up to the police-station drive, which was already becoming thickly covered with snow again, he could hear voices from the kitchen.
He opened the door. Diarmuid Sinclair and Jenny were sitting drinking coffee. A huge box stood on the floor.
“Oh, Hamish,” said Jenny, “you must help. Mr. Sinclair’s bought a train set for young Scan and he wants you to put it together first to see if it works. He can’t understand the instructions and I’m no good at that sort of thing either.”
“I shouldnae be wasting time,” said Hamish guiltily.
“There’s been another murder.”
“We know. That Mrs. MacNeill just called to find out why you hadn’t arrested herself. I asked who herself was but she wouldn’t tell me.”
“She thinks the minister’s wife did it,” said Hamish, kneeling down on the floor and beginning to open the box.
“Of course she would,” said Jenny. “She’s got a crush on Mr. Struthers. Even when her husband was alive—and that was only four years ago—she was chasing the minister. This is becoming really scary. Whoever murdered Sandy and William must be a maniac.”
Hamish thought he would just assemble a few bits and then leave them to do the rest. He was a policeman and however obstructive his superior officer might be, he, Hamish Macbeth, should be on the job.
But it w
as soothing, fascinating work as the miniature landscape grew under his fingers with its tiny trees and little stations.
Finally the toy railway was complete. Jenny and Diarmuid sat on the floor and watched enraptured as the trains whizzed around and around.
Hamish stood up. “I’ll make us all some more coffee and then I’ll be on my way.”
He smiled indulgently down at Jenny and Diarmuid, who were as excited as children. And then he stared down at the miniature landscape, the coffeepot in one hand, his mouth hanging foolishly open.
He rushed to the kitchen cupboard and took out a packet of soap powder and ripped open the top and then let the soap granules drift down onto the toy railway landscape like snow.
“Here, ye daft gowk!” roared Diarmuid. “Whit dae ye think ye’re daein’?”
“Stop it, Hamish!” screamed Jenny. “You’re ruining Diarmuid’s present.”
Hamish dropped the soap packet and pulled on his oilskin cape. “Tell Blair I’ll be away for a wee while,” he said.
Diarmuid and Jenny stared at each other in amazement as Hamish hurtled out of the kitchen door. The Land Rover had been returned by Anderson. They heard a roar as it started up and skidded off down the drive.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Sinclair,” said Jenny. “I’ll get the vacuum and take the top off and get all that soap up. I’m not telling Blair anything. He’ll just roar at me and say Hamish is mad and I won’t be able to disagree with him!”
♦
The train that had brought Diarmuid Sinclair back to Cnothan had also brought the day’s supply of papers. Perhaps because he had not had time to think up any choice nuggets of flowery prose, Ian Gibb had jumped from amateur reporter to professional in one bound. The Daily Recorder carried the story of the new murder on the front page and a feature by Ian, headlined HIGHLAND POLICE COVER-UP? in the inside centre pages.
Blair’s fury now knew no bounds. He received several very nasty phone calls from his superiors. He had tried to get the pathologist to lie and say that Sandy’s murder had been suicide and the pathologist had duly reported this in his report.
The Detective Chief Inspector saw his job at risk. He went to the police station to take his fright and temper out on Hamish Macbeth and nearly had a fit when he found no Hamish but a crofter and that artist, playing with toy trains on the kitchen floor.
As the day wore on and there was no sign of Hamish, Blair sat down to compose a report. If he got any satisfaction out of this mess, it would be the satisfaction of getting Hamish Macbeth fired.
Two days went by. The blizzard was over and the roads were clear and the press were gathering like vultures. Blair’s Chief Superintendent in Strathbane had read his report on the iniquities of Hamish Macbeth, had asked a colleague what it was all about, and the colleague had said laconically that the village copper was rumoured to be the one who had solved two previous murders in Sutherland although Blair had taken the credit, and so Blair’s report was probably spite.
The Chief Superintendent had phoned Blair and had told him acidly not to waste time writing stupid nonsense about a local bobby but to get on with solving the crime. “What about the lobsters?” Blair had wailed. He was told that the matter of the lobsters would be coped with when and if Blair got his murderer.
He tossed and turned all night. Hamish had not run off for fun, he decided. Hamish Macbeth had found an important clue and wasn’t sharing it. If he solved this crime, there would be no chance of Blair’s getting the credit. Hamish had had a taste of filling a police sergeant’s boots. He had probably become power-mad. Not, thought Blair, as the pale dawn crept into the hotel bedroom, that Hamish had shown any great flair for detective work in the past. It had been all luck. In each case, Hamish had all the suspects together and had confronted them and the guilty one had cracked.
Blair sat up suddenly. That was it! He would round up everyone he could think of who might have had a grudge against Mainwaring and hold a meeting in The Clachan. He would keep them there and sweat them for as long as the law allowed until something gave.
He picked a half bottle of whisky up from the bedside table and drank a hearty swallow. As the spirit shot from his stomach to his brain, he became more convinced that his plan would work.
When Hamish Macbeth came gangling back, he would find the case solved.
NINE
Truth will come to light
murder cannot be hid long.
