naethin’s but mischief. Look, Macbeth, I’m no’ going tae arrest anyone. When I first got here, I arrested two o’ the fishermen for stealing the council’s wire wastebaskets off the jetty to use as lobster pots. The islanders gathered around the polis station calling for ma’ blood and I had to climb out on the roof and sit there most o’ the night. If you think I’m arresting Angus for a little bit o’ fun, think again.” He slammed the police station door in Hamish’s face.
Hamish strolled thoughtfully along the jetty. He could phone Strathbane and report Sandy, but he did not want to do that. There would be a full-scale inquiry and he, Hamish, would be made to look ridiculous. Besides, all the islanders, he was sure, would gang up and swear Angus had been with them all day. He saw one of the fishermen, and remembering Geordie’s truck, asked him if there was a mechanic on the island…
The man stood for a long time and then decided to reply. “There’s Bert Macleod down the village! He does the MOTs and things like that,” meaning the annual Ministry of Transport checks on all vehicles over three years old.
“And where does he live?”
“Opposite Mrs. Bannerman.”
Hamish walked along the village street, all too aware of the twitching curtains. Mrs. Bannerman was working in her patch of front garden. She saw him and scurried inside.
Opposite her house on the other side of the street was a cottage with a shed at the side, with the legend A. J. MACLEOD, MOTOR MECHANIC, above the door.
He went inside. There was a pair of legs in greasy overalls sticking out from under a car.
“A word with ye,” called Hamish.
The man wriggled out and scrambled to his feet. “Are you any relation to Angus Macleod?” asked Hamish.
“His brither,” said Bert sullenly.
“He’s in bad trouble. He’s assaulted Mrs. Wetherby.”
“It wis jist a joke and Sandy won’t be touching him.”
“No, but I’m a policeman, and if Sandy doesn’t do anything about it, I can report him to headquarters and he’ll be taken off the island and you’ll get a replacement who won’t put up wi’ your nonsense.”
Bert, a small man with weak eyes behind thick-lensed glasses, blinked up at Hamish. He jingled some change in his overall pocket and looked sly.
“We could aye come to an arrangement,” he said in a wheedling voice.
“Aye, maybe we could. Do you ken Geordie Mason, him wi’ the haunted truck?”
“O’ course.”
“Did the MOT, did you?”
“Last year. Naethin’ up wi’ it.”
Hamish looked at him cynically. He knew there were garages that would pass any old vehicle as being sound, provided the price was right.
“If you want me to leave Angus and Sandy alone, you’ll do this. Tell Geordie I’ve said there is something wrong wi’ his truck and get it in here and take it apart and make sure it’s sound.”
Bert pushed back a filthy cap and scratched his head. “It won’t mind that,” he said, “Geordie says it likes a bit of attention.”
“You’re all crazy,” said Hamish in disgust. “Just see to that truck.”
On the road back, he turned his mind to the problem of who could possibly have started the hatred for Jane Wetherby. Mrs. Bannerman? Someone from the health form? Did anyone from the health farm talk to the islanders? They had all been there two weeks before his own arrival, time enough to do damage. He would need to ask Harriet. The thought of Harriet Shaw cheered him immensely. The wind had dropped as he neared The Happy Wanderer, and snow began to fall in large feathery flakes. He stopped, amazed. He could not ever remember having seen a white Christmas. Usually it snowed a bit before Christmas and a lot after Christmas. Perhaps this too would fade away before the twenty-fifth.
A Christmas atmosphere seemed to have fallen on Jane’s guests at last. They were all helping her trim a large synthetic tree in the lounge and hang decorations. Even John Wetherby was laughing as he stood on top of a ladder and tried to reach up to put the fairy on top of the tree…
When the tree was finished, Hamish took Jane aside and told her the result of his investigations. Jane clapped her hands in delight. To Hamish’s horror, she called out, “Listen, everybody! Isn’t Hamish clever? He went into Skulag and found out that it was Angus Macleod, a fisherman, who pushed me into that pillbox.”
John Wetherby slowly turned round. He had been bent over a box to start bringing out the tinsel and paper decorations with which to decorate the rest of the lounge and dining room. At Jane’s words he straightened up abruptly and swivelled to face Hamish.
“You reported this to the police, of course,” he said sharply.
“Of course,” said Hamish, dreading what was going to come next.
“Then why hasn’t the policeman been out here to take Jane’s statement?”
“Because Angus told everyone he only did it to give Jane a fright and that he was going to let her out at midnight. Sandy refused to charge him.”
“Well, he’ll bloody well have to charge him. All Jane has to do is make a complaint of assault and see he does his duty.”
“It’s not so easy,” said Hamish. “All the islanders will gang up and say that Angus was in their sight all day.”
“Forensic tests,” barked John.
“They wouldn’t get anywhere,” said Hamish wearily, “that is, if Strathbane even bothered to send anyone out here. Footprints? The tide’s been up as far as the entrance to the pillbox, not to mention the howling wind sweeping any marks clear. Fingerprints? Of course Angus’s would be on the bolt, for it’s where he stores his stuff.”
John Wetherby stared at him long and hard and then a smile curled his lips. “I’ve got it,” he said softly. “You’re a copper yourself. Not a private detective, not even a police detective. Who else, I ask you, would wear boots like that?”
Hamish looked miserably at his feet. He was wearing an old tweed sports jacket, checked shirt, and plain tie and cords. But on his feet were his regulation boots. They had been broken in long ago and were very comfortable, and the thrifty Hamish had seen no reason to waste money on shoes when the state could supply him with footwear.
Harriet Shaw’s eyes travelled quickly from face to face. There was a stillness in the room. Heather was frankly goggling, Diarmuid was looking enigmatic as usual, the Carpenters were leaning against each other, plump shoulder against plump shoulder, but someone had let out a startled exclamation, quickly stifled. Which one had it been?
“All right,” said Hamish. “But I am on holiday.”
“It was that bathroom heater,” said John, Founding on Jane. “You silly cow. How like you to get so paranoid over a mere accident.”
“At least he found out who shut me in the pillbox,” said Jane quietly. “Now can we all just go ahead and try to have a decent Christmas?”
Whether it was Jane’s remark, whether it was the presence of a policeman among them, or whether it was because Christmas was approaching was hard to tell, but at least the next few days passed almost in tranquillity. Hamish was surprised that Heather went to great lengths to keep out of his way. He had expected to have lectures from her on the fascist police.
Harriet, too, appeared to be avoiding him. When Hamish taxed her with it, she smiled and said she was too busy catching up on some writing in her room. He took refuge in reading articles in the women’s magazines collected by Jane. They ranged from the supremely sensible to the downright ludicrous, depending on the publication. In one of the trashier efforts, he found an article entitled ‘Shock Tactics’. It was all about how to get the man of your choice. “Faint heart never won fair gentleman,” he read. “Stun him. Invite him round and put on that naughty nightie and those sheer, sheer stockings.” He put down the article, feeling slightly sad. There was something almost pathetic about Jane. It was as if she had so little self-esteem that she needed to find a personality in the pages of a magazine.
And then, on Christmas Eve, something happened that made him uneasy. He saw Jane slip a note into
