M.C. Beaton - Death of a Gentle Lady

He moved through to the bedroom: one double bed with army-type blankets and a slippery green quilt, a large old wardrobe, and a bedside table with the King James Bible on it.

He sighed and went back out to the car and let the dog and cat out. He carried in a box of groceries and then his suitcase and fishing rod and tackle.

He was just putting down bowls of water in the kitchen for the animals – glad he had brought bowls along, for there were none in the kitchen – when there came a knock at the door.

He opened it and looked down at the small, round woman who stood there. “I’ve brought you some of my scones,” she said. “I’m Ellie Mackay from ower the road.”

“That’s verra kind of you. Come ben,” said Hamish. “Would you like some tea?”

“No, I’ve got to get on.” She had a cheerfully rosy face and grey hair showing from under a headscarf.

“Do you know where I can get some peats or coal?” asked Hamish.

“There’s a wee shed in the back garden,” she said. “There wass stuff in there. This wass supposed to be a holiday let but the holiday folk last time round took wan look at the place and cleared off.”

“I’m right surprised you get any visitors at all.”

“Oh, we get a busload every second week.”

“Tourists?”

“Aye, it’s a firm what calls itself Discover Secret Scotland.”

“Surely they pack up after the summer. There’s hardly any light up here now.”

“They come round the midday. A blessing it is, too. There are a few folks here that carve wooden things – you know, little statues, candlesticks, things like that. Callum down at the stores sells them. He only speaks the Gaelic to them because they love that. But when the bus arrives, we’ve got stalls out on the harbour.”

“Where’s the best place to fish?”

“If you go on up the road a bit, you’ll come to the Corrie River. You don’t need a permit and if you’re lucky, you might be getting a few trout.”

♦

After she had gone, Hamish went out to the shed in the garden and found slabs of peat stacked up, a sack of coal, a pile of logs, and some kindling. He was amazed the locals hadn’t raided it.

He decided to go fishing while it was still light and set off for the river with his rod, the dog and cat following behind. He fished contentedly, catching four trout before the sky turned pale green, heralding the long, dark winter night.

The bus was a problem, but no one knew where he was, so he had nothing to fear. Back at the cottage, he lit the fire in the ‘best’ room, glad that it seemed to be drawing well, and then went through to the kitchen. He gave Sonsie a trout and fried up some deer liver he had brought with him for Lugs. Then he dipped two trout in oatmeal and fried them for his supper along with boiled potatoes and peas.

After dinner, he lay on the sofa after throwing a travel rug over it, and settled down to read an American detective story. Hamish liked American detective stories where the hero seemed to be always partnered with some beautiful female with green eyes and high cheekbones. He liked particularly the ones that were comfortingly familiar. The hero would at one point be suspended and then brought back with the grim warning “You’ve got twenty-four hours.” He got to the bit where the hero was beating up the villain. Good thing he’s not in Britain, thought Hamish cynically, or the villain would sue for assault.

His mobile phone rang. He sat up and tugged it out of his pocket.

It was Elspeth.

“How are things in Grianach?” she asked.

Although the fire was blazing, Hamish felt suddenly cold.

“How did you know?” he asked.

∨ Death of a Gentle Lady ∧

10

In the highlands, in the country places ,

Where the old plain men have rosy faces ,

And the young fair maidens

Quiet eyes

—Robert Louis Stevenson

“Everyone in Lochdubh seems to know, Hamish. I was sent back up to cover the bomb. Shall I come and join you? Are you on holiday?”

“Is that what they are saying?”

“You know this village. Chinese whispers. But certainly that seems to be the sum total of it.”

“Elspeth, leave me alone for a bit. But you might have a story down there. I was sent up here to stop the murderer from finding me and trying again. If you can find out who was spreading the news about me, you’ll at least find someone who’s interested in seeing me dead. And get back to me if you’ve found out anything.”

“All right. Give me a few paragraphs about the bomb in the kitchen.”

Hamish gave her a brief description.

“I know Grianach,” said Elspeth. “Weird place. They make wooden things.”

“That’s right. Trouble is, a tour bus comes every two weeks.”

“And you think the murderer might travel that way to find you?”

“Perhaps. But probably too complicated.”

The next morning, Hamish went out to explore the village. It nestled at the foot of steep cliffs, and any car approaching from outside could clearly be seen on the one-track road down into it. There was a horseshoe bay in front of the village, the waters calm in an unusually placid day. Far out beyond the bay, he could see the whitecaps of the great Atlantic waves.

He sat down on a bollard on the jetty. It was all so remote and peaceful. The air smelled of tar, fish, baking, and peat smoke.

A voice behind him said, “Enjoying the view?”

Hamish stood up and turned round. “I’m James Fringley,” said the man. “I heard you’ve arrived.”

Racking his memory for who he was supposed to be, Hamish remembered suddenly that he was supposed to be Mr. William Shore.

“William Shore,” he said, holding out his hand. “You’re English.”

James was a small dapper man dressed in a Barbour and jeans. Hamish judged him to be in his fifties. He had silver hair, carefully barbered, and neat features.

“Are you visiting like me?” asked Hamish.

“No, I live here. I used to be a bank manager but I took early retirement. We’re about to start setting up the stalls. The bus arrives today.”

“I’m surprised a tour bus found this place.”

“I wrote to them,” said James. “What with the fishing dying off, I thought it would be nice to help the villagers. Do you know, the European Union cut the cod and fishing quotas last December and Scotland wasn’t even represented? Luxembourg was there. One tiny landlocked country having a say. It’s mad. We’ve a lot of home industry now, and every month or so I load up the van and go south to flog the stuff around the shops. I mean, look at the beauty of this place. A man would do anything to keep it as grand as this. I’m off to the church hall to start helping with the stalls.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Hamish.

“You’re highland, aren’t you?” asked James curiously. “What brings a highland tourist here?”

Hamish was blessed with the Highlander’s facility to lie easily and convincingly. “It was the wife,” he said. “She threw me out. I thought if I went away for a bit, she’d come to her senses.”

“That’s bad. Got children?”

“No, we’ve only been married three months. I blame her mother,” said Hamish bitterly. “Awfy auld queen. What about you?”

“Mine died of cancer. We didn’t have children. I came here four years ago on holiday and decided to stay. Probably the last place in Britain where you can buy a cheap house.”

The figures of the villagers could be seen approaching the church hall. “They’re all verra small,” said Hamish.

“Maybe inbreeding, but they’re all sane enough.”

Hamish helped to carry trestle tables down to the harbour. Then the villagers started to set out their wares. Hamish was amazed at the wood carvings. They were very good indeed. One stall had beautiful lengths of tweed. “That’s your neighbour, Ellie,” said James. “She’s got a loom in a shed in her garden.”