Death of an Honest Man

by M C Beaton

  “I was thinking that you’re maybe not that bad at keeping the place clean but not perfect and what man is going to dust a clock on the top shelf—and yet the front is clean.”

  “You’re a grand copper, Freddy,” said Hamish. “Where are you from? Not Uist?”

  “No, you’ve forgotten. Barra. Ma runs the croft with my two brothers but I wanted a change. It’s lovely here. So what do we tell the bug?”

  “We tell it—let me think—maybe tell it that I got the phone out of the bog. You know, Paul’s phone. I’ll say I know a whiz in electronics who’s just established he phoned our minister on the night of the murder. I want the glory so I’ll arrest her in the morning. I’m not phoning Strathbane.”

  “She can’t murder both of us!”

  “She’ll try if she’s desperate. If she rigged things to make sure Mrs. Mackenzie won thon telly, it’s a wonder she didn’t bump her off. I mean, Mrs. Mackenzie is always yakking on about her relationship with God. You’d think her conscience would bother her. She was damn well bribed to keep her mouth shut.”

  “You mean, Mrs. Mackenzie knows something but so far she’s not talking?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Should we try her again?”

  “No,” said Hamish. “Let me think. Maybe not the phone. If she thinks there is the two of us here, she might be too frightened. I’ll talk to you about coming back in the morning because you’re going to Strathbane to pick up some more of your stuff this evening. I’ll just say to you that I’ve got proof positive she’s the murderer and I am going to arrest her in the morning. You ask me if I’ve called headquarters and I’ll say that Blair would try to take the glory and I’m not having that. Can you sound natural? She’ll be canny enough to know if we’re faking it.”

  Freddy grinned. “I played Shylock in The Merchant of Venice at school. I was ten years old. Wanted to go on the stage.”

  “So why didn’t you?”

  “Takes money and that’s what we hadn’t got.”

  “Right,” said Hamish. “Here we go. Lights, camera, action!”

  They walked back into the kitchen. Hamish, sounding excited, started to talk about how he now had rock-solid proof that the minister was the murderer, and how he was going to arrest her in the morning. Freddy did his bit, ending up with saying he was off to Strathbane to pick up some stuff he had left behind but he would see Hamish at the police station in the evening.

  A few hours after he had gone, Hamish said to Lugs, “Bed for us, old chap. I’ll set the alarm for six in the morning. I want to catch that bitch.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Look for me by moonlight;

  Watch for me by moonlight;

  I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

  —Alfred Noyes

  Hamish would have considered himself a “new man.” He was sure he regarded women as equal to men. But he did not arm himself or take any precautions as he would have done had he been waiting for a man to attack. He sat in the kitchen in the darkness. Freddy had returned and was seated beside him. Lugs lay across Hamish’s boots, trembling and whimpering.

  Hamish wanted to say something to comfort the dog but just in case Maisie was still at the manse, he did not want her to know he was waiting in the kitchen. He decided to lock the dog in the bedroom. Lugs would try to defend him if there was a scuffle, and he did not want him to be hurt.

  Outside the kitchen window, a full moon glared down. Hamish tried hard to stay awake but his eyelids drooped and soon he was asleep. About three in the morning, he suddenly woke. The air was full of menace. He had locked the kitchen door, but he could hear scraping sounds. If she had come, she knew the key was kept up in the gutter.

  The kitchen door swung open. Maisie Walters stood illuminated by a shaft of moonlight. She was holding a revolver. Hamish silently cursed his own stupidity in not having armed himself.

  “Before I get rid of you,” she said, flicking on the electric light and walking forward glaring at him, “tell me what you’ve got. Show me the proof and I’ll give you a clean death. Show me nothing and it will be slow and painful.”

  “I haven’t got a damn thing,” said Hamish. “I found your listening device. I knew you’d come, you murdering bitch, if you thought I had something.”

  She drew out a chair on the other side of the table and sat down, but the gun in her hand never wavered.