—William Shakespeare
They had all been cooped up together in The Clachan, on and off for two days now. Tempers were wearing thin, and several of the people present now had their lawyers in attendance.
It was this communal, brutal interrogation that was infuriating them all. Jenny’s walks with Mainwaring and his criticism of her painting were out in the open, as was Helen Ross’s visit to Inverness. Jamie Ross tried to punch Blair and was held back by his lawyer. The lawyer explained that Mrs. Ross had never intended to have an affair with Mainwaring but had gone with him, with her husband’s full knowledge, to find out what he was up to. Mr. Ross had suspected Mainwaring of being about to start up a rival business.
Jenny was then accused of having an affair with Mainwaring. When she hotly protested, she was told bluntly that as she was sleeping with the local bobby, it followed her morals were questionable. Jenny promptly crossed the room and hired the services of the Rosses’ lawyer, and Blair glared at her in baffled fury.
He was just getting his teeth into Agatha Mainwaring again when the door of The Clachan swung open and Hamish Macbeth strode in. He tugged off his oilskin cape and looked sadly around the assembled group. Mrs. Struthers was crying quietly and her husband was comforting her. Helen Ross had lost all her usual poise and was lighting one cigarette from the butt of another. Hamish could smell Alistair Gunn’s fear from across the room. Davey Macdonald, Alec Birrell, and the mechanic, Jimmy Watson, were all there with their wives and daughters. Mrs. MacNeill was there, too. Harry Mackay was sitting next to the Rosses, almost hidden behind a cloud of blue cigarette smoke. All eyes turned in Hamish’s direction.
“You can all go home,” said Hamish Macbeth wearily. “Except for Harry Mackay. He’s the murderer.”
There was a terrific uproar. Ignoring Blair’s blustering and roaring, Hamish Macbeth walked across the room and stood over the estate agent. In a clear voice he charged him with murdering both William Mainwaring and Sandy Car-michael.
“I’m in charge o’ this case,” shouted Blair, making himself heard at last. “Mackay’s got no motive.”
Hamish drew up a chair in front of the estate agent and, not taking his eyes off him, he said, “He had a very strong motive.” Harry Mackay sat very still, a forgotten cigarette smouldering between his fingers and a half-smile on his face.
“This is what happened,” said Hamish, still looking steadily at Mackay.
“I had an idea and went down to Edinburgh to the head office of the estate agents. I was told you had indeed got a client for Mrs. Mainwaring’s property. His name is Paul Anstruther, formerly of Cnothan, and he’s a general contractor, or listed as that. I went to see him and he told me he was thinking of turning them into holiday cottages and letting them out. I pointed out that people weren’t going to pay much for a holiday cottage in the wilds of Scotland when they could get the let of one in Spain and get sunshine as well. He just laughed and said there were plenty of people interested.
“I went from there to the offices of the Scottish Telegraph and asked about the railway. I remembered hearing there were plans to alter it. An obliging reporter told me that once the Dornoch Firth railbridge idea was scrapped, the government still wanted to show they weren’t neglecting Scotland and so they’d decided on a cheaper compromise, that of cutting off that great loop before it gets to Cnothan and replacing it with a straight line of track. That track would go right through Mainwaring’s three crofts. Now, the compensation that would be paid for the loss of crofting land would be immense. I noticed when I was flying o
ver Cnothan that the geographical lie of the land along through Mainwaring’s crofts would make an ideal railroad track. I went to the police and found Mr. Anstruther was part owner of a gambling club. I visited the club, and by bribing one of the staff to look at the books, I found that Harry Mackay owed Anstruther a considerable amount of money.
“When Anstruther learned he might be involved in a murder case, he caved in. The deal would have gone through the estate agent’s books in the normal way. When Anstruther got the compensation from the government, he would wipe out Mackay’s debt and still have a fortune. It is my belief that if Mackay had not moved to wipe out that debt, then Anstruther would have had him wiped out. The police tell me there’s been bad stories about the ways he copes with people who don’t pay up. Anstruther was brought up on the croft next to Mainwaring’s. He felt that Mainwaring must have known about the railway and had conned his relatives into selling the croft cheap. Anstruther planned to set up as a crofter until the compensation came through. As the son of a crofter and having been brought up on the croft, he would have no difficulty with the Crofters Commission.
“When I was in your house a few days ago, Mackay,” said Hamish, “I noticed you had a lot of books on your shelf on alcoholism. You knew if you left that drink for Sandy Carmichael on the lobster tank that he would drink it and then want more. That would get him out of the way. You phoned me and got me to drive out to the Angler’s Rest. You knew Mainwaring had advised Ross not to employ Sandy and would come around, poking his nose in, sooner or later. Mind you, it was a gamble, but then you are a gambler.”
Harry Mackay found his voice. It came out as a croak. He cleared his throat and said, “It’s all a load of rubbish, Macbeth. Okay, so I owed Anstruther money, but he’s your man. He had every reason to hate Mainwaring. He knew Mainwaring had pulled a fast one. And those books on alcoholism were for my sister. She was down in Inverness in the alcoholic unit and I sent away for them, but by the time I got them, she had disappeared.” His lips trembled and he took out a handkerchief and wiped his mouth. “I had nothing to do with it. Nothing. And you can’t prove it.”