with the tweezers he had used earlier.
The first one had been written to Josie Darling. He read:
Dear Josie,
I just can’t go through with it. I’m sorry to let you down at the last minute, but I’ve met someone else, and it’s real love this time. If you need any help writing apology letters or returning the presents, let me know. You’ll hate me for a bit, but after time passes, you’ll come to realise I did the right thing. I hope you, too, will find someone.
Yours, aye, Murdo.
“The bastard!” said Hamish out loud. Lugs scrabbled at his knee. “Down, boy,” said Hamish sharply. He put the letter carefully to one side. Then he picked up the next.
Dear Helen, I’ll never forget our night in Strathbane. I’m still travelling around but I hope to be back in Strathbane soon. Any chance of you getting away from your old man? Give us a bell if you can, snookums.
Always your loving Pat.
Who was Helen? wondered Hamish. The next was a letter to crofter Angus Effrik. It was from his bank manager. Hamish scanned it rapidly. It was telling Angus that he could have no further credit.
The fourth was an old newspaper cutting. It read:
Mrs. Fiona McClellan appeared at Strathbane sheriff’s court yesterday charged with shoplifting. A psychiatrist, Dr. J. Arthur, testified that Mrs. McClellan was now undergoing treatment for kleptomania. Sheriff Paul Tampley gave Mrs. McClellan a suspended sentence of one year but told her that should she appear in his court again, then he would not be so lenient.
Hamish’s heart sank lower. Mrs. McClellan was the bank manager’s wife.
There could only be one explanation as to why Fergus had kept these items hidden under the floorboards. Blackmail.
Hamish groaned and put his head in his hands. He should phone Strathbane immediately and reveal the contents of what Angela had found. Blair would descend like the wrath of God. He was a great man for arresting first and asking questions afterwards. Four lives might be needlessly ruined.
He looked down at his dog, who stared back up at him with those odd blue eyes. “I’ll give it a day, Lugs. One day. Let’s see what they have to say for themselves. But who’s Helen?”
¦
Hamish started off by going to see Josie. When she opened the door to him, a mulish look settled on her face. “What is it now?” she demanded sharply.
“Can I come in?”
“No, I’m busy.”
“So do you want to tell me about the cancelled wedding and why Fergus was blackmailing you out here on the step?”
She burst into tears. Hamish put an arm round her and guided her into the living room. Her mother rose to her feet in alarm. “What have you said?” she shouted.
“Let’s all sit down and talk this over quietly,” said Hamish. He pressed the weeping Josie down into a chair and then sat down himself.
“While Fergus was going through everyone’s rubbish to make sure everything was in the right receptacle, he collected letters and things he thought might be useful. He kept a letter to you from your fiance, Murdo, Josie. In it Murdo breaks off the engagement. For some reason, your pride wouldn’t let you tell anyone and it is my belief Fergus asked you for payment to keep his mouth shut.”
Josie scrubbed her eyes dry and glared at him defiantly. “Prove it!”
“If you are uncooperative, I will turn the letter over to police headquarters and Detective Chief Inspector Blair will haul you in for questioning. You’ll have a rougher time with him than you will with me. He may not arrest you, but it will be in the papers that a woman is helping police with their inquiries and everyone in Lochdubh will have seen you being taken off in a police car. Come on, now, be honest.”
Josie looked at her mother, who gave a little nod. “Yes, he asked for money,” she said wearily. “Oh, the shame of it. Him jilting me. I’d bragged to all my friends about getting married.”
“How much?”
“Five hundred pounds. He said if I gave him five hundred he would let me have the letter back. I told him I’d spent too much on the wedding, and he’d need to wait, but he would drop in on his rounds and ask for tea and sit there grinning at me. I could’ve killed him!” Josie gasped and put a hand to her mouth as if to stuff the words back in.
“A lot of people could,” said Hamish. “But, lassie, I know it was a sore blow, but you’d have had to tell folks finally. What about the presents?”
“I must have been mad,” said Josie, her eyes filling with tears. “I was going to go down to Inverness and stay with Auntie Margaret and get work. I was going to tell folks here that Murdo wanted a quiet wedding in Inverness.”
“And keep all the presents?”
“I was going to return them when she had gone,” said Mrs. Darling.
“So you didn’t pay the money?”
“Five hundred pounds is an awful lot of money. I was trying to string him along until something happened.”
“Something did happen. Someone murdered him. You’ll just need to tell folks you’ve been jilted and forget that silly pride of yours. People get jilted every day. I’ve been jilted so many times, I think it’s a way o’ life. Now I must ask you both what you were doing on the night of July twenty-second, that’s when Fergus was murdered.”
“We were watching a video together, me and Mum,” said Josie. “Then we went to bed.”
“No witnesses?”
They both shook their heads.
“Thank God it’s all over,” said Mrs. Darling.
“Aye, well let’s hope that’s an end to it. But I cannae sit on evidence like this forever. But I’ll try to keep it quiet for a bit.”
“Thank you,” breathed Josie, suddenly all seductive. “I know you’re doing it just for me.”
Murdo’s a lucky man, thought Hamish, getting to his feet. “I’m doing it for you and your mother and for the peace of the village. But don’t get too cocky with me, Josie Darling. Just pray I can find a murderer before your letter goes to police headquarters.”
¦
Hamish then walked down to the Bank of Scotland. The bank house stood next door, one of those whitewashed gothic villas that the Victorians had considered suitable to house bank managers.
The bank was still open, so the husband would be at work. He pressed the house bell. A voice called, “I’m in the garden at the back.”
Hamish walked along the path at the side of the house. Mrs. McClellan was standing in the garden at the back, a trowel in one hand. The rain had cleared, although the clouds were still low and heavy.
“Mr. Macbeth,” she said, “what can I do for you?”
She was wearing an old Laura Ashley print frock, faded by many washings. She had a small-featured face with only a few wrinkles around her dark brown eyes. Her thick brown hair was piled in a loose knot on top of her head.
“Can we sit down somewhere, Mrs. McClellan? You’re not going to like this.”
A bleak look settled in her eyes. “Come into the kitchen,” she said. “We can talk there.”
As soon as they were both seated at the kitchen table, she said in a quiet voice, “You know, don’t you?”
“I know Fergus kept an old newspaper cutting describing how you had been charged with shoplifting. When was that? There was no date on the cutting.”
“Twelve years ago.”