  “He deserved it,” she said. “I began to wonder if it was my money he was after, because he kept saying it would be sensible if we made out our wills. I finally made out one of those do-it-yourself wills and showed it to him. In it, I’d left everything to an animal charity. He hit the roof. He said I was a sex-mad freak and he’s only serviced—serviced—me to get some cash. I think he was mad.”

  “Have you a permit for that gun?” asked Hamish.

  She gave a harsh cawing laugh. “If that isn’t the village bobby for you. Staring death in the face and wondering, like a petty little bureaucrat, whether I’ve got a permit. I neither know nor care. It belonged to my late husband. The only thing I had to comfort me were dreams of how to make him suffer. I prayed to God to smite him or to make me his instrument. Then came that phone call.”

  “The night you killed him?”

  “Aye.” Her voice rose to a mocking jeer. “‘Oh darling Maisie, you’ve got to help me. I’m outside Mrs. Mackenzie’s. I’ll hide in the bushes until you come. Bring some wire clippers. That bastard copper has handcuffed me. I’m sorry I said all those nasty things.’ Yakkety-yak.

  “I knew about that peat bog ’cause the church has a horticultural society and we went for walks on the moors looking for lichen and mosses. Yawn. I took an old sword, a claymore, and this gun and drove down. He came out with a shit-eating grin which faded when he saw this gun. I ordered him to march and said if he yelled for help, I’d shoot his kneecaps. When we got to the bog, I told him to step in, but he started shouting that he wouldn’t. I didn’t want anyone hearing shots so I stabbed him in the back of the neck and he fell forward into the bog and down he went. God is good.”

  Mad, thought Hamish. But keep her talking.

  “What about Alison? What had she done to deserve you killing her?”

  “She turned up at the manse two days later saying she had heard me meeting Paul. She wanted a new car. Said she’d keep her mouth shut.”

  Should have noticed that new car. I’m slipping, thought Hamish bleakly. He could suddenly feel menace behind him. “Did you bring anyone with you?” he asked.

  “No. I’m man enough for the both of you.” Freddy was watching the gun in her hand.

  “Did you rig the raffle so that Mrs. Mackenzie got the telly? Did you have to keep her quiet?”

  “No, that was the kirk. They wanted a decent body for the photo. Now, you say your prayers. It’s time you disappeared into the bog. March!”

  This is stupid, fretted Hamish as they marched along the waterfront at gunpoint. Two policemen being taken by one woman. It’s my fault. I didn’t even bother to arm myself with a Taser. How did I get to be so stupid? Have I regressed? Do I think a murderess is the weaker sex? And did she try to frame Blair?

  Well, I’ll need to take the first bullet and save Freddy somehow.

  But despite his fate, he couldn’t help asking, “Why try to frame Blair? That was you, wasn’t it?”

  “Thought I’d give that fat pig a bad time of it.”

  She urged them off the road and up onto the moors. If only Freddy weren’t here, thought Hamish desperately. Then I’d try to overpower her and damn the consequences. But what if she kills him? He muttered the soldier’s prayer, “Oh, God, if there is a God, get me out of this.”

  He suddenly stopped and turned to face her. “No,” he said. “You can shoot me first.”

  He could see Freddy getting ready to spring.

  And then the air was rent by a sound that seemed to come from hell: long, wailing, primitive, and savage.

  Out o
f the heather, on her belly, came the cat, yellow eyes blazing. The wailing stopped and was replaced by a long hissing sound. The cat sprang straight at Maisie. She let out a scream and fired and fired and fired, bullet after bullet, but the large cat sank her jaws into Maisie’s neck until blood from the carotid artery poured out. Hamish wrenched the gun from her now limp hand as she fell to the ground.

  * * *

  Hamish sank down onto the heather. He would have liked to get the cat off Maisie’s body. A murderer killed by a wild cat to save two policemen was international headlines.

  “Do you want me to phone headquarters?” asked Freddy.

  “No, let me think,” said Hamish. “You see, I like it here. I don’t want promotion. The world’s press from Inverness to Hong Kong are going to be flooding into the village, and you and I will never have a quiet day again. It’s a story that will never, ever go away.”

