M. C. Beaton_Hamish Macbeth_11

by Death of a Nag

  “Here’s Lochdubh,” said Hamish.

  Maggie drove over a picturesque humpbacked bridge. Lochdubh straggled along beside the sea loch of Lochdubh, whitewashed cottages, pretty gardens, a harbour with fishing boats riding at anchor on the choppy waves.

  He directed her to the police station and told her to park at the side. He was just tenderly lifting Towser’s dead body out the back of the car when Mrs. Wellington came bustling up.

  “So you’re back,” remarked the minister’s wife. Maggie saw a large tweedy woman with a heavy face, a heavy bust, and an efficient air about her.

  “I’ve come to bury my dog,” said Hamish flatly.

  “Oh, Hamish,” said Mrs. Wellington weakly. “What happened?”

  “Chust died. Chust like that,” said Hamish. “I’m going to bury him up in the field at the back o’ the station.”

  “Now?”

  “In about an hour. This is Policewoman Maggie Donald. Miss Donald, Mrs. Wellington, the minister’s wife.”

  Maggie held out her hand, but Mrs. Wellington did not seem to see it. Her large features were puckered up in distress as she watched Hamish carry the tartan rug-covered bundle out of the car. She turned abruptly and marched away. Hamish walked up the side of the house, and holding the bundle in one arm, fished in his pocket for the key and unlocked the door.

  “I’ll make us some coffee,” said Maggie. Her voice sounded too bright and hard in her own ears. “Where’s the cooker?”

  “It’s that stove over there. I’ll light it in a minute.” Hamish walked through to the bedroom and laid Towser gently on the bed.

  He came back into the kitchen and handed Maggie a sweater which she gratefully pulled on. He took kindling and newspaper from a basket next to the stove and got to work. Then, when the stove was roaring away, he put the kettle on the top. “It won’t take long,” he said. “I’d better check my machine for messages.”

  He went off into the office part of the station. Maggie opened cupboard doors until she found the one with cups and a jar of instant coffee. “No milk,” she called.

  “There’s a box of powdered milk on the counter,” Hamish shouted back.

  When the kettle boiled, Maggie made a couple of mugs of coffee. Hamish reappeared and sat down heavily. “Nothing much to worry about on the machine,” he said. “It’s been nice and quiet. I phoned Sergeant Macgregor at Cnothan—him that’s covering for me—and he says nothing at all has been happening.”

  He pushed the cup of coffee away from him. “I think I’ll go up back and dig the grave. I cannae relax until this is over. No, you stay here,” he added quickly as Maggie rose to her feet. “There’s a television in the living-room if you want to watch anything.”

  “All right,” said Maggie awkwardly.

  When he had gone, she carried her coffee-mug through to the living-room and looked curiously around. There were a few battered chairs, a worn Wilton carpet, a bookshelf crammed with paperbacks, a stand full of sticks, crooks, and fishing-rods, a good painting over the fireplace of a Highland scene, and a table at the window piled high with official papers and forms that had found their way from the cluttered office next door. There were some photographs on the mantelpiece. She studied them, cradling the cup in her hands. There was a family group, Hamish in the forefront, all of them with red hair like his. Then there was a photograph of Hamish standing on the waterfront beside a beautiful and elegant blonde. He had his arm around her and both looked radiantly happy. There was another of Hamish in a deck chair outside the police station, fast asleep.

  She switched on the television set and sat down wondering who the beautiful blonde was. Was this the fiancée she had heard he had ditched?

  There was a discussion on BBC 1 over the correct use of condoms. She stood up again—there was no remote control—and switched channels until she found an old black-and-white movie with Cary Grant and settled down to watch it.

  After some time, she became aware of voices, cars arriving, noise and movement outside. She switched off the television set and went to the kitchen door and opened it.

  Villagers were filing past in a long line. Round the back of the house they went and up to the field. She backed away from the door as Hamish appeared. He did not say anything. He went through to the bedroom and picked up the bundle that was Towser and went out again. After a few moments, she followed him.

