Death of a Dustman hm-17

by M C Beaton

  “And do you think he would try to blackmail a poor crofter wi’ that? Man, you know the situation in the Highlands. It’s crawlin’ these days wi’ crofters getting letters like that. But I naff my pride, and I don’t want them at Strathbane pawing over letters to me!”

  “I can’t suppress evidence – well, not for much longer, Angus. It’s probably of no importance and yet, why did he keep it? Did he call on you?”

  “Chust to empty the bins, him and his silly uniform.”

  “We’ll leave it for the moment. I still can’t figure out why Fergus would keep such a letter unless he hoped to get something out of it.”

  “That’s your job, isn’t it?” sneered Angus. “Always looking for dirt. Well, good clean peat dirt iss all you’ll be finding here.”

  “Think about it,” said Hamish. “Where were you the night Fergus was killed?”

  “What night would that be?”

  “July twenty-second.”

  “I wass down on the waterfront having a jar wi’ some o’ the fishermen afore they went out.”

  “The bar’s closed.”

  “Aye, but we wass just sitting on the harbour wall, Archie Maclean, me and the others, having a smoke and a crack.”

  “I’ll check that. Then what?”

  “Then I walked home. I didnae want to drive so I hadnae the car.”

  “And you didn’t see Fergus on that night?”

  “Not a sight.”

  “Right. But think again why he might have kept that letter.”

  Angus bent to cutting peats and Hamish walked away, followed by his dog. When he got to the Land Rover, he drove back to Angus’s croft and called in at the kitchen door. “Anybody home?”

  Kirsty appeared, wiping her hands on her apron. “I’ve just been to see your man, Kirsty. I found a letter from your bank manager among Fergus’s effects, and I wondered if he had been trying to blackmail you.”

  She looked shocked. “I neffer heard the like. Why blackmail us? That letter should’ve told him we didn’t have any money.”

  “That’s what puzzles me,” said Hamish.

  “He wass friendly enough,” said Kirsty. “We neffer had any trouble wi’ him taking our garbage, not like them in Lochdubh.” Her eyes fell to Lugs, and she gave a little shriek.

  “What’s up?” asked Hamish.

  “That dog of yours. You shouldnae hae a dog like that.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s got blue eyes.”

  “So?”

  Kirsty lowered her voice. “Animals wi’ eyes like that are people who’ve come back. Get it out of here. It’s bad luck.”

  Lugs suddenly darted round Hamish and into the cottage. Kirsty let out a wail of terror and threw her apron over her head. “Get it out!” she screamed.

  Hamish pushed past her into the kitchen and scooped up his dog, who was sitting under the stove, looking longingly up at a stew pot which was simmering on the hob.

  Tucking the dog firmly under one arm, he marched out of the cottage. Kirsty was sitting on a rock, keening and holding her arms tightly about her body.

  “Come on, Kirsty,” said Hamish. “It iss chust the wee dog.”

  “Go away,” whispered Kirsty.

  Hamish shrugged helplessly. Although he suffered from a fair amount of Highland superstition himself, he was still amazed at how extreme it could be in other Highlanders.

  He carried Lugs back to the Land Rover. Better check with Archie whether Angus had been where he said he had been on the night Fergus had been killed.

  “Aye, I mind fine he was here,” said Archie, sitting like a gnome on the harbour wall in the tight suit he usually sported and which the villagers swore his wife boiled, dried and ironed.

  “A’ what time?”

  “Early-ish. About seven o’ clock. We was just about to go out, but Niven had a bottle o’ whisky and we passed it around.”

  “So what was Angus talking about?”

  “Price o’ sheep. Usual crofter’s complaint.”

  “Did he talk about Fergus?”

  “Wait a bit. We was saying what a wee bastard the dustman was and Angus said something like, he was all right if you got on the right side of him.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No, then we had to go out to the fishing. He said he would walk home. I said, that’s a fair walk, and he said he was used to it and with petrol prices going up, we’d all have to learn to walk like in the old days. He left about seven o’clock.”

  “They think from the contents of the stomach that Fergus was killed some time later that evening. Someone must have heard something. This is a village. Someone must have been looking out.”

