Death of a Witch (18 page)

He was too tired to really worry about what was up with Lesley. As he drove off again, he saw flakes of snow beginning to dance in front of the windscreen. At first they swirled down hypnotically, but as he gained the bridge into Lochdubh, the snow was blowing horizontally on a screaming gale.

He was glad to be home. He lit the stove and settled down at the kitchen table with a glass of whisky. He decided that in the morning, he would go over all the reports and see if there was anything he had missed.

Elspeth twisted and turned that night, unable to get to sleep. She felt she was falling in love with Perry. She knew in her Gypsy soul that one can always pull back before it is too late and yet her very interest in Perry had freed her from any thoughts about Hamish Macbeth
—
and it was great to be free of that. Let the poor idiot remain enraptured by Priscilla until the end of his days. She just didn’t care anymore.

The gale screamed around the hotel. She was in one of the turret rooms, and it appeared to be getting the main force of the wind.

Elspeth decided to try to read herself to sleep. She switched on the bedside light. It was covered by a dainty rose-coloured fringed shade and did not give much illumination. She thought it would be a good idea to get out of bed and switch on the overhead light.

Then she stared at the door. Her heart started to beat fast. She could swear someone was slowly turning the handle.

She picked up the phone. The line was dead. She knew she had locked the door, but what if someone was prepared to break it open or had found a passkey?

Elspeth scrambled out of bed and searched in her handbag for her mobile. She switched it on. The little screen said no signal. The storm must have damaged reception from the local mobile phone tower.

There was only one thing for it. Elspeth screamed and screamed, hoping her screams might be heard above the roar of the storm.

A sound of running feet. A banging at the door. Perry’s blessed voice shouting, “Are you all right?”

Elspeth hurtled to the door and opened it. “Thank God!” she cried and threw herself into Perry’s arms.

“What the matter?” he asked.

“I saw the door handle turn and thought the murderer had come for me!”

“Let’s phone the police.”

“The phones are down and Hamish would never get up here in this blizzard.”

“If it was someone, and if Hamish can’t get up here, then whoever it was can’t get away. Come on. Let’s get downstairs.”

Elspeth put on a dressing gown and slippers. She thought illogically, Why am I wearing a pair of striped pyjamas and this ratty old dressing gown? I ought to be wearing something from Victoria’s Secret.

Perry took her hand in a warm clasp and they hurried down the stairs. The night porter was asleep at the desk.

“Wake up!” said Perry, shaking him. “Someone’s tried to attack Miss Grant and that person might still be in the hotel. Hit the fire alarm. Get everyone down here.”

Mr. Johnson and Priscilla were the first to arrive. Priscilla was wearing a long pale green silk dressing gown that seemed to have been moulded to her figure. She did not have a hair out of place. Perry quickly explained what was wrong.

Other guests gathered in the hall and then some hungover reporters and photographers and the few members of the staff who lived in.

“Someone tried to get into Miss Grant’s room,” said Mr. Johnson. “I want you all to search the hotel to see if you can find a stranger. Also keep looking out of the upper windows in case someone is trying to escape through the snow.”

The hotel was searched from top to bottom. It took a long time because the old building was full of unexpected nooks and cupboards and storerooms.

Everyone ended up in the hall again, weary and cross, some reporters saying loudly that it was probably Perry trying to get into Elspeth’s knickers.

“You better share my room for the rest of the night,” said Perry. “It’s got twin beds.”

“It’s all right,” said Priscilla. “There’s a free room next to mine.”

I really am beginning to hate you, thought Elspeth, but she smiled and said, “Perry and I have stories to discuss. I’ll share his room.”

When Elspeth settled into the twin bed in Perry’s room, she said in a small voice, “Do you think I was imagining things?”

“I heard one of the maids say you were psychic. Did you sense anything?”

“No. I get strange feelings from time to time but I can’t seem to conjure them up when I need them.”

“It’ll be all right. We’ll try to get to the police station in the morning. Go to sleep.”

If this were a romance, thought Elspeth, he would take me in his arms and say he would protect me for the rest of his life. A few minutes later, Perry let out a gentle snore. So much for romance! Elspeth turned on her side and drifted down into a dream where a dark figure was chasing her along endless corridors.

