Death of a Witch Page 2

  Hamish had a sudden image of Blair being blasted to death by a shotgun and he smiled. It was great that some of the things inside his head never got to the outside, he thought.

  In the morning, Hamish, flanked by Clarry and Willie, broke the news to the alarmed postmistress, Ellie Macpherson, that he expected the place to be raided. Unfortunately for Hamish, Ellie was the leading light of the local dramatic society and also a sort of female Walter Mitty. He had managed to talk to her just before she opened up in the morning. Ellie, a scrawny woman who jangled with cheap jewellery, drew herself up and said, “I shall throw myself on the guns!” Her eyes were half closed. Hamish repressed a sigh. He guessed Ellie was already seeing herself on the front page of some newspaper.

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort,” snapped Hamish. “You’ll lie down behind your counter as soon as they come in. Now, Willie and Clarry here will be in the post office, looking at cards or something. They’ve got their shotguns and if anyone asks, they’ll say they are going out hunting rabbits up on the braes.”

  The day dragged on. Hamish, hidden in the back shop, yawned and fidgeted. Willie and Clarry, tired of reading the rhymes of the greeting cards to each other, yawned as well with boredom.

  Just when Hamish was beginning to fear that the robbers planned to attack somewhere else, the door of the post office was thrown open. He heard the customers scream and a man’s voice say, “Hand over the money or you’ll get shot.”

  Hamish darted out of the back shop, holding his own shotgun. He trod on the prone figure of Ellie, who screamed.

  Willie was holding his shotgun against the neck of the one armed man who had dropped his gun to the floor, and Clarry was covering the other two. Hamish leapt over the counter and, taking out three sets of handcuffs, arrested and cautioned the robbers.

  Blair was furious when he got the news. “Whit was that loon daein’ playing the lone sheriff?” he said to Chief Superintendent Peter Daviot.

  “Now, now,” said Daviot. “Hamish has got these men and I am not going to quibble about the way he did it.”

  Jimmy Anderson waylaid Hamish as he was on his way out of headquarters after typing up a full report.

  “So was Alice the informant?” he asked.

  “No, nothing to do with it. Chust a lucky guess on my part.”

  “She’s not in today.”

  “Och, the lassie had a bad fall. I called her doctor and he told her to take a couple of weeks off.”

  “Aye, right,” said Jimmy cynically.

  “Come over to Lochdubh one evening,” said Hamish. “Don’t forget, I’ve a bottle for you.”

  Hamish was just sitting down wearily to an evening meal of Scotch pie and peas when someone knocked at the door.

  “Come in,” he shouted. “The door’s open.”

  Alice walked in. “I heard about it on the evening news,” she said. “Did they say anything about me?”

  “No, I’d have heard. They’re not going to confess to beating someone up for information. They’ll all be sent away for a long time. You can get drunk and run someone over in your car and get a suspended sentence, but if you steal money then the full weight of the courts comes down on your head. Sit down. I hope you’ve eaten, because this is all I’ve got.”

  “Yes, I did have something earlier. So I can move back home?”

  “Certainly. None of that lot will be getting out on bail.”

  She sat down with a sigh. “I’m going to hand in my resignation.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m just not cut out for the force. It’s not really because of the beating. I don’t have much courage. I’m going back to university to get a degree and then maybe I’ll teach.”

  “If that’s what you want to do . . .”

  “But we can see each other sometimes?”

  “Maybe. I do haff the girlfriend, you know.”

  “Oh, well, I’d better be on my way.”

  Hamish saw her out, finished his meal, undressed, showered, and went to bed, stretching out with a groan of relief. There were two thumps and the cat and dog got into bed with him.

  A gale was howling outside, wailing round the building like a banshee. Before he plunged into sleep, Hamish found he was experiencing a stab of superstitious dread. Must be that pie, was his last waking thought.

  The morning was glittering with yellow sunlight. Wisps of high cloud raced across a washed-out blue sky, and the waters of the loch were churned up into angry choppy waves.

  Hamish put on his uniform of serge trousers, blue shirt, dark blue tie, and police sweater with epaulettes. He put his peaked cap on his red hair. He noticed that his trousers were baggy at the knees.

  He unlocked the large cat flap, big enough to let the dog in and out as well, and said to his pets, “You stay here. I’ve got a visit to make.”

  The wind sang in the heather as he made his way on foot to Sandy Ross’s old cottage. Who was this Catriona Beldame that even the Currie sisters wouldn’t gossip about?

  He sensed someone behind him and swung round. The seer, Angus Macdonald, his long grey beard blowing in the wind, was shouting something, but his words were whipped away with the gale.

  Hamish waited until Angus caught up with him. “Dinnae go there, Hamish?” panted the seer.

  “Why not,” said Hamish, rocking slightly in the force of the wind and holding on to his peaked cap.

  “Because she’s a witch, that’s why,” said Angus. “She’s brought evil to Lochdubh.”

  “Havers,” said Hamish. “What’s she doing? Setting up in competition?”

  “I’m warning ye, Hamish. Black days are coming. I see blood.”

  “Och, away wi’ ye,” said Hamish. “There’s no such thing as witches.”

