was a figure on the bed. He switched on the light and let out a gasp of dismay.
Catriona was lying naked on the bed. Her throat had been slashed and there were stab wounds on her chest. Blood seemed to have spurted everywhere. He backed out slowly and made his way outside the way he came in.
Hamish phoned police headquarters and stood there, looking down the brae to the village, wondering who the murderer was and praying it wasn’t one of the villagers.
? Death of a Witch ?
3
– Oscar Wilde
Hamish stood outside the cottage waiting for the police from Strathbane to arrive. A group of villagers had gathered down the brae and stood looking at him in silence. It was unnerving. No one approached him or called out to him asking what was wrong.
As he heard the sirens in the distance, there was a sudden gasp from the crowd. He heard behind him a sinister crackling sound and swung round in alarm. The red glare of flames could be seen at the bedroom window where the dead body lay.
Hamish ran into the cottage. At least the body must be saved for the autopsy. But when he opened the bedroom door, he reeled back before a crackling wall of flame. He ran out again and round the back of the cottage. There was no sign of anyone. He called the fire brigade in Braikie and then ran down to the crowd, crying to them to fetch water. Deaf to his pleas, they turned as one person and began to walk away.
By the time the first police car arrived carrying Blair and Jimmy Anderson, the cottage was a roaring inferno.
“Whit the hell’s going on here?” yelled Blair.
“It’s Catriona Beldame,” said Hamish. “Someone murdered her and then the cottage was set on fire.”
Hamish realised, in that moment, that the murderer had probably been lurking in the cottage and set fire to the place as soon as he had walked outside. What had happened to his usual highland sixth sense? He could have sworn he was alone in the place.
“So,” said Blair, “how do ye know she was murdered?”
“There was a report from the milkman that she hadn’t been taking in her milk. I went in through the back and found her in bed. Her throat had been slashed and there were stab wounds on her body. I went outside and phoned headquarters and waited. Then the cottage began to burn. I tried to at least get the body out of the bedroom for forensic analysis but the fire was too much for me.”
“You stupid loon,” raged Blair. “The murderer must have still been in the house.”
“I saw and heard nobody,” said Hamish, wondering if he looked as stupid as he felt.
“Just you wait, laddie, until the boss hears about this.” Blair chuckled evilly. “You’ll be the first one who’ll be suspected.”
¦
To Hamish’s horror, as the day wore on, a case seemed to be building up against him. There had been a tourist in the bar when Archie had talked about Hamish going to kill the witch, and he had told the police what he had overheard.
But despite Blair’s pleas to Superintendent Daviot to arrest Hamish, he was blocked by the fact that Daviot descended on Lochdubh himself and began to interview the villagers. The milkman swore that he had called at the police station to report that Catriona’s milk was lying outside his door and that he had followed Hamish a little way and was soon joined by other villagers. Hamish had emerged from the cottage after a few minutes and they had seen him phoning. Then the fire had started. Hamish had rushed into the cottage but then had run out calling to the crowd to fetch water.
“Did anyone fetch water?” Daviot asked.
Hughie, the milkman, hung his head and mumbled that they thought it a fitting end for the ‘witch.’
So Daviot told Blair testily that Hamish had nothing to do with it and it seemed to him as if a bunch of superstitious villagers had ganged together to murder Catriona Beldame.
If the atmosphere in the village had been bad before, now it was worse with everyone feeling they were under suspicion.
Hamish worried and worried over the fact that he had not searched the cottage for anyone – had not even
He phoned Jimmy. “I’ve got nothing that can help you at the moment,” said Jimmy. “Forensics have been working all day on what’s left o’ the place. There’s one ray of sunshine.”
“What’s that?”
“There’s a new wee lassie on the forensic team. Keen as mustard. She’s having an uphill battle wi’ her beer- swilling, rugby-fanatical colleagues. But if there’s anything to find, she’ll find it.”
“Can you give me her name and home address?”
“Och, Hamish. Can’t you just wait? It’s just not the thing to call on a body at her home.”
“I cannae wait,” said Hamish. “I feel like such an idiot.”
“I don’t want to give her address. Try up at the witch’s cottage. She might be still there.”
¦
Hamish set out for the cottage. A great wind was tossing grey clouds over the sky. Buzzards wheeled above and a heron, its strong wings able to cope with the gale, sailed down and settled on a rock by the water.
Two television vans were already down on the waterfront, and he could see Blair’s posse of policemen going door-to-door.
One policeman was on guard outside the cottage, hunched against the wind.
“Is there anyone from forensics still inside?” asked Hamish.
“Aye, there’s a wee lassie from forensic.”
“I’ll just be having a word with her.”
The policeman barred his way. “Chief Detective Inspector Blair said nobody was to go in.”
“Aye, but he meant the press or the villagers,” said Hamish. He sidestepped round the policeman and went in, realising suddenly that as he was visiting the scene of a crime, he should have been wearing his blue coveralls. He retreated to just inside the doorway and called out, “Anybody here?”
A female voice called, “I’m out the back.”
Hamish went out and walked around to the back of the cottage. He had a sudden vision of the type of female forensic investigator he had seen on American TV programmes – slim and tall with long hair and high cheekbones. So it came as something of a disappointment to see a small dumpy figure, covered in a white suit, white hood, and white boots. She was searching diligently in the heather.
“Find anything?” asked Hamish. She stood up and pushed her hood back a little, revealing springy gold and red curls. Her cheeks were plump and rosy and she had large very blue eyes.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Hamish Macbeth. I’m the local bobby. And you are…?”
“Lesley Seaton, forensics.”
“I came up here,” said Hamish, “in the hope you might have found some reason for the cottage going up in flames. I found the body and then stood outside waiting for them from Strathbane to arrive. Then the cottage started to burn. What puzzles me is that I didnae sense anyone in the cottage.”
“I think I’ve found the reason for that,” said Lesley. “I’ve found faint ash traces in the heather going a bit back. Some of the roots are scorched. It’s my belief that someone lit a fuse.”
“Thank goodness for that,” said Hamish. “I thought I was slipping. Wait a bit. I didnae smell petrol or anything like that.”
“I think – mind you, this is only a preliminary investigation – that the fuse ran into a plastic bucket of wastepaper placed under the wooden kitchen cupboards. I think the kitchen wall was soaked in some sort of
