Death of a Witch (13 page)

“Sherry?” offered Ellie.

“Yes, please. I didn’t think anyone drank sherry anymore.”

“My father, God rest his soul, always said that sherry was the only suitable drink for a lady.”

Ellie disappeared and returned with a tray with a decanter on it. But instead of sherry glasses, she poured the drink into two whisky tumblers.

“Slainte,” she said.

“Slainte,” echoed Elspeth. The sherry was heavy and sweet and had a faint chemical taste.

“Now sit down and tell me how I can help you.”

Elspeth sat down in one of the armchairs. Ellie put a little side table next to her covered with a lace doily.

“First question,” said Elspeth. “Did you ever meet Catriona Beldame?”

“Yes. I suppose you heard that.”

Elspeth hadn’t but maintained a discreet silence.

“I wanted to see if she was genuine,” said Ellie. “There are so few of us about.”

“So few of what?”

“White witches.”

“Go on.”

“I did not stay long. I got out of that cottage as fast as I could.”

“Why?”

Ellie lowered her voice dramatically. “She was a
black
witch. I can still hear her dreadful laughter as I ran away.”

Elspeth translated this as—I said something silly and she began to laugh and I was offended.

“I said to her as I fled, ‘The flames of hell will engulf you’”—Ellie leaned forward— “and they did! I didn’t put a curse on her, mind. That is not my way.”

This woman is bonkers, thought Elspeth. “Do you know of anyone who might want to murder her?”

“It was the devil, come to claim his own.”

“And what about poor Ina Braid?”

A variety of emotions crossed Ellie’s face. It was obvious she was trying desperately to think of something but that she didn’t really know anything. “There are things I could tell you,” she said.

“Then go on, do,” said Elspeth sharply. “You are said to bear a grudge against Ina because she used to beat you at tennis.”

“That’s because I let her win although I was always the better player.
I am a Christian.
I do not bear grudges.”

“Then who else might have disliked Ina?”

“I cannot. I would be putting my life in danger.”

Elspeth closed her notebook and got to her feet. “Thank you for your time, Miss Macpherson. Got to rush.”

“Oh, do stay. There are other things I could tell you.”

But Elspeth was already out of the door and clattering down the steps.

Ellie was offended and felt thwarted as well. She had dreamt of featuring in the newspapers. When she opened up the post office for business the next day, she began to regale the customers with mysterious hints of how she really knew the identity of the murderer but was too afraid to say anything. The gossip swirled out from Braikie as if borne on the gale and spread around the surrounding villages.

Angela Brodie called on Hamish that evening.

“Come in,” he cried. “I’m right weary. All I seem to do is question folks over and over again without getting anywhere.”

“Have you heard about Ellie Macpherson?”

“The postmistress?”

“Yes, her. Aren’t you supposed to say postperson or something? I can’t keep up with all this PC rubbish.”

“Don’t ask me. I don’t pay any attention to it. What about her?”

“Your friend Elspeth called on her. The Currie sisters told her that Ellie was a good fund of gossip. Now Ellie is saying that she knows the identity of the murderer but couldn’t say anything because she feared for her life.”

“That’s an awfully dangerous thing to say.”

“Don’t worry about it. Ellie is a drama queen. Nobody takes her seriously.”

“A frightened murderer just might. Angela, have you heard anything, the slightest thing?”

“I’m afraid not, Hamish. And yet—I’m probably being overimaginative but it’s as if there’s a sort of communal secret in this village. I talk to people and I always get the feeling they are holding something back. You don’t think the villagers would shield one of their own?”

“No, they would not. This business about Ellie bothers me. I’ll take a run over to Braikie in the morning and tell the silly woman to keep her mouth shut.”

The gale was still blowing the next morning. Hamish fed his sheep and hens, told Sonsie and Lugs to look after themselves, and set off for Braikie. The incoming tide was threatening the shore road. He realised he would need to stay in Braikie until low tide came round again. It was possible to get into the town from two other roads, but that would have meant a long detour coming in from Lochdubh.

There was a small crowd standing outside the post office. “What’s happened to Ellie?” asked Hamish sharply.

“We don’t know,” said one woman. “She hasn’t opened up and she hasn’t answered her door.”