  Freddy sat down on the grass beside him. “When that great cat appeared, I thought I was seeing things. It looked as if it had escaped from hell.”

  There was a long silence. Then Hamish said cautiously, “We could tip the body and the cat’s into the bog. We type up a confession, and I’ll find a copy of her signature somewhere and get someone to forge it. We’ll send it to Blair. I’ll make sure every point is covered. Blair will be so determined to cover himself in glory that he’ll go with it. When she’s reported missing, headquarters won’t bother much, just tell us to go and see what we can find out. That will let us into the manse to search for a signature.”

  “All right,” said Freddy. “You’re the boss. Thank goodness we’re nearly at the bog. Oh, excuse me, sir.” He rushed off and then Hamish could hear retching sounds.

  Freddy came back. “Are you sure you are up to this, laddie?” asked Hamish.

  “Aye. I’d rather it was this way than have our lives here ruined because of one horrible woman.”

  “Let’s do it,” said Hamish. First he searched her coat, and Freddy saw him slide something into his own pocket.

  With the dead cat still stuck to her, they dragged Maisie’s body to the peat bog and pushed it in. The sky was paling to the east. As the body sank, oily bubbles rose to the surface. Then came a sucking noise, then silence.

  “I didn’t think wild cats attacked humans,” said Freddy.

  “They don’t. I don’t know what that was, but you’ll find out that sometimes there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of outside the county of Sutherland. Now we’d better search for her car and get rid of it.”

  “It wasnae outside the station,” said Freddy.

  “I just wonder,” said Hamish, “whether she might not have planned to commit suicide after she got rid of us. Let’s try the cliff.”

  A steep cliff rose up at the sea end of the loch. What looked like Maisie’s car had been driven up the path nearly to the top.

  “I’ll let the hand brake go and you help me push it over.”

  “Shouldn’t we chust leave it as a sign that she meant to commit suicide?” suggested Freddy.

  “Aye, maybe a good idea,” said Hamish. “Leave it. I could do wi’ a big ham sandwich and a cup of strong tea. I’ll phone in about it while the press conference is on. But I’d better go over the kitchen wi’ cleaners and scrubbers again in case the damn woman left fingerprints anywhere.”

  * * *

  Two anxious days of waiting until at last they were ordered by headquarters to find out what had happened to Cnothan’s minister. The church elder, Jake Ingles, opened the door of the manse and let them in. Hamish and Freddy snapped on latex gloves and began their search.

  “Almost too easy,” said Hamish, who had started searching a desk in the manse study. “There’s a letter to the synod, not yet posted. I’ll get a photo of the signature. Better still. She used a typewriter! You make sure no one comes in and I’ll type the confession. Imagine it! In this day and age, someone using a typewriter!”

  It seemed to take a long time and Freddy began to fret that they might be caught. But at last Hamish announced he was finished. “Now I need that forger.”

  “Sir,” said Freddy cautiously, “if you use some criminal, he could blackmail you.”

  “Not this one. And the less you know, the better. You go back to the station and give Lugs a walk.”

  * * *

  As he collected Lugs and walked slowly to the harbour, Freddy saw Archie Maclean talking to a beautiful blonde.

  “Here’s Hamish’s new policeman,” said Archie. “He’ll tell you where he is.”

  She held out her hand. “I am Priscilla Halburton-Smythe. Where is Hamish?”

  “Out on a missing persons case,” said Freddy.

  “I’ve been too frightened of that hell cat to go near the station. Has he got it with him?”

  “No, it’s gone,” said Freddy. “Hamish took it to Ardnamurchan.”

  “Thank goodness. You are…?”

  “Freddy Ross.”

  She smiled at him. But Freddy suddenly had a picture of all that blood and then he could almost hear the greedy sucking sounds of the bog. To Priscilla’s alarm, Freddy turned white and would have fallen if she hadn’t grabbed him round the waist.

  “Help me get him over to the pub, Archie,” said Priscilla. “A brandy’s what he needs.”

  Archie was about to point out that hot sweet tea would be better but then hoped that Pricilla might buy him a drink as well, so he kept quiet.

