Death of a Village (12 page)

‘I think she’s dead,’ whispered Mrs Docherty. ‘What’ll we do?’

‘We wait until dinnertime and I’ll ask where she is. If she’s dead, you phone that policeman and get a police pathologist over to do a proper autopsy.’

‘The police will want to interview us,’ said Mrs Docherty as they began to crawl back, ‘and this lot may kill us.’

‘So we’ll get the hell out of here tonight and the police can interview us at our place. I’ll get your deeds. They won’t interview us until after the autopsy.’

Back in her room, Mrs Docherty was so exhausted that she slept nearly until dinnertime. When she awoke, it all seemed like a bad dream. Surely they had let their imaginations run away with them.
Mrs Prescott would be sitting there as usual.

Mrs Docherty’s knees ached terribly after all the crawling. She washed and changed because the dress she had been wearing was all grass stains. It was only on her way to the dining room
that she realized they might be getting suspicious of her. Gaga old ladies did not normally change their clothes or appear promptly for meals.

Her heart sank as soon as she entered the dining room. Mrs Prescott’s place was empty. Mr Jefferson was shaking out his napkin. ‘Where’s Mrs Prescott?’ he asked the
waitress.

‘Oh, sir, she took a turn and she’s dead.’

‘Elsie!’ shouted a nurse from the door. ‘No gossiping with the patients!’

Mrs Docherty shuffled the food around on her plate. She could not eat. The evening seemed endless. She had to wait until dinner was over, wait until the evening’s television was over, and
wait until the nurse took her to her room. Her eyes fell on the pile of books beside her bed. How could she be so stupid as to bring books and a computer? Maybe they thought Elspeth had brought
them. She remembered that Elspeth had told them that her ‘aunt’ occasionally had lucid days.

She added the pills to the ones she had already saved and then took out her mobile phone and called Hamish Macbeth. He listened carefully and then said urgently, ‘Don’t say I
connived at getting you to go there. Just sit tight.’

‘We’re getting out of here tonight.’

‘How?’

She told him about Mr Jefferson.

‘If Strathbane ever finds out I’ve encouraged burglary, I’ll be finished. Make sure he doesn’t leave any fingerprints.’

‘I’m sure he won’t. Tell Elspeth to get my stuff out of storage tomorrow.’

Hamish sat for a moment, frowning, after Mrs Docherty had rung off. Then he phoned Superintendent Daviot at home and explained the whole thing.

‘We’ll send a police pathologist and a squad right away. Are you sure this Mrs Docherty isn’t making the whole thing up?’

Hamish patiently told him again about the deal where patients could sign over their houses to the nursing home and about how five had died and Mrs Prescott made a sixth.

‘This is terrible. I’d better come myself as well.’

‘See you there, sir,’ said Hamish, then prayed that his suspicions would be proved correct.

Mrs Docherty had a suitcase packed. She felt she had waited so long that something might have happened to Mr Jefferson. Then she heard a slight noise outside her window and
looked out. Mr Jefferson was just getting out of a long, low sports car.

‘Go into my room,’ he whispered, ‘and out the window.’

Her heart was thudding like a drum as she carried her suitcase into his room and then her books and computer and handed them through the open window.

‘Hurry up!’ he urged.

She climbed out and got into the car, closing the door quietly behind her.

‘Now I’ve got to hot-wire this thing,’ he muttered.

‘How did you get it here?’

‘It’s on a slope. I just released the brake and it rolled down.’

Suddenly a square of light lit up the car. The Indian-looking nurse appeared at Mrs Docherty’s window.

‘Come
on,’
hissed Mr Jefferson desperately.

The car sprang into life with a roar. He reversed up the hill just as the main door burst open and the trainer with his dogs rushed out.

Mrs Docherty clung on desperately as Mr Jefferson sent the car hurtling around the bends of the drive.

‘Did you get my deeds and the papers I signed?’ she shouted above the roar of the engine.

‘Yes! Hang on. I’d forgotten about those electronically controlled gates.’

‘They’re closing. We’ll never escape!’

‘Hang on, Annie. Here we go!’

He jammed his foot down on the accelerator, and as the car hurtled through the closing gates, they heard the terrible sound of tearing metal from either side.

‘Done it!’ he said, screeching round the road. ‘The bastard’s car’s taken a beating and it serves the murdering prick right!’