  Surely the whole village was there, she thought, startled, as she set off up the hill after him. Silent men and women stood around the grave Hamish had dug. The men were even wearing their “best” suits, the tight old-fashioned ones they took out of mothballs for weddings and funerals. She tried to find it ridiculous, that a whole village should turn out for the funeral of one mongrel, but there was something imposing in the scene. The ragged clouds flew overhead, whipping at the women’s scarves and skirts. The solemn faces seemed to belong to an older time. She could see the minister at the edge of the grave in his black suit and dog collar. Surely he was not going to read the burial service.

  She joined the crowd around the grave but could not see anything because of the press of people and so she moved a little way up the hill and looked down on the scene. Hamish laid Towser in his tartan covering tenderly in the grave. Maggie thought it a waste of a good travelling-rug. He dropped some earth on the top. The minister, Mr. Wellington, addressed the crowd. “I am sure our hearts go out to Hamish on the sad death of his pet. The dog has often been called man’s best friend, and Towser was a good example of this. May the Good Lord comfort you in your loss, Hamish. Let us pray.”

  To Maggie’s acute embarrassment, the words of the Lord’s Prayer rose to the windy sky. When it was over, Hamish picked up a spade and shovelled earth onto the grave. Mr. Wellington spoke again. “Mrs. Wellington and I have a dram for all of you at the manse. All are welcome.”

  The villagers began to file off. Hamish leaned on his spade and stared down at the grave. Off they all went down the hill in a silent procession. Some instinct told Maggie it would be the wrong thing to stay behind and so she went after them.

  She turned back at the bottom of the hill. The tall figure of Hamish Macbeth was silhouetted against the windy sky. “It’s only a dog,” she told herself fiercely, but there was a sad dignity about the scene which caught at her throat.

  Hamish stood there for a long time. Bright images of Towser chased each other across his brain: lazy Towser sleeping on the end of his bed; Towser giving Priscilla a rapturous welcome and putting muddy paws on her skirt; Towser running across the heather after rabbits. At last he gave a bleak little sigh, and with the spade over his shoulder, walked back down the hill.

  The manse was full of people when Maggie arrived. She hesitated in the doorway of the living-room. Mrs. Wellington saw her and came forward. “Come in, Miss Donald,” she boomed. “A sad day, a sad day for all of us. Ah, here is Mrs. Brodie, who is our doctor’s wife. Mrs. Brodie, this is a police constable, a Miss Donald, who came with Hamish. Help yourself to a dram, Miss Donald.”

  Maggie took a glass of neat whisky from a tray that one of the women was taking round the room.

  “Is it this case over in Skag that you’re on?” asked Angela Brodie.

  “In a very minor way,” said Maggie. “The detectives are the ones who are doing all the work.”

  “Poor Hamish,” said Angela, pushing a wisp of hair out of her eyes. “Murder seems to follow him around. But don’t be misled by his lazy manner. He’s very, very clever.”

  “So I’ve heard,” said Maggie. “What happened to his engagement?”

  “You’ll need to ask Hamish,” said Angela gently and Maggie felt snubbed.

  She said quickly, “I am surprised the whole village should turn out for the funeral of a dog.”

  “We’re a close-knit community,” said Angela. “Towser meant a lot to Hamish. Here’s Hamish now.”

  Maggie could see Hamish’s red hair above the crowd as he entered the room. There was a sudden silence and then th
ey all crowded round him, soft Highland voices murmuring sympathy. Hamish took a glass of whisky and downed it in one gulp and then took another. If he’s going to get drunk, thought Maggie, I’ll never get back tonight.

  Angela introduced Maggie to one and then another. Soon the room was full of the sound of chattering voices. A man came in with an accordion and began to play jaunty reels. More whisky was passed round. The carpet was rolled back and some of them began to dance reels. Maggie, who had never been to a Highland wake before, was amazed at the noise and hilarity.

  “They don’t seem to be bothering much now about Hamish’s dog,” she remarked to Angela.

  “Oh, these things are a celebration of death. Everyone goes to heaven,” said Angela, “even poor Towser.”

  Hamish had joined in the dancing, his thin face alight, his long gangly limbs flying this way and that while they all cheered and clapped. More and more whisky, cigarette smoke, music and dance, people coming in from outlying villages bringing more bottles. By two in the morning, Maggie felt she had had enough. She had suggested twice to Hamish that they leave but he had ignored her.