  Priscilla waited until the colour had returned to his cheeks and said, “Did something frighten you?”

  “Must be something I ate,” said Freddy. “Hamish seems to have solved a lot of murders. Did he ever suffer from post-traumatic stress?”

  “Not that I can remember,” said Priscilla. “Oh, I know what it is. It’s the cat, isn’t it?”

  “It frightened me,” said Freddy, seizing on the excuse. “But it’s gone now.”

  I wonder what Hamish really has been up to, thought Priscilla. This poor young man is a wreck.

  * * *

  Hamish came back in the evening. “Now we wait,” he said. “Listen, Freddy, this has been a gruesome introduction to policing up here. You can get a transfer back to Strathbane if you want.”

  “No, there are wonderful things here,” said Freddy, smiling at the memory of that golden goddess, Priscilla.

  “Like what?”

  But Archie had warned Freddy that although Hamish had broken off his engagement to Priscilla, he could still be made jealous, so Freddy said, “It’s a grand village. Really friendly.”

  “I could take you to a therapist in Inverness,” offered Hamish.

  Freddy laughed. “I can just see it. I am upset because me and my boss were saved from being murdered by a wild cat and we shoved the murderess and the dead cat in a peat bog. And before you know it, I’m locked up in a rubber room in some psychiatric wing.”

  “Oh, well, there’s another kind o’ therapy. We’re taking a young lady out.”

  * * *

  Freddy was disappointed to find that the young lady was a grubby schoolgirl called Fairy McSporran who seemed to have a bottomless stomach when it came to ice cream.

  Anxious for another glimpse of Priscilla, Freddy suggested they call at the Tommel Castle Hotel. He said he had received relocation money and would treat Hamish to whatever he wanted. Hamish said a coffee was all he wanted, so when they arrived at the hotel, they went into the bar. Hamish stopped short and Freddy bumped into him.

  Priscilla was seated at a table by the window accompanied by a tall handsome man. She waved to Hamish who went to join her. She made the introductions. Her escort was Barry fforbes. His name had two small f’s, which he pointed out. Where on earth does she find them? marvelled Hamish.

  “I see there is to be a big announcement on television,” said Priscilla. “Blair is said to have found out the murderer. Press conference at six this evening.”

  “We’d better get back for that, Freddy,” said Hamish. “Should be worth
watching.

  EPILOGUE

  The bright face of danger

  —Robert Louis Stevenson

  Johnny Southern was jealous of Blair and wanted to sabotage that press conference somehow. He had heard all the stories about how Hamish Macbeth solved crimes and let someone else take the credit.

  Accordingly, he plied a local newsman with drink and promises of exclusives if he would stand up at the press conference and demand to know if the rumours that Hamish Macbeth had actually solved the case were true.

  Daviot, nudged by Jimmy Anderson, had suggested that they should get the signature on that confession checked in case it should prove to be a forgery. For Jimmy had an odd feeling that somehow Hamish had something to do with that confession. But Hamish was lucky in that the expert, usually highly competent, had found a letter from his wife on the dressing table, saying she was leaving him. In his subsequent distress he snapped that the letter was genuine, not even having looked at it. He spent the following days begging this wife to come home.

  Blair’s wife, Mary, had found him a charcoal-grey suit in an upmarket thrift shop. It fitted perfectly. He carefully put on first the white shirt with a blue stripe she had also bought him, along with a blue silk tie. As he surveyed his smart appearance in the mirror, Blair had a sudden rush of affection for his wife. “Tell you what,” he said, “I’ll take you to London at the end o’ the month. Do some shows.”

  “Thanks, pet. That’ll be grand,” said Mary, but decided to get him to pay for everything in advance so she could take a woman friend. She was sure, after the press conference, that her husband would get roaring drunk and would have to be managed into making the bookings. When she would suggest going with a friend instead, he’d be only too glad to let her so that he could drink when and where he liked without her accusing eyes on him.

  * * *

  Hamish and Freddy settled in front of the television, coffee mugs in their hands and a plate of ham sandwiches on the coffee table in front of them.