“Tell him we’re walking out. He thinks you’re proposing to me anyway.”
“Och, no,” said Hamish. “The man can’t be that daft.”
¦
“I’m telling you for a fact,” said PC Willie Lament in Patel’s grocery store, “that Hamish Macbeth is in that polis station right now proposing marriage to Priscilla Halburton-Smythe.”
“High time,” said Mrs Maclean.
“Our Hamish getting married!” Mr Patel’s dark face lit up. He enjoyed a good bit of gossip. “Well, I never thought to see the day. My, my, my. And it’s yourself, Mrs Anderson, and how are you this fine day? Have you heard the news about our Hamish?”
A reporter from the
¦
Hamish and Priscilla made their way to the field behind the manse by a circuitous route so that they would not be seen. This involved walking all the way over to Gunn’s farm and then doubling back over the fields, past the greenish water-filled quarry and then up the steep path by the side of a cliff which overlooked the water, and so down towards the manse.
The twilight, or gloaming, as it is called in Scotland, was soft and clear. The residents of Lochdubh went early to bed, and as Hamish and Priscilla sat down in the field behind the shelter of the bus, the lights in the village were going out one by one.
They sat talking quietly of this and that but gradually fell silent, straining their ears for the slightest sound.
By one o’clock, the wind of Sutherland had risen and was moaning through the long grass and gaining in force every minute, filling the night with movement.
“We’ll never hear anything in this,” whispered Priscilla.
“I’m a fool,” muttered Hamish bitterly. “These damn women should never have put themselves in a position to be blackmailed anyway, and they’d better face up and take their medicine. Why should I protect them and risk letting a murderer go free?”
“Because Sean was a worthless man and these women are not worthless. They just did not have any experience of evil before. They were all so innocent and he took advantage of that.”
“Aye, I’ve had bad dreams over this. I had one about you, Priscilla.”
“Oh, what was I doing?”
“We were on our honeymoon and you were taking off your clothes and you had a flat hairy chest.”
“You know how to flatter a girl and make her feel good, Hamish.”
“It wass chust a dream! You do not haff the flat hairy chest!”
“How do you know?” said Priscilla huffily.
“Because…” He grabbed her by the arms in a fierce grip. “Listen!” he muttered.
“Only the wind,” whispered Priscilla, “I don’t hear anything exactly. I feel something coming.”
“‘By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way…’”
“Shhh!” He put a hand over her mouth.
Priscilla eased away from him and brought out the little tape recorder, switched it on and handed it to him.
Hamish stiffened like a hunting dog. His whole attention was focused on the packing case, whose light-brown sides glimmered faintly in the half-dark.
Then he let out a long ‘aaaah’ of satisfaction.
“Stay here,” he whispered. He walked slowly to where the bent figure was tearing the rocks out of the packing case.
“Cheryl Higgins,” he said. “I charge you with the murder of Sean Gourlay.” He shone a powerful torch full in her face.
“You’re daft,” she snarled. “Sean was hiding something here and he’d taken some o’ ma things, and I remembered he might hae put them here.”
So, thought Hamish bleakly, she could well stick to that story and look horrified and surprised when the contents of that bag were revealed.
He looked at her in sudden hatred and the lie sprang easily to his lips. “It won’t do, Cheryl,” he said. “Bert Luscious spoke before he died. He said he’d stood in for you on the night of the murder.” And with the inspiration of the desperate, Hamish added, “and you promised him that scooter of yours if he did it.”
She backed away from him, a slight figure in black leather, her long hair whipped this way and that by the wind. “You’ll never get me in prison,” she said viciously. “Not for that bastard. I told Sean I wus pregnant and he said, “Here’s money. Get rid of it.” I kep’ the money and got it done on the National Health. Bastard.”
“So you killed him,” said Hamish.
“I didnae mean tae,” she said, sounding suddenly weary. “I came back to see him. Johnny and the others said they would keep quiet. Sean loved me once. I drove the scooter from Strathbane and left it up on the moors and crept down into the village. There were some men at the bus and I waited, lying in the grass until they went away. Then I went in. Sean had got the sledgehammer because he said there was a gale blowing up and he was going tae put ropes ower the bus. I picked up the sledge. “Going to help me?” he said with that laugh, the way he had laughed when he told me to get rid of the baby. Oh, God, he’d said he loved me and would always look after me.” Her voice broke on a sob. “So I smashed him and smashed him until there was nothing left that would attract a woman again.”
“What is here,” asked Hamish, “that would incriminate you and not in the bus?”
“You didnae know,” she marvelled. “You set me up and I fell for it. I hid the money and drugs for him and my fingerprints are all ower the stuff. And you didnae know. You’re a bastard! I thought once you got my fingerprints on the stuff, you’d never leave me be. And I wanted the money and I wanted that video from the bus he was blackmailing those village women with. I was going to make them suffer.”
Hamish stepped forward. “If you will accompany me to the police station, I – ”
“NO!” she howled, a great scream which rose above the wind.
She whipped around and set out over the field like a deer. Hamish sprinted after her, caught his foot in a rabbit hole and went sprawling. Cursing, he got to his feet and ran on, deaf to Priscilla’s cries behind him. The moon had risen and he could make out Cheryl’s slight figure as it flew across the fields towards the quarry. As he pounded after her, he suddenly wondered if she knew about the quarry, she had always gone for walks around the village, and stopped, cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted a warning.
But she went straight on, straight to the edge and straight over.
Panting, he ran up and knelt down at the edge of the cliff over the quarry. The moon was shining on the spreading ripples on the water.
He hurtled down the bank at the side to where the waters of the old quarry were on a level with the ground, kicked off his shoes, laid the tape recorder on the shore and waded in. He dived and dived, groping desperately among the tentacles of the slimy weed which covered the bottom. From above the quarry came the sounds of voices.
He was nearing the end of his strength when his searching hands located a body tied tightly in the embrace of the weed. He surfaced, gulped air and dived once more, this time with his clasp-knife in his hand. He cut the body free and dragged it to the surface.
A little group of villagers, who had been alerted by Priscilla’s cries for help, stood silently huddled together on the beach. He laid Cheryl down. Dr Brodie came hurrying up as Hamish was trying to revive the girl and pushed him aside. He felt Cheryl’s pulse and then slowly shook his head.
“She’s dead, Hamish. Nothing can be done for her now.”
Ian Gunn, the farmer, drove up in his old rusty Land Rover. Cheryl’s body was lifted into the back and the doors slammed on it. “Take it to the surgery and the ambulance from Strathbane will collect it,” said Dr Brodie. Ian nodded, climbed into the driving seat and drove slowly off, but the field was bumpy and he hit a rock and Cheryl’s body jerked up in the back of the Land Rover, and for one horrible moment her white face, lit up by the moonlight, stared back at the watchers through the back windows.