  “Inspector Morse was on television. That waud be from eight o’clock to ten.”

  “The whole o’ Lochdubh can’t have been watching Inspector Morse.”

  “If my ain wife wouldnae miss it, then no one else is going to.”

  Momentarily amused by the fact that the Highland villagers should find murder and mayhem in the Oxford colleges so enthralling, Hamish then said, “So you got the impression that Fergus was friendly with Angus?”

  “I couldnae say for sure. But he was the only one of us not to have a hard word to say for Fergus.”

  “And how’s Callum McSween coping?”

  “He’s different. He’s such a cheery man that we thought, well why not put the damn things in the right bins. If Fergus had been like him, we’d all have gone along with it.”

  Hamish walked back to the police station. Clarry was out. Hamish hoped he was working and not wandering around the shelves of Patel’s store, planning elaborate meals. He fed Lugs and sat down in the police office, turning over and over the little he knew. If nothing broke, then he was going to be obliged to turn the letters over to Blair. Then he suddenly thought of Mrs. Fleming. To interfere at such cost in the sanitation of a small Highland village surely betrayed some fanaticism. He looked up as Jimmy Anderson strolled in.

  “No Blair?” asked Hamish.

  “No, and my feet are sore. It’s a small village. I decided to go round everyone myself, but your man, Clarry, always seemed to have been there just before me.”

  “What about Mrs. Fleming?”

  “That tart? What about her?”

  “I keep wondering what’s behind all this greening o’ Lochdubh.”

  Jimmy grinned. “I know, you think she thought Fergus wasn’t doing his job so she hit him with the hammer.”

  “Sounds daft. But what do we know of her?”

  “She was just an ordinary councillor. Then suddenly she gets promoted to Director of the Environment. Rumour has it the provost got into her knickers.”

  “My, my. I might have a word wi’ her if it’s not interfering with your investigations.”

  “Interfere all you like. I’m needed back in Strathbane. Let me know what you get.”

  ♦

  Hamish left a note on the kitchen table for Clarry to walk his dog and then got into the Land Rover. He slowed to a crawl as he passed the schoolhouse. A beautiful vision was standing by a removal van supervising the arrival of furniture. Her lovely features were surrounded by a cloud of black hair. Her eyes were large and blue. She had a perfect figure and long, long legs. Hamish grinned. The new schoolteacher had arrived. If he got back early enough, he would invite her out to dinner and hope that word would get back to Priscilla.

  ♦

  In Strathbane, he learned that Mrs. Fleming was too busy to see him for another hour. He passed the time wandering about, looking at the shops. He was heading back to the council offices when he suddenly saw Priscilla. She was looking in a jeweller’s window with Jerry. Hamish’s heart plummeted. Were they choosing a ring? He walked away quickly before they could see him. Then he glanced at his watch. Time to visit the formidable Mrs. Fleming.

  “Sit down, Officer,” was her cold greeting. She eyed the tall, lanky sergeant with disfavour. “I have already spoken at length to your superiors from head
quarters. What do you want?”

  Hamish sat down opposite her and put his peaked cap on the desk. “I am examining all points of this case. To go back to the beginning, why did you choose Lochdubh for this greening experiment when Strathbane is more in need of it?”

  “I am passionate about the environment. Strathbane is a massive project. I wanted to start the experiment with somewhere smaller. Somewhere that would look good on the television cameras.”

  “Television?”

  “Yes, don’t you see? It pays to advertise. Lochdubh is a picturesque village. When it appears on the screens, people in the Highlands will feel compelled to follow the good example.”

  “They may have more important news to cover than the cleaning up of a Highland village,” said Hamish maliciously. “Like the odd war or two.”

  “I thought of that,” she said, leaning forward. “We are now in August, and August is traditionally a quiet time for news. I have the press handouts ready. I will be arriving in Lochdubh with the councillors and provost, and I will make a speech to the cameras.”

  Her eyes took on a dreamy, faraway look. Oh my, thought Hamish, a star is born.

  “Fergus Macleod was not popular,” said Hamish. “In fact, he was so unpopular that the villagers were not putting their garbage in the correct receptacles. They are now.”

