moved a little way up the hill and looked down on the scene. Hamish laid Towser in his tartan covering tenderly in the grave. Maggie thought it a waste of a good travelling-rug. He dropped some earth on the top. The minister, Mr Wellington, addressed the crowd. “I am sure our hearts go out to Hamish on the sad death of his pet. The dog has often been called man’s best friend, and Towser was a good example of this. May the Good Lord comfort you in your loss, Hamish. Let us pray.”
To Maggie’s acute embarrassment, the words of the Lord’s Prayer rose to the windy sky. When it was over, Hamish picked up a spade and shovelled earth on to the grave. Mr Wellington spoke again. “Mrs Wellington and I have a dram for all of you at the manse. All are welcome.”
The villagers began to file off. Hamish leaned on his spade and stared down at the grave. Off they all went down the hill in a silent procession. Some instinct told Maggie it would be the wrong thing to stay behind and so she went after them.
She turned back at the bottom of the hill. The tall figure of Hamish Macbeth was silhouetted against the windy sky. “It’s only a dog,” she told herself fiercely, but there was a sad dignity about the scene which caught at her throat.
Hamish stood there for a long time. Bright images of Towser chased each other across his brain: lazy Towser sleeping on the end of his bed; Towser giving Priscilla a rapturous welcome and putting muddy paws on her skirt; Towser running across the heather after rabbits. At last he gave a bleak little sigh, and with the spade over his shoulder, walked back down the hill.
¦
The manse was full of people when Maggie arrived. She hesitated in the doorway of the living room. Mrs Wellington saw her and came forward. “Come in, Miss Donald,” she boomed. “A sad day, a sad day for all of us. Ah, here is Mrs Brodie, who is our doctor’s wife. Mrs Brodie, this is a police constable, a Miss Donald, who came with Hamish. Help yourself to a dram, Miss Donald.”
Maggie took a glass of neat whisky from a tray that one of the women was taking round the room.
“Is it this case over in Skag that you’re on?” asked Angela Brodie.
“In a very minor way,” said Maggie. “The detectives are the ones who are doing all the work.”
“Poor Hamish,” said Angela, pushing a wisp of hair out of her eyes. “Murder seems to follow him around. But don’t be misled by his lazy manner. He’s very, very clever.”
“So I’ve heard,” said Maggie. “What happened to his engagement?”
“You’ll need to ask Hamish,” said Angela gently and Maggie felt snubbed.
She said quickly, “I am surprised the whole village should turn out for the funeral of a dog.”
“We’re a close-knit community,” said Angela. “Towser meant a lot to Hamish. Here’s Hamish now.”
Maggie could see Hamish’s red hair above the crowd as he entered the room. There was a sudden silence and then they all crowded round him, soft Highland voices murmuring sympathy. Hamish took a glass of whisky and downed it in one gulp and then took another.
If he’s going to get drunk, thought Maggie, I’ll never get back tonight.
Angela introduced Maggie to one and then another. Soon the room was full of the sound of chattering voices. A man came in with an accordion and began to play jaunty reels. More whisky was passed round. The carpet was rolled back and some of them began to dance reels. Maggie, who had never been to a Highland wake before, was amazed at the noise and hilarity.
“They don’t seem to be bothering much now about Hamish’s dog,” she remarked to Angela.
“Oh, these things are a celebration of death. Everyone goes to heaven,” said Angela, “even poor Towser.”
Hamish had joined in the dancing, his thin face alight, his long gangly limbs flying this way and that while they all cheered and clapped. More and more whisky, cigarette smoke, music and dance, people coming in from outlying villages bringing more bottles. By two in the morning, Maggie felt she had had enough. She had suggested twice to Hamish that they leave but he had ignored her.
“I’d better just go back to the police station and get to bed,” said Maggie to Mrs Wellington.
“That just won’t do,” said the minister’s wife. “We’ll find you somewhere. We have a spare bedroom. If you get your things from the station, we’ll make you comfortable.”
“I didn’t bring an overnight bag,” said Maggie. “I did not expect to be staying.”
“Then come upstairs and I’ll find you something.”
When Maggie was wrapped in one of Mrs Wellington’s voluminous brushed nylon nighties, the minister’s wife took away her clothes to wash. “They’ll be ready in the morning for you, Miss Donald. Sweet dreams.”
Maggie tossed and turned, trying to block out the noise from downstairs. Someone started playing the bagpipes. There was a noise as if someone had fallen over, and there was a crash of glass and then a noisy cheer. At last she fell into an uneasy sleep. She awoke early, feeling tired and jaded. To her surprise, her clean clothes were neatly laid on a chair at the end of the bed.
There was a wash-hand basin in the corner. Mrs Wellington had put out a new toothbrush still in its packet and a tube of toothpaste and clean towels. Maggie washed and dressed and made her way downstairs. The manse was silent. She decided to go to the police station and rouse Hamish.
She expected him to be passed out in a drunken stupor, but when she got there, she found Hamish in the kitchen with a middle-aged woman. “I met you last night,” said the woman. “I’m Miss Currie, Miss Nessie Currie.”
Hamish looked at Maggie. “Could you give us a little time in private? I’ll make you breakfast soon.”
Maggie nodded and went through to the living room. She waited and waited. She heard Nessie Currie leave and then, almost immediately afterwards, there was a knock at the door and someone else came in.
It was eleven o’clock in the morning when Hamish put his head around the door and said, “Breakfast’s ready.”
“More like brunch,” said Maggie. “What was going on? Are people coming to report crimes?”
“No, they had some troubles they wanted help with.”
“So you’re the local psychiatrist as well?”
“We all help each other.”
Maggie sat down at the kitchen table and tackled a substantial breakfast of bacon, eggs and grilled tomatoes. “I think we’d better get back to Skag,” she said. “I said we would be back last night, and this is not a day off.”
“I forgot,” said Hamish. “Go through and phone Deacon.”
Maggie went through to the police office and closed the door behind her. She phoned the police station in Skag and asked for Deacon.
He listened while she told him about the funeral. “These teuchters are all mad,” commented Deacon. “Don’t worry about it. Get back as soon as you can.”
Maggie went back to the kitchen and finished her breakfast. “I hae a call to make before we leave,” said Hamish. “We’ll deal with it on the way.”
When they left the police station, he directed her to the seer’s.
Angus Macdonald welcomed Hamish. “Don’t worry, Hamish,” he said. “You’ll get another dog.”
“I don’t want another one,” said Hamish. “This is Maggie Donald. You may ha’ seen her at the manse last night.”
“Oh, aye.” The seer’s eyes fastened on Maggie with an uncomfortably penetrating look. “I’ll put the kettle on.”
It’s like the Dark Ages, thought Maggie, as the seer put a blackened kettle on a chain over the peat fire.
“I’ll tell you why I’ve come to see you, Angus,” said Hamish severely. “This nonsense has got to stop.”
“Whit nonsense?”
“And you call yourself a seer? I’m talking about Jessie Currie. Ever since you told her she would marry a divorced fisherman, she’s evidently been going around painted up to the nines and behaving like a silly biddy. She hangs about the harbour when the fishing boats come in. Mrs Maclean’s threatening to scratch her eyes out.”
“I see what I see,” said Angus portentously.
“You’re a mischief-making auld scunner. Either you get Jessie up here and tell her you’ve had another vision, one that says she’s going to lead a quiet spinster life, or I’ll start to wreck your reputation and you know I can do it, Angus. A wee whisper in one ear, a wee lie in another.”
Angus looked at him thoughtfully. “As a matter o’ fact,” he said, “I did have another sight o’ her future.”
