“Why shouldn’t she?” asked Hamish.
“I don’t want herself flitting off tae Strathbane to flaunt herself in front of other men.”
Hamish stared at the big man in amazement. Did he really see his downtrodden, weather-beaten wife as such an object of desire?
“Let’s see the Land Rover, Geordie.”
Geordie led the way round the back of the croft house to where the Land Rover was parked. There’s a full- blown murder case going on, Hamish thought, and here am I stuck with this loon.
“See,” said Geordie, “I leave the keys in it.” He opened the driver’s door. “I’ve got this wee book. I aye take a note of the mileage. Well, it had gained twenty miles. What’s up with you, man? You look like you’ve been struck by the lightning.”
For Hamish was suddenly standing stock-still, his eyes vague and his mouth open.
“Give me a minute, Geordie,” he said.
Hamish looked down the fields to the Strathbane road. Twenty miles would cover the round trip to Lochdubh. Could someone who didn’t want their car recognised have stolen the Land Rover for the sole purpose of killing Shona Fraser?
“Are you sure it wasn’t your wife?”
“Sure as sure. I keep an eye on her.”
Hamish thought, I’ll need to come back when this is all over and see what I can do for Mrs. McArthur.
“There’s another thing,” said Geordie. “Whoever took it gave it a fair cleaning.”
“Right,” said Hamish. “Stand away from it now, Geordie, and don’t touch it again. I’ll get a forensic team out.”
“I neffer thought you’d take it this serious.”
Hamish phoned and got through to Inspector Gannon by saying it was urgent and in connection with the murder of Shona. She listened to him and said she would send a forensic team out right away.
Hamish did not ask her for further instructions. He wanted time to think.
? Death of a Maid ?
8
—Samuel Butler
Hamish waited patiently for the forensic team to arrive. Geordie lit a cigarette, and Hamish sniffed the air longingly. He wondered if the occasional craving for a cigarette would ever leave him.
“Geordie,” he said, “I was going to leave this until later, but I’ll need to have a wee talk with you about the treatment of your wife.”
“Whit!”
“As far as I can see, you keep her a sort of prisoner. Why shouldn’t she take the car and go shopping if she feels like it?”
“She’ll meet ither men. She’ll waste my money on baubles.”
“Church-goer, are you?” asked Hamish.
“I am a staunch member of the Free Presbyterians.”
“I might have thought you a member of the Taliban. Your wife’s a decent middle-aged woman. The way you’ve ruined her looks is enough to put any man off.”
“What are you talking about? I treat that woman fair and decent. She gets three meals a day.”
“You’re out o’ the Dark Ages, that’s what you are,” said Hamish bitterly. “And you need some sort of therapy. I’ll be having a word with your minister.”
“Be damned to ye! Ye are an emissary of Satan.” Geordie swung a punch at Hamish, who dodged it neatly.
“Try that again,” said Hamish, “and I’ll arrest you for assaulting a police officer. I’m telling you, Geordie, you’ve been stuck up here for so long wi’ nothing but your sheep and that poor wife of yours and it’s fair turned your brain. Here come the forensics.”
Mary was with them. As they got to work, she looked suspiciously at Hamish. “I don’t trust you, Macbeth,” she said. “I think you are holding back information.”
“Why?”
“I don’t believe in coincidence. You happen to be in a restaurant in Strathbane when Dr. Renfrew and Mrs. Fleming are having a row. You happen suddenly to remember a television programme on malpractice, and now you suddenly discover that this man’s Land Rover could have been driven on the night of Shona Fraser’s murder.”
“I didnae know anything about this Land Rover. You told me there had been a burglary and sent me off to investigate,” said Hamish.
“Maybe you’re just lucky. Get along with you. Write up your reports at the police station and leave them for me at the mobile unit.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Hamish touched his cap and headed off to his own vehicle.
As he was driving into Lochdubh, he saw the long, low Presbyterian church and stopped abruptly. The minister’s house was at the side of it, a modern bungalow with plaster gnomes in the garden. Hamish wondered why plaster gnomes were not considered too frivolous.
The door was opened by a pretty young woman. She had rosy cheeks and a mop of glossy brown curls.
“I saw you admiring the gnomes,” she said cheerfully. “Aren’t they awful? One of the parishioners gave them to Murdo, so we have to display them. You’re Hamish Macbeth. We met last year at Jaunty Sinclair’s wedding.”
“Of course! You’re the minister’s wife.”
“That’s me. Murdo’s out on his rounds. Can I help you?”
“You might be the very person.”
“Come in. I was just about to have a cup of coffee.”
Hamish followed her into a bright living room. “Sit yourself down,” she said, “and I’ll bring you a cup. Scones?”
“Yes, please.”
She left and came back after a short time carrying a laden tray, which she set on a table by the window. “We’ll have our coffee here,” she said. “I do so hate crouching over a coffee table.”
Once she had served Hamish with scones and coffee, she asked, “What seems to be the problem?”
“It’s Geordie McArthur up the brae from the Strathbane road. I feel he’s treating his wife right cruel and all in the name o’ religion. He doesn’t let her go out. She looks worn down. He’s jealous o’ the very air she breathes. I tackled him on it, and he said I was an emissary of Satan.”
“Does he beat her?”
“I don’t think so.” The scones were like bricks. He left one half-eaten on his plate. He thought the minister’s wife must have been taking baking lessons from Angela Brodie, who was a notoriously bad cook.
“You mean it’s mental cruelty?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll see what I can do. I’ll tell Murdo, and he will pay Geordie a visit. Goodness, these scones are quite terrible. I bought them this morning in Patel’s. I must be having a word with him. They had a label, “Local home baking.””
“I tell you what, pack them up,” said Hamish. “I’m going into Lochdubh, and I’ll speak to Mr. Patel about them.”
“That’s very good of you. I’ll get a bag.”
When she ushered him out, she said, “Don’t worry about Mrs. McArthur. We’ll sort something out.”
¦
Hamish stopped at Patel’s and carried the bag into the shop. He dumped it on the counter. “Did Angela Brodie supply you with these scones?”
“Yes, I told the local women I would sell any of their home baking they liked to give me. Mrs. Brodie said