  Her eyes became steely. “Are you daring to suggest that I might have murdered some dustman because the project was not working out?”

  “Of course not,” said Hamish quickly. “I’m just asking questions here and there and trying to build up a picture.”

  “Then may I suggest you get back to your village where the murder took place and get on with your job in the right location? The murderer must be found. Fergus Macleod was as dedicated to the environment as I am myself.”

  Hamish eyed her curiously. “If I may say so, Mrs. Fleming, it is my humble opinion that you would look well on television.”

  She cast her eyes down in false modesty. Then she said, “Whether I look good or not, that is beside the point. I wish to do my best for the environment.”

  Liar, thought Hamish. He stood up. “When is this ceremony to be?”

  “Next week, on Wednesday. I hope the weather will be fine. Perhaps you could ask the fishermen to deck their boats with flags? And perhaps it might be in order to give me some sort of presentation from the grateful villagers. Just a large box. There doesn’t need to be anything in it. Just for the cameras. And perhaps a pretty wee lassie to give me some flowers.”

  Hamish nodded and left. What a monumental ego, he thought with wonder. But would she kill just to get her face on the telly? Television seemed to affect people like a drug. Look at the Jerry Springer Show. How could people humiliate themselves in such a way, and all to get their faces in front of the cameras.

  He realised he had not asked her where she was on the night Fergus was killed. He half turned and then turned back. She would rant and rave that he was accusing her and report him to Blair. He nodded to Mrs. Fleming’s secretary, who was sitting at a desk in an adjoining room. She was a small neat girl with a white face, small eyes and large red mouth.

  Hamish paused in front of her desk and decided to take a gamble. “Must be awful, a pretty lass like you, working for that old dragon,” he said.

  She let out a scared little giggle. “Shh, she’ll hear you!”

  Hamish leaned over the desk. “Would you be free for a drink this evening?”

  “Maybe.”

  “When do you finish?”

  “Five o’clock.”

  “What about then?”

  She giggled again. “Oh, all right.”

  “I’ll see you in the cocktail bar of the Grand just after five.”

  The phone on her desk rang. “All right,” she said again.

  Hamish went off. It would be interesting to quiz the secretary and find out more about Mrs. Fleming.

  ∨ Death of a Dustman ∧

  5

  Dear, beauteous death, the jewel of the just!

  Shining nowhere but in the dark;

  What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,

  Could man outlook that mark!

  —Henry Vaughan

  Hamish took out his mobile phone and called Jimmy Anderson. “I just wondered,” said Hamish, “whether you had ever managed to trace that phone call? You know, the one Fergus got before he went out?”

  “Oh, that,” said Jimmy. “Useless. Came from that phone box on the waterfront.”

  “Get Clarry to ask if anyone saw anyone in the box. A light comes on at night.”

  “Aye, but it was still light at the time he got the call. What are you up to?”

  “Just doing a few inquiries about Mrs. Fleming.”

  “Waste of time,” said Jimmy. “I’ll get Clarry to ask around and see if anyone saw anyone phoning.”

  Hamish rang off and then on impulse dialled the minister’s wife. “I saw the new schoolteacher arrive,” he said.

  “So?” barked Mrs. Wellington. Hamish began to curse himself for phoning her. He should have tried Angela instead.

  “I thought maybe I should take her out for dinner, it being her first night.”

  “What a good idea!” exclaimed Mrs. Wellington, much to Hamish’s surprise.

  “I have the schoolhouse number, but what is her name?”

  “Mrs. Moira Cartwright. A divorcee.”

  Hamish thanked her. After he had said good-bye, he wondered how he had got information about the new schoolteacher so easily from Mrs. Wellington. It would have been more her style to caution him against romancing the new teacher. He phoned the schoolhouse and a brisk voice answered the phone. “Mrs. Cartwright?”

  “Yes, who is this?”

  “This is Sergeant Hamish Macbeth. I heard you had just moved in. You must be too busy to make a meal this evening. I wondered whether you would like to meet me for dinner at, say, eight o’clock at the Italian restaurant?”

  “Is that the place on the waterfront?”

  “The same.”

  “That’s very kind of you. I’ll be there. Good-bye.”

