Death of a Witch

Elspeth hadn’t but maintained a discreet silence.

“I wanted to see if she was genuine,” said Ellie. “There are so few of us about.”

“So few of what?”

“White witches.” Go on. “I did not stay long. I got out of that cottage as fast as I could.”

“Why?”

Ellie lowered her voice dramatically. “She was a black witch. I can still hear her dreadful laughter as I ran away.” Elspeth translated this as – I said something silly and she began to laugh and I was offended.

“I said to her as I fled, ‘The flames of hell will engulf you’” – Ellie leaned forward – “and they did! I didn’t put a curse on her, mind. That is not my way.”

This woman is bonkers, thought Elspeth. “Do you know of anyone who might want to murder her?”

“It was the devil, come to claim his own.”

“And what about poor Ina Braid?” A variety of emotions crossed Ellie’s face. It was obvious she was trying desperately to think of something but that she didn’t really know anything. “There are things I could tell you,” she said.

“Then go on, do,” said Elspeth sharply. “You are said to bear a grudge against Ina because she used to beat you at tennis.”

“That’s because I let her win although I was always the better player. I am a Christian. I do not bear grudges.”

“Then who else might have disliked Ina?”

“I cannot. I would be putting my life in danger.”

Elspeth closed her notebook and got to her feet. “Thank you for your time, Miss Macpherson. Got to rush.”

“Oh, do stay. There are other things I could tell you.” But Elspeth was already out of the door and clattering down the steps.

¦

Ellie was offended and felt thwarted as well. She had dreamt of featuring in the newspapers. When she opened up the post office for business the next day, she began to regale the customers with mysterious hints of how she really knew the identity of the murderer but was too afraid to say anything. The gossip swirled out from Braikie as if borne on the gale and spread around the surrounding villages.

Angela Brodie called on Hamish that evening.

“Come in,” he cried. “I’m right weary. All I seem to do is question folks over and over again without getting anywhere.”

“Have you heard about Ellie Macpherson?”

“The postmistress?”

“Yes, her. Aren’t you supposed to say postperson or something? I can’t keep up with all this PC rubbish.”

“Don’t ask me. I don’t pay any attention to it. What about her?”

“Your friend Elspeth called on her. The Currie sisters told her that Ellie was a good fund of gossip. Now Ellie is saying that she knows the identity of the murderer but couldn’t say anything because she feared for her life.”

“That’s an awfully dangerous thing to say.”

“Don’t worry about it. Ellie is a drama queen. Nobody takes her seriously.”

“A frightened murderer just might. Angela, have you heard anything, the slightest thing?”

“I’m afraid not, Hamish. And yet – I’m probably being overimaginative but it’s as if there’s a sort of communal secret in this village. I talk to people and I always get the feeling they are holding something back. You don’t think the villagers would shield one of their own?”

“No, they would not. This business about Ellie bothers me. I’ll take a run over to Braikie in the morning and tell the silly woman to keep her mouth shut.”

¦

The gale was still blowing the next morning. Hamish fed his sheep and hens, told Sonsie and Lugs to look after themselves, and set off for Braikie. The incoming tide was threatening the shore road. He realised he would need to stay in Braikie until low tide came round again. It was possible to get into the town from two other roads, but that would have meant a long detour coming in from Lochdubh.

There was a small crowd standing outside the post office. “What’s happened to Ellie?” asked Hamish sharply.

“We don’t know,” said one woman. “She hasn’t opened up and she hasn’t answered her door.”

Hamish rang the bell himself. No reply. There was a narrow lane up the side of the post office. He went along it and around to the back of the building. He looked up at the window of Ellie’s flat. It was not very high up. He hauled a dustbin up to the wall and climbed up on it. Then he grabbed the drainpipe and shinned up it so that he could look in at the window.

A sofa partially blocked his view but with a sinking heart he saw two feet protruding from the end of it.

Praying that she might just be ill, he clambered down and rushed round the front to his Land Rover, where he took out a police battering ram. A warning voice was telling him that he should phone Strathbane for permission before breaking in but he decided that losing time might mean he could not save Elbe’s life.

“Back off!” he ordered the crowd. He swung the battering ram with all his might and the door smashed open. He ran up the stairs. He tried her flat door and found it unlocked.

He went in.

Ellie was lying facedown on the carpet. The back of her head was a mess of blood. A crystal ball, smeared with blood, lay on the floor beside her. Hamish knelt down and felt for a pulse but there was no sign of life.

As he phoned Strathbane and slowly left the flat to stand guard outside, ignoring the babble of questions that greeted him, he felt a purely selfish pang of fear. There were now four murders, four unsolved murders. He knew that Blair, in order to turn attention away from himself, would say that he, Hamish, was incompetent and there was simply no reason to keep a police station in Lochdubh when Strathbane had to come over and do all the work.

He waited a long time. He realised they had probably tried to take the shore road, found their way blocked by the tide, and had to circle around to reach the upper road.

The crowd grew larger by the minute but now they stood in silence.

At last he heard the approaching sirens. The procession was headed by the procurator fiscal’s BMW, an unmarked police car, followed by two police vans, the forensic van, the pathologist’s car, a fire engine, and an ambulance.

The procurator fiscal, Mr. Ian Bell-Sinclair, was Hamish’s least favourite person next to Blair. He was fat, pompous, and lazy. The job of the procurator fiscal in Scotland is broadly the same as that of a coroner in other legal systems. He is also supposed to direct police investigations and take statements from witnesses. Unless any of the press were around, Bell-Sinclair shirked as many of his duties as possible.

He ignored Hamish and turned to Jimmy and his sidekick, Andy MacNab. “Where is your boss?”

“The detective chief inspector is not very well this morning,” said Jimmy. He turned to Hamish. “Let’s have it.”

Hamish flatly described what he had found. “I hope you applied for permission before breaking in,” said the procurator fiscal.

“And he got it,” said Jimmy impatiently. “Let’s go in. Suit up, Hamish.”

Hamish went to the Land Rover, got out his forensic suit, and put it on. He went back and led Jimmy up to the flat. Bell-Sinclair retreated to his car. He was famous for his detestation of viewing dead bodies.

“Why her?” asked Jimmy.

Hamish told him about Angela’s visit and how he had learned that Ellie had been bragging that she knew the murderer.

“Think she did?”

“I don’t know. I’ll go out and phone Elspeth. She interviewed her the other day.”

Hamish went back outside and sat in the Land Rover. He was just about to phone Elspeth when he saw her