At last, he picked up the phone and began to dial.
¦
A pale dawn was lighting up the sky and the water as Hamish Macbeth wearily made his way along the waterfront. There was something he had to do before he went to sleep and it was something that only duty was prompting him to do. His heart felt heavy, and his lips moved in a soundless Gaelic prayer.
He turned in at a white-painted gate and went around the back of the house to the kitchen door. He rapped loud and long on the glass until he saw a light go on upstairs. He waited, hearing footsteps descending, shuffling footsteps approaching the kitchen door.
The door opened and Tina Baxter stood blinking at him nervously. She clutched a pink woollen dressing gown tightly at her neck. All colour drained from her face.
“Aye, it’s me,” said Hamish heavily. “Mind if I come in?”
She stood aside, and he walked past her into the kitchen. She followed him and sat down at the kitchen table as if her legs could no longer bear her weight.
“I was here earlier,” said Hamish, “talking to you about young Charlie’s future. You were wearing a blue dress.” He took an envelope out of his tunic pocket and extracted the piece of material he had found on the bush beside the pool. “Is this yours?”
“Yes,” whispered Mrs Baxter. She covered her face with her hands and began to cry.
“I couldn’t help it,” she sobbed. “The disgrace. My Charlie’s name in the papers. I had to shut her mouth.”
Hamish sat down opposite her. His head was beginning to clear, and his earlier fright was beginning to recede as common sense took over. The first rays of sun began to warm the kitchen.
“Mrs Baxter,” he said gently. “Immediately after the murder all the bushes and braes and heather and trees were combed for clues by the forensic boys. It’s awfy strange they didn’t find this and I did.”
“I did it.” Tina Baxter stared at him, her face working.
“Aye, that you did. Not the murder. You cut a bit out of your dress and left it there, hoping someone would find it. So now we’ll have another wee chat about Charlie. He’s twelve years old. Twelve years old. Just think o’ that. He’s a strong boy but there is no way he could have overpowered a woman of Lady Jane’s size. Then there’s the lad’s character…”
“It’s bad blood, bad blood,” said Una Baxter, her hands clutching and unclutching the material of her dressing gown. “His father was violent. He threatened to kill me if I didn’t give him a divorce.” Her voice was rising hysterically.
“I am thinking,” said Hamish sincerely, “that you would drive a saint to violence. I feel like striking you myself. Do you know that because of your silly clue-planting you had me thinking you knew that Charlie did it and were trying to fix the blame on yourself? You’re a dangerous woman. Now, here’s what you are going to do. You are going to leave Charlie here to stay with his aunt and I suggest you go back home and see one o’ thae head doctors. You’ll drive the bairn mad with all your hysterics.”
“If you don’t do what I say, I will let the newspapers know that you believed your own boy capable of murder and nearly got him accused of it by your clumsiness.”
Hamish rose to his feet. “So think on that, Mrs Baxter. I’ll bring mair scandal down on your head than you ever could hae imagined.”
¦
It was the last day of the fishing course. Unless the police requested otherwise, Blair would take their home and business addresses and allow them to leave on the Sunday morning. The river Artstey was still closed to them. Heather and John had suggested they fish the Marag.
On returning to the police station, Hamish found that Blair was still asleep. He typed up his notes, studied the results, and then put them to one side. He thought long and carefully about each member of the fishing school. He decided he was being haunted by the scale of the crime. He began to read through his well-thumbed ten-volume edition of
“It is all a matter of lack of conscience,” thought Hamish.
By the time the little fishing class was setting out for their last day, Hamish was sound asleep, his dog snoring at his feet, and a sheaf of notes clutched to his chest.
He was awakened by Blair shaking his shoulder. “It’s noon,” snarled Blair savagely. “By God, I’ll report you for sheer laziness. I’ve got a job for you. You’ll come along with me to that hotel this evening and you’ll take down the addresses of the whole lot of ‘em. I don’t just mean their home addresses, we’ve got those. I mean where they work and where they’re likely to be visiting.”
“Get out!” said a small, shrill voice behind Blair. The large detective swung around in amazement. Charlie Baxter stood in the doorway clutching a mug of tea. “This is Constable Macbeth’s house,” he said, “and you’ve got no right to bully him.”
Blair stared at the boy, who was white with anger.
Hamish, who had fallen asleep in the shirt and flannels he had worn the night before, swung his legs quickly out of bed.
“Into the kitchen with you, Charlie,” he said. “What time will you be wanting me at the hotel, sir?”
“Six o’clock,” snapped Blair. “And tell that kid to mind his manners.” He stomped off where he could shortly be heard haranguing MacNab and Anderson in Hamish’s office.
“I’ve prepared breakfast for you, Mr Macbeth,” said Charlie shyly. “It’s on the table.”
“Aye, you’ve done very well,” said Hamish, tucking into charred bacon and rubbery egg. “Quite the wee housewife. Aren’t you going fishing?”
“I thought you might run up to the Marag with me,” said Charlie. “You see, I have to thank you. Mother left in a rage. I don’t know what you said or what Auntie said to her afterwards, but I’m to stay.”
“Isn’t that the great thing,” smiled Hamish.
“Och, your ma’s a decent body, but she worries overmuch about everything.”
“Perhaps we’ll catch the murderer together, Mr Macbeth.”
“We might at that. Wait till I put on my uniform and we’ll be off.”
There was a festival air about the fishing school. Even Daphne seemed to have stopped her bitchy behaviour. All of them had come to the conclusion at breakfast that none of them had done it and Lady Jane had probably come across a poacher or some itinerant madman. Tomorrow, they would all return home with a story they could dine out on for years.
Alice drew Hamish aside and showed him a silver and cairngorm ring she was wearing on a string around her neck. “Jeremy gave this to me,” she said. “He bought it at the gift shop this morning. I was going to put it on my finger, but he said to keep it secret for the moment.”
“Why?” asked Hamish curiously. “It is not as if the man is married.”
“Oh, you men are so secretive,” laughed Alice.
“If I were to be married to the lady of my choice,” said Hamish slowly, “I would shout it from the mountain top.”
But Alice only giggled happily and walked away. Hamish went to sit on a rock where he could get a view of everyone in the fishing school and there he stayed for the whole of the day. At last, at five o’clock, he walked up to Heather and said, “You are all expected in the hotel at six o’clock, Mrs Cartwright. They will want to wash and change. Mr Blair wants me to take your names and addresses, and myself will be having a bit of a word with you.”
“All right,” said Heather, looking curiously at Hamish’s face. “I’ll get them together.”
“I will go on,” said Hamish, “and make sure that no other guests are allowed in the lounge.”
At the hotel, Hamish found Blair, MacNab and Anderson waiting for him. “They are coming,” said Hamish, “and will be in the lounge at six. I am just going to tell Mr Johnson to keep other guests out of the lounge. You see, I am going to find your murderer for you, Mr Blair.”
