Hamish went out to the car and told Maggie that Deacon wanted to see her.
Hoping that she was going to be given more important duties than tea-making, Maggie went eagerly in to see Deacon. When she heard she was to go with Hamish to Lochdubh ‘and report back on everything he does’, her face was almost comical in its dismay. “Oh, not that hick place again,” she wailed. “They’re all weird. Do you know when Hamish buried his dog, the whole village turned up, just as if it were a real funeral, and they had a
“Aye, well, that’s Highlanders for ye. Make sure you keep a close check on what he does and who he talks to. He’s going back to use his own phone and get information from his own contacts.”
“What contacts can he have that we don’t?”
“I don’t know. All I know is that his methods, Watson, seem to hae worked for him in the past.”
When Maggie went back out to the car, Hamish said, “Now, if you’re to help me, do one thing for me.”
“What’s that?”
“Go back in there and get the home addresses of all the suspects.”
“Easily done.”
Hamish sat and waited. He glanced at his watch. It hadn’t taken long. He’d better get back and see if Miss Gunnery had eaten, and if not, take her out for dinner. As if his mind had conjured her up, a car drew alongside Maggie’s and Miss Gunnery stepped out. Hamish got out as well.
“I came to see if you were all right,” said Miss Gunnery. “I didn’t want to find out you had been arrested again.”
Maggie came out. “That’s all set, Hamish,” she said. “I’ve got the addresses you wanted. I’ll pick you up at seven in the morning. Now what about that dinner you owe me?”
“I’ve a date wi’ Miss Gunnery,” said Hamish. Both women stared at each other. I am a regular Don Juan, thought Hamish cynically. I get the pick o’ the crop fighting ower me – one retired schoolteacher and one WPC so hard you could strike matches on her.
“Where are you going?” asked Maggie brightly.
“Hamish is taking me to some curry house in Dungarton,” said Miss Gunnery. “He says it’s good.”
“Oh, I can vouch for it,” said Maggie sweetly. “I took him there myself.”
“Let’s be off, then.” Hamish got into Miss Gunnery’s car, fed up with both of them and with the whole of Skag and the murder case.
“Where are you off to tomorrow?” asked Miss Gunnery as they drove off.
“Back to Lochdubh. I have things to see to.”
“Are you coming back?”
“Of course. In a way, I suppose I’m still a suspect.”
“Nonsense.”
“I’d still have that in the back of my mind if I were Deacon. In a murder case, everyone is a suspect.”
“Even me.”
“Even you.”
“I loathed that man, Harris, and yes, I could have done it,” said Miss Gunnery, “but I didn’t. I would say good luck to whoever did, but the repercussions are so awful. Poor Doris. Why can’t she go off with her Andrew and be happy?”
“I don’t think either of them can be happy until the murderer is found. They may even suspect each other.”
“But that’s ridiculous!”
“Not entirely. Don’t you often look round at the rest of them and wonder which one of them it was?”
Miss Gunnery gave a little shiver. “I keep hoping it will turn out to be some wandering maniac who just biffed Harris on the head to brighten up the day.”
“If it’s a madman, then we’re sunk. There’s nothing worse than a motiveless crime.”
When they reached the restaurant and were seated, Hamish said, “Can we talk about something else? I’m tired o’ murder. Why did you retire so early? You don’t look old enough to be at retirement age.”
“Flatterer. Near enough. I just got tired of school-teaching. I ended up teaching at a boys’ school outside Cheltenham. I taught geography to a bunch of spoilt little brats who couldn’t care less where anything in the world was situated. It’s one of those public schools, not like Eton or Westminster or Winchester, but with very high fees. The boys who are sent there are usually ones who failed the Common Entrance exam, but their parents want them to go somewhere posh with expensive facilities. The pay was good, but training morons is always a strain. I thought of transferring to a girls’ school and then decided to retire and enjoy myself.”
“And are you enjoying yourself?”
“I was, until this murder happened. It all seemed so gentle and safe, the idea of a cheap holiday in Scotland.”
“Back to the murder,” said Hamish ruefully.
“Then why don’t you tell me some stories about your life, any that don’t involve mayhem and murder.”
Hamish settled down to tell tales of Lochdubh, all his old affection for the place and the people coming back in force. How kind they had all been over Towser’s death. He talked on and Miss Gunnery settled back to listen, her intelligent eyes twinkling with pleasure behind her glasses.
As they drove back to the boarding-house, Hamish realized with surprise that he had enjoyed his evening out with Miss Gunnery immensely.
But when the Victorian bulk of the boarding-house seemed to rear into view in the twilight, over sand dunes shaggy with spiked razor-grass, he felt his heart sink and wondered whether he should really be going away to Lochdubh, leaving a dangerous murderer on the loose in Skag.
? Death of a Nag ?
7
I fled, and cried out, Death;
Hell trembled at the hideous name, and sigh’d
From all her caves, and back resounded, Death.
—John Milton
Lochdubh, again. Shafts of sun slanting down from the stormy heavens on the black waters of the loch. Fishing boats swinging at anchor. Clothes flapping and flying on clothes-lines like the loose sails of a distressed square-rigger.
Maggie, climbing out of the car at the police station, bent against the force of the warm Atlantic gale and followed Hamish into the kitchen. She had to sit and wait while Hamish lit the stove and checked on his livestock. He popped his head around the kitchen door and said, “Why don’t you run along to the manse and find out if you can get a bed in case we have to stay overnight?”
She hesitated. She was supposed to listen in to whoever it was he meant to phone. As if reading her thoughts, Hamish said amiably, “I’ve got my chores to do. I won’t be settling down to police work for about an hour.”
Maggie went off. Hamish grinned and went through to the police office. He took the list of names and addresses Maggie had given him. He phoned up his cousin, Rory Grant, a newspaper reporter in London, and after the pleasantries were over, he said, “I’m in another murder case, Rory. The one in Skag. Heard about it?”
“Where the man got biffed on the head and pushed into the sea?”
“That one. Not the sea, though, the river. Anyway, if I give you the names and addresses of the suspects, can you see if there’s anything on the files about them?”
“It’s a dreary, parochial murder, Hamish. I mean, what’s in it for me?”
“First crack at it if I find the murderer.”
“Not interested.”
“I was thinking of going down to Glasgow as part o’ my research. Might call on your mother and tell her how you’re getting on.”
“You wouldn’t!” Rory knew Hamish was referring to his dissipated life of night-clubbing and womanizing.
