Death of a Witch (5 page)

“No, of course not. I’ve got to get this stuff back to the lab.”

“Oh, well . . .”

“But I’m free on Saturday.”

“Grand. Do you want to come here or Strathbane?”

“Just somewhere away from my gossipy colleagues.”

“There’s the Glen Lodge Hotel, just north of Braikie. I could meet you there at eight.”

“Fine,” said Lesley. “Now go and leak.”

Hamish felt guiltily that he should really give the story to the local reporter, Matthew Campbell. But there was his other reporter friend, Elspeth Grant, who worked for a newspaper in Glasgow. Hamish had often thought of marrying Elspeth but something had always stopped him from proposing. He would not admit to himself that the something was the real love of his life, Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, daughter of the owner of the Tommel Castle Hotel, now working in London.

As he returned to the police station and phoned the newspaper in Glasgow, he half expected to be told that Elspeth was already on her way to Lochdubh, but the news desk told him she was off sick.

He phoned her home number and a croaky voice he barely recognised as Elspeth’s answered the phone. She said she had a fearsome cold and had missed out on the assignment to Lochdubh. Hamish wished her well and said he would phone again. He decided to ease his conscience and give the story to Matthew instead.

“And who do I say this came from?” asked Matthew when Hamish had finished telling him about the fuse.

“Chust say a source,” said Hamish, the sudden sibilance of his accent showing that he was feeling guilty.

“Right! This is great stuff,” said Matthew. “I’ll get it out to the nationals and TV.”

Blair hated Hamish Macbeth with a passion. He had previously enlisted the help of a prostitute to kidnap Hamish, hoping that in the policeman’s unexplained absence he could persuade his bosses to put the Lochdubh police station up for sale. But Hamish had not only ruined his plot but also managed to get the prostitute into blackmailing him, Chief Detective Inspector Blair, to marry her. Not that any of his colleagues ever even guessed at his wife’s rough background. After a few false starts, Mary Blair had modelled herself on Peter Daviot’s wife, and there was no longer any trace of the prostitute in her manner or dress. Daviot was fond of telling Blair what a lucky man he was to have found such an excellent wife.

Before he switched on the television that evening, Blair was feeling quite kindly towards his wife. A glass of whisky had been waiting for him when he got home from work, his flat was clean and shining, and she had cooked him an excellent supper.

He switched on the television news, hoping to see film of himself because he had held an impromptu press conference on the waterfront. But when the news item about the murder of the witch came up on the screen, he saw it was not a picture of himself, but of Daviot, speaking to the press outside police headquarters.

He turned up the sound and Daviot’s genteel accents filled the room. “Yes,” he was saying, “I have just received a report from the laboratory that the fire was set off by a fuse, which explains why the constable who found the body did not find anyone in the house.”

Mary looked over her knitting and saw her husband’s face turn a nasty purplish colour with rage.

“Blood pressure!” she cautioned.

Jimmy Anderson called to see Hamish later that evening. “Were you behind that leak to the papers?” he demanded.

“Would I dae a thing like that?” asked Hamish. “Want a drink?”

“Aye. Blair is furious. But that local reporter insists he was up by the cottage and heard you talking to the forensic lassie.”

“So why blame me?” asked Hamish, all injured innocence.

“Just a hunch.”

“So what are the villagers saying?”

“Damn all. Except for a few of the more religious ones who think God sent down the fire to cleanse the place of her evil deeds. I asked Dr. Brodie if any of his patients had come to him suffering from Spanish fly and he told me he couldn’t discuss his patients. And not a man in the village will confess to having been to see her. Know anyone?”

“Not yet,” lied Hamish.

Jimmy’s blue eyes had a shrewd look. “I know you’re a close-knit, loyal, superstitious community up here, Hamish, but a villager impeding the police in their enquiries is not nearly as serious as a copper doing the same thing.”

“Och, drink your whisky,” snapped Hamish. “I’ll see what I can find out. But what about her background? If she supplied iffy potions here, then it’s ten to one she supplied them somewhere else. Was she ever married?”

“We’re trying to find out.”

“Catriona Beldame won’t have been her real name. Had she an account at the bank?”

“The bank manager says no, and any personal papers she had went up in the fire.”

