the locals missed. Do you know where he is?”
She shook her head.
“He usually turns up here sooner or later. I will tell him to phone you immediately when he arrives.”
“Does he work at anything?”
“He took various jobs, but as he has a private income he does not need to work and so he never really stuck at anything for very long.”
“Any romantic entanglements?”
Her eyes were suddenly sharp. “Why? Why do you ask? What has that got to do with anything?”
Hamish’s voice was soothing. “Och, I just thought that if he had a lassie, then she might know where he is.”
Her face cleared. “Of course. But I am afraid I know nothing of Peter’s love life.”
“Where does he live when he’s in the south? His house is let.”
“Here. He stays here.”
“Are you very close?”
A guarded look and then: “Of course. He is my brother.”
Hamish stared at her in frustration but he realized there was nothing further to be got out of her. And the room was depressing him. It must be awful, he thought, to have enough private income to knock any idea of getting a job out of one’s head.
“What do you do?” he asked.
“Do? I am on the board of a couple of charities. Then there are people to visit. Believe me, there are not enough hours in the day.” The sudden loneliness looking out of her eyes belied the statement Hamish glanced around the room. Books in serried ranks, dark-green house plants, but not even a cat for company.
He found it a relief to be back out in the streets of Richmond, where the air smelled of crisp autumn. He found a cheap restaurant and ate a hamburger and drank Coke with a pleased feeling that Priscilla would disapprove of such junk food.
He would need to get back to the source, he thought, and I that was Drim. He felt in his bones that young Heather was right. Peter Hynd was as dead as a doornail, and instead of wasting time in the south, he should be back in the north, asking question after question until a clearer picture appeared. He looked at his watch. If he hurried, he could get back to Rory’s, pack up, and catch the night train to Inverness. He always felt like a fish out of water investigating things on foreign territory anyway.
As it was, he only managed to leap on the train as it was pulling out. Most of the train consisted of sleeping cars, so he was lucky to find an empty seat in the few carriages allotted to upright passengers.
As he fell asleep, the faces of the women of Drim danced before his eyes. And yet, would it not be more likely that one of the men was the murderer? Murder, murder, murder, sang the wheels as the train ploughed north through the darkness, leaving London and the south behind.
¦
“You want what?!” Jock Kennedy leaned on the counter of his shop and looked in amazement at Hamish Macbeth. “I want a room,” said Hamish patiently.
“Why? You live ower at Lochdubh.”
“I’m on my holidays.”
“Seems daft tae me. Try Edie Aubrey. She lets out a room tae the tourists.”
“Fine.”
As Hamish walked to Edie Aubrey’s home, he noticed that the community hall now stood silent. He glanced in the window of the hairdresser’s as he passed. Alice MacQueen was sitting in a chair by the window, doing her nails. Not a customer in sight. Two women passed him on their way to the store wearing the inevitable uniform of anorak and ski trousers stretched over massive thighs, lank hair, and no make-up.
Nothing anymore to dress up for.
Edie Aubrey looked flustered when he asked for a room.
“The season’s over,” she said nervously. “I haven’t aired the room.”
“I’m sure it’ll do fine,” said Hamish.
“Well, it’s just bed and breakfast. I don’t do any other meals.”
“I’ll manage.”
“Oh, I suppose. You’re not here officially then?”
“No, chust wanted to get out of Lochdubh. A policeman’s neffer off duty so long as Strathbane knows where he is. Want to get a bit of fishing.”
“Follow me,” said Edie, apparently making up her mind. The house was one of those many Victorian villas which were built for holidaying English families after Queen Victoria had made the Highlands fashionable. It was small but well-carpeted and well-fired. The bedroom allotted to him contained a large double bed covered in a shiny pink satin quilt. There was one of those old–fashioned basket chairs in a corner, green shot with gold, which held a doll in a frilly dress. Its eyes stared at Hamish as empty of expression as the dead eyes of Betty Baxter. A large wardrobe dominated one wall, built for the heavier, larger clothes of Victorians. He opened it up. There were shelves on one side for shirts and little drawers for collar studs and dress studs. Over the bed was a picture of two Edwardian girls chasing a small white dog across a field of poppies.
“If you’d like to unpack and come downstairs, I’ll make you a cup of tea,” said Edie. He smiled at her and she patted her hair and blinked at him through her glasses.
When she had left, Hamish looked out of the window and down to the black expanse of the sea loch. At the far-inland end of the loch, the river Drim fell in peaty brown cascades over jagged rocks. Farther up the river he could see the glint of a pool. He had collected his fishing-rods from the police station before coming to Drim. Perhaps he might go up to that pool and try to get some trout and leave investigations until the morrow. He was supposed to be on holiday, and if the locals really believed that, he might pick up more gossip man he would do if they thought he was in the village on business.
He unpacked and went downstairs. Edie placed a pot of tea and a plate of scones on the table. “You are a widow, aren’t you?” asked Hamish.
She poured tea into thick mugs. “Yes, my Jamie passed on ten years ago. He was a fine man.”
“You’re not from the Highlands?”
“No, from down south. Moffat.”
“So what brought you here? These scones are grand.”
“Have another. Jamie was ill, cancer. He always thought the Highland air would cure him, thought it right to the last, poor man.”
“Didn’t you ever want to move back south?” Edie put down her cup and her eyes strayed to the kitchen window as if seeking the answer among the laurels in the garden. “Oh, I thought of it often. But I didn’t have many I friends in Moffat, I was too busy looking after Jamie. Somehow I just stayed on here.” Her voice was sad. “I’ve tried to brighten up the place. It was the high moment in my life when they all started coming to the exercise classes. But then Peter left…”
Her voice trailed away. “And darkness fell on the land,” added Hamish silently.
He finished his tea. Plenty of time for more questions. “I’m just going to take my rod up the Drim and see if I can get any trout.”
“I don’t usually cook meals, but I’d like a fresh trout for tea. If you catch any, I’ll cook them.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
Hamish almost but not quite forgot the reason for his stay in Drim as he angled in the pool; expertly flicking the fly so that it skimmed on the peaty gold of the water. He had just reeled in his second trout when he had a feeling of being watched. He tipped the trout into the old–fashioned fishing basket he used and turned slowly about. There was a stand of silver birch behind him.
“Come out,” he called.
There was a rustling and then the slight figure of Heather Baxter appeared. “You’re staying at Mrs. Aubrey’s,” she said.
“News travels fast,” said Hamish. “How are you?”
“Fine, chust fine. Da and I get along well.” Hamish looked at the composed little figure. Would this child kill her own mother so as to have a quiet home and her father to herself? The thought was a repugnant one. It was the