Priscilla was thinking of Perry. He was so attractive and so suitable. He was everything Hamish Macbeth was not. She wondered if there was anything going on with Elspeth. Elspeth often looked as if she bought her clothes exclusively in the cheapest type of thrift shop, but there was no denying that men did seem to be attracted to her.

I’ll need to think up some way to have him to myself, thought Priscilla. Elspeth’s bound to go off on her own sometime or other.

Lesley sighed with relief when she reached the forensic lab the following morning. She’d had to walk because the streets of Strathbane had not yet been cleared. Bruce, the head of the lab, was the only other person there.

“The lazy sods are using the snow as an excuse not to come to work,” he complained as Lesley pulled off her boots and put on a pair of dry flat shoes. “Well, that’s Fergus Braid off the hook.”

“What?”

“I was in the pub last night. Blair was furious, trying to say Macbeth made it up.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Last evening Macbeth found a witness over in Cnothan who had seen Fergus at the time of his wife’s murder.”

“Did you say yesterday evening?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Just wondered.” Lesley bit her lip in vexation. So that was why he had still been in uniform and had brought those wretched animals with him. He must be furious with her. She decided to phone him.

“The phones aren’t working and in case you haven’t noticed, we haven’t any electricity, either,” said Bruce. “There’s nothing we can do until the power comes on.”

“Haven’t we got a generator?”

“No,” lied Bruce, who had in fact borrowed it for his home during an earlier power cut and forgotten to bring it back.

On the same clear and very cold morning, Elspeth and Perry borrowed skis and managed to make their way to the police station.

Hamish listened intently. He knew Elspeth well enough not to accuse her of imagining things. When Elspeth and Perry had finished talking, he said, “I can’t understand how someone would get up to the hotel in a raging blizzard unless it was one of the guests. Which guests who were here at the murder of Catriona are still at the hotel?”

“I don’t know,” said Elspeth.

“But I do,” said Priscilla from the doorway. Elspeth scowled. He saw the way Priscilla looked at Perry. Couldn’t that damn female leave her just one man?

“Who are they?” asked Hamish.

“Just the one. A Mr. Garry.”

“We checked on him.” Hamish had piles of papers spread out in front of him on the table.

“Ah, here we are! Mr. Dominic Garry. Stockbroker. Likes hill walking. Fifty-five years old. He’s pretty fit?”

“Yes. He’s tall and thin. Does a lot of walking. We borrowed the last of the skis so I don’t suppose he’ll be going anywhere today.”

“I’ll get up to the hotel and have a word with him.”

“We’d better get started on your colour piece, Perry,” said Elspeth. “We’ll go along to the
Highland Times
and use a desk there.”

“I heard the snow plough going past,” said Priscilla. “You might be able to get up there in the Land Rover, Hamish. I’ll come with you.”

As they arrived at the hotel forecourt, Priscilla said, “That’s Mr. Garry. Just leaving.”

Hamish jumped down from the Land Rover and called out, “Mr. Garry! A word with you!”

Garry was wearing an expensive anorak over thick knee breeches and sturdy boots.

“I was just going out for a walk,” he said. “Isn’t it beautiful in the snow?”

“If you wouldn’t mind coming back into the hotel. It won’t take long,” said Hamish.

When they were seated in a corner of the lounge, Hamish waited until Garry had shrugged off his anorak and said, “As you will have heard, Mr. Garry, there have been murders committed.”

“And what’s that got to do with me?”

“I am just asking everyone around if they might have see anything,” said Hamish soothingly. “Now, I see from my notes that you are a stockbroker from London. I am curious as to why you are up here on such a long holiday. This hotel is expensive.”

“Do I have to tell you?”

Hamish’s eyes sharpened. “Of course.”

“I had a nervous breakdown. You can check with my psychiatrist. I’ll give you his number. He suggested I take a long break as far away from London as possible. I have plenty of money, and this has been a very healing experience.”

“What caused the breakdown?”

“I was wrongly accused of insider trading. By the time my name was cleared and I was settling down, my wife asked for a divorce. Come up to my room. I am going to give you phone numbers to check my story and then will you please leave me alone? I will also telephone my psychiatrist and give him permission to speak to you. I gather the phones are working again.”

