A Highland Christmas Read online

  They were the only customers in the restaurant. They ordered food and wine, but the hovering presence of Willie unnerved Maisie. She knocked over a glass of wine, she dropped spaghetti on the table and dropped her bread roll on the floor, and there was Willie each time, mopping and polishing and complaining. Hamish at last stood up and marched Willie into the kitchen and threatened to punch his head if he came near the table again unless they called for him.

  “I’m sorry about that,” said Hamish. “He’ll leave us alone now.”

  “Tell me all about Lochdubh,” said Maisie. “I’m just getting to know it and the people.”

  So Hamish told her about the people in the village, and she watched his thin attractive face and wondered if he was the philanderer that Mrs. Wellington had said he was.

  Then Hamish said, “I had a feeling when I was giving that talk that someone was frightened. Just a feeling. Any bullying going on?”

  “Not that I know of. But it’s early days for me. It could just be that maybe some of the children were lying.”

  “What about?”

  “I don’t know if it’s true, but some of them come from very strict religious homes. So when you asked them what Santa Claus was bringing them, they all replied, but in some of the homes, there won’t be any Christmas presents.”

  “That’s sad. I know some of them are against Christmas but I didnae think they would take it out on their children.”

  “I’ll ask about.”

  They talked of other things and then Hamish walked her back to her cottage, which was attached to the schoolhouse. She smiled and thanked him for dinner. He smiled back and then turned and walked away.

  Maisie went slowly indoors. He hadn’t even tried to kiss her. He hadn’t suggested a second date. Philanderer indeed!

  Chapter Three

  Hamish did not want to visit Mrs. Gallagher. But the idea that someone had been living in solitude and fear on his beat nagged at him. The wind had come back and as he drove off, a ragged cloud of crows rose up from the field behind the police station and scattered out over the loch. Low clouds scurried over the mountaintops. Hamish wondered if the Romans had held their Saturnalia at just this time as a sort of drunken wake to the death of the year. On such a day it seemed as if the grass would never grow again or the sun shine.

  Mrs. Gallagher was out in the fields. As he approached, he could see her striding back towards the house. She had seen his arrival and waited at the door for him.

  “Well?” she demanded.

  “No news.”

  “Then I have no time for you.”

  “I would like to speak to you for a little bit.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to talk to you about your husband.”

  She ducked her head suddenly to hide her face. She stood like that for a long moment and then took a ring of keys out of the pocket of her old tweed coat and began to unlock the door.

  “Come in,” she said curtly.

  Hamish removed his cap and followed her in.

  She turned to face him. “What about my husband?”

  “Can we sit down?”

  She nodded. She took off her coat and hung it on a peg by the door.

  “It’s like this,” said Hamish when he was seated. “I have reason to believe that you are still afraid of your husband.”

  “What’s that got to do with my missing cat?”

  Hamish studied her and then with a sudden flash of Highland intuition, he said, “For some reason, you live in fear of him, and when Smoky disappeared, you were frightened he had come back to take your cat away. That’s the sort of thing he would do—destroy something you loved.”

  Her face was now a muddy color. “You know him,” she whispered. “You’ve met him.”

  “No. But did you never think of appealing to me for help? You could have taken out an injunction against him. Was he ever in prison?”

  There was a long silence. The wind howled around the low croft house like a banshee.

  Then she said, “He was arrested for armed robbery. We were living in Glasgow at the time. I saw my chance to get free and took it. My mother had died and left me money. I managed to keep that fact from him. I drew out all the money and came up here.”

  “Look, what’s his full name?”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” said Hamish patiently, “I can check up on him. I can find out where he is and what he’s doing. He could be dead. Think of that. The man could be dead and here are you, talking to no one and living scared.”

  “Hugh,” she said. “Hugh Gallagher.”

  “Last address?”

  “Springburn Road, number five-A.”

  Hamish scribbled rapidly in his notebook. “And when was he arrested?”

  “In nineteen seventy-eight. In March. It was the eighteenth when they came for him.”

  “Right, I’ll get onto that right away.”

  He stood up. She rose as well and clutched at his dark blue regulation sweater. “You won’t let him know where I am.”

  “No, no,” he said soothingly. “I’ve told the schoolchildren to help look for your cat, so if you see any of them about, don’t be chasing them off.”

  She sank back in her chair and covered her face with her hands.

  “You should have friends,” said Hamish.

  “You can’t trust anyone,” she said from behind her hands.

  Hamish left and drove back to the police station. He phoned Strathclyde Police Headquarters in Glasgow and put in a request to find out what had become of an armed robber called Hugh Gallagher, arrested in March of 1978 for armed robbery.

