M Beaton: Death of a Valentine

“They were wearing those baseball caps with the peak like a duck’s bill pulled down over their faces. They all wore sort of working clothes, grey shirts and jeans.”

Hamish’s eyebrows rose. “All wearing the same type of clothes?”

“Well, yes.”

“What sort of accent?”

“ Highland, I suppose, although one sounded a bit Irish.”

“How Irish?”

“At one point he said, ‘Faith and begorrah, ’tis a black thing to happen on a fine day.’ ”

“You’re sure?”

“Would I make that up?”

Hamish glanced out of the corner of his eye at Harry. There was a certain rigid stillness about him.

“If you don’t mind, sir,” said Hamish, “I’d like to search the house.”

“You need a search warrant!” shouted Harry.

“Go ahead,” said Sir Andrew. “Pipe down, Harry.”

Detective Chief Inspector Blair arrived followed by the scenes of crimes operatives. Then Jimmy Anderson along with a van full of police officers arrived at the bombed tree.

“Where’s Macbeth?” demanded Blair.

“Gone to speak to Sir Andrew,” said Josie.

“He should ha’ waited for me.”

“I’ve remembered something, sir. It’s important.”

“Spit it out!”

“I went to a fortune-teller at the fair yesterday…”

“God gie me patience.”

“No, wait. She said something about a bang and flames.”

“Oh, she did, did she? I might ha’ known. Sodding Gypsies. I might ha’ known they’d be behind this.” Blair called everyone around him. “Get back to that fair. The caravans should still be there. Search every single one. Get it!”

Hamish met Tom in the hall. “Which is Harry’s room?” he whispered.

“Follow me.”

Up more old stone steps worn smooth with age. “This is it,” said Tom, opening a door.

The room was dominated by an old four-poster bed. On either side of the bed were side tables covered in paperbacks. There was an enormous wardrobe. Hamish opened it. It was of the old kind with room for hats, drawers for ties and shirts on one side, and space for hanging clothes on the other.

“I’ll leave you to it,” said Tom.

“You’d better stay,” said Hamish. “I might need you as a witness.”

As he searched the wardrobe, he turned over in his mind what he’d heard about Harry. He had a reputation of being a bit of a wastrel. His mother was dead and Sir Andrew was rumoured to be strict, always finding some job or other for his son and raging when Harry usually only survived a few weeks in each.

The wardrobe yielded nothing sinister. He turned and surveyed the room.

Then he dragged a hard-backed chair over to the wardrobe and stood on top of it, his long fingers searching behind the wooden pediment on top of the wardrobe.

He slowly dragged forward a black leather box.

Chapter Three

O Diamond! Diamond! Thou little knowest the mischief done!

– Sir Isaac Newton

Blair, originally from Glasgow, detested Gypsies even more than he detested highlanders. It was this, fuelled by his glee when Josie whispered to him that she wanted a transfer back to Strathbane and that Hamish Macbeth was useless, that caused him to make one of the biggest mistakes of his career.

He did not have search warrants but he ordered his men to search every caravan. The Gypsies howled their protests and then fell ominously silent. The reason for their silence was soon proved as no fewer than three lawyers, the sum total of the lawyers in Braikie, arrived, demanding to see the search warrants.

And as they were making their demands, Superintendent Daviot arrived on the scene.

Red-faced, Blair was just spluttering that it was a matter of urgency and that PC McSween had given them proof that the Gypsies were involved when Jimmy Anderson came hurrying up, clutching a mobile phone. “Hamish has just arrested Harry Etherington,” he said. “He found the tiara hidden in Harry’s room.”

Daviot stared at Blair and then at Josie. “You, Detective Chief Inspector Blair, and you, Josie McSween, are suspended from duty pending enquiries. Where is Macbeth now, Anderson?”

“Taking Harry to Strathbane.”

“I’ll go there directly. Blair, make your best apologies and get your men to put everything back neat and tidy just the way they found it. Who is the head man here?”

“Me,” said a small wrinkled man. “Tony McVey.”

“Mr. McVey, you have our deepest apologies.”

“Aye,” said McVey. “And your damp apologies are not going to stop the lawsuit.” He turned on his heel and walked away.

Harry Etherington had pleaded with his father not to press charges. He said it was all a bit of a joke and he’d got some friends up from London to help him. Sir Andrew simply looked at Hamish coldly and said, “Do your duty, Officer.”

Hamish demanded the names and addresses of Harry’s friends and learned they were staying at a hotel over in Dornoch. He phoned the Dornoch police and told them to bring the men in. Then he took Harry off to Strathbane.

He put Harry in a cell at police headquarters, went into the detectives’ room, sat down at Jimmy’s computer, and began to type out his report.

He was still typing when Jimmy arrived. “Where’s His Nibs?” asked Jimmy.

“In the cells. Where were you?”

Jimmy explained what had happened and said that Blair and McSween had been suspended from duty pending a full investigation.

Blair marched past them into his office and slammed the door. Then Daviot appeared. “Come with me, Anderson,” he ordered, “and we will interview Hetherington. First of all, Macbeth, what happened?”

Patiently, Hamish explained about having Sir Andrew’s permission to search the house and how he had suspected Harry because of Harry’s bad reputation and because he had been sure he was lying. Also, he said, Sir Andrew’s description of the men-particularly the one with what had sounded a fake Irish accent-had alerted his suspicions. He said that the butler had been witness to him finding the tiara.

“Good work,” said Daviot. “Do you want to sit in on the interview?”

“Och, no,” said Hamish, not wanting to show any sign of ambition or desire to rise in the ranks. “I’ll be off when I’ve finished this.”

Daviot’s temper was not helped because, before he could start the interview, Sir Andrew arrived and said he would not be pressing charges; he accepted that it had all been a joke. Harry’s four friends were to be charged with possession of dynamite, malicious damage to a tree, and obstructing the road, thereby endangering drivers, and bound over to appear at the sheriff’s court. Harry was charged not with the theft of the tiara but with conspiring to cause malicious damage and told he would be expected to appear in court as well.

Pondering the problem of Blair, Daviot wondered what to do. Blair was always attentive to him, and he was a Freemason and a member of the same lodge as Daviot. The detective always remembered Mrs. Daviot’s birthday and sent generous Christmas presents as well. At last he decided it was Hamish’s fault. Hamish should have phoned Blair immediately and voiced his suspicions of Harry before he had even begun the search.

Blair was lumbering out of headquarters when he saw Josie ahead of him, carrying a box of items she had cleared out of her desk along with a small potted plant. “Hey, you!” he roared. Josie turned round. Her face was streaked with tears.

“This is all your fault,” said Blair, “and if you ever get your job back, you can rot up in Lochdubh until the end o’ time.”

Josie forced herself to speak calmly. “I told you what that Gypsy fortune-teller said, sir. I don’t believe in the second sight. And where did Harry’s friends get the dynamite from? One of the policemen told me some of the Gypsies had been working over at the quarry near Alness as few months ago.”