M.C. Beaton - A Highland Christmas

“That’s fine,” he said to Mr. McPhee. “I’ll see you Christmas day.”

♦

He asked various locals about the village if they had seen any youths about and then drove home to the police station. There was a fax waiting for him from Strathbane. He studied the list of petty thefts. They seemed to be spread all over the place. He studied the list again closely. Any youths who would take lights and a Christmas tree were not experienced thieves. They probably roamed around picking up stuff that was easy to lift. His eyes settled on the thefts in the Lairg area. A crofter had had a toolbox taken from a shed, another, a generator, a third, a supply of cut planks with which he had intended to build a henhouse.

He would take a drive over to Lairg in the morning.

♦

Maisie Pease was on the phone with a friend in Inverness. “I’m telling you, Lucy,” she said with a giggle, “I never thought I would end up with the village policeman. Yes, he’s quite good-looking. We’re going down to some old folks home on Christmas day for a concert, just the two of us, and then I’ll make him Christmas dinner, and then who knows what will happen!”

♦

Hamish went along to the general store to buy some groceries early next morning. As he was paying for them, he asked Mr. Patel, “Do you get many of the schoolchildren pinching stuff?”

“Not so many,” said the Indian shopkeeper, his white teeth gleaming in his brown face. “I’ve got these mirrors up, so I usually catch them. Och, it’s nothing for you to go worrying about, Hamish. I deal with it myself.”

“Know a wee lassie called Morag Anderson?”

“Aye, I ken them all.”

“She ever take anything?”

“Come on, Hamish, that lassie’s a saint. Always polite. Beautiful manners.”

Hamish took his bag of groceries.

“Does the shopping for her parents, does she?”

“No, her mother does that.”

“Just buys sweets?”

“Never. She says she isn’t allowed sweets.”

“No Christmas, no sweets. What a life! What does she buy?”

“Just some cat food.”

Hamish froze. It couldn’t be, could it?

“Hamish,” chided Mr. Patel, “there’s a queue behind ye.”

“Sorry.” Hamish left and stood outside the shop.

“What’s up with you, Constable?” demanded a voice. “Standing there like a great loon. Shouldn’t you be about your duties?”

Hamish found himself confronted by the Currie sisters, Nessie and Jessie, twins and spinsters of the parish. They both wore tightly buttoned tweed coats and woolly hats over rigidly permed hair. “What are you standing there gawking at, gawking at?” said Jessie who had an irritating way of repeating everything.

Hamish suddenly smiled blindingly down at them. “At your beauty, ladies.”

“Get along with you,” said Nessie. “It’s not our beauty you’re after but that new schoolteacher.”

“She should be warned, she should be warned,” said Jessie.

“Have the Andersons a cat?” asked Hamish.

“What? Them at the big villa at the end?” asked Nessie.

“Yes, them.”

“I’ve never seen one, never seen one,” said Jessie. “I shouldn’t think so. Herself is verra houseproud, verra houseproud.”

“Just wondered,” said Hamish, ambling off. He went to the police station and stacked away his groceries.

Now let’s go for a mad leap of the imagination, he thought. The saintly Morag steals Mrs. Gallagher’s cat. How can she hide it from her parents? Well, her mother had bragged about her having her own separate apartment at the top of the house.

So I could just go along and ask Mrs. Anderson if she has a cat. If she says no, ask her why Morag is buying cat food. I suddenly wish I didn’t have to do this. I suddenly wish it was someone else.

He hoped he was wrong. The thought of telling Mrs. Gallagher made him quail. He had no doubt she would press charges. His heart was heavy as he left the police station and walked along the waterfront. He had a weak hope they might not be at home. But the factory at Strathbane would be closed for Christmas and no doubt Mr. Anderson would be at home, just as he had been when Hamish first called.

He rang the bell. Mr. Anderson answered the door. He drew down his brows in a scowl. “If you’ve come here again to lecture us about Christmas, I’ll report you to headquarters.”

“I would like to speak to you and your wife. It’s a case of theft.”

Mr. Anderson looked taken aback. “You’d better come in.”

Hamish walked into the dark sitting room where Mrs. Anderson was knitting. She looked up, startled, and a steel knitting needle fell to the floor.

“This officer is here to talk about a theft,” said Mr. Anderson, “although what it’s got to do with us is beyond me.”

“May I sit down?” Hamish took off his cap and sat down before they could say anything. “It’s like this,” he said. “Mrs. Gallagher who lives out on the Cnothan road, her cat’s disappeared.”

Mrs. Anderson goggled at him. “What on earth has that got to do with us?”

“Have you got a cat?”

“No, we haven’t got a cat!” raged Mr. Anderson. “How dare you come here and imply – ”

“Then why is Morag buying cat food?” said Hamish in a flat voice.

They both stared at him.

Then Mr. Anderson went to the foot of the stairs and shouted up, “Morag! Come down here!”

They waited in silence until Morag came in, small and neat in a crisp white blouse and block-pleated skirt.

“This officer says you have been buying cat food,” said her father.

Morag turned pale. “I was buying it for someone.”

“Who?” asked Hamish gently. “I shall check with the person you say you are buying the cat food for.”

Huge tears filled Morag’s eyes and she began to sob. The atmosphere in the room was electric.

Mrs. Anderson left the room and went upstairs. Morag stood sobbing.

“Will ye no sit down, lassie?” suggested Hamish.

But she continued to cry. Hamish glared at her father. Couldn’t he do something or say something?

Mrs. Anderson came back, a smile on her face. “Och, there’s no cat up there,” she said triumphantly. “All you’ve done is give Morag a fright.”

“It still doesn’t explain the cat food,” said Hamish. “Mind if I have a look?”

“Oh, go on!” shouted Mrs. Anderson. “But a complaint about you goes straight to Strathbane today. Terrorizing children! You’re a monster.”

Hamish went up the thickly carpeted stairs. He went into Morag’s bedroom. It was white and clean; white bedspread, white flounced curtains. He searched around and under the bed. Then he tried the sitting room and the bathroom without success. There was a door on the landing. He pushed it open. It was a box room full of discarded old furniture and old suitcases. Over by the window, he saw a bowl of water and a bowl of catfood.

“Smoky!” he called.

A faint meow came from one of the suitcases. He noticed it had airholes bored in the sides. He lifted the lid and a small grey-and-white cat blinked up at him. “Come here,” he said in a soft voice. He picked up the cat, which snuggled under his chin, and went slowly downstairs.

Mrs. Anderson screamed when she saw him with the cat and Mr. Anderson began to shout and rave at his daughter. She was a limb of Satan. How could she do this after all they had done for her?

“I wanted something to love that would love me back,” said Morag, now past crying.

“Did you go into Mrs. Gallagher’s house and take the cat?” asked Hamish.

“No,” she said, her voice little above a whisper. “I was walking up by her croft after school and I saw the cat. It came up to me. It likes me. Smoky loves me. I thought I would take Smoky home and play with him for a bit. That’s all. Then I was frightened to take him back.”