Hamish walked forward. The tent which had shielded the body had been taken away. The pathologist was stripping off his gloves and packing his bag. A police photographer was taking shots of the body.
Betty Baxter lay in an ungainly pose, diminished by death. Hamish noticed that her hair had been recently blonded, no dark roots, and that she was wearing those silly high heels.
“Accident?” he asked the pathologist.
He shook his head slowly. “I’ll have a better idea when I get the body back to the mortuary.” He bent over the body. “See here, she’s got a huge bruise on her forehead. Looks at first as if she tripped on those silly heels and fell heavily. She’s a big woman. But here at the back of the neck there’s a big bruise under the hair. Someone came up behind her and struck her hard, a powerful blow with something like a blackjack or lead pipe.”
“A man?”
“A woman could have done it with the right weapon.”
Hamish walked back to Jimmy Anderson. “No clues?”
“None so far. Ye cannae get footprints from the pebbles on thon beach.”
“What about the husband, Harry?”
“No time of death yet. But he was out at the fishing all night, and then this morning, which is when it was guessed she was killed, Harry was in the bar at Lochdubh, seen by God knows how many of your neighbours. We’ve been over to Lochdubh. Blair’s setting up interviews in the community hall. What do you know about the situation here, Hamish?”
Hamish rapidly told him about his seemingly unfounded suspicions about the absent Peter Hynd.
“Well, he cannae be a suspect,” said Anderson, “for no one’s seen hide nor hair of him since he left that note with Jock.”
“How do you know about the note he left with Jock?”
“I asked around if there had been any trouble in the village and some fellow told me that this Hynd and Jock had had a fight.” Blair called Anderson sharply.
Both men, followed by Blair’s other sidekick, MacNab, and several policemen, headed off to the community hall.
Hamish walked along to the manse. Annie Duncan answered the door. “I don’t want Heather pestered,” she said quickly. “Just a few words,” said Hamish soothingly. “Where’s Harry?”
“I gather her father is at home. Could you not leave it to another day? I don’t think Heather is up to this.”
The small figure of Heather materialized at Annie’s elbow. “I will speak to Mr. Macbeth,” she said.
Annie reluctantly stood back and Hamish followed them into the kitchen. Heather sat down at the table and Hamish sat opposite her. Annie stood behind the little girl, her hands on her shoulders.
“Do you know when your mother went out?” asked Hamish.
“I got up at seven,” said Heather, “and she’d left me a note on the kitchen table to say she had gone out and to get myself ready for school.”
“Have you got that note?”
“I threw it away.”
“Can you think of any reason why she might have gone out?”
Heather’s grey eyes surveyed him thoughtfully and then she said, “Yesterday morning, before Da came home, she got a phone call. I couldna’ hear what she said. But she went straight to the hairdresser. She neffer went to the hairdresser for my da.”
For a moment it was almost as if Peter Hynd were in the kitchen with them, his eyes dancing with mockery.
“Did you tell the other policemen this?”
“Thon big fat scunner came tae ask me questions. I didn’t like him so I told him nothing.” Heather got up from the table. “Thank you, Mrs. Duncan. I’ll be off home now.”
Annie looked distressed. “But you must stay here. My husband will be home shortly and he will want a word with you.”
Heather suddenly looked as old as the hills. “To pray ower me? There is no God. Mr. Macbeth, perhaps you will come with me?”
“Yes,” said Hamish. He looked at Annie. “I think she will find out what’s best for herself.”
“My da will need me now,” said Heather. “I’ll get my stuff.”
“She is in shock,” said Annie, distressed. “If only she would break down and cry and get it over with. I feel so helpless.”
“I’ll keep an eye on her,” said Hamish. “I wonder if that was Peter Hynd on the phone. Had Betty been dressed up since he left?”
“No, like the rest of the women, she had begun to let herself go. But Mr. Hynd, Peter, was – is – a very sophisticated young man, and although it amused him to flirt with the village women, he would hardly creep back from wherever he’s gone to meet Betty Baxter. Nor would he murder her.”
“What makes you so sure of that?”
“He was too easygoing.”
“So who do you think did it?”
“It’s usually the husband, isn’t it?”
“But Harry Baxter evidently has a cast-iron alibi for the time of the murder.”
She gave a weary shrug, “It could yet turn out to be an unfortunate accident. Passions can run high in this village. But murder! Probably some mad hiker came across her.”
“And the phone call?”
“I would be careful about believing anything Heather says at the moment. She is in shock.”
At that moment Heather walked into the kitchen carrying a duffle bag over one thin shoulder. She and Hamish said goodbye to the minister’s wife and walked out and along the side of the loch, which lay black and silent and still. Then they cut off up the hill, both avoiding looking along the shore where the white suits of the forensic team gleamed in the twilight.
“Nights are drawing in,” said Hamish. “It seems to get verra dark all at once.”
This ae nighte, this ae nighte,
Every nighte and alle,
Fire and fleet and candle-lighte,
And Christe receive thy saule.
Her childish voice piping the words of the old Lyke-Wake Dirge gave Hamish a shudder. “Read much?” he asked.
“All the time,” said Heather. “Books are better’n people any day.”
“What have you read recently?”
“I read all Walter Scott’s novels this summer.”
Hamish was amazed to hear that anyone read Walter Scott’s novels in this day and age. “I’ll see if I can bring you over some books tomorrow,” he said.
At Harry Baxter’s house, there was a policeman on duty outside. “Harry home?” asked Hamish.
“Aye, he’s in there. Blair’s coming back to see him.”
Hamish and Heather went inside. Harry was slumped at the kitchen table, his face grey. A glass of whisky stood in front of him.
“That will not do, Da,” said Heather, dropping her bag to the floor. “Food and sweet tea is what you need.” She picked up the glass of whisky and tipped the contents down the sink.
Hamish sat down next to Harry. “Bad business,” he said.
Harry shook his head from side to side. “Who waud have done sich a thing?”
“You’ll need to brace up for Heather’s sake,” said Hamish.
“I’ll manage if you keep that bastard, Blair, away from me,” said Harry wearily.
Heather had put a frying-pan on the stove and was frying bacon and eggs.
There was a knock at the door. “I’ll get it,” said Heather quickly.
Then they could hear Blair’s heavy voice, “I’m just going to have another word with your faither.”
“Begone!” said Heather. “This is a house of mourning and you are harassing and tormenting a poor child.”
“Aw, come on, it’s your da I want tae see.”
“I see the gentleman of the press have arrived,” came Heather’s voice, “and I will be telling them how you victimized a child of twelve!”
“Och, I’ll be back.” Blair’s voice, thick with disgust and anger. “Hamish Macbeth’s in there.”
“Mr. Macbeth is a friend.” Then came the slamming of the door. Heather returned sedately to the cooker and flipped the eggs.