A Highland Christmas

by M C Beaton

  “Could be. There’s such a thing as a child being too good. But her strict upbringing doesn’t seem to have affected her studies.”

  “No, she’s bright and she likes learning. She has a terrific imagination. She writes very colorful essays.”

  “I’d like to see some of them.”

  “You’re worrying too much, Hamish. How did you ever get time to catch all those murderers I’ve heard you arrested if you fret so much over a wee schoolgirl?”

  “I’m curious,” was all Hamish would say.

  • • •

  When they entered the dining room of the hotel, the maître d’, Mr. Jenkins, who had once been butler to the Halburton-Smythes, ushered them to a table. “You’re to have the cock a leekie soup, followed by the venison,” he said. He flicked a napkin open and spread it on Maisie’s lap and departed.

  “How odd,” said Maisie. “Don’t they give you a menu here?”

  “It must be a set meal for lunch.”

  Maisie glanced around. Some diners were holding large leather-bound menus. She decided not to comment on it. Perhaps the maître d’ knew that Hamish liked the set menu.

  “Would you like some wine?” asked Hamish.

  “That would be nice. Can you drink and drive?”

  “Not really and I shouldn’t be driving you around in the police vehicle, either. But I’ll get us a couple of glasses. Excuse me a minute.”

  Hamish went through to the hotel office and said to Mr. Johnston, “It’s kind of you to give me lunch. I want to order wine but that snobby scunner Jenkins’ll make a fuss.”

  Mr. Johnson laughed. “You don’t want your date to know you aren’t paying for it. Okay, I’ll bring you something.”

  Hamish returned and sat down. Soon Mr. Johnston arrived, bearing a bottle of claret which he deftly opened. Hamish introduced him to Maisie. “We keep a special claret just for Hamish,” said Mr. Johnston.

  “I hope you’re not going to live on baked beans for a month after paying for this,” said Maisie.

  “Och, no. I’ve got a bit saved up.” Hamish thought about his bank account, which was sinking rapidly into the red after his Christmas shopping. Maisie was just gathering courage after they had finished their soup to invite Hamish out for a meal, when he said suddenly, “Are you doing anything on Christmas day? I mean, are you going to be with your family?”

  “No, my parents are dead and my sister’s in Australia. I was going to cook a small turkey and toast myself. Would you like to join me?”

  “If you’ll join me in something first.” He told her about the old folks home in Inverness and ended by saying, “I thought of dropping down there on Christmas day to hear the concert.”

  “Of course I’ll come,” said Maisie delightedly, “and then when we get back you can join me for Christmas dinner.”

  Hamish beamed at her. It looked as if it was going to be a good Christmas after all.

  • • •

  In the hotel office, the phone rang. Mr. Johnston picked it up. “It’s me, Priscilla,” came Priscilla Halburton-Smythe’s voice. “How are things?”

  “We’re fully booked. Do you want me to get your father or mother for you?”

  “No, I spoke to them yesterday.” There was a pause and then Priscilla said, “I’ve just phoned the police station. Hamish isn’t there. I didn’t bother leaving a message, but you haven’t seen him, have you?”

  “Yes, he’s right here in the dining room.”

  “Well, if I could . . .”

  “He’s having lunch with his lady friend.”

  “Oh, who’s she?”

  “Maisie Pease, a right pretty lass, the new schoolteacher. I think there’ll be wedding bells soon. Do you want me to get Hamish to the phone?”

  “No,” said Priscilla quickly. “Don’t bother.” She asked some more questions about the hotel and then rang off.

  The manager looked at the now silent phone. He felt guilty but, on the other hand, he told himself, how was Hamish ever going to get over Priscilla if she kept jerking his chain?

  • • •

  Hamish drove Maisie back to her cottage and then made his way back to the police station. He switched on the answering machine. The first was only a silence and then a click as someone rang off. The second was from Strathclyde Police from the policewoman who had been searching the records for Mrs. Gallagher’s husband. “I’ve got something,” she said. “Ring me.”

  Hamish phoned up Glasgow and was put through to her. “I don’t know if this is good news or bad, Hamish,” she said, “but he’s dead.”

  “That’s good news. When and how?”

  “He got knifed in a drunken brawl in the Govan area two years ago.”

  “Thanks,” said Hamish. “That wraps that up.”

  He set off once more, heading towards Mrs. Gallagher’s croft. No more lame ducks, Hamish Macbeth, he told himself severely. Give her the good news and then leave her alone, apart from still trying to find out if her cat’s about.

  “Macbeth!” he called loudly as he knocked on the door.

  She opened the door on the chain. “Have you found Smoky?”

  “No, but I’ve got some news for you about your husband. Can I come in?”

  She dropped the chain and held open the door.

  In the kitchen she turned to face him. “He’s dead,” said Hamish.