‘Whose car?’

‘Dr Nash.’

Annie Docherty began to laugh.

Hamish Macbeth had to delay his visit to Stoyre. It turned out Mrs Prescott had died of an overdose of morphine. Other bodies were being exhumed. Detective Chief Inspector
Blair was in hospital with a liver complaint, which made it easier for Hamish to cover up for Mr Jefferson. Mr Jefferson told police that they both feared for their lives: that the offices had been
unlocked and he had taken back Mrs Docherty’s papers. Yes, he had a criminal record but he was truly reformed and, he pointed out, if it had not been for himself and Mrs Docherty, the police
would not have found out anything.

Mr Dupont turned out to be Heinrich Bergen, wanted by the Hamburg police for a similar scam in Germany.

The paperwork involved kept Hamish at his computer for hours at a time. He felt it was fortunate that Annie Docherty and Charlie Jefferson were getting all the credit for the detective work so
that he didn’t need to worry about promotion to Strathbane.

Elspeth had sent a story to the nationals. Mrs Docherty and Mr Jefferson were being hailed as the modern Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot. And then the fuss died away as the first cold, dark
nights settled in and Hamish turned his mind back to Stoyre.

As he moved into the holiday home on the waterfront of Stoyre at the end of August, Hamish could sense, rather than see, curious eyes watching him. Lugs let out a grumble of
discontent as he prowled suspiciously around.

‘Aye, I know what you mean,’ said Hamish. The air inside smelled damp, dusty, even though the place had obviously been recently cleaned. He carried his suitcase upstairs to the
bedroom and returned to the living room and crouched down by the fireplace. He had requested fuel because the nights were getting cold. There was a basket of peat, a basket of logs and some
kindling in a large box beside the fireplace. He picked up a copy of the
Highland Times
from the table. It was an old issue. He crumpled up pages of it and arranged them in the hearth, set
the kindling and struck a match, then sat back on his heels to watch the blaze. Smoke billowed out from the fireplace. Cursing, he ran and opened the door. He waited until the fire had died down
and then gingerly put his hand up the chimney. It had been blocked off with wads of newspaper. He pulled them down along with a fall of soot.

Still cursing, he cleaned up the mess and set the fire again. This time it went off with a roar. He heaped on peat and logs. He got a vacuum cleaner out of a cupboard under the stairs and
plugged it in. He switched it on. Nothing happened. Of course, he was supposed to pay for every little bit of electricity. He fished a fifty-pence piece out of his pocket and put it in a meter over
the front door. Now the vacuum worked. He cleaned the soot that had fallen on the carpet, switched off the vacuum cleaner, and went upstairs to wash and unpack.

He went through to the bathroom. There was no bath, only a shower. Hamish Macbeth did not like showers. He liked to wallow. But, he considered, as he was so filthy with soot, the shower for the
moment was a better idea. It was once he was under the shower that he discovered there was no soap in the dish. But he had taken a bottle of shampoo into the shower with him, so he used that to
wash his hair and clean himself all over.

He towelled himself down and changed into clean clothes and then he unpacked. The wardrobe was just a recess with a dingy curtain over it and only three wire hangers dangling from a rail. Lugs
was sitting at the entrance to the bedroom door, curiously surveying his master.

‘It iss a disgrace, that iss what it iss, Lugs,’ said Hamish, the sibilance of his accent betraying that he was rapidly losing his temper. ‘How can they expect the tourists
when they treat them like this?’

There was a chest of drawers of the yellow soapbox variety. The drawers were difficult to open. He arranged as much as he could in the drawers, hung up his one good suit and his uniform, and
left the rest in the suitcase, which he kicked under the bed.

He sat down on the bed. It felt hard. It was covered in thin blankets and a slippery quilt.

‘Well, now, Lugs, it will just have to do. Let’s see if the shop is still open.’

Followed by Lugs, he walked out of the house and along to the general store. He could hear people talking inside, but when he walked in, there was silence.

He shrugged and carried a wire basket around the shelves, selecting various items. He had brought a box of groceries with him but he needed fresh milk and bacon and bread as well as soap.

He carried the basket up to the counter, where Mrs MacBean began to take the groceries out of the basket and ring them up on an old-fashioned till.

He paid for them. The groceries lay on the counter.