  They said they would phone him back. He fed his sheep and hens and decided to drive up to the Tommel Castle Hotel to see if there was any news of Priscilla Halburton-Smythe.

  He was welcomed by the manager, Mr. Johnston. “Come to mooch a cup of coffee, Hamish?”

  “Aye, that would be grand.”

  “Come into the office. Herself won’t be home for Christmas.”

  Hamish blushed. “I didn’t come here to ask that. But I thought she would come home to see her parents.”

  “She’s working for some big computer firm and they’ve sent her to New York.”

  So far away, thought Hamish. So very far away.

  “So how’s business?” he asked with well-manufactured cheeriness.

  “Business is booming. We’re fully booked for the Christmas period.”

  “No news about the old Lochdubh Hotel down by the harbour?”

  “Some Japanese put in a bid but then the Japanese recession hit. Then other folks seem to think there isn’t room up here for more than one hotel.”

  “It’s a grand building. Could do for a school.”

  “So how’s policing?”

  “Nice and quiet.”

  “No juicy murders for Christmas?”

  “God forbid. I’ve got the case of the missing cat and the case of the missing Christmas lights at Cnothan.”

  “Ach, Cnothan! That’s such a sour wee place they probably took away the lights themselves, them that thinks Christmas is sinful.”

  “I think it was youths. Petty theft. Anyway, Cnothan may be a sour place but at least they wanted to put up some decorations. Look at Lochdubh, as black as the loch.”

  “Well, Mr. Wellington the minister was all for putting up a tree this year on the waterfront but he came up against Josiah Anderson.”

  “What! Him that lives in that big Victorian house?”

  “The same. A real Bible basher. I’m sorry for that wee daughter o’ his.”

  “He’s got a wee daughter?”

  “So you don’t know everything. Josiah and his wife were trying for years to have children.”

  “Probably didn’t know how to go about it,” said Hamish maliciously. “They should have asked me and I’d have given them a map.”

  “Anyway, the wife went down to Inverness for the fertility treatment and she had a girl. Josiah was fifty when
the bairn was born and the wife, Mary, forty-five. The wee girl, Morag, she must be about nine now. What a life for her, they’re that strict. No presents for her.”

  “She goes to the village school?”

  “Aye.”

  “I gave a talk to the kids there and asked them what Santa was bringing them and they were all expecting something.”

  “What child wants to be different from the others?” asked Mr. Johnston.

  “What does Morag Anderson look like?”

  “Like a waif. All eyes. And clean. Oh, so clean. I think they scrub her every morning.”

  Hamish’s hazel eyes narrowed. “Sounds like cruelty to me. I’ll have a talk to the schoolteacher.”

  “I’ve heard you’ve been romancing her— dinner at the Italian place.”

  “Have I no private life?” mourned Hamish.

  “Aye, well, if you’d wanted a private life you wouldn’t have chosen to live in Lochdubh. But I’m in a generous mood. If you want to take her for lunch, I’ll let you have it on the house.”

  • • •

  Hamish drank his coffee, then headed for the schoolhouse. He looked at his watch. School would be breaking up any minute for the Christmas holidays. The children were singing carols, their voices carried towards him on the wind. He waited in the Land Rover until he saw them streaming out. Then he got out and went into the schoolhouse.

  Maisie Pease was clearing up papers on her desk. She looked up and blushed when she saw him. “Why, Hamish! What brings you?”

  Ask me out again, a voice inside her was urging. But Hamish perched on the side of her desk and said, “You’ve got a pupil here, Morag Anderson.”

  “Yes, and I won’t believe for a moment she’s in trouble. She’s my star pupil.”

  “No, she’s not in any police trouble. I heard an unsettling piece of gossip about her parents, that’s all. Seems they’re a bit too strict. No Christmas for Morag.”

  “I can’t really do anything about that, Hamish. I would be interfering with their religious beliefs.”

  “Nonetheless, I would like to talk to them.”

  So you’re not going to ask me out, thought Maisie huffily. “I can’t stop you,” she said curtly. “Go ahead. Have a word with them if you want.”

  “I thought maybe since it’s just noon you would like to come with me and then we could have a bite of lunch.”

  “At the Italian place?”

  “No, I’ll take you to the Tommel Castle Hotel.”

  “Oh, Hamish. That’s so expensive.”

  “Think nothing of it. My treat.”

  Maisie’s face was now flushed with pleasure. “I’ll get my coat.”

  • • •

  Most of the houses in Lochdubh were eighteenth century when the then Duke of Sutherland had hoped to expand the fishing industry. But there were a few large Victorian villas built in the last century when the lesser orders copied their queen by having holiday homes in Scotland. But now that people who could afford it usually preferred their holiday homes to be in Spain or some other sunny country, the villas were no longer holiday homes but residences of the middle class. Josiah Anderson owned a clothing factory in Strathbane. Hamish opened the double iron garden gate and ushered Maisie inside.

