M.C. Beaton: Death of a Witch

It was full of young people and a good few thirty-somethings like himself. He ordered fish soup followed by a steak – he felt he had eaten enough paella to last him a lifetime, that seemingly being the favourite dish of the olive company.

There were two pretty girls at the next table. One leaned over to him. “Are you English?”

“Scottish,” said Hamish.

“I’m Gerda from Germany – Berlin – and this is Michelle from Paris. What brings you to Madrid?”

Hamish told them all about the olive oil competition and about how he thought he would never get free of the factory. They laughed and laughed and then Hamish invited them to join him for coffee and brandy.

“It is good for Gerda to laugh,” said Michelle. “She had a long relationship with a man and he left her for a woman old enough to be his mother. We are going on to a party tonight. Would you like to come?”

“I’d love…,” Hamish was just beginning when two middle-aged women bore down on them.

“It is!” one cried. “It’s Mr. Macbeth. We were looking in the window and I said to Doris – that’s Mr. Macbeth. We’ll never forget our time with you in Spain. So romantic! We need a favour. Could you walk us back to our hotel? We’re nervous walking in the Ramblas at night.”

Hamish was dismally aware of the look of disgust Gerda was giving him and how Michelle was holding Gerda’s hand and gazing sympathetically at her.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” he said. “Don’t leave without me.”

He marched them sulkily to their hotel, refused offers of a drink, and as soon as they were indoors raced back to the restaurant.

But Gerda and Michelle were gone and had not even left a message for him.

♦

Hamish haunted the restaurant at lunchtime next day, but there was no sign of them. He took in another couple of tourist sights and then packed and walked along to the station. This time the train was not the Joan Miro but an older, longer one. Once more he left his bag in the sleeping compartment and made his way to the restaurant car.

He was just finishing his main course of roast rabbit when the waiter asked if he would mind if a lady joined him. All the other places were taken up.

A woman sat down opposite him and said, “Thanks.”

He guessed she was about his own age. She had thick dark hair, a long nose, and a full red mouth. She held out her hand. “I’m Caroline Evans.”

“Hamish Macbeth.”

“Scottish?”

“Aye.”

“I’m Welsh. Were you on holiday?”

“Not exactly.” Hamish gave her a gloomy report of his visit, and she laughed and laughed.

“It really is very funny, you know,” she said. “You were hoping for sun, sex, and sangria, I’ll bet.”

“Something like that. Tell me about yourself.”

Caroline began to talk about her work in Cardiff, which was running a cleaning agency, while Hamish relaxed and listened to the charming Welsh lilt of her voice.

He in turn told her about his work as a policeman in the north of Scotland and all about the recent murders while the dining room gradually emptied.

At last, he said, “I think we should be leaving. Which is your compartment?”

“Number five.”

“There’s a coincidence. Mine is number six.”

He walked her back along the corridor. He wanted to kiss her but thought that might be a bit too much since he had just met her. He said good night, went into his compartment, and sat on the bed.

There was a knock at his door ten minutes later just as he was considering having a shower. He opened the door.

Caroline stood there in a nightgown and negligee.

“I came to borrow a cup of sugar,” she said.

Hamish smiled down at her. “You’ve come to the right place. Come on in!”

♦

Detective Chief Inspector Blair sulkily followed his wife, Mary, into the delicatessen. Mary had said olive oil was healthier for cooking.

Blair suddenly felt he was being haunted. The artist in Barcelona had decided to put Hamish’s picture on all the new bottles. From row after row of bottles, Hamish’s face grinned down.

Blair turned about and went into the nearest pub. He had stopped drinking for five days and he was getting hallucinations. Must be the lack of alcohol.

He ordered a double whisky and then hid in a dark corner of the pub, hoping his wife would not find him.