round and looked down at the cat flap. It had been taped shut. “And why are my poor beasties out in the cold?”
“I-I th-thought it would be great to take you a meal and give the place a bit of a clean,” wailed Josie.
“Out!” shouted Hamish. “Get the hell oot o’ here and neffer, effer do anything like this again. Shoo! Get lost.”
Josie burst into tears. She seized her coat from a chair and ran out into the night.
“Wimmin,” said Hamish, taking out a clasp knife and beginning to slice the tape on the cat flap.
“Och, you was awfy hard,” said Willie. “The lassie meant well. Look how clean the place is.”
“It’s my home,” said Hamish. “Thanks for looking after my beasts, Willie.”
Willie left but Hamish was not to be left in peace for long. A wrathful Mrs. Wellington descended on him. “That poor girl is crying her eyes out, you brute. Instead of thanking her, all you did was shout at her.”
“She had no right to just invade my home-”
“It’s not a home. It’s a police station.”
“It iss my home. She shut my animals out in the cold.”
“What you need is a decent woman in your life. You will take Josie to that dance tomorrow and behave like a gentleman.”
Hamish refused to go to the manse with Mrs. Wellington and apologise. To Mrs. Wellington, Josie was the daughter she never had. She could not bear to see her so upset and so she lied and said that Hamish was really sorry and was looking forward to the dance.
When Josie went up to her room that night, she fished a bottle of whisky out from under her mattress and began to drink steadily. She had loved being in charge of the police station. She wanted to get married and never have to work as a policewoman again. As the whisky sank down the bottle, she came to a decision. She shook out tablets of Mandrax and, with the hilt of a knife, began to crush them into powder.
Hamish decided to take the Saturday off. He hoped as he went around his property, seeing to his sheep and hens, and making some repairs, that his mind might clear. He had too many suspects, all whirling around his brain.
After lunch, he walked along to visit his friend Angela Brodie, the doctor’s wife.
“Come in, Hamish,” said Angela. “It’s all round the village that your poor policewoman was just trying to give the place a bit of a cleanup and make you supper, and you shouted the place down.”
“Angela, she locked my animals out in the cold. I’m investigating the murder of Annie Fleming who seems to ha’ been one manipulative bitch and I don’t want to have to deal with another one.”
“Now, that’s too harsh. She seems like a nice girl.”
“Oh, well, maybe I did go a bit over the top. The truth is, I got a real fright. I’m always worried that Roger Burton, the hit man, might come back to finish the job. Could you be looking after Sonsie and Lugs while I’m at the dance?”
“Didn’t you stop to think I might be going to the dance myself?”
“No, sorry.”
“Okay. Just this once. As it happens, I’m not going. How’s the murder investigation?”
“It’s a right mess. Too many suspects. If ever a girl was just asking to be murdered by some man, it was Annie Fleming.”
“Have a coffee and tell me all about it.”
So in between sips of Angela’s horrible coffee, Hamish outlined all that he had found out so far.
When he had finished, Angela said, “You’re concentrating on the men. Have you considered the women? I mean, you’d expect a man to bash her over the head or strangle her. Making a letter bomb takes time and plotting and planning. Your murderer might be one very jealous woman. There was a lot of ill feeling when Annie was elected to be the Lammas queen two times running. She could have put someone’s nose out of joint. To be Lammas queen means getting on TV and being interviewed and photographed in all the local papers. A lot of young people these days want instant fame without doing anything to get it. It’s all the fault of reality TV.”
“I’ll think about it. But right now, Angela, my poor head can’t bear the thought of any more suspects.”
Hamish had phoned the manse and said that he would meet Josie at the dance. He dressed in casual clothes and, followed by Sonsie and Lugs, walked along to Angela’s house.
“You’re a bit late,” said Angela.
“I’m reluctant,” said Hamish. “I’ll only go for a few dances and then clear off.”
“Josie’s quite pretty, you know.”
“Maybe I’m being hard on her, but there’s something awfy needy about her.”
“Male vanity, Hamish. That’s all it is. Now get along to that dance!”
Josie had refused all offers to dance. Her dreams of being held in Hamish’s arms had been shattered. It was to be an evening of Scottish country dancing and the hall was loud with the drumming of feet and the hoochs of the dancers as they swung one another around. Josie felt overdressed. Nearly everyone was wearing casual clothes whereas she was dressed in a short skirt with a plunging sequinned blouse and very high heels.
At last, she saw Hamish’s flaming-red head across the dance floor. Just as he came up to her, an Eightsome Reel was announced. “Shall we?” asked Hamish.
They joined a set and the band of fiddles, drums, and accordion struck up. Josie realised quickly the folly of wearing such high heels. She thought her ankles might break.
When the dance was over, Hamish said, “I could do with a drink. What about you?”
Josie picked up her evening bag from where she had left it and said eagerly, “That would be grand.”
There were only soft drinks on offer. “Orange juice?” suggested Hamish.
“Yes, thank you.” There was no barman. People just helped themselves. Hamish poured out two tumblers of orange juice and was about to hand one to Josie when Freda Campbell, the schoolteacher, came up just as a Strip the Willow was being announced. “Come on, you lazy copper,” she said. “This is my dance.”
“All right,” said Hamish. “But where’s your man?”
“Matthew’s working late.” Matthew was the editor of the Highland Times.
Josie watched as Hamish led Freda into the dance. Her eyes narrowed. She could have sworn Freda was flirting with him. She fished in her bag, took out the screw of paper containing the powdered Mandrax, and slipped it into one of the glasses of orange juice.
The energetic dance seemed to go on forever. Hamish crossed hands with Freda and danced down the line with Freda laughing up at him. Hamish may have been a lousy disco dancer but he was in his element when it came to Scottish country dancing.
At last it was over and Hamish and a big crowd approached the refreshment table. “Ah, orange juice. Just what I need,” boomed Mrs. Wellington. To Josie’s horror, she seized Hamish’s doctored drink and gulped it down.
A Gay Gordons was announced. Hamish turned reluctantly to Josie, but Archie Maclean came up and whispered, “Outside, Hamish.”
“Be back in a minute, Josie,” said Hamish. He followed Archie outside, where men were gathered passing whisky around.
Hamish stood chatting and drinking until there appeared four youths, helping a dazed Mrs. Wellington from the hall. “She’s come over faint,” said one. “We’re just going to run her up to the manse.”
Josie appeared and said hurriedly, “I’d better go with her and make sure she’s all right.”
What if they called Dr. Brodie, worried Josie. He might suspect she had been drugged and
