Hamish Macbeth 03; Death of an Outsider hm-3 Page 2

“It’s not that,” said the minister’s wife. “It’s just he’s such a know-all. It’s a crofting community round here. They don’t like being told how to run things, particularly by an outsider, but Mr. Mainwaring, that’s his name, will tell them what they are doing wrong. Not in a nasty way, mind. But as if he’s laughing at them. His poor wife. He won’t even leave her to run the house, but supervises her cooking. He even chooses her clothes for her!”

  “The fiend!” cried Hamish, registering extreme shock, very gratifying to the minister’s wife, who had not had such an appreciative audience in years.

  “Have another scone, Constable. Yes, she is a member of the Women’s Rural Institute and gave us a very good lecture on how to dry and arrange flowers. Most stimulating…She was doing very well, but he walked in at the question time and started grilling her – his own wife!”

  “Fancy!”

  “Yes. And she turned as red as fire and began to stammer. Wicked it was. And…”

  The sound of a car crunching on the gravel outside made Mrs. Struthers turn as red as fire herself. “I had better go,” said Hamish, not wishing to waste time talking to the minister.

  But as he rose to his feet, Mr. Struthers, the minister, came in. He had a pale face and pale-blue eyes and a thin mouth. His tow-coloured hair was carefully sleeked down. Mrs. Struthers, rather flustered, made the introductions. “I trust you have not been gossiping,” said the minister severely.

  “On the contrary,” said Hamish, “your good lady has just been encouraging me to visit the kirk on the Sabbath. She was telling me all about your powerful sermons.”

  He shook hands with the minister, collected the small television set, and said goodbye. The minister’s wife went to the window and watched the tall figure of the constable as he walked away with a rather dreamy smile on her face. “Such a fine man,” she murmured.

  Hamish ambled up the main street, comfortably full of tea and home-made scones and jam. At the top, opposite the police station, he noticed an old cottage, set a little back from the road, with a sign outside which said, PAINTINGS FOR SALE.

  There was what appeared to be a teenage girl digging the garden. As if aware she was being watched, she turned around, saw Hamish, and came up to the garden gate. Her figure was as trim and youthful as a girl’s, but Hamish judged her to be about the same age as himself – in her thirties. She had an elfin face, a wide smile, and a mop of black curls.

  “Jenny Lovelace,” she said, holding out a small, earthy hand.

  “Hamish Macbeth,” said Hamish, smiling down at her. “Is that an American accent?”

  “No, Canadian.”

  “And what are you doing in the wilds of Sutherland, Miss Lovelace?” asked Hamish, putting down television set and two grocery bags on the ground and shaking her hand before leaning comfortably on the gate.

  “I wanted peace and quiet. I came over on a holiday and stayed. I’ve been here four years.”

  “And do you like it? I gather they don’t like incomers here.”

  “Oh, I get along all right. I like being alone.”

  “I get the idea life has been easier for the incomers since a certain Mr. Mainwaring arrived. He sounds like a right pain in the neck.”

  Jenny’s face hardened. “Mr. Mainwaring is about the only civilized person in the whole of this place,” she said sharply.

  “I always go and put my big foot in it,” said Hamish sadly. “It comes from not being in the way of talking to pretty girls. My mind gets all thumbs.”

  Jenny giggled. “Your mind doesn’t have thumbs,” she said. “Gracious! What’s that terrible howling coming from the police station?”

  “It’s my dog, Towser. He wants his food, and when he wants his food, he screams for it. I’d best be on my way.”

  “Drop round for a coffee,” said Jenny, turning away, as Hamish stooped to pick up his belongings.

  “When?” Hamish called after her.

  “Any time you like.”

  “I’ll drop by the morn,” called Hamish, feeling suddenly happy.

  Towser’s howling stopped when he saw his master. He lay on the kitchen floor and stared at Hamish with sorrowful eyes. “I’ve got some liver for ye,” grumbled Hamish, pouring oil in a pan. “See, low-cholesterol oil, good for your fat heart.” The doorbell on the police-station extension sounded shrilly. Hamish made a move to answer it. Towser started to howl again.

