surgery had the name of a law firm on the door. He remembered the murder of the dentist. There had been an old man living at the top of the stairs then. Hamish wondered whether he was still alive.
He mounted another flight of stairs and knocked at the door at the top. The door opened and Hamish thought he recognised Fred Sutherland. He was wearing a dressing gown, striped pyjamas, and a flat cap. “Fred?”
“No, that was my cousin. I’m Jock. Fred left me the flat. Come ben. Terrible business. Two murders.”
“Who told you?”
“Joe Cromarty, the ironmonger. He came up a few minutes ago and says to me that Miss McAndrew’s been murdered and that poor Miss Seattle was murdered as well.”
Hamish reflected bitterly that the whole of northern Scotland must know about the murders. Gossip in the Highlands spread as rapidly as fire in the heather after a dry summer.
“Would you like some tea?” asked Jock.
“No, I just want to ask you a few questions. Miss Beattie was killed sometime on Saturday night.” Hamish crossed to the window. “You can get a good look across the street to the post office. Did you see anyone or anything? Might be around nine o’clock.”
“I can’t remember the time. I’d been to that meeting o’ yours in the community hall. Wait a bit. I did look across because Miss Beattie always left her curtains drawn back and if she saw me at the window, she’d give me a wave. But the curtains were drawn tight. She did that if she was entertaining someone.”
Hamish looked at him sharply. “A man?”
“One night I saw a man’s back at the window and he disappeared into the room and Miss Beattie then drew the curtains.”
“What age of a man?”
“I couldnae right say. I just caught a wee glimpse of his back, and the window’s small and cut off the top of his head.”
“But did you get an impression of his age?”
“The shoulders were pretty broad and a bit rounded. Wearing a dark suit. Couldnae tell you his age.”
“You didn’t see anyone loitering in the street?”
“I didn’t look down. Then I made myself a cup of tea and watched the telly.”
“Did you know Miss McAndrew?”
“I met her a few times. There’s an old folks’ club at the community centre. She would come there sometimes. She was promoting a reading and writing class for the elderly. Waste of time. In our day, no child in the parish left school without being able to read and write. Bossy woman. All teeth and dyed-blonde hair.”
“You didn’t like her?”
“Nobody did.”
“I always got the impression she was well respected.”
“Och, you know what parents are like in Scotland. She managed to get good grades, and as long as she got good grades for the kids, the parents didn’t really care what she was like.”
“I gather Mr. Cromarty had a row with her.”
“Och, him? Nothing in that. He shouldn’t be running a shop. He’ll have a row with everyone.”
“I’d better speak to him. If you hear anything, phone me at Lochdubh.”
Hamish went out into the street and walked into the ironmonger’s shop. He had expected to see a thuggish man behind the counter, but there was only a small man with thick horn-rimmed glasses and a shock of brown hair. He was wearing a brown cotton coat over his suit.
“I’m looking for Joseph Cromarty,” said Hamish.
“That’s me.”
“I am Hamish Macbeth, constable at Lochdubh.”
“I heard you at the community hall. What’s all this about two murders?”
Hamish told him briefly and then asked Joe if he’d seen anyone loitering around on the Saturday evening.
“I couldn’t see anyone. Half day on Saturday. I spent the afternoon in my garden and then went to the movies in Strathbane with the wife. So I’ve got a cast-iron alibi.”
“Nobody’s accusing you of anything,” said Hamish mildly. “Now, do you know if Miss Beattie had a gentleman friend?”
“What the hell are you implying?”
Hamish stared at the suddenly belligerent face in surprise. “Why are you so angry? Why so defensive? Was her caller yourself?”
Joe Cromarty erupted. “I’ll phone your superiors and I’ll be having you for slander.”
Hamish lost his temper. “What the hell’s the matter wi’ you, you silly wee man? If there was nothing going on between you and Miss Beattie, why are you firing up?”
“I’m sick o’ the gossip in this town. Everyone mumbling and whispering about everyone else’s business.”
“Let’s try another tack. I hear you were furious with Miss McAndrew on parents’ day at the school.”
“That was legitimate. My Geordie’s a bright boy and she only gave him a B in his history exam while she gave Penny Roberts, who’s as dim as anything, an A. Then she wouldn’t let him in the school play. I accused her of favouritism. She was aye keeping Penny in after school for a wee chat. Penny told Geordie the auld woman gave her the creeps.”
“Do you know where Penny Roberts lives?”
“Out on the shore road afore you get to Miss McAndrew’s. It’s a bungalow called Highland Home.”
¦
When he left the shop, Hamish realised he was hungry. He took out his phone and called Angela Brodie, the doctor’s wife, and begged her to collect Lugs and take the dog for a walk. As he put his phone back in his pocket, he felt a tap on his shoulder and turned round and saw Elspeth.
“How are you getting on?” she asked.
“Slowly. What about you?”
“I’m hungry. Let’s find somewhere for lunch and I’ll tell you what I’ve got.”
“Where’s Pat?”
“He got a call from our boss, saying he must have learnt the ropes by now and there was a dried-flower show over at Lairg waiting to be covered.”
“That seems a bit odd considering there are two murders here.”
“Not to Sam. Flower shows with lots of names and pictures sell more papers in the long run, he says. The murders will be covered by the nationals anyway and television.”
“They’re here already,” said Hamish, watching satellite dishes being set up and cables snaking from vans across the street outside the post office.
“Right. There’s a hotel north of here with good food.”
“Which one?”
“The Clachan. My car’s right here.”
Hamish looked around in case Blair was skulking about, but there were only uniformed policemen going from door to door.
They drove north out of Braikie. The coastal road became more rugged and was one-track with grass growing in the middle of it. After a couple of miles, Elspeth swung off to the right and up a winding drive bordered by thick rhododendron bushes.
“This used to be Colonel Hargreaves’s place,” said Hamish.
“He got rheumatism and blamed the climate. He sold up and moved south. An English couple bought it and turned it into a hotel.”
She parked outside the hotel and they both got out. It was a Victorian building dating from the days of the nineteenth century, when the queen had made it fashionable to holiday in Scotland. They were ushered into the dining room by the new owner, John Speir. “You’ve got the dining room all to yourself,” he said, showing them to a table at the window. “But it won’t be quiet for long. Press from all over have booked rooms. Terrible, these murders, but great for the hotel business. Still, I didn’t expect many customers now the summer is over, so it’s a set menu.” He handed them a card each. There was a choice of two dishes for each course. They both chose the same: Scotch broth, poached salmon, and sherry trifle.
