heard the shrill sound of the telephone ringing in the police office. He ran in and picked up the receiver. Jimmy Anderson was on the line. “You’d better get over to Braikie, Hamish. We’ll join you as soon as we can.”
“What’s up?”
“Sir Andrew Etherington collected thon tiara from the town hall first thing this morning. He was on the way back to his home when there was a blast up ahead and a tree fell across the road. Four fellows he didn’t know appeared and said they’d move the tree if he’d sit tight. Now Sir Andrew gets out of the car to go and help. He gets back in his car and waves goodbye to those helpful men. He’s nearly at his home when he realises that the box wi’ the tiara is no longer on the seat beside him.”
Hamish scrambled into his uniform and then phoned Josie and said he’d be picking her up in a few moments. Josie complained that she was just out of the bath.
“Then take your car and follow me over,” said Hamish. “The tiara’s been stolen. Get on the road towards Crask. Take the north road out of Braikie and you’ll see my Land Rover. Some men got a tree to fall over the road, blocking Sir Andrew’s way, and when he got out to help them someone nicked the tiara.”
Hamish was cursing as he took the Braikie Road. Every year the safety of that tiara was his responsibility.
As he drove through Braikie and out on the north road, he slowed down until he saw a rowan tree lying by the side of the road. He stopped and got out.
He remembered that tree, for trees were scarce in Sutherland apart from the forestry plantations, and such as survived were miserable stunted little things bent over by the Sutherland gales. The rowan tree, however, had been a sturdy old one sheltered from the winds in the lee of a hill that overshadowed the road. The bottom of the trunk had been shattered by a blast. He went across to where the tree had once grown and studied the blackened ground. He guessed a charge of dynamite had been put at the base of the tree.
He straightened up as Josie’s car came speeding along the road. He flagged her down and said, “You wait here for the forensic boys. I’ll go on to the shooting box.”
The shooting box was a handsome Georgian building, square-built with a double staircase leading up to the front door.
Hamish knew that the front door was never used so he went round to one at the side of the building and knocked. A grisled old man, Tom Calley, who worked as a butler during the shooting season, answered the door. “It’s yourself, Hamish. A bad business.”
“I’d like to speak to Sir Andrew.”
“I’ll take you to him.”
“Has he got a shooting party here?”
“Not yet. The guests are due to arrive next week for the grouse. There’s just Sir Andrew and his son, Harry.”
“No other help but yourself?”
“A couple of lassies frae Braikie, Jeannie Macdonald and her sister Rosie.”
Hamish followed him up stone stairs to a square hall, where the mournful heads of shot animals looked down at him with glassy eyes.
Tom led the way across the hall and threw open the door to a comfortable drawing room, full of shabby furniture and lined with books.
Sir Andrew put down the newspaper he had been reading. He was a tall, thin man in his late fifties with a proud nose, thin mouth, and sparse brown hair. His son, Harry, was slumped in a chair opposite his father. Harry, in contrast, was short and plump, owlish looking with thick glasses.
“This is infuriating,” said Sir Andrew.
“Could you just describe to me exactly what happened?”
Sir Andrew went through his story again. When he had finished, Hamish said, “You don’t have much of a description of the men.”
“They were wearing those baseball caps with the peak like a duck’s bill pulled down over their faces. They all wore sort of working clothes, grey shirts and jeans.”
Hamish’s eyebrows rose. “All wearing the same type of clothes?”
“Well, yes.”
“What sort of accent?”
“ Highland, I suppose, although one sounded a bit Irish.”
“How Irish?”
“At one point he said, ‘Faith and begorrah, ’tis a black thing to happen on a fine day.’ ”
“You’re sure?”
“Would I make that up?”
Hamish glanced out of the corner of his eye at Harry. There was a certain rigid stillness about him.
“If you don’t mind, sir,” said Hamish, “I’d like to search the house.”
“You need a search warrant!” shouted Harry.
“Go ahead,” said Sir Andrew. “Pipe down, Harry.”
Detective Chief Inspector Blair arrived followed by the scenes of crimes operatives. Then Jimmy Anderson along with a van full of police officers arrived at the bombed tree.
“Where’s Macbeth?” demanded Blair.
“Gone to speak to Sir Andrew,” said Josie.
“He should ha’ waited for me.”
“I’ve remembered something, sir. It’s important.”
“Spit it out!”
“I went to a fortune-teller at the fair yesterday…”
“God gie me patience.”
“No, wait. She said something about a bang and flames.”
“Oh, she did, did she? I might ha’ known. Sodding Gypsies. I might ha’ known they’d be behind this.” Blair called everyone around him. “Get back to that fair. The caravans should still be there. Search every single one. Get it!”
Hamish met Tom in the hall. “Which is Harry’s room?” he whispered.
“Follow me.”
Up more old stone steps worn smooth with age. “This is it,” said Tom, opening a door.
The room was dominated by an old four-poster bed. On either side of the bed were side tables covered in paperbacks. There was an enormous wardrobe. Hamish opened it. It was of the old kind with room for hats, drawers for ties and shirts on one side, and space for hanging clothes on the other.
“I’ll leave you to it,” said Tom.
“You’d better stay,” said Hamish. “I might need you as a witness.”
As he searched the wardrobe, he turned over in his mind what he’d heard about Harry. He had a reputation of being a bit of a wastrel. His mother was dead and Sir Andrew was rumoured to be strict, always finding some job or other for his son and raging when Harry usually only survived a few weeks in each.
The wardrobe yielded nothing sinister. He turned and surveyed the room.
Then he dragged a hard-backed chair over to the wardrobe and stood on top of it, his long fingers searching behind the wooden pediment on top of the wardrobe.
He slowly dragged forward a black leather box.
Chapter Three
O Diamond! Diamond! Thou little knowest the mischief done!
– Sir Isaac Newton
Blair, originally from Glasgow, detested Gypsies even more than he detested highlanders. It was this, fuelled by his glee when Josie whispered to him that she wanted a transfer back to Strathbane and that Hamish Macbeth was useless, that caused him to make one of the biggest mistakes of his career.
He did not have search warrants but he ordered his men to search every caravan. The Gypsies howled their protests and then fell ominously silent. The reason for their silence was soon proved as no fewer than
