M.C. Beaton: Death of a Witch

Hamish had a sudden image of Blair being blasted to death by a shotgun and he smiled. It was great that some of the things inside his head never got to the outside, he thought.

♦

In the morning, Hamish, flanked by Clarry and Willie, broke the news to the alarmed postmistress, Ellie Macpherson, that he expected the place to be raided. Unfortunately for Hamish, Ellie was the leading light of the local dramatic society and also a sort of female Walter Mitty. He had managed to talk to her just before she opened up in the morning. Ellie, a scrawny woman who jangled with cheap jewellery, drew herself up and said, “I shall throw myself on the guns!” Her eyes were half closed. Hamish repressed a sigh. He guessed Ellie was already seeing herself on the front page of some newspaper.

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” snapped Hamish. “You’ll lie down behind your counter as soon as they come in. Now, Willie and Clarry here will be in the post office, looking at cards or something. They’ve got their shotguns and if anyone asks, they’ll say they are going out hunting rabbits up on the braes.”

The day dragged on. Hamish, hidden in the back shop, yawned and fidgeted. Willie and Clarry, tired of reading the rhymes of the greeting cards to each other, yawned as well with boredom.

Just when Hamish was beginning to fear that the robbers planned to attack somewhere else, the door of the post office was thrown open. He heard the customers scream and a man’s voice say, “Hand over the money or you’ll get shot.”

Hamish darted out of the back shop, holding his own shotgun. He trod on the prone figure of Ellie, who screamed.

Willie was holding his shotgun against the neck of the one armed man who had dropped his gun to the floor, and Clarry was covering the other two. Hamish leapt over the counter and, taking out three sets of handcuffs, arrested and cautioned the robbers.

♦

Blair was furious when he got the news. “Whit was that loon daein’ playing the lone sheriff?” he said to Chief Superintendent Peter Daviot.

“Now, now,” said Daviot. “Hamish has got these men and I am not going to quibble about the way he did it.”

Jimmy Anderson waylaid Hamish as he was on his way out of headquarters after typing up a full report.

“So was Alice the informant?” he asked.

“No, nothing to do with it. Chust a lucky guess on my part.”

“She’s not in today.”

“Och, the lassie had a bad fall. I called her doctor and he told her to take a couple of weeks off.”

“Aye, right,” said Jimmy cynically.

“Come over to Lochdubh one evening,” said Hamish. “Don’t forget, I’ve a bottle for you.”

♦

Hamish was just sitting down wearily to an evening meal of Scotch pie and peas when someone knocked at the door.

“Come in,” he shouted. “The door’s open.”

Alice walked in. “I heard about it on the evening news,” she said. “Did they say anything about me?”

“No, I’d have heard. They’re not going to confess to beating someone up for information. They’ll all be sent away for a long time. You can get drunk and run someone over in your car and get a suspended sentence, but if you steal money then the full weight of the courts comes down on your head. Sit down. I hope you’ve eaten, because this is all I’ve got.”

“Yes, I did have something earlier. So I can move back home?”

“Certainly. None of that lot will be getting out on bail.”

She sat down with a sigh. “I’m going to hand in my resignation.”

“Why?”

“I’m just not cut out for the force. It’s not really because of the beating. I don’t have much courage. I’m going back to university to get a degree and then maybe I’ll teach.”

“If that’s what you want to do…”

“But we can see each other sometimes?”

“Maybe. I do haff the girlfriend, you know.”

“Oh, well, I’d better be on my way.”

Hamish saw her out, finished his meal, undressed, showered, and went to bed, stretching out with a groan of relief. There were two thumps and the cat and dog got into bed with him.

A gale was howling outside, wailing round the building like a banshee. Before he plunged into sleep, Hamish found he was experiencing a stab of superstitious dread. Must be that pie, was his last waking thought.

♦

The morning was glittering with yellow sunlight. Wisps of high clouds raced across a washed-out blue sky, and the waters of the loch were churned up into angry choppy waves.

Hamish put on his uniform of serge trousers, blue shirt, dark blue tie, and police sweater with epaulettes. He put his peaked cap on his red hair. He noticed that his trousers were baggy at the knees.

He unlocked the large cat flap, big enough to let the dog in and out as well, and said to his pets, “You stay here. I’ve got a visit to make.”

The wind sang in the heather as he made his way on foot to Sandy Ross’s old cottage. Who was this Catriona Beldame that even the Currie sisters wouldn’t gossip about?

He sensed someone behind him and swung round. The seer, Angus Macdonald, his long grey beard blowing in the wind, was shouting something, but his words were whipped away with the gale.

Hamish waited until Angus caught up with him. “Dinnae go there, Hamish?” panted the seer.

“Why not,” said Hamish, rocking slightly in the force of the wind and holding on to his peaked cap.

“Because she’s a witch, that’s why,” said Angus. “She’s brought evil to Lochdubh.”

“Havers,” said Hamish. “What’s she doing? Setting up in competition?”

“I’m warning ye, Hamish. Black days are coming. I see blood.”

“Och, away wi’ ye,” said Hamish. “There’s no such thing as witches.”

“On your ain head be it,” said Angus and turned away.

Hamish walked on, hoping that old Angus wasn’t beginning to suffer from the onset of Alzheimer’s.

The cottage had no garden. The springy heather went right up to the door. It was a low one-storey whitewashed building with a red corrugated iron roof.

As he approached the door, a large black cloud swept across the sun and all at once the wind died.

Again Hamish felt that odd stab of superstitious dread. Then the wind started up again and the cloud moved from the sun.

Hamish raised his hand to the weather-beaten knocker on the door.

∨ Death of a Witch ∧

2

La Belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall!

– John Keats

The woman who answered the door fit the description Angela had given him. And yet, as she stood there, looking at him enquiringly, Hamish decided there was nothing sinister about her. She had a dab of flour on one cheek and she was wearing an old Aran sweater, dusty blue corduroy trousers, and sneakers.

“I am the local constable,” said Hamish. “I have been away on holiday and have only just heard of your arrival.”

“Come in,” she said.

The kitchen-cum-living-room into which she led him was stone-flagged. A peat fire smouldered on the hearth. Bookshelves lined one wall and on another, on either side of the low door, shelves held a variety of glass bottles. In the centre of the room was a scarred oak table surrounded by six high-backed Orkney chairs.

The kitchen part consisted of a sink and butane gas cooker, a granite top with pine cupboards above and below. There was neither a fridge nor a dishwasher.

“Please sit down,” she said. Her voice was low and mellow with only a slight trace of highland accent.

Hamish sat down at the table and removed his cap. Despite the fire, the room was cold and the wind soughed through the heather outside the house with an urgent whispering sound.