  Hamish ran and wrenched open the door. A middle-aged man stood on the step. He was tall, well-built, and had a large round head and neat prim features, small round eyes, a button of a nose, and a small primped mouth. Although he must have been nearly sixty, he had a thick head of brown hair, worn long so that it curled over his collar. He was wearing a waxed coat with a corduroy collar, gabardine breeches, lovat stockings, and brogues – and a red pullover. English, thought Hamish. They aye love thae red pullovers.

  “Come in and I’ll be with you in a minute,” gabbled Hamish as Towser’s howling rose to a crescendo. Hamish darted back to the kitchen and put the liver in the frying pan. When it was ready, he cut it up into small pieces, arranged it on a dish, and put it in front of the dog.

  “So we’ve lost one fool of a policeman to find another,” said a sarcastic upper-class-accented voice from the doorway of the kitchen. “Let me tell you, Constable, that I am going to write to your superiors and say that feeding good butcher’s meat to a spoilt mongrel takes precedence in what’s left of your mind over solving crime.”

  “Sit yerself down, Mr. Mainwaring,” said Hamish, “and I’ll attend to you. I havenae had time to draw breath since I arrived.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “Your reputation goes before you,” said Hamish. “Now, we can stand here exchanging insults or we can get down to business. What’s the crime?”

  William Mainwaring drew out a kitchen chair and sat down and looked up at the tall policeman. He took out a pipe and lit it with precise, fussy movements. Hamish waited patiently.

  “You ask me what the crime is?” said Mainwaring finally. “Well, I’ll tell you in one word: ‘Witchcraft’.”

  ∨ Death of an Outsider ∧

  2

  There’s one parish church for all the people, whatsoever may be their ranks in life or their degrees,

  Except for one damp, small, dark, freezing cold, little Methodist chapel of ease,

  And close by the churchyard there’s a stonemason’s yard, that when the time is seasonable

  Will furnish with afflictions sore and marble urns and cherubims very low and reasonable.

  —Thomas Wood

  Witchcraft,” said Hamish Macbeth. “Jist let me get my notebook.” He licked the end of his pencil and looked with delighted curiosity at William Mainwaring.

  “Yes, witchcraft,” said Mainwaring testily. “Last week, I found crossed rowan branches placed outside the door. I am an expert on local folklore and knew this was to put a hex on us. Two days later, I found fingernails – the same thing. Then, last night, my wife was making her way home from the Women’s Rural Institute when three witches jumped over the churchyard wall and started cackling and howling about her.”

  Hamish bit the end of his pencil thoughtfully. “Who is it that wants to drive you away?” he asked.

  “Oh, everyone, I should think,” said Mainwaring.

  “And why is that?”

  “Because we are incomers and English.”

  “And nothing else?”

  “No other reason whatsoever,” said Mainwaring. “I am by way of being a leader of the community. They are a simple people here and look to me for guidance. It should be easy for you to find out the culprits and arrest them.”

  “But if you are a leader of the community and looked up to,” asked Hamish blandly, “then why do they want to get rid of you?”

  “We’re English, that’s all. And you don’t expect rational behaviour from these people. Also, the attack was directed against my wife. She is probably the target, now I c
ome to think of it. She is a highly irritating woman.”

  Hamish blinked. “In that case,” he said, “perhaps it would be better if I had a wee word with Mrs. Mainwaring.”

  “Agatha has nothing to tell you that I cannot. You will probably find it is some of those bitches at the Women’s Rural Institute. I attended one of my wife’s lectures, and I could feel the atmosphere was hostile.”

  “And at what time did this take place last night?”

  “At ten o’clock, or as near as damn.”

  Hamish looked at his shorthand notes. “Why did you not report the matter to Sergeant MacGregor?”

  Mainwaring laughed. It was a pleasant and charming laugh, at odds with the words that followed. “MacGregor is a fool, and I have had reason to complain about him to his superiors on two occasions. I knew you, his replacement, would be arriving today and decided I would be better with fresh blood. You do not appear particularly intelligent to me, but, with my guidance, I should think we might get somewhere. I have experience of this sort of thing.”

  “Witchcraft?”

