Hamish MacBeth 06 (1991) - Death of a Snob (9 page)

“But you haven’t got an independent mind, Heather dear,” John brandished the carving knife at her. “It’s full of Communist claptrap. You’re the sort of woman who would have turned her husband and family over to the KGB, all to the glory of Joe Stalin. And furthermore, if you have such an independent mind, why do you try to dress like Jane? She can get away with wearing short frocks because she’s got good legs and a first-class figure while you just look like mutton dressed as lamb.”

Harriet looked desperately at Hamish, who rose to his feet. He raised his glass. “Merry Christmas, everyone,” said Hatnish Macbeth..

Startled, they all muttered “Merry Christmas.” Hamish remained on his feet. “Her Majesty, the Queen,” he proposed. All dutifully drank that one, except Heather. “And here’s to our cook, Harriet Shaw,” went oh Hamish gleefully, while everyone hurriedly replenished their glasses. “And to our hostess. “Harriet began to giggle. “Do sit down, Hamish. You’ll have us quite drunk.”

But the sudden rush of alcohol into the systems of the angry guests worked well. The quarrels appeared to have been temporarily forgotten by the time the Christmas pudding was served.

After the meal was over, Jane led the party through to the lounge.

“Oh, dear,” murmured Harriet, for under the tree was a pile of presents. Jane had bought presents for everyone. Harriet had guessed she would, but had forgotten to warn Hamish. Diarmuid got that item of headgear usually advertised in mail-order catalogues as a ‘genuine Greek fisherman’s hat. He was delighted and ran to a mirror to admire the effect. Harriet got a newfangled pastry-cutter; Sheila, a new romance called Texas Heat; Ian, a pair of slippers; John, a pocket calculator; Heather, a large volume entitled The Degradation of the Working Classes in Victorian Scotland; and there was even a present for Hamish. It was a grey-green sweater ornamented with strutting pheasants.

The guests then went to fetch their presents for Jane. “I forgot to warn you,” whispered Harriet to Hamish. “Have you got anything?”

Hamish suddenly remembered the bottle of perfume in his luggage. He had bought it to give to Priscilla and had then forgotten about it, having packed it by mistake along with his shaving-kit. “I only need a bit of Christmas wrapping,” he whispered.

Soon Jane was crowing with delight as she unwrapped her presents, although they were a singularly unimaginative set of offerings, from a cheque from her ex-husband to a record of protest songs from Heather.

“Gosh, I’ve eaten so much,” sighed Heather.

“A good walk is what we need.” Jane got to her feet. “Why don’t you all go ahead and I’ll catch up with you?”

Heather fumbled about the coats hanging at the doorway, complaining she could not find her oilskin. “Take mine,” said Jane. “Save you time looking. I’ve got another one.” So Heather put on Jane’s yellow oilskin and an of them went out into, the fierce gale.

It was after they had gone a mile along the beach that Hamish realised that Diarmuid and Heather were having a monumental row. The wind snatched their words away but then the little group saw Heather smack her husband’s face. Diarmuid turned on his heel and strode back in the direction of the hotel. As he passed Hamish, his face was tense and excited.

Heather strode off inland, at right angles to the beach, without a word. The others huddled together and watched her go. “I wonder what all that was about?” said Sheila. “I thought they never had rows—well, hardly ever.”

“Look,” said Ian, “there’s a truck coming along the beach.”

Hamish recognised Geordie’s antique Fiat. It drew to a stop beside them and Geordie jumped down. He held out his hand to Hamish. “I want tae thank you,” he said. “I’ve neffer had a bit o’ trouble wi’ him since Macleod fixed things.”

“There you are,” said Hamish with a grin. “It’s all in the mind. Where are you off to?”

“Skulag. I’ve had enough o’ the missus. I’m going to the bar.”

“Why don’t we go with him?” Hamish asked the others. They all agreed, suddenly not wanting to go back to the health farm and spend the rest of Christmas Day with a warring Heather and Diarmuid.

“What about Jane?” asked John.

“I don’t think she means to come,” pointed out Hamish. “And besides, we never told her which way we were going on our walk.”

“Two in the front and the rest up on the back,” said Geordie.

They all rattled cheerfully on their way and were soon settled in the bar of The Highland Comfort, ignoring the hostile stares of the locals and getting quite tipsy. Geordie had said he didn’t dare join them, lest the islanders damn him for consorting with “the enemy.”