  “I’d better just go back to the police station and get to bed,” said Maggie to Mrs. Wellington.

  “That just won’t do,” said the minister’s wife. “We’ll find you somewhere. We have a spare bedroom. If you get your things from the station, we’ll make you comfortable.”

  “I didn’t bring an overnight bag,” said Maggie. “I did not expect to be staying.”

  “Then come upstairs and I’ll find you something.”

  When Maggie was wrapped in one of Mrs. Wellington’s voluminous brushed nylon nighties, the minister’s wife took away her clothes to wash. “They’ll be ready in the morning for you, Miss Donald. Sweet dreams.”

  Maggie tossed and turned, trying to block out the noise from downstairs. Someone started playing the bagpipes. There was a noise as if someone had fallen over, and there was a crash of glass and then a noisy cheer. At last she fell into an uneasy sleep. She awoke early, feeling tired and jaded. To her surprise, her clean clothes were neatly laid on a chair at the end of the bed.

  There was a wash-hand basin in the corner. Mrs. Wellington had put out a new toothbrush still in its packet and a tube of toothpaste and clean towels. Maggie washed and dressed and made her way downstairs. The manse was silent. She decided to go to the police station and rouse Hamish.

  She expected him to be passed out in a drunken stupor, but when she got there, she found Hamish in the kitchen with a middle-aged woman. “I met you last night,” said the woman. “I’m Miss Currie, Miss Nessie Currie.”

  Hamish looked at Maggie. “Could you give us a little time in private? I’ll make you breakfast soon.”

  Maggie nodded and went through to the living-room. She waited and waited. She heard Nessie Currie leave and then, almost immediately afterwards, there was a knock at the door and someone else came in.

  It was eleven o’clock in the morning when Hamish put his head around the door and said, “Breakfast’s ready.”

  “More like brunch,” said Maggie. “What was going on? Are people coming to report crimes?”

  “No, they had some troubles they wanted help with.”

  “So you’re the local psychiatrist as well?”

  “We all help each other.”

  Maggie sat down at the kitchen table and tackled a substantial breakfast of bacon, eggs, and grilled tomatoes. “I think we’d better get back to Skag,” she said. “I said we would be back last night, and this is not a day off.”

  “I forgot,” said Hamish. “Go through and phone Deacon.”

  Maggie went through to the police office and closed the door behind her. She phoned the police station in Skag and asked for Deacon.

  He listened while she told him about the funeral. “These teuchters are all mad,” commented Deacon. “Don’t worry about it. Get back as soon as you can.”

  Maggie went back to the kitchen and finished her breakfast. “I hae a call to make before we leave,” said Hamish. “We’ll deal with it on the way.”

  When they left the police station, he directed her to the seer’s.

  Angus Macdonald welcomed Hamish. “Don’t worry, Hamish,” he said. “You’ll get another dog.”

  “I don’t want another one,” said Hamish. “This is Maggie Donald. You may ha’ seen her at the manse last night.”

  “Oh, aye.” The seer’s eyes fastened on Maggie with an uncomfortably penetrating look. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

  It’s like the Dark Ages, thought Maggie, as the seer put a blackened kettle on a chain over the peat fire.

  “I’ll tell you why I’ve come to see you, Angus,” said Hamish severely. “This nonsense has got to stop.”

  “Whit nonsense?”

  “And you call yourself a seer? I’m talking about Jessie Currie. Ever since you told her she would marry a divorced fisherman, she’s evidently been going around painted up to the nines and behaving like a silly biddy. She hangs about the harbour when the fishing boats come in. Mrs. Maclean’s threatening to scratch her eyes out.”

  “I see what I see,” said Angus portentously.

  “You’re a mischief-making auld scunner. Either you get Jessie up here and tell her you’ve had another vision, one that says she’s going to lead a quiet spinster life, or I’ll start to wreck your reputation and you know I can do it, Angus. A wee whisper in one ear, a wee lie in another.”

  Angus looked at him thoughtfully. “As a matter o’ fact,” he said, “I did have another sight o’ her future.”