  “No, no, man. Detective work. Did my bit in the army. Not supposed to talk about it, but the little grey men in Whitehall called me in from time to time to ask my help.”

  “And do you often talk to little grey men?” asked Hamish, deliberately misunderstanding him.

  “God give me patience,” cried Mainwaring, his face turning a mottled colour. “M. I.5, you fool!”

  “Is that a fact!” exclaimed Hamish, his eyes round with wonder. “Aye, I can see we’ll have your witches in no time at all, at all, with a brain like yours to help with the work.”

  “You can start off with Mrs. Struthers, the minister’s wife. She runs the local WRI,” said Mainwaring.

  “How long have you been in Cnothan?” asked Hamish.

  “Eight years.”

  Hamish was not in the least surprised that someone who had been in Cnothan for eight years was still regarded as an outsider. “And why did you come here?”

  “My aunt was Scottish. She left me the house and the croft in her will. I like fishing and hill walking. I am a crofter, of course. I have two hundred Cheviots.”

  Hamish stared blankly ahead. In his experience, incomers were often misguided romantics who thought they could get away from their troubles by leading a simple life in the Highlands of Scotland. They often took to drink. But there was no sign of the drinker about Mainwaring. Hamish wondered whether, as a retired army man in Chelmsford or somewhere like that in the south of England, he might have been considered very small beer. Mainwaring liked throwing his weight around and had probably, instead of selling his aunt’s house and croft, chosen to stay in this small pond to perform as a big fish.

  “I will call on you tomorrow,” said Hamish, “and tell you how I got on. Address?”

  “Balmain. It’s about two miles outside the town on the Lochdubh road.”

  Hamish wrote it down.

  “Goodbye, Constable,” said Mainwaring. “But you will find the hostility is directed against my wife. She puts people’s backs up.”

  “I have found,” said Hamish slowly, “that married people often don’t think much of each other. I mean, if the couple is popular, each one takes the credit. If unpopular, each assumes the other is to blame.”

  Mainwaring turned in the doorway, his eyes bulging. “Are you aware of what you have just said?” he shouted. “You are a cheeky blighter, and if I don’t get results from you by tomorrow, then I’ll have you out of Cnothan so fast, your feet won’t touch the ground!”

  “I wass thinking aloud,” said Hamish sadly. “A bad, bad fault. Now don’t fash yourself, sir. Arresting the witches is part of my job.”

  The crash of the door as Mainwaring slammed out was his only answer.

  “I shouldnae ha’ said that,” mourned Hamish, fishing a packet of biscuits out of one of the shopping bags, opening it, and giving one to his dog. “But of a’ the conceited men!”

  He helped himself to a biscuit and stared into space. There was something about Mainwaring that didn’t ring true. That ‘cheeky blighter’ was the sort of thing an ex-army man would say in a bad play.

  He decided to go out and collect as much gossip about Mainwaring as he could before seeing the minister’s wife again.

  He made himself dinner, walked Towser, and then set off down the main street, reflecting that there was no point in trying out MacGregor’s car until he had farther afield to go.

  He went to the churchyard with his torch and poked about. Great Celtic crosses reared up against the night sky. Frost was already glittering on the gravel paths. They were raked smooth and there was not a sign of even one footstep. Deciding to have a word with Mrs. Mainwaring the following day and persuade her to come with him and show him exactly where the witches had appeared, Hamish went back to the churchyard gate and let himself out. Down on the waterfront was a bar called The Clachan. Hamish pushed open the door and went in. It was a dreary smoke-filled room with a juke-box blaring melancholy country-and-western songs from a corner. It was a Monday night and so few of the regulars were in, having spent all their money on the Saturday. Hamish ordered a bottle of beer and took it over to a table by the window and sat down.

  The cowboy on the juke-box, who had been complaining that his son called another man Daddy, wailed off into silence.

  The door opened and a tall, slim man walked in. Hamish observed him curiously. He had carefully waved hair, hornrimmed glasses, a sallow skin, and buck-teeth. He was wearing a city suit of charcoal-grey worsted with a checked shirt, and tight waistcoat under a camel-hair coat.