Hamish rang the bell himself. No reply. There was a narrow lane up the side of the post office. He went along it and around to the back of the building. He looked up at the window of Ellie’s flat. It was not very high up. He hauled a dustbin up to the wall and climbed up on it. Then he grabbed the drainpipe and shinned up it so that he could look in at the window.

A sofa partially blocked his view but with a sinking heart he saw two feet protruding from the end of it.

Praying that she might just be ill, he clambered down and rushed round the front to his Land Rover, where he took out a police battering ram. A warning voice was telling him that he should phone Strathbane for permission before breaking in but he decided that losing time might mean he could not save Ellie’s life.

“Back off!” he ordered the crowd. He swung the battering ram with all his might and the door smashed open. He ran up the stairs. He tried her flat door and found it unlocked.

He went in.

Ellie was lying facedown on the carpet. The back of her head was a mess of blood. A crystal ball, smeared with blood, lay on the floor beside her. Hamish knelt down and felt for a pulse but there was no sign of life.

As he phoned Strathbane and slowly left the flat to stand guard outside, ignoring the babble of questions that greeted him, he felt a purely selfish pang of fear. There were now four murders, four
unsolved
murders. He knew that Blair, in order to turn attention away from himself, would say that he, Hamish, was incompetent and there was simply no reason to keep a police station in Lochdubh when Strathbane had to come over and do all the work.

He waited a long time. He realised they had probably tried to take the shore road, found their way blocked by the tide, and had to circle around to reach the upper road.

The crowd grew larger by the minute but now they stood in silence.

At last he heard the approaching sirens. The procession was headed by the procurator fiscal’s BMW, an unmarked police car, followed by two police vans, the forensic van, the pathologist’s car, a fire engine, and an ambulance.

The procurator fiscal, Mr. Ian Bell-Sinclair, was Hamish’s least favourite person next to Blair. He was fat, pompous, and lazy. The job of the procurator fiscal in Scotland is broadly the same as that of a coroner in other legal systems. He is also supposed to direct police investigations and take statements from witnesses. Unless any of the press were around, Bell-Sinclair shirked as many of his duties as possible.

He ignored Hamish and turned to Jimmy and his sidekick, Andy MacNab. “Where is your boss?”

“The detective chief inspector is not very well this morning,” said Jimmy. He turned to Hamish. “Let’s have it.”

Hamish flatly described what he had found. “I hope you applied for permission before breaking in,” said the procurator fiscal.

“And he got it,” said Jimmy impatiently. “Let’s go in. Suit up, Hamish.”

Hamish went to the Land Rover, got out his forensic suit, and put it on. He went back and led Jimmy up to the flat. Bell-Sinclair retreated to his car. He was famous for his detestation of viewing dead bodies.

“Why her?” asked Jimmy.

Hamish told him about Angela’s visit and how he had learned that Ellie had been bragging that she knew the murderer.

“Think she did?”

“I don’t know. I’ll go out and phone Elspeth. She interviewed her the other day.”

Hamish went back outside and sat in the Land Rover. He was just about to phone Elspeth when he saw her with a photographer on the other side of one of the barriers the police had used to block off the street.

He got out and went up to her, saying to the policeman at the barricade, “Let her through. She’s a witness. No, not the photographer, Elspeth. Just you.”

“She’s dead, isn’t she?” said Elspeth.

“Let’s go to my vehicle. I need a statement from you.”

Elspeth described her interview with Ellie and ended by saying, “I’ll swear she was just showing off. If Ellie knew the identity of the murderer, she would have told the police and then phoned all the newspapers. But someone got to hear of it and took her seriously.”

“Let’s hope you’re wrong and Jimmy finds some evidence of something. I almost hope this murder has got nothing to do with the others.”

“Is that all? I’ve got to file a story.”

“Yes, for now. Call on me later.”

“Will do. Jimmy’s just come out and your girlfriend’s just gone in.”

“Lesley is not my girlfriend.”

“If you say so.”

Hamish saw Elspeth stop by the procurator fiscal’s car. Bell-Sinclair got out, and they exchanged a few words. Then they walked towards the police barrier. Bell-Sinclair struck a pose, and Elspeth’s photographer took a picture of him.

