M.C. Beaton - Death of a Witch

“I keep wondering whether it had anything to do with the death of the woman who called herself Catriona Beldame.”

“It could be,” said Tilly. “I mean, there could be some maniac on the loose. The police have been in her house, searching it from end to end. Poor Fergus. He must be heartbroken. They took him away for questioning. They must be mad.”

“He should be back soon,” said Hamish. “It seems he has an alibi.”

“Oh, that’s grand, isn’t it, Colin?”

“Aye,” said Colin. “I’ll give him a knock and get him in here for a drink.”

Hamish asked more questions, but they did not seem to have anything interesting to say.

When Hamish began to walk down the lane, he saw a tall figure silhouetted by the lights from the waterfront. The fog had thinned to a slight haze.

“Is that yourself, Fergus?” he called.

“Yes, it’s me, Hamish.” His voice broke on a sob. “That bastard Blair. I could kill him!”

“Hush, now. Don’t let anyone hear you saying things like that. I’ll walk you back to your house. Do you want me to go and get you a dram?”

“I’ve got a bottle in the house. Come back wi’ me, Hamish. I feel a wreck.”

Housekeeping in Lochdubh, thought Hamish as he looked around the living room in Fergus’s cottage, was not a chore but a religion. It was so clean, it looked sterile.

He took off his cap and sat down as Fergus took a bottle of whisky from the sideboard along with two glasses and poured a couple of drinks.

Fergus settled back in an armchair and looked moodily at the fireplace. He took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one. “Who on earth would kill Ina?” he said. “I can’t get it into my head that she’s dead. I keep expecting her to walk into this room any moment.”

“Your ash is about to drop on the carpet,” said Hamish. “Can I get you an ashtray?”

“None in the house,” said Fergus, flicking the ash into the fireplace. “Ina was allergic to cigarette smoke.”

“I have to ask you this, Fergus. Could she have been seeing another man?”

“What? Ina? Man, who’d even look at her?”

“That’s a wee bit harsh.”

“Well, she wasn’t a beauty, that’s for sure.”

The doorbell rang. “I know who that is,” said Fergus. “It’s them next door. Could you go and tell them that after I answer police questions I’m going straight to bed?”

Sure enough, Tilly was standing on the doorstep holding a casserole. She listened to Hamish making his excuses for Fergus and then handed him the casserole. “It’s a good lamb stew,” she said. “You tell him I’ll be round first thing in the morning to pick up his laundry and do his cleaning.”

Hamish took the casserole in and placed it in the gleaming kitchen. “I heard what she said,” said Fergus when Hamish joined him. “I won’t answer the door.”

“So, Fergus,” said Hamish patiently, “rack your brains. Did Ina have any enemies?”

“No.”

“Did she have anything to do with Catriona Beldame?”

“No, I mean she wouldn’t.”

“She might have gone there for something like a love potion.”

“What for? Me? Ah, well, you’re not married, are you?”

Hamish continued to question him. He asked if there were any letters he could see but Fergus shook his head and said they hadn’t a computer, either.

Hamish at last rose. He turned in the doorway. Fergus was studying a TV guide. “Man, there’s American football on tonight,” he crowed.

There’s a man who looks as if he’s just been let out of prison rather than having lost a wife, thought Hamish.

∨ Death of a Witch ∧

5

Kissing don’t last! Cookery do .

– George Meredith

Hamish was surprised when he returned to the police station to find not one single hectoring message from Blair on his answering service. Then he decided that it was because the chief detective inspector wanted to keep both murder cases firmly to himself.

Jimmy came in after him without knocking and sat down at the kitchen table with a sigh.

“What a day!”

“Got any background on Catriona?”

“A bit. She was married to a Rory McBride, crofter of Inverness. Maiden name was Catriona Burrell.”

“On the police records?”

“Nearly but not quite.”

“What do you mean?”

“Gimme a whisky and I’ll tell you.”

“One of these days,” said Hamish, lifting down a bottle of whisky from a kitchen cupboard, “Blair’s going to die of acute alcoholism and you’ll find a hellfire teetotaller is your new boss. Probably a woman. And she’ll have you in rehab as fast as anything.”

“When Blair pushes off, I’ll get his job. I’m practising my funny handshake already.”

“You’re never going to join the Masons!”

“If it was good enough for Rabbie Burns, it’s good enough for me. Just joking.”

“So,” said Hamish as Jimmy took a first gulp of whisky, “tell me what you meant about Catriona.”

“She was in Drumnadrochit not long after her separation, right down at the end of Loch Ness. Police got a rumour she was pushing drugs – Ecstasy. Two detectives got a search warrant and went along. One of them phones in to say they’ve found a stash of the stuff and they’re bringing her in. An hour later, the other one phones back and said they’d made a mistake and there were no drugs in the cottage at all.”

“Who are these detectives?”

“Detective Sergeant Paul Simmonds and Detective Constable Peter Lyon.”

“Odd.”

“Wait a bit. There’s more. You’re going to love this. Although the cottage is a bit isolated, folks walking back to the local hotel said they heard the noise of a party going on. Lights shining, music blaring. Then two men staggered out and one shouts back, “See you soon, Catriona.” The men answered the descriptions of the two detectives. A waitress at the hotel was walking to her evening shift as well. Evidently her husband had been visiting Catriona and she was jealous. So she phoned it in. More police were sent but there wasn’t a drug to be found although they took that cottage apart. Shortly after that, Catriona disappeared.”

“And what happened to the detectives?”

“Suspended from duty pending an enquiry. Nothing found against them. Simmonds is now working as a security guard in Glasgow and Lyon got a transfer to Edinburgh.”

“She could hardly have had much custom to peddle drugs in a wee place like Drumnadrochit,” said Hamish.

“There was a rumour she had been seen at a couple of the clubs in Inverness. I’m telling you, Hamish. Wi’ a woman like that, anyone out of her past could have had it in for her.”

“I hope it is someone from her past,” said Hamish.

“What’s this? You’ve cracked at last and think one of your precious peasants could be a murderer?”

“Let’s hope not.”

♦

After Jimmy had left, Hamish was wondering what to eat. He had frozen food in the freezer out in the shed in the garden but he didn’t feel like defrosting anything. There was a knock at the door.

He was half tempted to ignore it, fearing Blair had decided that some Hamish baiting was called for, but after a short hesitation, he opened it and found Lesley on the doorstep carrying a large pot.

She seemed almost shy, and avoiding his gaze she said, “I made too much beef stew and I wondered if you would like some.”

“Bring it in,” said Hamish. “Have you eaten?”

“Not yet.”

“Then we’ll have our dinner together. The stove’s hot. Just put the pot on top.”

“Right. I’ve got some wine in the car.”

“Now, is this wise?” Hamish asked Lugs. “But that stew smells wonderful.” Lesley came back brandishing a bottle, which she put on the table. Hamish helped her off with her coat. She was wearing a lime-green woollen dress that clung to her ample curves.