  “What are the parents like?” he asked in a low voice.

  “A wee bit severe. I’ve met them on parents day. Morag always has top marks so I’ve never had any reason to talk much to them.”

  Hamish rang the brass bell set into the wall beside the door. When he found himself looking down at Mrs. Anderson when she opened the door, he was surprised. He realized he had seen her about the village, had exchanged a few words with her in the general store, knew she was Mrs. Anderson. But he had forgotten, and had conjured up a picture of a grim matron.

  Mrs. Anderson was small and neat with permed hair and a rosy face. She looked startled at the sight of Hamish. “Nothing wrong?” she cried.

  “Just a friendly call,” said Hamish.

  “Come in. My husband’s in the sitting room.”

  They followed her into the sitting room which was large and dark, high-ceilinged, full of heavy furniture and impeccably clean.

  “Josiah,” said Mrs. Anderson, “here’s our policeman and Miss Pease, Morag’s schoolteacher.”

  He rose to greet them. He was wearing a charcoal grey three-piece suit with a white shirt and striped tie. His black shoes were highly polished. He had thinning grey hair, thick lips, small watchful eyes and tufts of hair sprouting from the nostrils of a large nose.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “Just a friendly call,” said Hamish again.

  “Sit down, sit down, Officer. Mary, get tea.”

  “It’s all right,” said Hamish. “We won’t be long. We’re on our way for lunch.”

  They all sat down. Hamish looked at Maisie as a signal for her to begin.

  “Christmas is very important for little children,” said Maisie.

  “That is because each year they are brain-washed into a state of greed,” said Mr. Anderson.

  “I don’t think that’s true,” said Hamish. “There’s an innocent magic about it. I hope Morag isn’t going to be left out.”

  Mrs. Anderson opened her mouth to say something, but Mr. Anderson held up his hand. “Our Morag is a sensible girl. She knows such things as Santa Claus and presents are pagan flummery.”

  “It’s a bit of a burden to put on a wee girl,” protested Hamish. “All her friends at school will be excited about it.”

  “I see you will need to talk to Morag herself. Get her, Mary.”

  Mrs. Anderson went out to the foot of the stairs and called, “Morag, come down here a minute.”

  They waited until Morag came into the room. She looked at Hamish and her face turned white and her eyes dilated.

  “Now, then, Morag,” said her mother quickly, “there’s nothing to be afraid of. Constable Macbeth and Miss Pease have called because they are worried you might be feeling left out of the Christmas celebrations.”

  “I beg your pardon?” said Morag faintly.

  In the rest of the modern world, when people didn’t understand what you were saying, they said “What?” or “Excuse me?” But in the Highlands, they still used the old-fashioned “I beg your pardon?”

  “They’re worried that you might feel different from the other children because we don’t have anything to do with Christmas.”

  Morag stood there and slowly color returned to her face. “Oh, no,” she said softly. “I don’t bother about it.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Maisie.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “There you are,” said Mr. Anderson. “You’re a good girl, Morag. You can go to your room.” He turned to Maisie. “You may think we’re a bit hard about Christmas but we have our religion and we live by it. Morag gets plenty of presents on her birthday.”

  Maisie looked helplessly at Hamish. He indicated to her that they should leave. But as Mrs. Anderson was showing them out, he turned and looked down at her. “Did you never think it might not be a good idea to let Morag make up her own mind about what she wants to believe in when she’s older?”

  “No, children need to be guided young. As you can see, she is not troubled at all. She has everything a little girl could desire. She has her own room and bathroom and a little sitting room at the top of the house where she can entertain her friends.”

  “Does she bring friends home?”

  A shadow crossed Mrs. Anderson’s face. “Not yet, but she will when she is older. She is a very happy, self-sufficient girl. She does all the housekeeping for her part of the house herself. She volunteered. And she even asked if she could cook some meals for herself.”

  They thanked her and left. As they drove towards the Tommel Castle Hotel, Hamish said, “That was one very frightened little girl.”

  “People are always frightened by the sight of a policeman.”

  “Not of me. She saw me in the classroom and I
was with you. I thought for a minute she was going to faint.”

  “I tell you what it could be. Mr. Patel? He sometimes catches little kids stealing sweets from his store. He doesn’t call you, he calls me. I see the parents and the matter’s settled. Maybe Morag took something and thought the forces of law and order had descended on her. I mean, imagine her parents’ reaction if they found their precious child was a thief.”