  “On your ain head be it,” said Angus and turned away.

  Hamish walked on, hoping that old Angus wasn’t beginning to suffer from the onset of Alzheimer’s.

  The cottage had no garden. The springy heather went right up to the door. It was a low one-storey whitewashed building with a red corrugated iron roof.

  As he approached the door, a large black cloud swept across the sun and all at once the wind died.

  Again Hamish felt that odd stab of superstitious dread. Then the wind started up again and the cloud moved from the sun.

  Hamish raised his hand to the weather-beaten knocker on the door.

  Chapter Two

  La Belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall!

  —John Keats

  The woman who answered the door fit the description Angela had given him. And yet, as she stood there, looking at him enquiringly, Hamish decided there was nothing sinister about her. She had a dab of flour on one cheek and she was wearing an old Aran sweater, dusty blue corduroy trousers, and sneakers.

  “I am the local constable,” said Hamish. “I have been away on holiday and have only just heard of your arrival.”

  “Come in,” she said.

  The kitchen-cum-living-room into which she led him was stone-flagged. A peat fire smouldered on the hearth. Bookshelves lined one wall and on another, on either side of the low door, shelves held a variety of glass bottles. In the centre of the room was a scarred oak table surrounded by six high-backed Orkney chairs.

  The kitchen part consisted of a sink and butane gas cooker, a granite top with pine cupboards above and below. There was neither a fridge nor a dishwasher.

  “Please sit down,” she said. Her voice was low and mellow with only a slight trace of highland accent.

  Hamish sat down at the table and removed his cap. Despite the fire, the room was cold and the wind soughed through the heather outside the house with an urgent whispering sound.

  “What brought you to this part?” asked Hamish.

  “It’s a pretty village,” she said. “Would you like some tea?”

  “I’d prefer coffee.”

  “I only have herbal tea. Good for you.”

  “All right,” said Hamish. “Although I find that th
ings that are said to be good for me are not very appealing.”

  She smiled an enchanting smile that lit up her face. “Oh, you’ll like this.”

  “Where did you come from?” asked Hamish as she busied herself at the counter by putting a kettle on the cooker.

  “Oh, here and there.”

  “And where was the last there?”

  “Dear me. You do go on like a policeman. So many questions!”

  “What do you do for a living?” pursued Hamish.

  “I supply therapy and herbal treatments.”

  “Have many of the villagers visited you? I believe quite a few men have called on you.”

  “I have a good treatment for sexual dysfunction. Want some?”

  “I do not haff the trouble in that department,” said Hamish, blushing. “What exactly is this treatment?”

  “A secret recipe.”

  Hamish said stiffly, “We do not go in for sex much in Lochdubh,” and immediately felt silly as she turned round and looked at him with amusement.

  She put a cup of tea in front of him and said, “Now, try that.”

  Hamish took a cautious sip. It was some sort of fruit tea, he guessed, very pleasant to the taste.

  She sat down at the table close to him and raised her own cup to her lips. Catriona looked at him over the rim and smiled.

  “Tell me about your sex life.”

  “Chust keep your nose out o’ my private life,” said Hamish sharply.

  “But you’ve been asking me so many personal questions. Isn’t it fair I should ask you some?”

  “I didnae ask you about your sex life.”

  Her knee pressed against his under the table.

  “I don’t mind. For example, I’m very good in bed.”

  “Are you running a brothel here?” demanded Hamish.

  She threw back her head and laughed. Then she said, “My dear man, if I wanted to run a brothel, I would hardly settle in a village in the north of Scotland. Let’s not quarrel.” She covered his hand with her own. “I simply supply a few herbal medicines. I was teasing you. The main complaint here is indigestion.”

  He felt a sudden tug of attraction. He drew his hand away gently.

  “I must be off,” he said, standing up and putting on his cap. “I only called to introduce myself.”

  “Call again,” said Catriona.

  She turned in the doorway and kissed him on the cheek. “See you very soon,” she said.

  Hamish walked off down the brae. He felt strangely elated. All of a sudden, he wanted to turn back and ask her out for dinner.

  He half turned back. She was still standing in the doorway, watching him. Hamish forced himself to keep on going.

  The desire to go back and see her lasted until he ate a substantial lunch and then he scratched his head in bewilderment. What had come over him? Had there been something in that tea?

  He got a call from Jimmy Anderson reminding him that he was expected in the sheriff’s court in Strathbane at three o’clock that afternoon, along with Willie Lamont and Clarry Graham. Hamish phoned both Willie and Clarry and suggested they should all go together.

  Willie was seated next to Hamish in the front passenger seat and Clarry was in the back. At one point in the drive, Hamish said, “Willie, are you scratching yourself?”

  Willie removed his hand from his crotch. “I think I’ve got a wee bit o’ cystitis.”

  “Then see Dr. Brodie as soon as possible. Man, what if ye were to go like that in court?”

  The proceedings did not take long. In vain did the defence advocate plead that his clients were truly remorseful. The sheriff said the case was too severe to be tried in his court; he was remanding the burglars without bail to appear at the high court in Edinburgh.

