M.C. Beaton - Death of a Nag

“It wass an act of rage.” Hamish’s voice, sibilant again, showed he was becoming upset. “It could have been any one of them.”

Maggie’s voice was gentle. “I know you don’t want it to be her.”

“Aye, that’s a fact. But concentrating solely on Doris might make us miss someone else.” He fell silent as his mind ranged over the possibilities. He saw Tracey and Cheryl, giggling and laughing, coming across Bob Harris at the edge of the jetty and deciding on impulse to commit the murder they had so recently talked about committing for ‘kicks’.

Then the picture faded to be replaced by one of Dermott, having left his ‘family’ on the beach, creeping forward with a piece of driftwood in his hand. After that came a bright image of Miss Gunnery whacking Harris on the head as efficiently as she would have whacked a pupil with a ruler in the old days of teaching. But that picture was immediately replaced by one of Doris again, a Doris driven mad with years of bullying and abuse.

“I haven’t got down to questioning any of them properly,” said Hamish. “I’ll start tomorrow. What about you? Tell me about yourself. How long have you been in the police force?”

“Two years. I was teaching infants before then and I wanted a bit of excitement. It hasn’t been all that exciting. Not what I expected. In these days of female equality, I didn’t expect to be treated as some sort of servant by the men.”

“You’re young and attractive,” said Hamish cynically. “By the time this job has eaten into you, you’ll begin to look like a hard old bat and then they won’t even know the difference.”

She raised her glass of wine. “I’ll drink to that. Why are you in the police force, Hamish?”

“It suits me fine. It wass getting the police station at Lochdubh. Man, it’s a lovely village.” He felt a sharp pang of homesickness. “The people are nice and it’s a gentle life.” He temporarily forgot about all the animosity against him. His eyes grew dreamy. “Often when I hae a break, I chust stay at home in the police station, go fishing, and I’ve got a bit o’ croft land up the back and some hens and ducks. We’ve had the murder or two, but, och, everything worked out chust fine.”

“I’d like to see Lochdubh,” said Maggie.

He smiled at her pert little face. “Maybe you can pay me a visit when this is all over.”

“And do you think it will be?”

“It’s got to be. There’s a murderer in the middle o’ us and I keep thinking that if we look at all the suspects the right way around, we’ll have him…or her.”

“Tell me about some of your other cases,” Maggie said.

Although Hamish was not much given to talking about his exploits, he found it a relief to talk about other cases, other murders, and forget about the present tragedy.

It was nearly midnight when they finally left the restaurant and drove through the half-light. “Quite suddenly it changes,” said Hamish. “Soon the nights will be back again, and in the winter, there’s only a few hours of light during the day.” Outside the boarding-house, he thanked her for dinner. “My turn to take you out next time,” he said.

“What about tomorrow night?” asked Maggie.

“Aye, that would be fine, but I don’t know this area, so I’ll leave the choice of restaurant up to you.”

She gave him a swift kiss on the cheek, and feeling more light-hearted than he had felt since the murder, Hamish got out of the car, waved good night and went into the boarding-house. He made his way upstairs, planning to give Towser a last walk.

He unlocked the door of his bedroom and went inside. Towser lay stretched out on the bed. “Come on, lazybones,” called Hamish.

The dog did not move. “Come on, old boy.” Hamish walked up to him. He put his hand on Towser’s rough coat and then went very still. Then he shook the dog.

He suddenly withdrew his shaking hand, a great black wave of misery engulfing him.

Towser was dead.

∨ Death of a Nag ∧

5

There is sorrow enough in the natural way

From men and women to fill our day;

But when we arecertain of sorrow in store,

Why do we always arrange for more?

Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware

Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.

—Rudyard Kipling

Early the following morning, Maggie was summoned by Deacon.

“I want you to get along to that boarding-house and get hold of Macbeth.”

“Why, what’s happened?”

“His dog’s dead.”

Maggie stared. “Did someone kill it?”

“The vet who was hauled out in the middle o’ the night says it’s natural causes. No autopsy necessary. The thing is, Macbeth wants to take the dead beastie back to Lochdubh to bury it. Did ye ever hear the like?”

Maggie shifted uncomfortably. “He was probably fond of it. People get very fond of their pets.”

“But he’s a policeman, lassie. And that wasnae even a police dog. Anyway, here’s what we want you to do. We’re giving you the day off. You’re to get along there and offer to drive him home. I’ve found he has a habit of playing his cards close to his chest and I want to know everything he thinks.”

Maggie looked at him shrewdly. “So he’s as clever as that.”

“Aye, so I’ve been hearing. I’m not going to make the mistake of his superior over at Strathbane of under-estimating him. A murder crosses Macbeth’s path and the murder is solved. But I don’t want tae end up wi’ egg all over my face because some visiting bobby’s solved a case instead o’ me. Get along wi’ you. And get out o’ that uniform first. Say it’s your day off.”

“Yes, sir.” Maggie stood up, smoothing down her skirt. She did not feel anything for the loss of Hamish’s dog. She was pleased to be in favour with Deacon and she was looking forward to an unexpected day off. “Don’t you think that Miss Gunnery might already have offered to run him?”

“If that’s the case, tell the old bat she’s wanted for further questioning and to stay put.”

She drove home to Dungarton, scrambled out of her uniform and into a pretty summer dress with short sleeves and a low neckline. Then she set out for Skag again, taking the coast road which led straight to the boarding-house.

They were all at breakfast when she walked into the dining room. The Brett children were sobbing. The death of Towser had affected them more than the murder. As she looked at Hamish’s grim and set face, Maggie experienced a qualm of conscience. But it did not last long. “I’m right sorry about your dog, Hamish,” she said. “I have the day off. They told me at the station that you wanted to go over to Lochdubh. I’ll be happy to drive you over.”

“I’m taking Mr Macbeth,” said Miss Gunnery, her eyes glinting through her glasses.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Miss Gunnery,” said Maggie. “You will be called on for further questioning.” She turned round and faced the rest of them. “That applies to the rest of you.”

“Whit a holiday!” cried Cheryl. Doris turned a trifle pale and Andrew took her hand and stared defiantly at Maggie.

“Oh, all right,” said Hamish ungraciously. “I’ll go and get the…body.”

Maggie went out and waited in the hall. Hamish came down with Towser’s body wrapped in a tartan travelling rug which Miss Gunnery had given him. He nodded to Maggie. “Let’s go,” he said curtly.

As they drove off, Maggie said tentatively, “I don’t want to distress you further, Hamish, with speculation, but is the vet sure it was a natural death?”

“Yes.”

“How old was Towser?”

“Twelve.”

“That’s a good age for a dog.”

Hamish stared bleakly out of the window and did not reply.