‘Haven’t you a bag?’ asked Hamish.

‘Bags are three pence.’

Hamish sighed. ‘I’ll have two, then.’

‘What are you doing here?’ asked Mrs MacBean.

‘I’m on holiday.’

‘From Lochdubh?’

‘Aye, why not?’

She looked up at him, her eyes showing an internal war between a longing for gossip and a desire to keep quiet. Curiosity won.

‘You were on that case o’ the nursing home at Braikie?’

‘Aye, bad business that.’

‘It is the bad enough business getting old,’ she said, leaning on the counter, ‘without folks trying to kill you.’

‘It is that,’ said Hamish amiably. ‘They’re right wicked people. But it was old Mrs Docherty who was the brave one. She . . .’

Her face suddenly closed down. ‘If that’s all, Mr Macbeth, I have to take inventory of the stock.’

Hamish turned slowly round. The shop, which was a sort of mini-supermarket, consisted of two small lanes of groceries and two cold cabinets and one freezer. A doorway at the back of the shop was
concealed by a curtain. The curtain moved slightly and then was still.

He turned back to Mrs MacBean. Her old eyes were like grey glass. No expression. He picked up his groceries and walked out.

It was a misty day. Everything was still except for the slight plash of waves on the shingly beach. He walked back to the cottage, opened the door, and set about making a late breakfast.

The cottage was dark, so he switched on the overhead light, which consisted of two bulbs concealed in a china bowl hung on wires.

He stacked away the groceries he had brought with him along with the ones from the shop after leaving out the bacon and eggs. Lugs gave a low growl.

Hamish gave a click of impatience. ‘I’ve forgotten dog food. Wait here.’

He went out and ran along to the shop. As he opened the door, he could hear Mrs MacBean saying, ‘He says he’s on holiday . . .’ and then she saw him and fell silent. There were
five people in the shop. They began to leave, eyes on the ground, shuffling past him without looking at him.

Hamish collected six cans of dog food and a bottle of whisky, paid for them, and left. He returned to the cottage, fed Lugs, and switched on the electric cooker.

The lights immediately went out. Cursing, he put another fifty pence in the meter and the lights came on again.

‘The rats have got that meter rigged,’ he said to Lugs. He made himself breakfast and then called the estate agent and reported a ‘faulty’ meter, ‘for I am sure you
wouldn’t be cheating the customers.’

Alarmed, the estate agent said he would have an electrician call immediately. There was one in Stoyre.

Hamish had just discovered to his fury that even the hot-water tank had a coin box attached when there came a knock at the door.

He opened it and looked down at a small gnome of a man carrying a tool bag.

‘I am Hughie McGarry,’ he said. ‘The mannie in Strathbane says that as you are only here for the week, I’ve tae bypass the meter.’

‘That’s great,’ said Hamish. ‘Come in.’

‘It’ll take a bit of time. If you wass to just maybe go for a wee walk and keep out of my way, it would be for the better.’

‘All right,’ said Hamish, reflecting that there was nothing in his luggage worth stealing. He banked up the fire, put Lugs on a leash, and headed for the door. ‘How long will
you be?’

‘About an hour.’

‘And you live here?’

‘Aye, up the hill a bit near the kirk.’

The gnomelike man picked up a chair and placed it under the meter. ‘I’ll chust be having a look at this.’

Although the mist was beginning to roll back and the sun shone down, McGarry was dressed in several layers of clothes, which all smelled strongly of peat smoke. His wrinkled face was grimy and
his eyes had odd red glints in them. He pulled a lever beside the box. ‘I’ll just switch the electric off at the mains. Why do you not be going away?’

Hamish walked along the waterfront. He said ‘Hello’ and ‘Grand day’ to various villagers, who responded politely with ‘Aye, so it is,’ but there was an odd
atmosphere of watching and waiting.

Above the village, the last remnants of the mist were trailing off up the mountain flanks. A heron sailed lazily overhead. It was one of those forgotten villages of the Highlands, reflected
Hamish. Quite amazing in beauty and yet so far off the beaten track that few outsiders ever discovered it. The air smelled clean and fresh and new. He suddenly wished with all his heart that there
was nothing sinister going on in Stoyre. But there was still the question of who had blown up the major’s cottage. It stood on the hillside, a blackened shell.