  “I’ll drop you off at Dr. Brodie’s,” said Hamish.

  “I’ve got to get to the restaurant,” said Willie. “I’ll maybe drop along later.”

  “Don’t leave it too long. Cystitis can be nasty,” said Hamish.

  Hamish found a message from Dr. Brodie when he got to the police station, asking him to call urgently.

  He said to Sonsie and Lugs, “No, you pair stay here. I think Angela’s had enough of ye.”

  As he walked along the waterfront, he felt the village was strangely quiet. Again he was assailed by a feeling of foreboding.

  Dr. Brodie led Hamish into his cluttered living room. Cold ash spilled out over the grate.

  “What’s the problem?” asked Hamish.

  “Several of my male patients have been coming to me with swollen genitalia and inflammation of the urinary tract.”

  “So?”

  “I treated a case like this when I was much younger and an army doctor. It turned out to be Spanish fly.”

  “I’ve read about that somewhere. Isn’t it an aphrodisiac?”

  “It’s supposed to be. It’s from a beetle that is crushed into powder. It creates the illusion of increased sexual activity but all it does is harm, and it can damage the kidneys badly.”

  “I’ve heard a lot of the men have been visiting Catriona Beldame,” said Hamish. “Do you think she’s been supplying the stuff?”

  “I tried to get them to admit it but not one of them would. I believe they think she’s a witch thanks to Angus shooting his mouth off. People here are still very superstitious.”

  “I’ll get up to her place right away,” said Hamish. “Either she lets me examine what she’s got in those bottles or I’ll get a search warrant.”

  Hamish hurried to the police station to get some material and put in a request for a search warrant, deciding it would be a good idea to get one in case she proved difficult. Then he went along the waterfront, stopping abruptly at the sight of Archie Maclean hurling a small glass bottle into the loch.

  “What are you doing?” asked Hamish, hurrying up to him.

  “Naethin’. Chust some medicine that didnae work.”

  “You got it from the Beldame woman. You, Archie? Wanting to improve your sexual prowess?”

  Archie hung his head. “It seemed like the good idea, but, och, herself wasnae having any of it. ‘Leave me alone,’ she says, ‘or I’ll throw ye in the loch.’ I went tae the doctor and he telt me to get rid of it.”

  “I wish you’d kept it,” said Hamish. “I’m off up there now to put a stop to her. God, I could kill that woman.”

  After Hamish strode off, Archie went into the bar on the waterfront and bought himself a pint of Export. “She’s getting her comeuppance,” he said to the men gathered at the bar. “Our Hamish says he’s going tae kill her.”

  Once again Catriona opened the door to Hamish and invited him in. “This is not a social call,” said Hamish, taking out a number of glassine envelopes. “Either you let me examine what you have in those jars or I’ll get a search warrant.”

  “My dear man, go right ahead. I have nothing to hide.”

  Her eyes widened as Hamish took out packets of glassine envelopes and a small spoon. “I’ll just collect a bit of each,” he said, moving towards the shelves.

  She darted in front of him.

  “Get the search warrant,” she hissed, “and a curse on you.”

  “So you do have something to hide.”

  “I’ve nothing to hide,” she panted. “I don’t like you ferreting around and poking your nose into my affairs. Get out!”

  On his return to the police station, Hamish got a message to phone Blair. Reluctantly, he called police headquarters and was put through to Blair.

  “Whit’s this about a search warrant?” chuckled Blair.

  “It’s important,” said Hamish.

  “Important, what?”

  “Important, sir. The damn woman is poisoning the village.”

  “You’re all sae backwards up there, it’s a wonder ye ken the difference.”

  “I wanted to examine her potions,” said Hamish patiently, “and she refused to let me take samples.”

  “Anyone died?”

 
; “No, but . . .”

  “Listen, laddie, we’ve got real crimes here—gangs and drugs and mayhem. Until you’ve got yourself a real crime, forget it.”

  “What do I have to do?” raged Hamish. “Kill her?”

  Blair slammed down the phone.

  Hamish sat until his rage had died down. He decided to make himself some comfort food for dinner. He boiled a small haggis and served it with mashed turnip and mashed potatoes. His pets had already been fed and were fast asleep.

  He allowed himself one small glass of whisky while he wondered what he could do about the witch.

  I’ll threaten her, he decided. I’ll go up there right now and tell her I’ll make her life one hell on earth unless she either leaves or quits selling quack medicine.

  The wind had dropped. There was a clear starry sky and frost glittering on the ground as he set off.

  But although there was a light shining through her cottage window, there was no reply to his knock.

  Ina Braid was sixty-three. She was married to Fergus, who worked at a paper mill over in Strathbane.

  Theirs had always appeared to be a comfortable marriage. Tucked up beside her husband in their double bed that evening, Ina opened a romance called Highland Heart, removed the bookmark, and settled against the pillows to read. She had just got to the exciting bit where the laird grabbed the village girl in his strong arms and bent his head to hers.

  “What about a wee bit o’ a cuddle,” said Fergus, trying to put his arms round her.

  “Get off!” snapped Ina. “What’s come over ye?”