  She sat down abruptly as if her legs had given way. Hamish took off his cap and placed it on the table and sat down opposite her.

  “How? When did he die?”

  “Two years ago. A drunken fight in Govan. He got knifed.”

  “Thank you,” she said faintly. Then she said, “I’m a silly old woman. If only I’d asked for help before.”

  “He probably terrorized you. What were you about to get involved with a man like that?”

  “I didn’t know he was a man like that,” she snapped, all her old crustiness returning.

  “Like I said, I lived on a farm near Oban with my parents, well, just outside Oban that is. He stopped by one day on his motorcycle. He wanted to know if we did bed-and-breakfast. My mother said, yes, even though we didn’t have a sign on the road. She usually only catered for a few regulars who came year after year. He said he would book in for two nights.” Her silver eyes grew dreamy as she seemed to look down some long tunnel into a bright past where life had still been innocent.

  “He was very good-looking, tall with fair hair. He said he was up from Glasgow. I’d led a very sheltered life but I’d been to the cinema and like the other girls, we were all mad about James Dean. Hugh had this big shiny motorbike and he wore a leather jacket. He took me to the cinema and dancing. He stayed two weeks instead of two days and by the end of the two weeks, he’d asked me to marry him. I was over the moon. He said he had a good job and worked as a salesman. I wanted a church wedding but Hugh said he was in a rush because he had to get back to his job. My parents were upset, but I was twenty-one so there was nothing they could do to stop me. We got married in the registry office and then he went off to Glasgow and I packed up and followed him down on the train. He’d said his parents were dead. Would you like some tea?”

  Hamish shook his head. “His flat was a bit of a shock. It was in a tenement in Springburn, dark and sordid. He said, don’t worry, he had something in mind. We’d soon be out of there. Then things began to fall apart. My father phoned and said money from the farm office was missing and only Hugh could have taken it. Of course, I stood up for Hugh and we had a row and he told me never to come back to the farm again until I had come to my senses. Then one day when Hugh was out, his parents came by. Yes, parents! The father was drunk and the mother was a slattern. Hugh came home and threw them out. I asked him why he had lied to me. He said he was ashamed of his parents and that his father used to beat him.

  “Oh, I believed him because I wanted to. Then the police came for him. He had stolen the motorbike. He got a short prison sentence and when he came out, he stopped keeping up any
front for me. He would get drunk and beat me. And yet I still loved him and pride stopped me from going back to my parents. But things got worse. All sorts of villains started calling round. Then one day Mother phoned and said my father had died. I went back for the funeral. Hugh asked me if he had left me anything and I said no, truthfully. He had left everything to my mother. Mother sold the farm and moved into a little house in Oban. She was never the same after my father’s death. She got cancer and a year later, she was dead, too. She left everything to me. Hugh hadn’t come up with me. I saw the lawyers and got the money she’d left and said that any other money from the sale of the house was to go into an account in Oban in my name. But I meant to tell Hugh about the money. I was always hoping he would reform.”

  A dry sob escaped her. “I went back to Glasgow. He was entertaining his friends. There were bottles everywhere. Hugh had a raddled woman sitting on his knee. I cracked. I said I was leaving him. He turned ugly. He got everyone out and then he beat me with his belt.

  I’d brought back some family photos and he threw them on the fire. He said I couldn’t leave him. He’d always find me. Then the police broke in during the night and arrested him for armed robbery. I stayed only as long as the trial, only as long as it took to learn he was going to prison, and then I left for Oban. I stayed until my mother’s house was sold and then came up here. I decided that people were no good. I’d stick to my croft and my sheep. That Mrs. Dunwiddy was friendly while I was negotiating the sale with her, but she asked too many questions so I never saw her again.”

  “Mrs. Dunwiddy’s down in an old folks home in Inverness. She had a stroke. I believe her mind’s gone,” said Hamish, not elaborating further because he didn’t want the touchy Mrs. Gallagher to know he had been trying to find out about her.

  “Oh, dear,” she said vaguely.

  “So now your worries are over, you should get about and meet people.”

  “I’m too set in my ways to start socializing, young man. And my worries aren’t over. What about my cat?”

  “Still searching,” said Hamish getting to his feet. He looked down at her helplessly. There was nothing that could be done to combat years of isolation and sourness.

  Chapter Four

  Hamish put in a request to Strathbane for a list of all petty crimes in the Highland area in the past month. Then he decided to go over to Cnothan and make some more inquiries. The day was cold and still. It never snowed on Christmas day but he found himself hoping that just this year there might be a light fall to delight the children. As he passed Mrs. Gallagher’s croft, he saw her out in the fields. She seemed to be shouting something. He stopped and switched off the engine and rolled down the window.

  “Smoky!” she was calling. “Smoky!”