Hamish, when he got back to the police station, telephoned the psychiatrist. As he listened, his heart sank. He had been hoping that it would turn out some crazed outsider had been responsible. But the psychiatrist confirmed that Garry had indeed had a nervous breakdown. He said that in his opinion, Garry was a gentle man, not suited for the cutthroat life of the City. The divorce had been the final straw. He had private means. He warned Hamish not to upset him.

Hamish gloomily went back to studying his notes. Surely somewhere in the middle of all this information was something he had missed.

His eyes fell on the statement he had taken from Timmy Teviot. The man hadn’t been lying about the poachers, but there had been something else he hadn’t been saying. There had been something at the back of his eyes, and Hamish was suddenly sure he knew about the brothel.

Timmy wouldn’t be working today. The road right round the loch wouldn’t be cleared yet, but he decided to put his skis on and call on Timmy.

The phone rang. It was Lesley. “Hamish, I am very sorry . . . ,” she was beginning.

“Talk to you later,” said Hamish. “Got to rush,” and put the phone down.

The phone immediately rang again.

“I told you . . . ,” Hamish was beginning when Elspeth’s voice came down the line.

“It’s me, Elspeth. Hamish, while Perry was writing his piece, I’ve been thinking and thinking about the murders. The one thing that seems to tie them all together is sex.”

“Sex!”

“Think about it.”

Chapter Ten

The beaten men come into their own.

—John Masefield

After a long and weary trudge round the loch, Hamish was irritated to be told that Timmy had gone to the pub in Lochdubh.

The ground round the loch was flat, so there were no slopes to ski down. He wished he had worn his snowshoes instead. The sun was glittering blindingly on the snow. Loch-dubh looked like a Christmas card, but, that morning, he was in no mood to admire it. When he reached the cleared waterfront, he took off his skis, carried them to the police station, and propped them against the wall. Then he made his way to the pub.

He went straight up to Timmy, who was propping up the bar. “You,” said Hamish curtly. “Follow me to the station.”

To Timmy’s nervous demands of “What’s up? What have I done?” Hamish only replied, “In the station.”

When they were settled in the office, Hamish began. “You’ve been holding out on me, Timmy.”

“Me? Man, I tellt ye about them poachers.”

“So you did. But you didn’t tell me you knew about Fiona McNulty.”

There was something like relief at the back of Timmy’s eyes. “Oh, well, I didn’t want to go getting any of the men in the village into trouble.”

“Like Fergus?”

“Aye, he was the only one I knew about.”

“And how did you know about him?”

“We got drinking one night and he tellt me.”

Hamish’s eyes sharpened. “There’s something else he told you that you aren’t letting on. Out with it, Timmy, or I’ll take you down to Strathbane and let Blair deal with you.”

“I cannae go betraying the man’s confidence.”

“Then we’re off to see Blair.”

“Och, anything but that. But you didnae hear it from me!”

“Out with it.”

“I cannae think it’s got anything to do wi’ the murder o’ his poor wife.”

“Spit it out.”

“It sounds right daft now. But she used to beat him.”

“Ina? That wee woman?”

“Fact. He had a sore dunt tae the head and he was saying it happened at work, but when he’d had a few jars, he says tae me that Ina hit him wi’ the frying pan.”

“Why did she do that?” asked Hamish.

“She’d learned from one o’ the women that he’d been seen one night up at the witch’s place.”

“You should ha’ told me this before. Off with you, Timmy. I may be talking to you later.”

Hamish phoned Jimmy. “I thought you were supposed to be on holiday,” said Jimmy.

“I am. Is Fergus out?”

“Yes, he’s at home.”

“Thanks.”

“Hamish, if you know anything . . .”

“I’ll let you know. Talk to you later.”

Hamish walked up to Fergus’s home and knocked at the door. Fergus answered. “Not again,” he said. “I’m no’ going back tae Strathbane.”

“Just a wee chat,” said Hamish.

“Come ben.”

Hamish edged his way around bulging rubbish sacks on the front step. “Been cleaning?” he asked.

“Aye. When I came back and saw the mess I’d been living in, I couldnae bear the sight of it. Poor Ina would ha’ gone mad.”