damn lazy to light your own fire.”
Diarmuid drank a large mouthful of hot coffee and whisky.
“I see you haven’t heard the news,” he said drearily. “Ma wife died.”
“That wass two years ago,” said Hamish. “And life goes on, and the poor woman can’t be having much of a time up there what with worrying about you neglecting your grandson and committing suicide. For that’s just what you are doing, you auld scunner.”
“I’m a poor auld man,” wailed Diarmuid.
“You’re about sixty, although I admit you’ve done your best to look like eighty. What on earth are you thinking about to turn your own son and grandson from the door?”
“They don’t need me. I’m a poor auld – ”
“Oh, shut up,” said Hamish morosely. He walked to the window and looked out on the desolate scene. “Aye, it’s blowing hard and the sea-gulls are in your fields. There’ll be snow before long.”
Diarmuid tilted his mug and drained the rest of the scalding contents in one gulp.
Then he threw back the rug and eased himself to his feet, releasing a strong smell of unwashed body. “That’s where you’re wrong,” said Diarmuid. He went to a barometer on the wall and tapped it. “Never wrong,” he said. “Says ‘set fair.”
The wind howled and the first drops of sleet struck the panes of the windows. “It’s wrong,” said Hamish. “Look. Sleet. It’ll turn to snow before evening.”
“Nobody’ll listen to a poor auld man,” mourned Diarmuid. “That machine never makes a mistake.”
Hamish seldom lost his temper, but loneliness, worry that Priscilla might even now be in Lochdubh, and fury at the self-pity of Diarmuid boiled up in him. He seized the barometer from the wall, walked to the front door, and threw it out on the grass. “See for yourself, you stupid barometer,” he howled.
There was a strange rusty sound from behind him. Ashamed of himself, Hamish ran out and retrieved the barometer, scared he had given Diarmuid a heart attack. The crofter’s choking and creaking noises were becoming louder by the minute.
“There, there,” said Hamish, quite frightened. “Me and my damn temper. Sit down, man.” Diarmuid sank back into his armchair by the fire, still choking, grunting, and wheezing. It was then that Hamish realized the crofter was laughing.
¦
It was an hour before he left Diarmuid. As if the laughter had broken his self-imposed isolation, the crofter would not stop talking. Hamish found the croft house boasted a surprisingly modern bathroom at the back and coaxed Diarmuid to take a bath. Then he fried him eggs and bacon, made him a pot of strong tea laced with more whisky, and went on his way, promising to call again.
As he had forecast, the sleet was already changing to snow as he turned the Land Rover in to the short drive that led to Balmain.
Balmain was a bungalow, and not a very good one either. It was a square, thin-walled affair with a temporary look, having the appearance of some lakeside summer-houses. The original croft house stood close by, now being used as a shed. Some scraggly wellingtonias acted as a shelter belt. He rang the doorbell, which sounded like Big Ben, and waited.
He had imagined Mrs. Mainwaring would turn out to be a small, faded, timid woman, but it was a giantess who answered the door. Mrs. Mainwaring was nearly six feet tall. She was powerfully built and had an enormous bust and a great tweed-covered backside, which she wordlessly displayed to Hamish as she turned and walked off into the house, leaving the door open. He followed her in and found himself in a book-lined living-room. A quick curious glance at the titles told Hamish that it was doubtful the shelves contained one work of fiction, either classical or modern. There were a great number of ‘How to’ books on carpentry, painting, sheep-rearing, art, and gardening. There were shelves of books on popular psychology, and row upon row of encyclopaedias and dictionaries. There were two easy chairs, a low coffee-table, a desk with a typewriter, two filing cabinets, and a large Persian rug on the floor. There were no knick-knacks or ornaments, no magazines or newspapers. And the room was cold. The fireplace was ugly, being made of acid-green tiles. A single log smouldered dismally, occasionally sending puffs of smoke out into the stale, cold air of the room.
“Sit down, officer,” said Mrs. Mainwaring in a deep voice. “My husband is out somewhere at the moment. He told me he had been to see you.”
“I wondered,” said Hamish, looking round for a place to lay his cap and finally setting it neatly on the coffee table, “if you would mind coming with me to the churchyard and showing me exactly where it was you were attacked.”
“I wasn’t attacked,” said Mrs. Mainwaring. “Just startled. Not every day I see witches.” She gave a sudden bellowing laugh.
“Whateffer,” said Hamish politely. “When would it be convenient for you to visit the scene of the crime?”
“It wouldn’t be convenient,” said Mrs. Mainwaring. “William would just say I was making a fuss.”
“But your husband is most insistent that I find out who frightened you.”
“He likes poking his nose into things and annoying people,” said Mrs. Mainwaring. “Annoying the replacement constable must be the breath of life to him.”
“Would you say you were unpopular in the community?” asked Hamish.
“I’m not. He is,” said Mrs. Mainwaring roundly. “In fact, I like this place. Nice people.”
“I would not say that they are very friendly to incomers, even someone like myself from the west coast,” Hamish pointed out.
“Well, they’re not hypocrites like the English,” boomed Mrs. Mainwaring, as if speaking of a nationality other than her own. “They’re all right when you get to know them. William got soured, that’s all. He ran about at the beginning being charming to everyone and they rebuffed him, and so now he wants his revenge on the lot of them.”
Hamish sighed and took out his notebook. “Now, Mrs. Mainwaring, if we can just get down to the facts.”
“Put your book away. I can’t be bothered. I am not really interested in who it is. I can’t take something like that personally when it was all directed at William.”
“What shall I tell your husband?”
For the first time a little crack appeared in Mrs. Mainwaring’s self-assured manner. “Have a whisky,” she said, and lumbered out of the room without waiting for an answer. “The coffee will do just fine,” Hamish called after her. “I am driving.”
There was no reply. She was gone a long time. At last she returned with a whisky decanter, a siphon of soda, and a cup of coffee and a plate of scones. She put the coffee in front of Hamish and then poured herself an enormous glass of whisky and soda and lit a cigarette. She poured the drink down her throat and let out a long sigh. There came the sound of a car approaching. Mrs. Mainwaring moved like lightning. She stubbed out her cigarette and opened the window, letting the gale howl through the room. She seized the whisky decanter, the ashtray, and her glass and ran out.
In what seemed like two seconds she was back, breathing heavily and smelling strongly of peppermint. She closed the window and sat down primly on the edge of a chair. Mainwaring came into the room. “So you’ve actually turned up,” he said to Hamish. “Who did it?”
“I don’t know,” said Hamish mildly. “I was just interviewing your wife.”
“You won’t get much sense out of Agatha,” said Mainwaring. His small blue eyes turned on his wife. “What are you wearing that old tweed skirt and jumper for? Didn’t that dress I ordered from the mail order arrive yesterday?”
“Yes, dear,” said Mrs. Mainwaring meekly. “I was saving it for best.”
“And what is a better occasion than your husband’s company? Go and put it on.”
Mrs. Mainwaring’s colour was high as she left the room. A moment later there came the sound of a car starting up.
“Gone off in a huff, as usual,” said Mainwaring. “Now, I assume you have already dusted the churchyard wall for fingerprints.”
“No, I haven’t,” said Hamish crossly. “I suggest the best thing to do is to phone Strathbane and ask them to send a team from Forensic. They won’t budge for me but they might do it for you. Not that there’ll be any fingerprints worth having from that wall, and since it was probably not done by hardened criminals, even if you got