How that man does love his photo in the press, thought Hamish. He went to join Jimmy and told him what Elspeth had said.

“Well, Hamish, it’s the usual old drudgery. We can’t tell yet when she was killed. Get into that crowd and the shops around and ask if anyone saw anything.”

Hamish spent a weary day, asking question after question. Of course, there were always a few imaginative people who would swear they saw a sinister figure lurking around, but further questioning and an invitation to the police station for an interview always had them backtracking like mad.

By the end of the day, he began to wonder why he went on punishing himself by remaining a common bobby. If he had upgraded to detective, then he would be in the middle of knowing everything that was going on with the investigation. On the other hand, that would mean moving to Strathbane, working at first on the beat and then sitting and passing the necessary exams. He would need to move into police accommodation, and that would mean getting rid of Sonsie and Lugs. He consoled himself with the thought that Jimmy usually kept him well informed.

Hard on that thought came the other worry. Four murders and not a clue! He hadn’t bothered to ask what ailed Blair, assuming it to be one of his usual alcoholic troubles, but even from his sickbed Blair was, he knew, capable of putting the boot in, yammering on about how incompetent Hamish had turned out to be.

As he wearily returned to his Land Rover, all around the press were having a field day. Television vans were lined up outside the police barriers. The voices of TV reporters talking about “the highland serial killer” were blown towards him on the decreasing wind.

He drove back to the police station and fed his pets. He felt too tired to feed himself. He almost wished Lesley would arrive carrying her stew pot.

He went into the office, typed up his report, and sent it off. That finished, he decided to treat himself to a meal.

Hamish went out onto the waterfront. The wind had died down but angry waves still rose and fell on the loch, crashing down on the shingle of the shore and retreating with a hissing sound.

Willie Lamont welcomed him and gave him a table by the window. Hamish ordered a dish of lasagne and half a bottle of wine.

When Willie arrived with the wine, Hamish said, “You’ve heard about the murder of Ellie?”

“Aye. Bad business. Evidently herself was bragging about how she knew who the murderer was. She even wrote up the horoscopes for the paper, practically saying she knew who it was.”

“Are you sure she wrote the horoscopes? Have you got the paper?”

“Just out today. I’ve got a copy in the kitchen. I’ll get it for you.”

When he returned with the paper, Hamish read the horoscopes. His heart sank. He was sure it was Elspeth’s work and nothing to do with Ellie. He took out his phone and called Matthew Campbell.

“Yes, it was Elspeth,” said Matthew. “Angus usually does them but he’s ill and I asked Elspeth to do them in return for the use of a desk in the office.”

Hamish felt a pang of fear. How stupid of Elspeth. “Don’t dare tell anyone at all who wrote them,” he said.

“They’ll think it was Angus.”

“So that puts his life at risk. Damn, I’d better get up there.”

When his food arrived, Hamish gulped it down, paid his bill, and set off up the hill to the seer’s cottage.

To his relief, Angus himself answered the door.

“Can I come in?” asked Hamish. “I’ve come to warn you.”

“I’m fine now, Hamish. What’s it about? I know. I’ve seen the paper. They’ll think it was me. Who was it?”

“Never mind. Have you a spare bed, Angus?”

“Just the one.”

“I’ll go back and get my sleeping bag. I’m staying here tonight.”

Hamish returned half an hour later, followed by Sonsie and Lugs. “I’m off to bed,” said Angus. “I’ve kept the fire lit for you.”

Hamish had changed into civilian clothes. He crawled into his sleeping bag, fully dressed. He even left his boots on.

The floor was hard but he was so tired he immediately fell asleep. During the night a long low hiss awakened him. He opened his eyes, feeling the weight of his wild cat on his chest. In the light of the fire, Sonsie’s yellow eyes burned red and her fur was standing up on her back.

“Good girl,” whispered Hamish, shoving her off. He eased himself out of the sleeping bag and then sat up and listened.

All was silent—and then he heard a faint rustling sound from outside. He rose up, went to the door, and opened it. The brae stretched out empty in the moonlight. “Who’s there?” he called.

Silence.

He walked around the cottage but could see no one.