M.C. Beaton: Death of a Witch

So I said why didn’t she just go to the hospital and get an operation. Turns out her husband is a doctor and a member of the Rotary Club and the Freemasons and she said they all gossip and if she went for an abortion, it would get back to her husband. She said she’d heard of this woman who did abortions and she was going to her and she was right scared.

I was sorry for her and said I would go with her. Mind you, I tried to talk her out of it. Back-street abortions were dangerous, I said. Anyway, we went out to a wee house on the Drumlie Road. She wasn’t calling herself Catriona Beldame then. She was plain Mrs. McBride. The place was clean and nice and I hoped it would be all right. She took my lady off to the bedroom. When they came out, this Mrs. McBride said she would get her period like normal and abort and there would be no pain. I don’t know what that woman did to her but she was found on the street, dead, a week later. She’d bled to death.”

“You should have gone to the police, Mary.”

“Me, a prostitute, going to the police and saying a respectable doctor’s wife was on the game!”

“You could have written an anonymous letter.”

“And have forensics trace it back to me!”

“I doubt it,” said Hamish cynically.

“Anyway, I went back to that Mrs. McBride to tell her she was a murderer, but the place was closed up and she’d gone.”

“Still, you’ve given me a starting point,” said Hamish, “and you’ve also given me a motive for murder. What was the number of the house on Drumlie Road?”

“I can’t remember, but it was about halfway along and had a yellow privet hedge in front of it.”

After promising Mary that he would not reveal where he had got his latest information from, Hamish left and phoned Jimmy Anderson.

When he had finished speaking, Jimmy said, “I’ll meet you in the car park at police headquarters and we’ll go out to the Drumlie Road and see what we can find out.”

♦

They found the house with the yellow privet hedge in front. The door was answered by a small, neat-looking middle-aged man. He volunteered that he was a Mr. Southey and, yes, he had bought the house from Drummond’s, the estate agent. The previous owner had been a Mr. Tarrant.

“Not a Mrs. McBride?” asked Hamish.

“No,” said Mr. Southey. But he gathered that the house had been rented before he bought it.

Hamish and Jimmy got the address of Mr. Tarrant from the estate agent. Mr. Tarrant, said his wife who answered the door, was a solicitor and at his office. She gave them directions. Scottish advocates and solicitors are often, surprisingly, clever and charming, but Mr. James Tarrant was like a lawyer out of Central Casting. He was plump and pompous with slightly protruding brown eyes and a pursed little mouth. His voice was high-pitched and querulous.

“Yes, I rented the house to Mrs. McBride. Charming lady.”

“Do you still have the paperwork, her credentials and all that?” asked Jimmy.

He looked suddenly uncomfortable. “I got rid of it all when we arranged the house sale.”

Hamish’s eyes bored into him. “You didn’t ask, did you? She charmed you and paid cash.”

“She paid six months’ cash in advance and I was glad to rent it.”

“When did she tell you she was leaving?” asked Jimmy.

“Well…er…she didn’t. After the six months and there was no more rent, I called and found the place closed up.”

“Another dead end,” mourned Jimmy. “You get back to Lochdubh and question the folks there and I’ll go back to Drumlie Road and see if the neighbours know anything.”

∨ Death of a Witch ∧

4

I expect that woman will be the last thing to be civilised by man .

– George Meredith

Asmall sun was shining through a thin veil of mist when Hamish returned to Lochdubh, creating that odd white light so typical of the north of Scotland. He could never quite get used to the mercurial changes of weather in his home county. It was hard to believe that a wind had ever blown across the still landscape. Everything was hushed and frozen as he got out of the Land Rover in front of the police station. No bird sang. There wasn’t even anyone on the waterfront.

Hamish wondered where all the press had gone and why there was not even one sign of Blair and his policemen.

Then as he stood there, he realised how bitterly, bit-ingly cold it had become. He decided to collect his pets and set off to see the forestry worker before the mist became any thicker. He drove round the end of the loch, round to the other side, and stopped outside the forestry foreman’s office. Hamish blessed the invention of mobile phones when the foreman rang Timmy Teviot and told him to come down to the office. It saved him from driving up the tracks, trying to find the man.

Timmy Teviot was small, thin, and wiry with grizzled hair and a weather-beaten face. “Let’s step outside the office,” said Hamish. “I’ve a few questions to ask you.”

Timmy followed him outside and lit up a cigarette. Hamish had a sudden sharp longing for one. He found it hard to believe that he had given up smoking some time ago.

“It’s about Catriona Beldame, the murdered woman,” Hamish began.

“And what has that got to do with me?” demanded Timmy. His voice was soft and lilting.

“I believe you went to the woman for one of her potions.”

“Who’s the wee gossip then?” demanded Timmy. “I’ll bet it was yon blabbermouth Willie Lamont.”

“Never you mind. I want to know what happened when you went to see her.”

“I went to see her for the indigestion…”

“Not again,” said Hamish. “Out with it. What did you really go and see her for?”

Timmy sighed and sat down on a tree stump. “I heard talk that she could make you like a stallion. But it didnae work and all I got was a visit to the doctor. I went back up there and asked for my money back. She laughed at me. Well, I’ll be honest wi’ ye, Hamish. I threatened her. She looked at me peculiar and said she’d put a curse on me. I’m telling you, I ran for my life. But I didn’t kill her. I cannae stand up in court and give any evidence. If anyone got to hear of it, they’d laugh their heads off.”

“Do you know of anyone else who threatened her?”

“None of them want to talk about it. You don’t when someone’s made a right fool of ye.”

“Do you know anything about a brothel?”

“I wouldn’t know about such things.”

♦

Hamish dressed carefully that evening in his one good suit for his date with Lesley Seaton. He left in plenty of time, for the mist had thickened. As he drove slowly and cautiously towards Braikie, he began to worry about Lesley, motoring in this weather and maybe not being familiar with the road. He wished he’d taken a note of her mobile phone number.

By the time he arrived at the hotel, thick white frost had formed on the leaves of the rhododendrons on either side of the drive.

He was ushered into the hotel lounge to wait. A log fire was crackling up the chimney. To his relief, Lesley arrived five minutes later. She took off her heavy coat, revealing a plain black wool sweater and black corduroy trousers and serviceable boots. Her face was free of any make-up. Not hopeful signs, thought Hamish, who was always on the lookout for a new romance.

“So, any more news?” he asked as they walked into the dining room.

“Nothing much apart from a furious bollocking from Blair. He really does hate you. She had been viciously stabbed by someone in a rage. It’s hard to pinpoint the exact time of death but from the report of the contents of her stomach, or rather what they could guess the contents were from a charred body, I guess it was sometime during the night and when she was asleep. There are no defensive wounds. I think it was the first stab that killed her, right in the heart.”