  Her voice echoed round the winter landscape, and the twin mountains above Lochdubh sent back the wailing echo of her voice. He drove on slowly, looking right and left, suddenly hoping that he would see a grey-and-white cat. But only a startled deer ran across his path and then with one great leap vanished among some stunted trees at the side of the road.

  He drove on until he reached Cnothan. He noticed lights had been strung along the main street and two men were erecting a tree in a large tub at the bottom of the street. He called in at Mr. Sinclair’s shop. “Oh, it’s you,” said Mr. Sinclair.

  “I see you’ve got the lights up. Did that mean another collection?”

  “No, it did not! I paid for those lights out of my own pocket, so that should shut up those who said I only wanted the lights to make a bit of money.”

  “No more thefts in Cnothan?”

  “Not that I know of. Isn’t one theft enough for you?”

  “Just wondered. Any news of strangers about the place?”

  “Look, I’ve been too busy with the customers to notice anything.”

  Hamish looked thoughtfully at him. He wondered if by any mad chance Mr. Sinclair had taken the lights himself and then because of the fuss had handed them back, claiming to have supplied new ones.

  He went out of the shop and strolled down towards the loch. He stood for a moment watching the men working on the tree and then he went into the bait shop. Mr. McPhee looked up. “You again.”

  “Yes, me. I’m still checking around to see if any strangers have been spotted, probably four young men in a four-wheel drive.”

  “See nothing like that.”

  Hamish looked around. “You can’t do much trade this time of year.”

  “It’s better than sitting at home looking at the telly. I hate Christmas, and that’s a fact.”

  “What will you be doing for Christmas?”

  “Sitting getting drunk and trying not to put my foot through the telly. Do you know they’re going to show The Sound of Music again? It’s enough to drive a man mad.”

  “I tell you what, me and the schoolteacher from Lochbudh are going down on Christmas day to a concert at an old folks home to try and brighten the folks up. Why don’t you come with us?”

  “I’m not that old. I’m only sixty-eight.”

  “I’m not old either. But it would be a bit o’ fun.”

  Mr. McPhee peered at him and then said, “Aye, it might be fun. What time would ye be leaving?”

  “I’ll let you know. Wait a bit. I’ll let you know now.” Hamish took out his mobile phone. He phoned the Underwoods’ number. Bella answered. “What time’s the concert to be held, Bella?”

  “Three in the afternoon, Hamish. We went to see that Mr. Wilson and he seemed awfully pleased at the idea.”

  “I’ll be there myself with some friends.”

  “Good. See you then.”

  Hamish rang off. “I’ll pick you up at two o’clock.”

  Mr. McPhee looked quite animated. “Dearie me,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t know when I last had an outing since the wife died.”

  “When did she die?”

  “Two years ago.” Bleak loneliness stared out of his eyes. For some reason, Hamish found himself thinking again about Mrs. Gallagher. What a miserable lonely life she led!

  “That’s fine,” he said to Mr. McPhee. “I’ll see you Christmas day.”

  • • •

  He asked various locals about the village if they had seen any youths about and then drove home to the police station. There was a fax waiting for him from Strathbane. He studied the list of petty thefts. They seemed to be spread all over the place. He studied the list again closely. Any youths who would take lights and a Christmas tree were not experienced thieves. They probably roamed around picking up stuff that was easy to lift. His eyes settled on the thefts in the Lairg area. A crofter had had a toolbox taken from a shed, another, a generator, a third, a supply of cut planks with which he had intended to build a henhouse.

  He would take a drive over to Lairg in the morning.

  • • •

  Maisie Pease was on the phone with a friend in Inverness. “I’m telling you, Lucy,” she said with a giggle, “I never thought I would end up with the village policeman. Yes, he’s quite good-looking. We’re going down to some old folks home on Christmas day for a concert, just the two of us, and then I’ll make him Christmas dinner, and then who knows what will happen!”

  • • •

  Hamish went along to the general store to buy some groceries early next morning. As he was paying for them, he asked Mr. Patel, “Do you get many of the schoolchildren pinching stuff?”

  “Not so many,” said the Indian shopkeeper, his white teeth gleaming in his brown face. “I’ve got these mirrors up, so I usually catch them. Och, it’s nothing for you to go worrying about, Hamish. I deal with it myself.”

  “Know a wee lassie called Morag Anderson?”

  “Aye, I ken them all.”

  “She ever take anything?”

  “Come on, Hamish, that lassie’s a saint. Always polite. Beautiful manners.”

  Hamish took his bag of groceries.

  “Does the shopping for her parents, does she?” />
  “No, her mother does that.”

  “Just buys sweets?”

  “Never. She says she isn’t allowed sweets.”

  “No Christmas, no sweets. What a life! What does she buy?”

  “Just some cat food.”

  Hamish froze. It couldn’t be, could it?

  “Hamish,” chided Mr. Patel, “there’s a queue behind ye.”