“When it comes to social climbing, such as Heather never lets politics get in the way, hence her friendship with Jane. Hates romance writers. There’s still plenty of first-class romance writers around, but she reserves her venom for what used to be called novelettes, you know, the laird and the country girl, or the advertising exec and the secretary. It’s still the laird and the country girl or whatever, but with lashings of sex thrown in. Nothing too vulgar. Lots of euphemisms. She says all their royalties should be taken from them by the government and given to writers’ workshops to help the up and coming intellectual. She’s about fifty-three. I would say Diarmuid is a bit younger.
“I don’t think there’s much more to Diarmuid than what you see. He is a supremely vain man and yet appears proud of his unlikeable wife. That atmosphere between them this morning was totally new. He’s in real estate, so he can’t be doing too well at the moment with the fall in the market.
“John Wetherby. Well, that seems to have been an odd marriage. He delights in running Jane down. I sometimes wonder if she had affairs to score off him. I sometimes wonder if she had any affairs at all. She is a good business woman, but I can’t seem to find anything deeper than what you see on the surface. John is a successful banister, opinionated to the point of smugness. Why he accepted Jane’s invitation I do not know. I cannot see one trace of affection in his manner towards her. I gather he is a trifle mean and Jane told me he probably jumped at the idea of a free holiday.”
Hamish winced and said quickly, “And the Carpenters?”
“He’s got a farm in north Yorkshire. At first when I saw them flirting with each other and cooing at each other, I thought that marriage looked too good to be true, but I think they are a genuinely nice and rather innocent couple.”
“And Harriet Shaw?”
She smiled and he liked the way her eyes crinkled up.
“Widow, no children, writes cookery books which are moderately successful. Gets money from occasional television programmes and cookery articles for magazines. Wonders what she is doing on this bleak island talking about suspects to a policeman.”
Hamish laughed. “Drink up and let’s see this Bannerman woman. I’ll just find out at the bar where she lives.”
Harriet waited for him at the door. “Last cottage at the end of the main street, on the left,” said Hamish, returning from the bar. “Let’s get out of here. You could cut the hostility with a knife.”
As they were leaving, a housemaid, about to descend the stairs, saw them, and retreated quickly.
“Nobody loves us,” mourned Hamish.
They walked down the main street, and women appeared outside their cottages and stood watching them. One approached them, a small woman with a fat white face. She caught hold of Hamish’s sleeve and began to talk to him urgently in Gaelic. Hamish listened patiently and then shook himself free and walked on.
“What did she say?” asked Harriet.
“She said that Jane’s a whore. There was a bad storm the other week and two of the fishermen were washed overboard. They say it’s God’s punishment for having a scarlet woman on the island. Jane’s been here for two years now. Doesn’t she notice any of this? She got me here to protect her because she thinks someone’s trying to kill her. Well, after listening to that woman, I’ve decided that maybe someone is, and if she doesn’t shut up shop soon and leave, they’ll drown her.”
“How did she know who we are?”
“They saw me arriving with her off the boat. Two men left the bar while we were there. The fact that I spoke to them in Gaelic would go round the village in minutes. Here’s this Bannerman woman’s place.”
She opened the door before they could knock. “I knew you wass coming,” she intoned. Harriet looked startled, but Hamish grinned and said, “Phoned you from the bar, did they?”
“Come in,” she said rather huffily. They entered a low, dark parlour. Mrs. Bannerman ushered them into chairs and sat facing them.
She was in her thirties, guessed Hamish, and was wearing what looked like a 1960s Carnaby Street outfit: peasant blouse, flowered skirt, bare feet, and beads. Her hair was long and straggly and she had a thin, unhealthy- looking face and small black eyes. He saw with surprise that her neck was dirty. It was not often one saw a dirty neck these days.
She leaned forward and looked into Hamish’s eyes. “Well, Hamish Macbeth,” she crooned, “and what haff you to say tome?”
Harriet started thinking the woman really had psychic powers, but Hamish glanced at the phone in the corner of the room. His conversation with Sandy would have been overheard. Sandy had a loud voice. Sandy had probably dived into the bar after they left and the barman had phoned Mrs. Bannerman with the details.
“I am here on holiday,” said Hamish, “but I would still like to know why you told Mrs. Wetherby that someone was trying to kill her or going to kill her.”
“I saw death,” moaned Mrs. Bannerman, “right there at the bottom of the cup. I felt a great blackness come ower me.”
“I think you were put up to it, that’s what I think,” said Hamish, becoming tired of all this mumbo-jumbo, particularly as he sensed that Mrs. Bannerman was enjoying herself hugely. “And where is Mr. Bannerman?”
“Dead and gone,” she wailed.
“Dead of what?”
“Died innis bed,” she snapped, her voice momentarily coarsening and losing its Highland accent.
“Where?”
“Ah’m I bein’ accused o’ anything?” demanded Mrs. Bannerman angrily.
“Only that I think you’re a fraud.”
“Whit?” She rose to her feet in a rage. “Get oot o’ ma hoose and go and bile yer heid!”
“That didn’t get you very far,” said Harriet once they were outside.
The Fiat truck rattled along the main street and came to a stop in front of them. “If you’re going back, I’ll gie ye a lift,” called Geordie.
“May as well,” said Hamish. They climbed into the cabin.
“Going all right now?” asked Hamish.
“Aye,” said Geordie. “I gave him a wee bit o’ oil, not that he needs it, but he aye likes a treat.”
Hamish stifled a groan. “Tell me about Mrs. Bannerman,” he said. “She’s not an islander, is she?”
“Naw, herself’s frae Glasgow. Come up here, must hae been about five years ago.”
“So why all the hostility to Mrs. Wetherby and none to her?”
“She doesnae go around dressed in them short skirts,” said Geordie. “Besides, she knows her tea-leaves and ye go careful wi’ someone like that.”
“Did that silly woman tell you that your truck was trying to kill you?” asked Hamish.
“Don’t be daft,” said Geordie. “The truck telt me.”
Hamish gave him an uneasy look, wondering just how deranged Geordie was.
“And what of Mrs. Bannerman’s husband?”
“Doing a stretch for GBH in Barlinnie Prison.”
“What’s g.b.h.?” asked Harriet.
“Grievous bodily harm,” said Hamish but with his eyes still fixed curiously on the driver. “How did you find that out?”
“Her mither arrived frae Glasgow last year on a visit. Rare gossip that woman wass.”
“And who did Bannerman attack?” pursued Hamish.
“I don’t know,” said Geordie. “Will ye leave me tae drive himself in peace?”
They travelled the rest of the way in silence, thanked Geordie when they got off at The Happy Wanderer, and went inside to find the others quite resentful that they had decided to go off on their own.
Hamish asked Jane if he might use her phone and then went into the office and phoned his mother. “Priscilla gone?” he asked.
“No,” said his mother. “She can’t really travel. The roads are still bad. She started fretting about her father and the guests, so I told her to get on to Mr. Johnson at the Lochdubh Hotel. They’re closed down for the winter. I told her to ask him to go up and offer his services for the Christmas period and ask a high price. The colonel will want his money’s worth out o’ Johnson, but he’ll respect someone he’s paying a lot for.”
