“On your ain head be it,” said Angus and turned away.
Hamish walked on, hoping that old Angus wasn’t beginning to suffer from the onset of Alzheimer’s.
The cottage had no garden. The springy heather went right up to the door. It was a low one-storey whitewashed building with a red corrugated iron roof.
As he approached the door, a large black cloud swept across the sun and all at once the wind died.
Again Hamish felt that odd stab of superstitious dread. Then the wind started up again and the cloud moved from the sun.
Hamish raised his hand to the weather-beaten knocker on the door.
? Death of a Witch ?
2
– John Keats
The woman who answered the door fit the description Angela had given him. And yet, as she stood there, looking at him enquiringly, Hamish decided there was nothing sinister about her. She had a dab of flour on one cheek and she was wearing an old Aran sweater, dusty blue corduroy trousers, and sneakers.
“I am the local constable,” said Hamish. “I have been away on holiday and have only just heard of your arrival.”
“Come in,” she said.
The kitchen-cum-living-room into which she led him was stone-flagged. A peat fire smouldered on the hearth. Bookshelves lined one wall and on another, on either side of the low door, shelves held a variety of glass bottles. In the centre of the room was a scarred oak table surrounded by six high-backed Orkney chairs.
The kitchen part consisted of a sink and butane gas cooker, a granite top with pine cupboards above and below. There was neither a fridge nor a dishwasher.
“Please sit down,” she said. Her voice was low and mellow with only a slight trace of highland accent.
Hamish sat down at the table and removed his cap. Despite the fire, the room was cold and the wind soughed through the heather outside the house with an urgent whispering sound.
“What brought you to this part?” asked Hamish.
“It’s a pretty village,” she said. “Would you like some tea?”
“I’d prefer coffee.”
“I only have herbal tea. Good for you.”
“All right,” said Hamish. “Although I find that things that are said to be good for me are not very appealing.”
She smiled an enchanting smile that lit up her face. “Oh, you’ll like this.”
“Where did you come from?” asked Hamish as she busied herself at the counter by putting a kettle on the cooker.
“Oh, here and there.”
“And where was the last there?”
“Dear me. You do go on like a policeman. So many questions!”
“What do you do for a living?” pursued Hamish. “I supply therapy and herbal treatments.”
“Have many of the villagers visited you? I believe quite a few men have called on you.”
“I have a good treatment for sexual dysfunction. Want some?”
“I do not haff the trouble in that department,” said Hamish, blushing. “What exactly is this treatment?”
“A secret recipe.”
Hamish said stiffly, “We do not go in for sex much in Lochdubh,” and immediately felt silly as she turned round and looked at him with amusement.
She put a cup of tea in front of him and said, “Now, try that.”
Hamish took a cautious sip. It was some sort of fruit tea, he guessed, very pleasant to the taste.
She sat down at the table close to him and raised her own cup to her lips. Catriona looked at him over the rim and smiled.
“Tell me about your sex life.”
“Chust keep your nose out o’ my private life,” said Hamish sharply.
“But you’ve been asking me so many personal questions. Isn’t it fair I should ask you some?”
“I didnae ask you about your sex life.”
Her knee pressed against his under the table.
“I don’t mind. For example, I’m very good in bed.”
“Are you running a brothel here?” demanded Hamish.
She threw back her head and laughed. Then she said, “My dear man, if I wanted to run a brothel, I would hardly settle in a village in the north of Scotland. Let’s not quarrel.” She covered his hand with her own. “I simply supply a few herbal medicines. I was teasing you. The main complaint here is indigestion.”
He felt a sudden tug of attraction. He drew his hand away gently.
“I must be off,” he said, standing up and putting on his cap. “I only called to introduce myself.”
“Call again,” said Catriona.
She turned in the doorway and kissed him on the cheek; “See you very soon,” she said.
Hamish walked off down the brae. He felt strangely elated. All of a sudden, he wanted to turn back and ask her out for dinner.
He half turned back. She was still standing in the doorway, watching him. Hamish forced himself to keep on going.
The desire to go back and see her lasted until he ate a substantial lunch and then he scratched his head in bewilderment. What had come over him? Had there been something in that tea?
He got a call from Jimmy Anderson reminding him that he was expected in the sheriff’s court in Strathbane at three o’clock that afternoon, along with Willie Lamont and Clarry Graham. Hamish phoned both Willie and Clarry and suggested they should all go together.
Willie was seated next to Hamish in the front passenger seat and Clarry was in the back. At one point in the drive, Hamish said, “Willie, are you scratching yourself?”
Willie removed his hand from his crotch. “I think I’ve got a wee bit o’ cystitis.”
“Then see Dr. Brodie as soon as possible. Man, what if ye were to go like that in court?”
The proceedings did not take long. In vain did the defence advocate plead that his clients were truly remorseful. The sheriff said the case was too severe to be tried in his court; he was remanding the burglars without bail to appear at the high court in Edinburgh.
“I’ll drop you off at Dr. Brodie’s,” said Hamish.
“I’ve got to get to the restaurant,” said Willie. “I’ll maybe drop along later.”
“Don’t leave it too long. Cystitis can be nasty,” said Hamish.
¦
Hamish found a message from Dr. Brodie when he got to the police station, asking him to call urgently.
He said to Sonsie and Lugs, “No, you pair stay here. I think Angela’s had enough of ye.”
As he walked along the waterfront, he felt the village was strangely quiet. Again he was assailed by a feeling of foreboding.
Dr. Brodie led Hamish into his cluttered living room. Cold ash spilled out over the grate.
“What’s the problem?” asked Hamish.
“Several of my male patients have been coming to me with swollen genitalia and inflammation of the urinary tract.”
“So?”
“I treated a case like this when I was much younger and an army doctor. It turned out to be Spanish fly.”
“I’ve read about that somewhere. Isn’t it an aphrodisiac?”
“It’s supposed to be. It’s from a beetle that is crushed into powder. It creates the illusion of increased sexual
