M.C. Beaton: Death of a Witch

“Why should we leak it to the press?”

“Because, if I am not mistaken, Blair will try to sit on this evidence. He still wants you as prime suspect.”

Hamish grinned. “I know just the person. Would you be free for dinner tonight?”

“No, of course not. I’ve got to get this stuff back to the lab.”

“Oh, well…”

“But I’m free on Saturday.”

“Grand. Do you want to come here or Strathbane?”

“Just somewhere away from my gossipy colleagues.”

“There’s the Glen Lodge Hotel, just north of Braikie. I could meet you there at eight.”

“Fine,” said Lesley. “Now go and leak.”

♦

Hamish felt guiltily that he should really give the story to the local reporter, Matthew Campbell. But there was his other reporter friend, Elspeth Grant, who worked for a newspaper in Glasgow. Hamish had often thought of marrying Elspeth but something had always stopped him from proposing. He would not admit to himself that the something was the real love of his life, Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, daughter of the owner of the Tommel Castle Hotel, now working in London.

As he returned to the police station and phoned the newspaper in Glasgow, he half expected to be told that Elspeth was already on her way to Lochdubh, but the news desk told him she was off sick.

He phoned her home number and a croaky voice he barely recognised as Elspeth’s answered the phone. She said she had a fearsome cold and had missed out on the assignment to Lochdubh. Hamish wished her well and said he would phone again. He decided to ease his conscience and give the story to Matthew instead.

“And who do I say this came from?” asked Matthew when Hamish had finished telling him about the fuse.

“Chust say a source,” said Hamish, the sudden sibi-lance of his accent showing that he was feeling guilty.

“Right! This is great stuff,” said Matthew. “I’ll get it out to the nationals and TV.”

♦

Blair hated Hamish Macbeth with a passion. He had previously enlisted the help of a prostitute to kidnap Hamish, hoping that in the policeman’s unexplained absence he could persuade his bosses to put the Lochdubh police station up for sale. But Hamish had not only ruined his plot but also managed to get the prostitute into blackmailing him, Chief Detective Inspector Blair, to marry her. Not that any of his colleagues ever even guessed at his wife’s rough background. After a few false starts, Mary Blair had modelled herself on Peter Daviot’s wife, and there was no longer any trace of the prostitute in her manner or dress. Daviot was fond of telling Blair what a lucky man he was to have found such an excellent wife.

Before he switched on the television that evening, Blair was feeling quite kindly towards his wife. A glass of whisky had been waiting for him when he got home from work, his flat was clean and shining, and she had cooked him an excellent supper.

He switched on the television news, hoping to see film of himself because he had held an impromptu press conference on the waterfront. But when the news item about the murder of the witch came up on the screen, he saw it was not a picture of himself, but of Daviot, speaking to the press outside police headquarters.

He turned up the sound and Daviot’s genteel accents filled the room. “Yes,” he was saying, “I have just received a report from the laboratory that the fire was set off by a fuse, which explains why the constable who found the body did not find anyone in the house.”

Mary looked over her knitting and saw her husband’s face turn a nasty purplish colour with rage.

“Blood pressure!” she cautioned.

♦

Jimmy Anderson called to see Hamish later that evening. “Were you behind that leak to the papers?” he demanded.

“Would I dae a thing like that?” asked Hamish. “Want a drink?”

“Aye. Blair is furious. But that local reporter insists he was up by the cottage and heard you talking to the forensic lassie.”

“So why blame me?” asked Hamish, all injured innocence.

“Just a hunch.”

“So what are the villagers saying?”

“Damn all. Except for a few of the more religious ones who think God sent down the fire to cleanse the place of her evil deeds. I asked Dr. Brodie if any of his patients had come to him suffering from Spanish fly and he told me he couldn’t discuss his patients. And not a man in the village will confess to having been to see her. Know anyone?”

“Not yet,” lied Hamish.

Jimmy’s blue eyes had a shrewd look. “I know you’re a close-knit, loyal, superstitious community up here, Hamish, but a villager impeding the police in their enquiries is not nearly as serious as a copper doing the same thing.”

“Och, drink your whisky,” snapped Hamish. “I’ll see what I can find out. But what about her background? If she supplied iffy potions here, then it’s ten to one she supplied them somewhere else. Was she ever married?”

“We’re trying to find out.”

“Catriona Beldame won’t have been her real name. Had she an account at the bank?”

“The bank manager says no, and any personal papers she had went up in the fire.”

“What if she changed her name by deed poll?”

“Still looking into mat. But she bought the cottage! She paid cash.”

“How much?”

“Twenty-five thousand. Willie Ross, Sandy’s brother, advertised the cottage in the paper. He says he was right glad to get the money because the place was beginning to fall to bits and no one wants a cottage with an iron roof and an outside toilet these days. All done privately.”

“What about stamp duty?”

“None required if it’s under sixty thousand pounds. Look, Willie Ross badly needed the money. Along comes this Beldame female waving a fistful of notes at him, saying they didn’t need to bother with lawyers. What was her accent?”

“Slight highland accent. Mind you, it’s one of the easiest to mimic. I wish Elspeth were here.”

“Your ex-girlfriend? Why?”

“She’s got a Gypsy background. I’m beginning to wonder whether Catriona was a Gypsy.”

“Fortunately Mr. Patel at the grocery took a photo of her. He fancies himself as a cameraman. It’s a good shot, full face. It’ll be in all the newspapers tomorrow. Let’s hope someone recognises her.”

“I hope it turns out she’s got some really nasty, ordinary criminal background,” said Hamish. “That would stop this lot in the village thinking she was a witch.”

♦

The picture of Catriona Beldame was featured on the front pages of nearly every newspaper in Britain. She had been photographed on the waterfront by Patel. It was a good clear shot of her standing in the sunlight.

Hamish, avoiding the press, set off to question people in the village. He started with Willie Lamont, who was cleaning the restaurant preparatory to the lunchtime opening.

Willie loved cleaning. His Italian wife, Lucia, often complained that Willie’s passion for new and better cleaning products took up too much space in their cottage.

He turned and saw Hamish and grinned. “Wi’ all these press folk, it’s going to be busy,” he said.

Hamish removed his peaked cap and sat down at a table. “Join me a moment,” he said. “I want to ask you some questions about Catriona Beldame.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” said Willie defensively. “I should never have gone to her, but Lucia hasn’t been much interested in martial rights since the baby.”

Hamish wondered whether to correct Willie’s mala-propism but decided to let it go.

“I have to use a condominium,” said Willie, “and that’s no fun. Like having a bath with your socks on.”

“Isn’t Lucia on the pill?” asked Hamish, momentarily diverted.