“My husband.”
“I thought you were a widow.”
“I hope I am. It’s been a long time.”
“Was he violent?”
Again that sigh. “There you have it. Yes.”
“Tell me about it.”
“No, it’s my business. Finish your drink and go.”
Hamish studied her. “Was he in prison?”
“Get out of here, you tiresome man. I’m weary.”
Hamish finished his drink and stood up.
“Think about it,” he said. “There’s no use asking the police for help and then withholding information.”
But she did not reply or rise from her chair. He stood looking down at her for a few moments and then he put on his cap and let himself out.
His Highland curiosity was rampant. Why had he never stopped before to wonder about Mrs. Gallagher? She would appear in the village from time to time to stock up on groceries. If someone tried to speak to her she would be so cutting and rude that gradually she had come to be left alone. In the morning he would visit one of the older residents and see if he could find out some facts about her mysterious husband.
? A Highland Christmas ?
2
The following day, before he was due to talk to the local schoolchildren, he set out to call on Angus Macdonald. Angus was the local seer, credited with having the gift of second sight. Hamish was cynical about the seer’s alleged powers, guessing that Angus relied on a fund of local gossip to fuel his predictions.
He went out to the freezer in the shed at the back of the house and took out two trout he had poached in the summer. The seer always expected a present.
The day was cold and crisp and so he decided to walk up the hill at the back of the village to where Angus lived. Hamish thought cynically that Angus kept the interior of his cottage deliberately old–fashioned, from the oil lamps to the blackened kettle on its chain over the peat fire. His fame had spread far and wide. The dark, old– fashioned living room, Hamish was sure, added to the legends about Angus’s gifts.
“It’s yourself, Hamish,” said Angus, looking more than ever like one of the minor prophets with his shaggy grey hair and long beard.
“Brought you some trout for your tea, Angus.”
“Fine, fine. Chust put them down on the counter there. A dram?”
“Better not, Angus. I’m going to give a talk to the schoolchildren and I don’t want the smell o‘ whisky on my breath.”
“Sit yourself down and tell me what brings ye.”
“Now, now,” mocked Hamish, “I thought the grand seer like yourself wouldnae even have to ask.”
Angus leaned back and half closed his eyes. “She isnae coming back this Christmas.”
Hamish scowled horribly. He knew Angus was referring to the once love of his life, Priscilla Halburton- Smythe.
“I didn’t come about that,” said Hamish crossly. “Mrs. Gallagher’s cat is missing.” He opened his notebook, took out the black-and-white photograph of Smoky and handed it to the seer.
“It iss grey and white, that cat,” said the seer.
“You’ve seen it?”
“No, I chust know.”
“So tell me about Mrs. Gallagher. I wasn’t around when she came to Lochdubh. There’s something about her husband. Know anything about that?”
“I thought she was a widow.”
“So you don’t know everything, Angus.”
“No one can know everything,” said Angus huffily. “You will need to give me a bittie o‘ time to consult the spirits.”
“Aye, you do that,” said Hamish, heading for the door.
The seer’s voice followed him. “I find a bit o‘ steak does wonders for the memory.”
Hamish swung round. “I gave you two trout!”
“Aye, but there’s nothing like a bit of steak for helping an auld man’s memory.”
“Aren’t you frightened of the mad cow’s disease?”
“Not me,” said Angus with a grin.
“Aye, you’ve probably got it already,” muttered Hamish as he walked down the frosty hill.
The village school only catered for young children. The older ones were bused to the high school in Strathbane. There was a new schoolteacher, a Miss Maisie Pease, and it was she who had suggested that Hamish talk to the children. She was a small, neat woman with shiny black hair, a rather large prominent nose and fine brown eyes like peaty water. Hamish judged her to be in her thirties.
“Now, Officer,” she began.
“Hamish.”
“Well, Hamish it is, and I’m Maisie. I feel that children are never too young to learn about the perils of drugs, as well as all the usual cautions about not talking to strangers.”
“Right. Are the children ready for me?”
“They’re all in the main classroom.”
Hamish walked with her along a corridor to the classroom. As he neared it, he could hear the row of unsupervised children. When he pushed open the door, there came a frantic scrabbling of small pupils rushing back to their desks. Maisie followed him in.
“This is P.C. Macbeth, children,” she said. “I want you to sit quietly and pay attention.”
Hamish looked round the faces of twenty-four children, ranging in ages from five to eleven years old, rosy- cheeked Highland faces with bright eyes.
He started off by talking about the evils of bullying and of stealing. He warned them against talking to strangers or accepting lifts from strangers and then moved on to the subject of drugs. Not so very long ago, he reflected, such a talk would have been unnecessary. But drugs had found their way even up into the Highlands of Scotland. He then asked for questions.
After a polite silence, one little boy put up his hand. “Is wacky baccie bad?”
Hamish, identifying “wacky baccie” as pot, said, “Yes, it is. It’s against the law. But a lot of people will tell you there’s nothing to it. It’s better than booze. But it’s not. You can get sicker quicker and it destroys short-term memory. Just say no.”
Another boy put up his hand. “My brither wants to know where he can get Viagra.”
“Ask Dr. Brodie,” said Hamish. The boy relapsed, sniggering with his friends. So much for the innocence of youth, thought Hamish.
He then asked them what Santa Claus was bringing them. He was answered by a chorus of voices calling out that they wanted dolls or mountain bikes or dogs or cats. Hamish was glad that the children were not going to be denied Christmas, however Calvinistic the parents, although in the Lochdubh way, it would probably be celebrated behind closed doors.
“I’m going to talk to you now about pets,” said Hamish. He thought briefly of his own dog, Towser, long dead, and felt a pang of sadness. “Don’t ask your parents for a dog or a cat unless you’re very sure what looking after an animal entails. A dog, for instance, has to be housetrained, walked and fed, possibly for the next fifteen years of your life. A cat even longer. It’s cruel to want an animal as a sort of toy. If I were you, I’d wait until you’re a bit older. Dogs have to be properly trained up here or you’ll have some animal worrying the sheep.
“While I remember,” he said, “someone or some people have stolen the Christmas lights that were meant to decorate the street in Cnothan. I want you to let me know if you hear anything about strangers in the Cnothan area. There’s a bit o‘ detective work for you. Ask your older brothers or sisters or your parents and if there’s anything at