It was five o’clock when Hamish reluctantly suggested they should return. It had been so easy and companionable. The Carpenters had told stories of farming life in Yorkshire, John had related some very witty anecdotes about terrible judges, and Harriet had made them laugh with an account about being interviewed on television by an interviewer with a prepared list of questions who thought Harriet was a literary-prize winner and who had ploughed on regardless.

Geordie had disappeared, and so they all had to walk back. Hamish took Harriet’s hand. He knew he was quite drunk, a rare state of affairs for him. He felt warm and happy despite the howling wind and darkness. But as soon as he saw the pink sign of The Happy Wanderer, he experienced such a sharp feeling of dread that he let Harriet’s hand drop and stood still.

“What’s the matter?” asked Harriet.

He shivered. “Someone walking over my grave. Come on. Jane will be wondering what has happened to us all.”

Jane and Diarmuid were seated in the lounge in front of the fire, side by side on the sofa. They rose to meet the company. Hamish looked at both of them sharply but Diarmuid looked much as usual, and Jane seemed delighted to see them, asking if they had enjoyed their walk.

“Where’s Heather?” asked Hamish sharply.

“Still out. She walked off in a huff, if you remember,” replied Diarmuid.

“She shouldnae be out in the dark on her own. She hadn’t a torch.” Hamish looked worried. “We’re going to have to organize a search-party.”

“It’s not late,” said Jane soothingly. “She’s probably stay-big away to give us a fright.”

“And she’s succeeding wi’ me,” said Hamish grimly. He picked up a torch. “I’m going to look for her.”

“I’m coming too,” volunteered Harriet, not because she was worried about Heather but because she did not want to be with the others without Hamish.

“I think you ought to go too,” said John, looking at Diarmuid with dislike. “That is, if you can tear yourself away from my wife.”

“Ex-wife,” said Diannuid huffily. But he got to his feet and took his Harbour coat down from a hook at the door and then spent some time adjusting his new cap on his head. Not wanting to be left out of things, the Carpenters volunteered their services, and then Jane said she would go as well, for she knew the island better than any of them.

They split up outside. Harriet insisted on staying with Hamish and Sheila with her husband. Jane and Diarmuid and John looked at each other under the light of the pink sign and then, without a word, went their separate ways.

“I couldn’t be on my own on an island like this,” said Harriet, keeping close to Hamish. “It’s spooky. You forget there are still parts of the world where there are no street lights, no shops, nothing but the howling wind and blackness.”

For hours they struggled through endless miles of moorland and croftland, knocking at cottage doors from time to time, asking if anyone had seen Heather, but no one had.

It was nearly midnight when they returned, to learn from the others that Heather was still missing. Hamish went through to the phone and tried to rouse Sandy Ferguson, the policeman, but without success. He then phoned headquarters at Strathbane and ordered air-sea rescue patrols just in case Heather had been blown off some crag into-the sea.

He sat up late while the others went to bed, waiting and hoping for Heather’s return. In the morning, he set out at six and walked down to the village and began banging on doors and summoning all the men he could get to help in the search. Strangely, he knew there would be no difficulty. The islanders’ spite did not extend to leaving some woman, possibly injured, lying out on the moors.

As dawn finally rose, he already had a line of men straggling out from the village, searching everywhere. The gale was tremendous, booming and shouting and roaring across the sky. Soon the brief daylight would begin to fade. Hamish looked up at the sky. There seemed little hope of any air rescue even getting off the landing strip in such weather.

Sandy Ferguson had sulkily joined the search. He looked more hung over than ever.

Hamish became aware that a red-haired child was studying him curiously as he searched around a large peat stack.

The boy crept closer. “Are ye looking for her?” he whispered.

“Aye,” said Hamish. “A Mrs. Todd.”

“I saw her sunbathing,” said the boy.

Hamish looked at the white, pinched face and his eyes sharpened. “Could you take me to where she was sunbathing?”

“Aye, I could that, but it’s ower on the west.”

“What’s your name, laddie?”

“Rory Sinclair.”

Hamish called to one of the men on the road, who came running up. He drew him aside. “This boy’s talking about seeing a woman sunbathing.”