  He ordered a gin and tonic and then turned and faced the room. His eyes fell on Hamish. He hesitated and then walked over. Incomer, thought Hamish. No local would approach a strange policeman. The minister’s wife, who felt such gestures to be her duty, did not count.

  “You’re Macbeth,” he said. “I’m Harry Mackay.”

  “You don’t look as if you belong here,” said Hamish.

  “Oh, I was brought up here, but I spent a good part of my life in Edinburgh,” said Mackay.

  “And what brought you back?”

  “I’m an estate agent. I work for Queen and Earl.”

  “I didn’t pass your office in the main street,” said Hamish.

  “No, you wouldn’t,” said Mackay. “Estate agents are regarded with suspicion. My office is on the other side of the loch, among the council houses.”

  “You can’t do much business in this part of Sutherland,” said Hamish, watching as the estate agent lit a cigarette with a gold Dunhill lighter.

  “Oh, it would surprise you, Macbeth. Do you know Baran Castle?”

  “Aye, it’s that big place over to the west. Bought by an American last year.”

  “Well, I sold that,” said Mackay proudly. “It’s not the locals who give me the business, but the foreigners and ex-patriots. I sold that castle for over a million pounds. And Kringstein, the local big cheese, bought Strachan House and the estates from me as well. So, how’s crime getting on in Cnothan?”

  “I have the case of witchcraft already,” said Hamish.

  “The haunting of the Mainwarings? Someone wants that pillock out of here and I can’t blame them. Stuck-up bastard.”

  “He hasn’t crossed you, has he?”

  “I thought he meant to,” said Mackay with a grin. “He’s bought two more houses and crofts outside the town. Why, nobody knows. He uses the crofts, but the houses just stand empty. His own place is decrofted, and he got the land at the other two decrofted as well. That would be about six years ago. I thought he was going to compete with me by putting them on the market, but not him. Crofts are a pain in the neck to an estate agent anyway.”

  There was a short silence while both contemplated the peculiarities of crofting. The word ‘croft’ comes from the Gaelic coirtean, meaning a small enclosed field. In early times in the crofting counties of Shetland, Orkney, Caithness, Sutherland, Ross and Cromarty,
Inverness, and Argyll, there was a belief that lengthy tenancy gave right to a ‘kindness,’ or permanency of settlement. But the Highland Clearances of the last century, when the crofters were driven off their hill farms to turn Sutherland into one large sheep ranch, had caused bitter hardship. The Crofting Act was passed to ensure security of tenure; this ended landlord absolutism. Once a crofter had tenancy of his croft or hill farm, he could be sure of no interference from the landlord and he no longer had any fear of being driven off. The crofter could also get the land decrofted – that is, buy it from the landowner at a reasonable price – but few crofters did this. Most were fearful of change, preferring to hang on to their small uneconomical croft units and collect the government grants. Sometimes unscrupulous estate agents let their clients who were buying an old croft house as a holiday home believe that the croft land went along with it.

  This practice left the buyers to find out for themselves that crofting land must be worked all the year round or the tenancy is refused by the Crofters Commission, and the assignation of the croft can be blocked by the neighbours anyway, who put up objections to any incomer simply as a matter of habit.

  Hamish broke the silence first. “Was there no objection to him getting the other two crofts when he had one already?” he asked.

  “People didn’t dislike him as much then as they do now. The two crofts are adjoining the one he inherited from his aunt. But they’re surrounded by moors for miles. There are no other crofters near enough to him to put up a fight. Most of the crofts are to the other side of Cnothan. Besides, it’s happening all over. Some of these crofters have enough land to make up a good-sized farm. Of course, unlike Mainwaring, they don’t bother decrofting it, for they’re afraid of losing the government grants if they do.”

  “And no objection from the landowner?”

  “Kringstein. Couldn’t care less. You know he hardly gets any rents to speak of from the croft land. Besides, the crofter has more power in the matter than the landowner. The landowner’s got to sell to the crofter if asked and at a ridiculously low price, too. Mainwaring’s not short of a bob, and I could have got the owners of these houses a lot more money. He went along with cash and they sold cheap.”