all, let me know. Also, Mrs. Gallagher has lost a cat. I’m going to pass round a photograph of the cat and I want you all to study it carefully and then search for this cat. There’ll be a reward.”
Schoolteacher Maisie then showed him out. “I see you don’t have the classroom decorated,” said Hamish.
“We were going to make some paper decorations but you know how it is. Some of the parents objected. They said they didn’t mind giving their children a present, but that they were against what they call pagan celebrations. It’s hard on the children because they all watch television and they are all in love with the idea of a Christmas tree and lights and all those things. Oh, well, it’s only at Christmas that they get stroppy. Other times, this must be the nicest place in the Highlands.”
“It is that,” said Hamish. “Maybe you’d like to have a bite of dinner with me one night?”
She looked startled and then smiled. “Are you asking me out on a date?”
Hamish thought gloomily about his unlucky love life and said quickly, “Chust a friendly meal.”
“Then that would be nice.”
“What about tomorrow evening? At the Italian restaurant? About eight?”
“I’ll be there.”
“Grand,” said Hamish, giving her a dazzling smile.
Mrs. Wellington, the minister’s wife, was just arriving and heard the exchange. She waited until Hamish had left and then said in her booming voice, “I feel I should warn you against that man, Miss Pease.”
“Oh, why?” asked the schoolteacher. “He’s not married, is he?”
“No, more’s the pity. He is a philanderer.”
“Dear me.”
“He was engaged to Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, daughter of Colonel Halburton-Smythe who owns the Tommel Castle Hotel. He broke off the engagement and broke her heart.”
Miss Pease had already heard quite a lot of Lochdubh gossip, and the gossips had it the other way round, that Priscilla had broken Hamish’s heart.
“Oh, well,” said Miss Pease, “he can’t do much to me over dinner.”
“That’s what you think,” said Mrs. Wellington awfully. “Now about the Sunday school…”
¦
Hamish walked along the waterfront and met one of the fishermen, Archie Maclean. The locals said that Archie’s wife boiled all his clothes, and certainly they always looked too tight for his small figure, as if every one had been shrunk and then starched and ironed. The creases in his trousers were like knife blades and his tweed jacket was stretched tightly across his stooped shoulders.
“Getting ready for Christmas, Archie?” Hamish hailed him.
“When wass there effer the Christmas in our house?” grumbled Archie.
“I didn’t think the wife was religious.”
“No, but herself says she’s having none of those nasty Christmas trees shedding needles in her house, nor any of that nasty tinsel. You ken we’ve the only washhouse left in Lochdubh?”
Hamish nodded. The washhouse at the back of Archie’s cottage had been used in the old days before washing machines. It contained a huge copper basin set in limestone brick where the clothes were once boiled on wash-day.
“Well, the neighbors have been dropping by tae use it tae boil up their cloutie dumplings. But dae ye think I’ll get a piece. Naw!”
Cloutie dumpling, that Scottish Christmas special, is a large pudding made of raisins, sultanas, dates, flour and suet, all boiled in a large cloth or pillowcase. Some families still kept silver sixpences from the old days before decimal coinage to drop into the pudding. Large and brown and steaming and rich, it was placed on the table at Christmas and decorated with a sprig of holly. It was so large it lasted for weeks, slices of it even being served fried with bacon for breakfast.
“In fact,” said Archie, “the only one what’s offered me a piece is Mrs. Brodie.”
“Angela? The doctor’s wife?”
“Herself.”
“But Angela can’t cook!”
“I know that fine. But herself says she’s going to try this year. Herself says it’s surely chust like a scientific experiment. You measure out the exact amounts.”
“It never works with Angela,” said Hamish. “Her cakes are like rocks. Come for a dram, Archie. I’ve been talking to the schoolchildren and it’s thirsty work.”
They walked into the Lochdubh bar together.
When they were settled at a corner table with glasses of whisky, Hamish asked, “Do you know any gossip about Mrs. Gallagher?”
“Her, out the Cnothan road? Why?”
“I’ve been thinking. We all know her as a sour-faced bitch. But why?”
“Cos she’s a sour-faced bitch. Postman says she’s got the place like Fort Knox wi‘ locks and bolts.”
“I mean, what soured her? Was she always like that?”
“I think so. Good sheep. Doesn’t have dogs. She just whistles to the sheep, different whistles and they do what she wants. She had one friend.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know if the woman iss still alive. She bought the croft from her. Mrs. Dunwiddy. She went to live with a daughter in Inverness. Wait a bit. Maybe two years back now, someone says to me that Mrs. Dunwiddy had a stroke and she’s in an old folks home in Inverness. What’s she done?”
“She done nothing. She thinks someone’s pinched her cat.”
“Gone wild probably or the fox got it.”
“That’s what I told her.”
“So what d’ye want to know about her for?”
“Curious. That’s all. I think she’s a verra frightened woman.”
“Listen, Hamish, if I lived up there and never spoke to a body except to do a deal for sheep at the sales at Lairg, I’d get frightened as well.”
“I think there’s more to it than that. Oh, and if you hear of someone selling Christmas lights, let me know. Cnothan’s had theirs stolen.”
“There’s a lot o‘ Free Presbyterians o’er there.”
The great essayist Bernard Levin once described the Free Presbyterian as the sort of people who thought that if they did not keep the blankets tight over their feet at night, the pope would nip down the chimney and bite their toes.
“Maybe,” said Hamish. “But I doubt it. The lights were taken along with a tree out of that shed at the community hall. The padlock was smashed. Any loose elements roaming the countryside?”
“Haven’t heard. Don’t get them in the winter.”
“If you hear anything, let me know.”
¦
Hamish returned to the police station to collect the Land Rover and drive to Cnothan.
He was once more examining the shed when Mr. Sinclair came up to him. “You’re not wearing gloves,” he accused.
“Why should I?”
“You’ll be destroying fingerprints.”
Hamish sighed. He knew Strathbane would not send out a team of forensic experts to help solve the mere theft of a Christmas tree and lights.
Ignoring Mr. Sinclair, he set out, stooped over the ground, following the trail of pine needles. He went through the gate into the common grazing ground. No more needles. There must have been more than one. He could imagine them getting it over the gate and then lifting it onto their shoulders. He set off up the hill, doubled over, studying the ground. He guessed they would go fast and in a straight line.
Mr. Sinclair stood watching him until the tall figure had disappeared over the crest of the hill. “That man’s a useless fool,” he said to the frosty air. “It’s a pity Sergeant Macgregor is off ill.” He quite forgot that Sergeant