“What if she changed her name by deed poll?”

“Still looking into that. But she bought the cottage! She paid cash.”

“How much?”

“Twenty-five thousand. Willie Ross, Sandy’s brother, advertised the cottage in the paper. He says he was right glad to get the money because the place was beginning to fall to bits and no one wants a cottage with an iron roof and an outside toilet these days. All done privately.”

“What about stamp duty?”

“None required if it’s under sixty thousand pounds. Look, Willie Ross badly needed the money. Along comes this Beldame female waving a fistful of notes at him, saying they didn’t need to bother with lawyers. What was her accent?”

“Slight highland accent. Mind you, it’s one of the easiest to mimic. I wish Elspeth were here.”

“Your ex-girlfriend? Why?”

“She’s got a Gypsy background. I’m beginning to wonder whether Catriona was a Gypsy.”

“Fortunately Mr. Patel at the grocery took a photo of her. He fancies himself as a cameraman. It’s a good shot, full face. It’ll be in all the newspapers tomorrow. Let’s hope someone recognises her.”

“I hope it turns out she’s got some really nasty, ordinary criminal background,” said Hamish. “That would stop this lot in the village thinking she was a witch.”

The picture of Catriona Beldame was featured on the front pages of nearly every newspaper in Britain. She had been photographed on the waterfront by Patel. It was a good clear shot of her standing in the sunlight.

Hamish, avoiding the press, set off to question people in the village. He started with Willie Lamont, who was cleaning the restaurant preparatory to the lunchtime opening.

Willie loved cleaning. His Italian wife, Lucia, often complained that Willie’s passion for new and better cleaning products took up too much space in their cottage.

He turned and saw Hamish and grinned. “Wi’ all these press folk, it’s going to be busy,” he said.

Hamish removed his peaked cap and sat down at a table. “Join me a moment,” he said. “I want to ask you some questions about Catriona Beldame.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” said Willie defensively. “I should never have gone to her, but Lucia hasn’t been much interested in martial rights since the baby.”

Hamish wondered whether to correct Willie’s malapropism but decided to let it go.

“I have to use a condominium,” said Willie, “and that’s no fun. Like having a bath with your socks on.”

“Isn’t Lucia on the pill?” asked Hamish, momentarily diverted.

“She’s a good Catholic.”

“So what happened when you saw Catriona?”

“She gave me some herbal tea and said to make sure Lucia took it, but Lucia wouldn’t, so I went back to the witch and she said she could make my sexual progress—”

“Prowess,” corrected Hamish.

“Whatever. She said I would be irresistible but all I got was the itch. She caused a lot of misery on the village. Then men who went to her said there was no point getting all fired up if the missus wouldn’t play. It’s the older fellows in the village who were the most disappointed.”

“Like who?”

“I shouldnae say.”

“Come on, Willie, I’ll find out anyway.”

“Well, there’s Fergus Braid, him that works over at the paper mill, Archie, the fisherman, Colin Framont, the builder, and Timmy Teviot, the forestry worker. That’s all I know about and don’t you go saying you got it from me. Now I’ve got to get back to my cleaning.”

Hamish left in a haze of lavender-scented cleaner.

He decided to start with Archie. Archie was a friend. But he doubted whether the fisherman could tell him anything more than he had already. He went back to the police station first to let his dog and cat out for a walk up the fields at the back. He knew if he appeared with them on the waterfront, there would be tales about the eccentric policeman with a wild cat as a pet and Sonsie might be taken away from him.

The air had turned considerably colder. The loch was like black glass, the trees in the pine forest opposite reflected in the still water. The two mountains soaring above the village had snow on their peaks.

And in the midst of all this beauty, scurrying around or talking in little groups, were the press. Hamish longed for a quick solution to the murder so that he could get the village back again to its usual quiet ways.

Archie was sitting on the harbour wall in front of his cottage. Steam was billowing out of the open door of the cottage. His wife was a ferocious boiler of clothes, which perhaps explained why everything poor Archie wore always seemed too tight.

“Any news?” asked Archie.

“Nothing yet. I want you to tell me why you went to the witch in the first place and what exactly happened.”

