“I hope it’s not one of them,” said Hamish to Lugs. “I knew that man would bring evil here.”
He sighed and went through to his computer in the police office, typed his report, and sent it off to headquarters. He had just finished when Jimmy Anderson called from the kitchen door, “Anyone at home?”
“Aye, come ben,” shouted Hamish.
He closed down the computer and said over his shoulder to Jimmy, “This is a bad business. How did it go after I left?”
“Give me a dram and I’ll tell you.”
They went into the kitchen, where Hamish got down the whisky bottle and two glasses.
“I’ll pour my own,” said Jimmy, seizing the bottle. They both sat down at the kitchen table.
“It’s cold in here,” complained Jimmy.
Hamish rose and went to the stove. He raked down the ashes, put in kindling, and threw a lighted match in. When it was all burning, he added several slices of peat and replaced the lid of the stove. He sat down again.
He looked steadily at Jimmy.
“Well, was it murder?”
? Death of a Bore ?
4
—Sir Walter Scott
“Thon professor seemed to think so. Blair is raging. He’s due to go on holiday the next week, and he thinks you invented clues pointing to murder to spite him. Anyway, it looks as if the focus is going to be on that writing class here. Blair’s coming over tomorrow to interview everyone.”
“I’d like to be there when he interviews the Currie sisters,” said Hamish. “But you know Blair. I suppose I’m off the case.”
“Not quite. You’re to make door-to-door enquiries.”
“Press arrived yet?”
“The Tommel Castle Hotel is beginning to fill up. They’re a funny lot. What beats me is that by tomorrow there’ll be some fellow standing in front of the camera saying, “And here I am in the picturesque village of Lochdubh.” Will anyone see a bit of the village? Not on your life. All they’ll see is his big ba’ heid in front of the camera.”
“Jessma Gardener is pretty good.”
“Fancy her, do you? What about that reporter lassie you were romancing?”
“She got a job in Glasgow.”
“Going down to see her?”
“Maybe.” Hamish realised with a little jolt that he missed Elspeth Grant. At first he had been relieved when she left. But all the good and bad times they had shared together came flooding into his mind and he wondered why he had ever let her go. Had she still been in Lochdubh, she would be sitting across from him with her frizzy hair and thrift shop clothes, her silver eyes fixed steadily on his as she brought her uncanny psychic abilities to bear on the case.
“You should ha’ married her,” said Jimmy, helping himself to more whisky.
“You’re not a good advertisement for marriage,” said Hamish huffily. “How many times? Three?”
“Two. Anyway, back to the murder. If it turns out to be ink in his mouth, then it looks as if someone offed him with hate and then tried to make it look like suicide. Everyone saw the hatred of the villagers on the telly. What about that brute Alistair Taggart? He’s been done once for assaulting a fellow worker.”
“If John Heppel upset everyone here so much, then he must have upset a lot of people in his past.”
“Yes, but he wasn’t murdered in Glasgow, he was murdered here.”
“He also did some work for Strathbane Television. Some sort of script. He told me he had done a script for
“Have you seen that programme? It’s a lowland Scots idea of the Highlands. All the women walk around in tartan shawls and the crofters in kilts. I mean, it’s hardly high literature.”
“I think anything to do with television drew that man like a magnet. I’d like to take a trip over there, but no doubt Blair will be on the scene tomorrow to make sure I’m doing nothing other than chapping at doors and interviewing all the people who weren’t at the writing class. I’d really like to know exactly how he was killed. But the autopsy will take a couple of days, and then the report will go to the procurator fiscal. Let me know as soon as you hear.”
“Keep the whisky coming and I’ll let you know anything.”
¦
Two days later Superintendent Peter Daviot received a visit from Professor Jane Forsythe.
“This is a most unusual murder,” she began. “Have you got the report from the procurator fiscal?”
“Yes, but I haven’t read it yet.” And in answer to her raised eyebrows, he said defensively, “I’ve had a lot of work this morning.”
“I would like to go over to Lochdubh to discuss the case with that policeman.”
“Detective Chief Inspector Blair?”
“No, not that oaf. The tall one with the red hair ”
“That’ll be Hamish Macbeth. Why him?”
“Because he has a shrewd intelligence. Besides, I don’t like Blair’s patronising attitude.”
“He is a good detective.”
“Nonetheless, I would like to speak to that policeman. What’s his name again?”
“Hamish Macbeth.”
¦
Hamish had crept into his police station over the back field for a cup of tea. Somewhere out on the waterfront, Blair was pompously addressing the press.
The kettle had just boiled when there came a knock at the front door. Hamish assumed it was some reporter or other because all the locals knew to use the kitchen door. But his highland curiosity drove him to tiptoe to the front door and peer through the spyhole. He recognised Professor Forsyth. He shouted through the letter box. “Could you come to the side door? This one sticks with the damp.”
He went through and opened the kitchen door.
“I have your superior’s permission to call on you,” said the professor.
“Mr. Blair?”
“No, not him. Mr. Daviot.”
“Please come in,” said Hamish. “I am just making some tea. Would you like a cup?”
“Please.”
“Sit down. Milk and sugar?”
“Both.”
Hamish searched desperately for a milk jug and then just put the bottle on the table. Then he fished in his trouser pocket and found some little packets of sugar he had taken from a restaurant table.
When he had poured her a cup of tea, he asked eagerly, “How did he die?”
“Mothballs.”
“
“Yes, naphthalene poisoning.”
“But he wouldn’t have sat there and crunched mothballs.”
“Exactly. He had a weak heart.”
“Wait a bit. Surely a poison like that would induce vomiting?”
“It did. Someone cleaned him up and scrubbed the floor. It’s a stone-flagged floor, but we found some traces
