of the pulpit. He was wearing a black shirt and black cords. His odd green eyes glittered strangely in the light.
“Come to see his handiwork,” muttered Hamish.
There were hymns, a reading from the New Testament, and then the minister leaned forward over the pulpit.
A rustle of papers as peppermints were popped in mouths and then the congregation settled back to enjoy what Archie Maclean called ‘a guid blasting’.
In a quiet, carrying voice, the minister began to talk of the theft of the funds. Sean crossed his arms and looked amused. The minister went on to say that this had caused malice and gossip in the village, turning one family against the other. His voice rose as he begged them to love their neighbour as themselves. His whole sermon seemed to be spoken directly to Sean. He spoke of the suffering in the world and reminded them that Jesus Christ had died on the cross for them. He said that the suffering in the village had been brought about by themselves. They had let one common theft poison their lives. “There is no place for evil in this village,” he said. “Look into your hearts and pray for charity, pray for kindness, and pray to the Good Lord for forgiveness for your sins. Let us pray together.”
Before he bent his head; Hamish noticed Sean walking quickly out of the church. It was silly, he told himself, to be so worried about one mere mortal, to be so superstitious, but somehow the minister’s confrontation with Sean, and that was surely what it had been, reminded him of old tales he had heard when he was small in the long dark winter evenings of the black devil in man’s form, walking into a Highland village one day and causing ruin and disaster.
A very subdued congregation shuffled out of the church. Mrs Gunn shook hands with Mrs Wellington and said they must think up a scheme to raise money to restore what had been taken and another woman patted Mrs Battersby on the back and said she had been doing a grand job as treasurer and hoped she would go on doing so. Groups of people were standing around the graveyard outside, talking to each other.
Hamish shook Mr Wellington’s hand and said, “A grand sermon.”
“Thank you,” said the minister. Then he suddenly added, “Do not worry about Sean. I have a feeling he will be leaving us.”
“And what was that supposed to mean?” asked Hamish over lunch. “Knowledge or the second sight?”
“I think, like you, he’s decided Sean is the real reason for all the misery. When you think of it, who else could have taken that money?”
“But he and Cheryl weren’t even here!”
“They could have slipped back during the night. It’s a simple matter to find the key and open up the village hall.”
“Well, let’s hope the minister’s right. If Sean doesnae move on, I’ll need to think of some way to get him moving! What did you say to Mr Wellington to get him to see sense?”
“Just a few gentle and womanly words,” said Priscilla.
Hamish looked at her with admiration. “Aye, it’s a grand thing, a woman’s touch,” he said. “I must have been ower-blunt.”
¦
Mr Wellington returned to the manse after evening service feeling comforted. By next week, he knew, his congregation would have dwindled to the usual small number, but instead of giving them what they wanted, he had given them what they sorely needed to hear. His wife had taken sleeping pills and gone to bed. He stared at the bulk of her sleeping form uneasily. She was taking a lot of sleeping pills these days.
He slept restlessly that night. At two in the morning, he got up to go to the bathroom. On his way, he peered out of a passage window which overlooked the manse field at the back. All the lights in the bus were blazing. He gave a little sigh. Supplying Sean with free electricity had been his wife’s idea. She would have to tell Sean that they could do it no longer. He would speak to her in the morning, although it would be a difficult scene. Hamish had told her, he knew, about Sean’s criminal record, but she had refused to take it seriously.
In the morning, on his way to the bathroom to shave, he once more looked out. It was a dark rainy morning and the lights were still blazing in the bus.
So when his wife tottered to the breakfast table, he snapped at her. “Get dressed and tell that young hooligan that you befriended that he is no longer to use our electricity. In fact, while you are at it, you can tell him to go. I am not letting him use the field any more.”
“But you said you were in sympathy with these travellers,” she protested.
“I’ve been a fool, but no longer. Go and give that young man his marching orders.”
“I c-can’t!”
His normally domineering wife was looking grey and crumpled.
Worry for her made him, like most husbands, angry instead of sympathetic.
“Don’t be silly. If it makes you feel any better, tell him
Mrs Wellington eventually, encased in a voluminous waxed coat and rain-hat and Wellington boots, walked across the wet field to the bus.
She could hear the chatter from the television set inside. She knocked at the door and waited.
“Sean,” she called tremulously, and knocked again.
No answer.
She longed to turn away, to forget about the whole thing, but her husband would want to know why. She knocked loudly this time and then, in sudden desperation, sudden longing to get the whole distasteful business over with, she rattled the handle of the door. It swung open.
“Look here, Sean…” she began, heaving her bulk inside.
She stopped short and her mouth opened in a soundless scream.
Sean Gourlay lay on his back on the floor. His face and head had been beaten to a pulp. Beside him on the floor lay a bloody sledgehammer. On the table, on the small television screen, a woman chattered in that inane way early-morning presenters have, as if addressing an audience of children.
Mrs Wellington backed to the door. Small thin sounds were issuing from her mouth. She felt faint but dared not faint and be found lying next to that…that thing.
She stumbled from the bus and weaved her way like a drunk across the field. She opened the back door of the manse and the sight of home and familiar objects loosened her vocal cords and she threw back her head and gave a great cry of “MURDER!” And once started, she could not stop.
¦
Hamish Macbeth stood miserably in the manse field in the driving rain, with Willie beside him, while a forensic team went over the bus inch by inch. Detective Chief Inspector Blair was pacing up and down, wearing a deerstalker and an old Inverness cape, looking like someone in an amateur production of a Sherlock Holmes mystery. The only thing that was lightening Blair’s gloom was the fact that it was a nice seedy murder: no toffs involved. Just a hippie with his head bashed in. He’d had a public row with his girlfriend, the girlfriend had killed him, it was only a matter of time before they picked her up. He loathed being back in Lochdubh, a locality he associated with success for Macbeth and failure for himself. There was no need for either Hamish or his sidekick to be hanging about in the rain, but Blair had kept them there to make them suffer; but as trickles of water began to run down inside his collar, he realized he was suffering as well and suggested they go back to the police station and discuss the matter there and let the forensic boys get on with their job.
“Well,” began Blair, pausing for a moment in surprise as Willie put a coaster under his coffee cup, “it’s straightforward enough. This creep has a row wi’ his lassie, lassie comes back and bang, crash, goodbye boyfriend.”
“Was it murder wi’ intentions?” asked Willie eagerly.
“If ye mean was her intention tae bash his head in, yes, you moron. Now the pathologist says death came frae thae blows from the sledgehammer. Sledge-hammer belongs tae the manse. Whit dae ye think, Sergeant, that yer minister friend was at the sauce and slammed Sean Gourlay’s head in?” Blair laughed heartily.
Hamish looked at him bleakly, his thoughts racing. He found he was hoping against hope that the murderer was Cheryl but for reasons he could not explain.
He began to give Blair a report on Sean’s criminal background, reminding him of the theft of the morphine and the theft of the church money, although adding that both Sean and Cheryl had been away from the village when the