“I went because o’ my indigestion. Chronic, it is. Herself seemed right pleasant. She gave me some herb tea and it worked like a charm. She flirted with me, Hamish. Me! I knew herself had to be joking because she was a fine-looking woman and I’m no oil painting but it made me feel good—like a man again.

“I went back to get some more and herself started to talk about sex. Man, you know we don’t talk about such things in Lochdubh. But with her pretty ways, she got me really fired up and she said she could sell me something that would make the wifie think I was great.”

“How much did she charge?

Archie hung his head. “Fifty pounds.”

Hamish was shocked. “That’s an awful lot o’ money for you, Archie,” he said, “what with the fishing being so bad.”

“I’ve never gone mad,” said Archie, “but when I look back on it, it seems as if she drove me mad wi’”—his voice sank to a hoarse whisper—“lust. Once I was a bit away from her, it all faded except for a wee bit o’ my brain that longed to go back. Now I feel dirty. It’s as if she scrambled up our minds, us men. It’s like that wi’ a lot o’ the ither men. Women are a right funny breed. You see women on the telly just panting for a wee bit o’ nookie, and the magazines telling them how to get the man in their lives excited. Och, well, the hard fact is we don’t do sex in Lochdubh.”

“How do the other men cope?” asked Hamish.

“Just give up, like me, or they go to that br . . . Never mind.”

Hamish’s hazel eyes sharpened and he pushed his peaked cap back on his fiery red hair. “What were you about to say?”

“I wass about to say, or they go their own way.”

“I think you were about to say
brothel.
Where? Inverness? Strathbane?”

“I promised not to tell,” said Archie miserably. “I gave my word and I’ll not break it.”

Hamish gave up. He knew there were several brothels in Strathbane. What worried him was that one might have sprung up on his patch. It wasn’t like the old days. Now women from Eastern European countries were being forced into prostitution.

His mobile phone rang. He glanced down at the screen and recognised Blair’s home number. He was going to let it ring when he saw Blair standing outside the mobile police unit further down the waterfront. He realised it must be Blair’s wife who was calling him.

“Hamish?” Mary Blair’s voice came on the line. “I need to talk to you but I don’t want my old man to know about it. Can you come over?”

“I’ll do my best, Mary, but I don’t want your neighbours to see me and tell your husband. Meet me at Betty’s café in the main street. None of the police go there. Say in about an hour.”

“Grand. It’s important, Hamish.”

As it was Saturday, Hamish had hopes of finding the builder, Colin Framont, at home. He had torn down the old fishing cottage he had bought and replaced it with a bungalow with a fake Georgian portico made of wood at the front. Hamish thought it was lucky that Colin’s monstrosity of a house was up at the back of the village instead of spoiling the front.

Colin answered the door. He was a heavy, thickset man with grizzled hair, a beer paunch, and watery brown eyes.

“Whit?” he demanded curtly.

“It’s about Catriona Beldame,” said Hamish.

Colin’s faded-looking wife, Tilly, joined him on the doorstep. “Oh, Mr. Macbeth,” she said. “Would you like some tea?”

“No, he wouldnae like tea,” snarled Colin. “Get back in the kitchen.”

When his wife had scurried off, Colin said defiantly, “I only went tae her the once for indigestion pills.”

“There seems to be a fair amount of indigestion in Loch-dubh,” said Hamish cynically. “Can you tell me what she said?”

“She gave me some tea and I went off.”

And with that, Colin slammed the door in Hamish’s face.

Hamish rang the bell again. No reply.

He banged on the door, which was swung open by a furious Colin.

“I’ve got naethin’ mair to say to ye!” he howled.

“Look, we can either do things here or at the station,” said Hamish. “Take your pick.”

To his surprise, the builder said, “The station’ll be fine.”

As they walked towards the police station, Colin said, “I know what you want to ask but you cannae be asking things like that in front of the wife.”

In the station Hamish served him tea in the kitchen and got down to business. “So what really happened?”

“It was around the men in the village that the witch could gie ye something tae make ye mair sexy to the wife, but the itch got so bad I went tae Dr. Brodie and he told me it was dangerous stuff. I went up there to have it out with her but there was no reply.”

“When exactly did you go up to her cottage?”