M.C. Beaton: Death of a Witch

“She’s a good Catholic.”

“So what happened when you saw Catriona?”

“She gave me some herbal tea and said to make sure Lucia took it, but Lucia wouldn’t, so I went back to the witch and she said she could make my sexual progress – ”

“Prowess,” corrected Hamish.

“Whatever. She said I would be irresistible but all I got was the itch. She caused a lot of misery on the village. Then men who went to her said there was no point getting all fired up if the missus wouldn’t play. It’s the older fellows in the village who were the most disappointed.”

“Like who?”

“I shouldnae say.”

“Come on, Willie, I’ll find out anyway.”

“Well, there’s Fergus Braid, him that works over at the paper mill, Archie, the fisherman, Colin Framont, the builder, and Timmy Teviot, the forestry worker. That’s all I know about and don’t you go saying you got it from me. Now I’ve got to get back to my cleaning.”

Hamish left in a haze of lavender-scented cleaner.

He decided to start with Archie. Archie was a friend. But he doubted whether the fisherman could tell him anything more than he had already. He went back to the police station first to let his dog and cat out for a walk up the fields at the back. He knew if he appeared with them on the waterfront, there would be tales about the eccentric policeman with a wild cat as a pet and Sonsie might be taken away from him.

The air had turned considerably colder. The loch was like black glass, the trees in the pine forest opposite reflected in the still water. The two mountains soaring above the village had snow on their peaks.

And in the midst of all this beauty, scurrying around or talking in little groups, were the press. Hamish longed for a quick solution to the murder so that he could get the village back again to its usual quiet ways.

Archie was sitting on the harbour wall in front of his cottage. Steam was billowing out of the open door of the cottage. His wife was a ferocious boiler of clothes, which perhaps explained why everything poor Archie wore always seemed too tight.

“Any news?” asked Archie.

“Nothing yet. I want you to tell me why you went to the witch in the first place and what exactly happened.”

“I went because o’ my indigestion. Chronic, it is. Herself seemed right pleasant. She gave me some herb tea and it worked like a charm. She flirted with me, Hamish. Me! I knew herself had to be joking because she was a fine-looking woman and I’m no oil painting but it made me feel good – like a man again.

I went back to get some more and herself started to talk about sex. Man, you know we don’t talk about such things in Lochdubh. But with her pretty ways, she got me really fired up and she said she could sell me something that would make the wifie think I was great.”

“How much did she charge?”

Archie hung his head. “Fifty pounds.”

Hamish was shocked. “That’s an awful lot o’ money for you, Archie,” he said, “what with the fishing being so bad.”

“I’ve never gone mad,” said Archie, “but when I look back on it, it seems as if she drove me mad wi’” – his voice sank to a hoarse whisper – “lust. Once I was a bit away from her, it all faded except for a wee bit o’ my brain that longed to go back. Now I feel dirty. It’s as if she scrambled up our minds, us men. It’s like that wi’ a lot o’ the ither men. Women are a right funny breed. You see women on the telly just panting for a wee bit o’ nookie, and the magazines telling them how to get the man in their lives excited. Och, well, the hard fact is we don’t do sex in Lochdubh.”

“How do the other men cope?” asked Hamish.

“Just give up, like me, or they go to that br…Never mind.”

Hamish’s hazel eyes sharpened and he pushed his peaked cap back on his fiery red hair. “What were you about to say?”

“I wass about to say, or they go their own way.”

“I think you were about to say brothel . Where? Inverness? Strathbane?”

“I promised not to tell,” said Archie miserably. “I gave my word and I’ll not break it.”

Hamish gave up. He knew there were several brothels in Strathbane. What worried him was that one might have sprung up on his patch. It wasn’t like the old days. Now women from Eastern European countries were being forced into prostitution.

His mobile phone rang. He glanced down at the screen and recognised Blair’s home number. He was going to let it ring when he saw Blair standing outside the mobile police unit further down the waterfront. He realised it must be Blair’s wife who was calling him.

“Hamish?” Mary Blair’s voice came on the line. “I need to talk to you but I don’t want my old man to know about it. Can you come over?”

“I’ll do my best, Mary, but I don’t want your neighbours to see me and tell your husband. Meet me at Betty’s café in the main street. None of the police go there. Say in about an hour.”

“Grand. It’s important, Hamish.”

As it was Saturday, Hamish had hopes of finding the builder, Colin Framont, at home. He had torn down the old fishing cottage he had bought and replaced it with a bungalow with a fake Georgian portico made of wood at the front. Hamish thought it was lucky that Colin’s monstrosity of a house was up at the back of the village instead of spoiling the front.

Colin answered the door. He was a heavy, thickset man with grizzled hair, a beer paunch, and watery brown eyes.

“Whit?” he demanded curtly.

“It’s about Catriona Beldame,” said Hamish.

Colin’s faded-looking wife, Tilly, joined him on the doorstep. “Oh, Mr. Macbeth,” she said. “Would you like some tea?”

“No, he wouldnae like tea,” snarled Colin. “Get back in the kitchen.”

When his wife had scurried off, Colin said defiantly, “I only went tae her the once for indigestion pills.”

“There seems to be a fair amount of indigestion in Lochdubh,” said Hamish cynically. “Can you tell me what she said?”

“She gave me some tea and I went off.”

And with that, Colin slammed the door in Hamish’s face.

Hamish rang the bell again. No reply.

He banged on the door, which was swung open by a furious Colin.

“I’ve got naethin’ mair to say to ye!” he howled.

“Look, we can either do things here or at the station,” said Hamish. “Take your pick.”

To his surprise, me builder said, “The station’ll be fine.”

As they walked towards the police station, Colin said, “I know what you want to ask but you cannae be asking things like that in front of the wife.”

In the station Hamish served him tea in the kitchen and got down to business. “So what really happened?”

“It was around the men in the village that the witch could gie ye something tae make ye mair sexy to the wife, but the itch got so bad I went tae Dr. Brodie and he told me it was dangerous stuff. I went up there to have it out with her but there was no reply.”

“When exactly did you go up to her cottage?”

“The day before she was found. I swear tae God that’s the truth. You won’t be saying anything to the missus?”

“No, on my word. Have you heard any talk about a brothel?”

“No, but if you hear of one, let me know!”

♦

When Hamish entered the café in Strathbane, it was to find Mary Blair already waiting for him.

“So what’s the news?” asked Hamish.

“You know that woman that was murdered,” said Mary. “I think I met her.”

“Where? When?”

“I can’t remember exactly but it was about two years ago. There was this woman – I’m not giving you her name – and she was on the game. Would you believe it? She was a married woman and did it for a lark. Said her man was tight with money. She wasn’t on the streets like me. She had a wee flat that her husband didn’t know about. All high class. Advertised herself on the Internet. She liked to talk to us prossies – seemed to get a kick out of it. Well, one day she stops by me. She’d been crying and looked like a real mess. She said she was pregnant and since she hadn’t had sex with her husband in ages, he’d kill her if he found out.