“Och, Rory’s daft. A wee bitty simple.”

“Still, we’ve got to try everything. You’ve got your car. Let’s get the lad into it and get him to show us where he saw the woman.”

Rory climbed into the passenger seat, highly excited at the thought of a trip in a car.

“Where on the west?” asked Hamish from the back seat.

“Balnador.”

The car, an old battered Mini-Cooper, chugged its way along roads which were little more than tracks, heading to the north-west of the island. “Vroom! Vroom!” said Rory, obviously enjoying himself hugely.

The car finally rolled to a stop. The driver said, “This is as far as I can get to the shore.”

Hamish climbed out, helped Rory out of the front seat, and said, “Show me where you saw her.”

The boy scampered ahead. The clouds parted and a fitful gleam of sunlight shone on the crags of rocks ahead, sticking up like broken teeth. The boy scrambled up them like a young deer, crouching before the wind. Then he shouted something that was torn away by the gale and pointed down.

Hamish scrambled up after him and lay on his stomach on a small triangle of mossy grass. The crag overlooked the sea. Huge waves were racing in, black and green and dashing themselves on a small pebbly beach. The thunder of the waves was deafening. The whole world seemed to be in motion.

Waves reared up to tremendous heights before tumbling down with a powerful roar.

Hamish put his lips to the boy’s ear.

“Where?”

Again the boy pointed down.

Hamish craned over the crag. And there down below, just beyond the fanning spread of the crashing waves, he saw a woman’s foot.

Balancing against the ferocity of the wind, he turned and signalled to the driver, a small figure in the distance, and waited impatiently until the man crawled up to him. “She’s here,” bawled Hamish. “Get the doctor and get help, but take this lad away first.”

When the boy had gone, Hamish slowly began to ease his way down to the small beach.

Heather Todd lay under a curve of overhanging rock. He stooped down and felt her pulse. Nothing. He examined her head and then gently lifted it. Her neck was broken and there was an ugly bruise on the side of it. He drew his knees up to his chin and waited, shivering, beside the dead body, for help to arrive.

I hope I shall never be deterred from detecting what I think a cheat, by the menace of a ruffian.

—SAMUEL JOHNSON

H
amish supposed there would be a doctor on the island. There must be. He stood up and stretched and looked up at the crag above him and then at Heather’s body. The only heights on the island were the crags at various parti of the coast. How could she have broken her neck? The crag was only about fifteen feet above the beach. It was no enormous cliff with a fall onto jagged rocks. Admittedly, if she had bounced against one of the sharp projecting edges, that might have done the trick.

The wind was less savage now and he could clearly, hear the sound of voices above him. Occasionally a torch beam searched him out as more islanders began to gather. And then he heard Sandy Ferguson’s voice. “Is that you, Hamish? I’ll send a couple of men down to collect her so that Dr. Queen can have a look at the body.”

“No, you won’t,” shouted Hamish. “Nothing has to be touched. Get him down here and bring a tent to cover the body until the pathologist arrives.”

There was the sound of swearing and then a scuffle followed by the clatter of falling debris as Sandy and a thin elderly man made their way down.

“This is Dr. Queen,” said Sandy.

The doctor was a thin, spare man with a face set in lines of permanent arrogance. “I gather you’re some sort of local bobby from the west coast,” he said. “Well, stand aside, man, and let’s have a look at her.”

“Gently, now,” warned Hamish. “Don’t disturb anything.”

The doctor ignored him. “Bring that lantern closer, Sandy,” he said. “Mmm, yes. As I thought. She was blown off the top of the crag and broke her neck. Sad but straightforward. Get some men to take her up, Sandy, and get her put in my surgery while I prepare a report for the procurator fiscal.”

“You are not to touch her.” Hamish Macbeth stood foursquare beside the body.

“Why not?”

“Because I think it might be murder. I think someone struck her a savage blow on the neck wi’ a rock.”

“Dear me, don’t be a fool, there’s a good fellow,” said the doctor.

“I repeat: no one touches this body until a team from Strathbane arrives,” said Hamish stubbornly.

“You have not the authority. This is my island,” protested Sandy.

“Aye, and-you’ll find yourself off it soon enough if I have my way,” snapped Hamish. “I’m telling you to leave it where it is or, by God, I’ll make trouble for both o’ ye.”