  Hamish beamed as he tucked his mobile phone back in his pocket. Forget Priscilla. Or maybe, just maybe, Priscilla might see him with such a beauty.

  He then made his way to the Grand Hotel and went into the cocktail bar to wait for Mrs Fleming’s secretary.

  ♦

  Clarry was moving patiently from house to house, particularly those near the phone box. No one so far had seen anything. He was walking back along the waterfront when he saw the Macleod children coming towards him.

  “How’s your mother?” he asked Johnny.

  “She’s trying to get rid o’ that man from the restaurant,” said Johnny. “She telt him the house was clean, but he’s cleaning everything again.”

  “I’ll see to it,” said Clarry. “Come with me.”

  From Hamish, Clarry had heard tales of Willie Lament’s fanatical cleaning. Followed by the children, he marched up to Martha’s cottage.

  Martha was sitting on a chair outside the front door. From inside came the frantic sound of scrubbing.

  “I can’t seem to stop him,” said Martha helplessly.

  “I’ll stop him. When’s the funeral?”

  “They’re going to release the body next week, they say. If only you could find out who did it. I’ll never be at peace until then.”

  “I’ll find out,” said Clarry stoutly. He went in to confront Willie.

  “Get out of here!” roared Clarry. “And stop persecuting a poor widow woman!”

  Willie, who was down on his hands and knees with a scrubbing brush, turned a pained face up to Clarry. “I was just doing my bit for the community.”

  “Well, do it somewhere else. Out!”

  “Weellie!” called a voice from outside.

  Willie leapt to his feet. “The wife!” He went outside and Clarry followed him. Clarry had not met Willie’s wife before, and he blinked at the vision of
Italian loveliness facing him.

  “Weellie,” said Lucia Lamont severely. “You are wanted in the restaurant.”

  “Right,” said Willie meekly.

  Lucia gave Martha a dazzling smile. “You must not mind him. He loves cleaning.”

  The odd couple walked off arm in arm.

  “Come inside,” said Martha to Clarry. “I’ll make us some tea.”

  Clarry happily went with her into the cottage, followed by the children. Johnny came in carrying the baby, which he put on Clarry’s lap. “So how are you all bearing up?” asked Clarry.

  “We’re still in shock,” said Martha.

  “What you all need,” said Clarry predictably, “is a good feed and a funny video.”

  “Oh, Clarry,” said Martha, and she began to cry.

  Clarry handed the baby to Johnny and went and clumsily patted Martha’s shoulder. “Don’t cry. Clarry’s here. I’ll look after you all.”

  Johnny grabbed his arm and looked up into his face.

  “Forever?” he asked.

  “If your mother would like that,” said Clarry, feeling bolder now, gathering Martha into his arms.

  ♦

  Hamish left the Grand Hotel feeling flat. He had elicited nothing much from the secretary that he did not know already – that since the death of her husband, Mrs. Fleming had gone power mad. But whether her craving for power and fame would drive her to killing one dustman seemed too far-fetched.

  Then he brightened. There was dinner with the new schoolteacher to look forward to. Just time to get back and change.

  Clarry was not there. Hamish let Lugs out into the garden at the back and then prepared some food for the dog. He had a quick bath and shave and then was brushing his teeth when he realised with horror that he had forgotten to buy a new toothbrush. He was brushing his teeth with the brush he had used on Lugs. He shuddered and rinsed out his mouth.

  When he let Lugs in, the dog glanced up at him and, as if registering the glory of suit, collar and tie, crept to his food bowl with his tail between his legs. Hamish dressed for the evening meant no company for Lugs.

  Hamish found he was excited with anticipation. He remembered the glorious beauty of the vision he had seen beside the removal truck. All thoughts of the murder of Fergus, all speculation about who had murdered Fergus, had gone from his head. Although the nights were drawing in, it was still light and the flanks of the two mountains which soared above the village were bright with heather. One early star shone in the clear, pale greenish-blue of the evening sky, and the setting sun sent a fiery path across the black waters of the loch. The air was full of the smells of a Highland village: tar and peat smoke, strong tea, pine and the salt tang of the waters of the sea loch.