did not have to obey such stringent laws. Lochdubh had been a fishing village since the days of the Highland Clearances in the early nineteenth century. Crofters driven off by landowners who wanted the land for sheep were sometimes forced over to the coast, where they were told they could make a living from seaweed gathering and fish. Lochdubh had been luckier than most other places because the Countess of Sutherland had built a summer home there – now a deserted hotel by the harbour. She arranged for a whole village to be built out of rows of stone whitewashed houses, the houses that still stood there today.
Hamish hailed Archie Macleod. “Good catch?”
“Fair to middling. I’ll give ye a wee fish for Sonsie. I’ll drop it by the kitchen door.”
“Thanks, Archie.”
“Lucky we got anything. So many seals around.”
Hamish knew that no fisherman in Lochdubh would ever contemplate killing a seal because they believed that seals were human beings who had come back.
He sat down on the harbour wall, warm from the sun. Seals. One of the boys had said something about a seal.
He stiffened. What if Hal had been standing looking up at the waterfront, waiting for someone, but that someone had crept up out of the loch?
He stood up and looked along the waterfront, and then he saw Betty.
He had only seen her wearing trouser suits before, but she was now wearing a pair of shorts. Her legs were very long and surprisingly thin. Must be why she always wears trousers, thought Hamish.
She was standing on a flat stone by the water’s edge, her hands behind her back, peering down into the water.
Hamish was suddenly reminded of the heron he had seen with Robin. There was something predatory in Betty’s stance, and those long thin legs reminded him of the heron’s legs.
For some reason he could not explain to himself at the time, he moved quickly back from the harbour wall so that she would not see him.
He went back to the police station to look for Harry Wilson’s number. He found he was very cold again and put it down to the after-effects of the concussion.
? Death of a Dreamer ?
12
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
“Harry,” said Hamish, “can I come over and see you? I need your help with something.”
“Tell you what, Hamish. I feel like a bit of a drive. I’ll nip over and see you. Give me about half an hour or so.”
“Have you got any photos of your diving school, that one you went to?”
“I’ve got some in the family photo album. I’ll bring the lot.”
After Hamish had rung off, Dr. Brodie came by. He shone lights in Hamish’s eyes and checked the lump on his head. “I think you’ll do,” he said. “How are you feeling otherwise? Not too emotional?”
“I cry a bit.”
“That happens. Any weakness in the legs?”
“No, they’re all right.”
“Headaches?”
“I had one at the funeral celebrations.”
“You weren’t drinking too much?”
“Wasn’t drinking at all.”
“Good, because Lochdubh is one great hangover, and I’m plagued with the usual: “But, Doctor, I only had two drinks. It must be something I ate.” Take care of yourself. I saw your boss, Mr. Daviot, and told him firmly you needed peace and quiet.”
When he left, Hamish waited impatiently for Harry’s arrival. Harry had said he would arrive in half an hour or so, which by the highland clock could mean as much as two hours. As they say in the Highlands, ‘manana’ is too urgent a word.
¦
An hour and a half later, Harry arrived. “Sorry, Hamish,” he said. “Sheep on the road.”
Sheep on the road was another of those highland lies, like ‘I’ve just had two drinks’, ‘I’ve a bad back’ and ‘I’ll fix it for you right away’.
“I’ve got the coffee on,” said Hamish. “Did you bring the photos?”
“Yes, but why do you want to see them ”
“It’s this idea I have that the murderer of the American could have come out of the loch. Jock Fleming, the artist, is from Glasgow. So is his wife. Maybe one of them took a diving course at one time.”
“Here you are.” Harry fished a large photo album out of a duffel bag and put it on the table.
“The ones of the diving school are at the back.”
Hamish opened the leather-bound album to the back. There were a lot of photos of scuba divers going into the sea and coming up out of the sea. But he found one of a Christmas party. He eagerly studied the faces, but there was not one single one he recognised.
“Is this all you’ve got?”
“Pretty much,” said Harry.
Hamish sat back in his chair, disappointed. Then he said, “Was it mostly men?”
“Yes, pretty much. We got the occasional woman, but usually they didn’t stay the course.”
“Remember anyone who did?”
“There was one woman, Sarah Jerome. Middle-aged and quite plump, but she turned out to be a natural. Then a tall thin woman – what was her name? Harriet something or other. She was pretty good.”
Hamish sat sunk in thought. Then he said, “Of course, it’s a long shot thinking it might have been someone who was there at the same time as you. Could you go into the office and use the phone? Call the diving school and ask one of the instructors if there was any woman who passed the course with flying colours. Then ask if Jock Fleming or Dora Fleming was ever a member.”
“Right. Where’s the office?”
“Just through to the right, next to the bedroom.”
Harry seemed to be on the phone for a long time. At last, he came back.
“The name Betty Barnard mean anything to you?”
Hamish put his head in his hands.
“Are you all right?” asked Harry anxiously. “Not having a dizzy spell? Want me to call a doctor?”
Hamish took his hands away from his face. “No, I’m all right now. Tell me about Betty Barnard.”
“She took the course last year. The instructor said he had never seen anyone learn so quickly. Said she was a natural. Someone you know?”
“Oh, yes. May be nothing to do with the murders. I’m not being very hospitable, Harry. But I’ve got to get going on this case.”
“That’s all right. I’ve got a friend over at Cnothan I want to see.”
After he had left, Hamish thought wearily: If she did it, why? The rooms at the hotel had been thoroughly searched. He didn’t remember any report of diving gear.
He suddenly thought of Elspeth. He felt that by his rudeness, he had somehow driven her into writing that silly article. Now she was out of a job. He went into the office and dialled her home number. When she answered, he said, “It’s me, Hamish. Don’t hang up. Elspeth, I may just have found out who the murderer is. If you get up here fast, maybe I’ll have a story for you that’ll get your job back.”
