His mobile phone rang. He sat up and tugged it out of his pocket.
It was Elspeth.
“How are things in Grianach?” she asked.
Although the fire was blazing, Hamish felt suddenly cold.
“How did you know?” he asked.
? Death of a Gentle Lady ?
10
—Robert Louis Stevenson
“Everyone in Lochdubh seems to know, Hamish. I was sent back up to cover the bomb. Shall I come and join you? Are you on holiday?”
“Is that what they are saying?”
“You know this village. Chinese whispers. But certainly that seems to be the sum total of it.”
“Elspeth, leave me alone for a bit. But you might have a story down there. I was sent up here to stop the murderer from finding me and trying again. If you can find out who was spreading the news about me, you’ll at least find someone who’s interested in seeing me dead. And get back to me if you’ve found out anything.”
“All right. Give me a few paragraphs about the bomb in the kitchen.”
Hamish gave her a brief description.
“I know Grianach,” said Elspeth. “Weird place. They make wooden things.”
“That’s right. Trouble is, a tour bus comes every two weeks.”
“And you think the murderer might travel that way to find you?”
“Perhaps. But probably too complicated.”
The next morning, Hamish went out to explore the village. It nestled at the foot of steep cliffs, and any car approaching from outside could clearly be seen on the one-track road down into it. There was a horseshoe bay in front of the village, the waters calm in an unusually placid day. Far out beyond the bay, he could see the whitecaps of the great Atlantic waves.
He sat down on a bollard on the jetty. It was all so remote and peaceful. The air smelled of tar, fish, baking, and peat smoke.
A voice behind him said, “Enjoying the view?”
Hamish stood up and turned round. “I’m James Fringley,” said the man. “I heard you’ve arrived.”
Racking his memory for who he was supposed to be, Hamish remembered suddenly that he was supposed to be Mr. William Shore.
“William Shore,” he said, holding out his hand. “You’re English.”
James was a small dapper man dressed in a Barbour and jeans. Hamish judged him to be in his fifties. He had silver hair, carefully barbered, and neat features.
“Are you visiting like me?” asked Hamish.
“No, I live here. I used to be a bank manager but I took early retirement. We’re about to start setting up the stalls. The bus arrives today.”
“I’m surprised a tour bus found this place.”
“I wrote to them,” said James. “What with the fishing dying off, I thought it would be nice to help the villagers. Do you know, the European Union cut the cod and fishing quotas last December and Scotland wasn’t even represented? Luxembourg was there. One tiny landlocked country having a say. It’s mad. We’ve a lot of home industry now, and every month or so I load up the van and go south to flog the stuff around the shops. I mean, look at the beauty of this place. A man would do anything to keep it as grand as this. I’m off to the church hall to start helping with the stalls.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Hamish.
“You’re highland, aren’t you?” asked James curiously. “What brings a highland tourist here?”
Hamish was blessed with the Highlander’s facility to lie easily and convincingly. “It was the wife,” he said. “She threw me out. I thought if I went away for a bit, she’d come to her senses.”
“That’s bad. Got children?”
“No, we’ve only been married three months. I blame her mother,” said Hamish bitterly. “Awfy auld queen. What about you?”
“Mine died of cancer. We didn’t have children. I came here four years ago on holiday and decided to stay. Probably the last place in Britain where you can buy a cheap house.”
The figures of the villagers could be seen approaching the church hall. “They’re all verra small,” said Hamish.
“Maybe inbreeding, but they’re all sane enough.”
Hamish helped to carry trestle tables down to the harbour. Then the villagers started to set out their wares. Hamish was amazed at the wood carvings. They were very good indeed. One stall had beautiful lengths of tweed. “That’s your neighbour, Ellie,” said James. “She’s got a loom in a shed in her garden.”
Hamish decided to buy presents before the bus arrived. He bought a wooden salad bowl for his mother, two carved candlesticks for Angela, and an attenuated wood sculpture of a woman for Priscilla.
The prices were remarkably reasonable. Then he noticed a carving of a man, a flat bloated man whose face was set in a horrible sneer. It looked remarkably like Blair. Hamish bought it as a present for Jimmy.
Then he thought how much his mother would like some tweed and bought a length of a heathery blue-and- pink mixture.
He carried all his purchases back to his cottage and returned just in time to see the tour bus make its precipitous descent of the cliff road. He walked behind a shed at the end of the harbour and looked around. The bus was full – full of elderly ladies and two elderly men.
He came out of hiding and walked towards it. Two were being helped into wheelchairs. Some walked with sticks.
Hamish went up to the tour guide, a slim woman in a yellow suit. “Where are this lot from?” he asked.
“A retirement home in Perth,” she said. “Great for us. They booked the whole bus, and this is a quiet time of year. I’d better go and help them with their purchases.”
Hamish was pleased to see that sales were brisk.
After half an hour of buying, the tour operator called out, “If you will make your way to the village hall, there is a buffet lunch.”
Hamish thought a free meal was just what he needed after having spent so much, but when he got to the hall, James was at the door. “Six pounds for the lunch, William, and cheap at the price.” Hamish paid up.
He collected a plate of cold chicken and salad from the buffet and sat down next to one of the elderly gentlemen who turned out to be stone deaf, so Hamish contented himself by studying the women just in case one of them might look like someone in disguise. But for a start, not one of them was tall enough to fit the description of the woman who had made that phone call.
¦
Superintendent Daviot was told that a Miss Elspeth Grant of the
He hesitated. But he was wearing a new suit and thought he looked very fine. “Does she have a photographer with her?” he asked.
“Yes, a sour-faced Glasgow type,” said the sergeant at the front desk.
“Send them up,” said Daviot.
He brushed back his silver hair and asked Helen to prepare coffee and biscuits. He had met Elspeth before but not the photographer, who was a sullen, middle-aged man with a bloated face.
“Do sit down, Miss Grant,” purred Daviot. “We have met before.”