  “I thought you might. Now I’m going to use your bathroom and then we’ll be on our way.”

  Hamish disappeared through the back of the cottage. “So you won’t be staying for tea?” the seer asked Maggie.

  “No, we have to be going. We should have been back last night.”

  “You’ll be a successful young woman, that you will,” said Angus in a low crooning voice. “You say you despise being treated as a sex object but you’ll use that very sex to get to the top. You’re a hard-bitten quean, young as you are.”

  Maggie jumped to her feet, her face flaming. “I’ll wait in the car,” she snapped.

  When Hamish came back, he looked around. “Where’s Maggie?”

  “In the car.”

  “Did you say something to her?”

  “Och, no, the lassie wanted to be on her way.” The seer was confident that Maggie would not tell Hamish what he had said, and neither she did.

  “Did you thank the Wellingtons for putting you up?” asked Hamish.

  “Oh, them; I didn’t see anyone this morning, so I just left.”

  Hamish gave a click of annoyance at the back of his throat. “Go back to the village and stop at Patel’s, the grocery shop.”

  Maggie did as she was told. Hamish went into the shop and emerged carrying a box of chocolates. “We’ll call at the manse and you give that to Mrs. Wellington and thank her for her hospitality.”

  “How much?” mumbled Maggie. “I’ll pay you for them.”

  “No need.”

  Maggie was suddenly desperate to get out of Lochdubh. In the masculine world of the police force, she was used to men flirting with her, men making passes at her, but never men correcting her social manners.

  Mrs. Wellington thanked Hamish warmly for the chocolates. He said it was Maggie’s idea. “Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Wellington. “Thank you, Miss Donald.” Maggie had a sinking feeling that the minister’s wife had already judged her as a hard, ungrateful piece of work who wouldn’t dream of buying chocolates for her.

  She drove out of Lochdubh with a feeling of relief. Never given much to introspection, she nonetheless felt she was leaving some rather nasty insights into her character behind.

  It was with a feeling of relief that she dropped Hamish at the boarding-house.

  She then drove straight to the police station. The station sergeant leered at her. “Hey, Maggie, show us your knickers.”
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  “Cheeky sod,” retorted Maggie, batting her eyelashes at him, happy to be back in a safe, familiar world.

  Deacon put his head round a door and saw her. “Welcome back, Maggie,” he said. “Bring us some tea and get some o’ thae doughnuts frae the stores and we’ll hear whit ye have to say.”

  Maggie grinned. “Right, boss.” As she turned to leave, she had the satisfaction of hearing Deacon say over his shoulder to someone in the room behind her, “That’s a grand lassie. She’ll go far.”

  Hamish went up to his room and sat on the bed and stared bleakly into space. Then he looked about. There was no sign of Towser’s food or water-bowl or his leash. There was a soft knock at the door.

  He rose wearily and opened it. Miss Gunnery stood there. “I took the liberty of taking away Towser’s things from your room, Hamish. I hope I did the right thing.”

  “It wass verra kind and thoughtful of you, Miss Gunnery.”

  “I’m sorry I was so cross about you going off with that policewoman. I’ll take you into Skag for a drink, if you like.”

  “Aye, that would be fine.”

  When they were seated in the pub, Hamish asked, “What’s been happening?”

  “Well, drama after drama. Dermott Brett’s wife arrived. Did you know he and June weren’t married? His name had been in the papers. There was such a scene. She said she was divorcing him. It turns out that the children are Dermott’s. He was leading a double life for years, but he would never tell his wife because he said she couldn’t live with it and she would do something mad like commit suicide, and the one good thing that’s come out of it is that she actually wants rid of him, so he can marry June. He said, ‘Do you know, I never needed to have gone through all this?’ ”

  Hamish’s interest in the case was suddenly revived. “I wonder what that could mean,” he said slowly. “It could mean that he had no reason after all to kill Harris. What else?”

  “Cheryl and Tracey were picked up this morning on the Dungarton Road trying to hitch a lift. The police have them along at the station.”

  “Why were they running away?”

  “Well, what I gather from that policeman, Crick, who’s started gossiping because he’s now bored with the whole thing, is that they were fed up with the dreadful food, the lack of talent, and the police harassment.”