“Now, then,” said Hamish soothingly. “It may be a bird or animal stuck up there.”
“But the sweep was here and cleaned the chimney.”
“When was that?”
“This morning.”
“And where is your husband?”
“He went out for a walk. He’s not back yet.”
“In the drawing room, you said?”
“Yes, let me show you.” Milly led the way. The drawing room was sparsely furnished with Swedish assemble- it-yourself furniture, unsuited to what had once been an elegant room.
Hamish took out a powerful torch, crouched down, and shone it up the chimney. The torchlight fell on a dangling pair of highly polished brogues.
He sat back on his heels. “I’m afraid there’s a body stuck in the chimney.”
“Oh, that poor sweep!” gasped Milly.
Hamish did not like to tell her that Pete had never worn anything on his feet but dirty cracked old boots. He telephoned police headquarters and demanded the lot—ambulance, fire department, Scenes of Crimes Operatives, and police.
He turned to Milly and said gently, “Chust you be going ben to the kitchen. This iss not the place for you.”
While he waited, Hamish fretted. What if the man up the chimney was not dead? But if he pulled the body down, he would be accused of having ruined a possible crime scene.
To his relief, he heard the wail of sirens approaching. Hamish stood back to let the white-suited SOCO men into the room first and then went into the kitchen to join Detective Chief Inspector Blair, a thickset Glaswegian who hated him, and Blair’s sidekick, Jimmy Anderson.
Hamish reported what he had found. “I think it’s Captain Davenport,” he said. “And we’d better find that sweep.”
“Then get to it,” snapped Blair, “and leave this to the experts.”
There was a short drive at the front of the house, shadowed by trees and bushes. Tyre marks at the side in the gravel showed that the sweep had ridden round to the kitchen door at the side.
Hamish went to the general store first where Jock Kennedy and his wife, Ailsa, served behind the counter. He told them what had happened and then appealed to Ailsa, “I think Mrs. Davenport could do wi’ a bit of female company.”
“I’ll get up there right away,” said Ailsa.
Hamish then headed up over the moors to the hut in which Pete Ray lived. He knocked, but there was no reply. He walked around the hut amongst bits of old rusting machinery but could not see the motorbike. He tried the door of the hut and found it unlocked. He entered flashing his torch this way and that because he knew the hut did not have any electricity. It consisted of one room with a calor gas stove in one corner, a dirty unmade bed against one wall, an old iron stove, and a jumble of magazines heaped on the floor beside the bed. A curtained recess contained one good suit and, lying underneath the suit on the floor, a heap of underwear and dirty sweaters.
He went back outside, experiencing a feeling of dread. He could not see Pete committing such a pointless and elaborate murder. Hamish took out his phone and called Jimmy Anderson. “Can’t see Pete anywhere,” he said.
“Blair’s got an all-points out on him,” said Jimmy, “although I don’t see how a sweep on an old-fashioned bike should suddenly become invisible.”
“I can,” said Hamish gloomily.
“What?”
“What if the murderer was interrupted by the sweep, killed him, drove his bike off to the nearest peat bog, and made the lot disappear?”
“Trust you to go complicating things.”
But the next day, Pete was found dead up on the moors. It appeared his motorcycle had struck a hollow hidden in the heather and had catapulted him onto a sharp rock. His neck was broken. He was clutching a tyre iron matted with hair and blood. In the sidecar were found silver candlesticks, the captain’s wallet, and Milly’s jewellery. Case closed. Pete had been caught by the captain and had killed him.
The following evening when Jimmy called at the police station in Lochdubh, he found Hamish Macbeth in a truculent mood.
“I dinnae believe it,” exclaimed Hamish. “Not Pete. He was a gentle soul and he loved his chimneys. He was a bit simple in a way. But vicious? Neffer!”
“Oh, calm down and give me a dram,” said Jimmy.
Hamish poured him a measure of whisky. “It’s like this,” he said. “Davenport tells the wife that he is going out for a walk and if anyone asks for him to say he’s gone abroad.”
“You’ve been hacking into the police computers again,” accused Jimmy.
Hamish ignored that remark and went on: “So say this person meets him and they walk back to the house. This person quarrels with Davenport and bashes his head in wi’ a tyre iron, and then like a bad elf, down the chimney, out pops Pete. It’s one of thae old-fashioned chimneys with climbing rungs inside from the days when the sweep sent a boy up. Pete could get up there himself. He was all skin and bone. The murderer kills him, takes a few objects to make it look as if Peter was a robber as well, gets him in the sidecar, and goes off over the moors to fake the whole thing. Returns to the house and searches for something he wants, can’t find it, and in a rage he stuffs the captain up the chimney, the captain himself being pretty skinny, hoping it’ll be some time before the body is found.”
“Oh, come on, Hamish. Let it go.”
“No! I bet forensics never examined that sidecar properly. I want to see it.”
“It’s eight o’clock, laddie.”
“Come on, Jimmy. Let’s go.”
“All right. Leave your beasts behind. They give me the shivers.”
Hamish’s “beasts” were a dog called Lugs and a wild cat called Sonsie. Jimmy should have known that Hamish would no more consider leaving them behind than he would a pair of small children.
Hamish set off driving his Land Rover while Jimmy followed in his unmarked police car.
There was a mildness in the evening air as if winter were at last releasing its grip on Sutherland. Great stars blazed above, with the towering mountains black silhouettes against the bright sky.
The head of SOCO was a beefy truculent man called Angus Forrest. “I’m packing up for the night,” he growled.
“We just want a wee look at that sweep’s sidecar,” said Jimmy.
“I was going to go over it tomorrow. Doesn’t seem much point. Open-and-shut case.”
“Won’t take us long,” said Jimmy stubbornly.
The motorcycle and sidecar were parked in a garage at the side of police headquarters. Angus switched on the overhead lights. “I’m off to the pub,” he said. “Phone me when you’ve finished. But suit up and get your gloves on.”
Jimmy and Hamish struggled into their blue forensic suits and boots. “Now,” said Hamish, his hazel eyes gleaming, “let’s see what we can find. I suppose the tyre iron and the jewellery and wallet have all been bagged up, but it’s that sidecar that interests me. We need luminol.”
“What do you think this is?” grumbled Jimmy. “The telly? Got a fingerprint kit?”
“Got it with me.”
“Okay, dust away. I’ll sit over there and watch you.”
Hamish carefully began to dust the sidecar and motorbike. He finally straightened up. “Whoever drove this wore gloves. When did Pete wear gloves?”
“When he’d just murdered someone,” said Jimmy, stifling a yawn.
“But there are no fingerprints, and the sidecar has been wiped clean.”
“Pete’s fingerprints were found on the candlestick and on the captain’s wallet.”
“Aye, you can press a dead man’s hand on the stuff. I need a damp cloth.”
“What for?”
“Never mind. I’ll use my handkerchief.” Hamish ran it under a tap and wrung it out. Then he bent into the
