“If you’d like to unpack and come downstairs, I’ll make you a cup of tea,” said Edie. He smiled at her and she patted her hair and blinked at him through her glasses.
When she had left, Hamish looked out of the window and down to the black expanse of the sea loch. At the far-inland end of the loch, the river Drim fell in peaty brown cascades over jagged rocks. Farther up the river he could see the glint of a pool. He had collected his fishing-rods from the police station before coming to Drim. Perhaps he might go up to that pool and try to get some trout and leave investigations until the morrow. He was supposed to be on holiday, and if the locals really believed that, he might pick up more gossip man he would do if they thought he was in the village on business.
He unpacked and went downstairs. Edie placed a pot of tea and a plate of scones on the table. “You are a widow, aren’t you?” asked Hamish.
She poured tea into thick mugs. “Yes, my Jamie passed on ten years ago. He was a fine man.”
“You’re not from the Highlands?”
“No, from down south. Moffat.”
“So what brought you here? These scones are grand.”
“Have another. Jamie was ill, cancer. He always thought the Highland air would cure him, thought it right to the last, poor man.”
“Didn’t you ever want to move back south?” Edie put down her cup and her eyes strayed to the kitchen window as if seeking the answer among the laurels in the garden. “Oh, I thought of it often. But I didn’t have many I friends in Moffat, I was too busy looking after Jamie. Somehow I just stayed on here.” Her voice was sad. “I’ve tried to brighten up the place. It was the high moment in my life when they all started coming to the exercise classes. But then Peter left…”
Her voice trailed away. “And darkness fell on the land,” added Hamish silently.
He finished his tea. Plenty of time for more questions. “I’m just going to take my rod up the Drim and see if I can get any trout.”
“I don’t usually cook meals, but I’d like a fresh trout for tea. If you catch any, I’ll cook them.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
Hamish almost but not quite forgot the reason for his stay in Drim as he angled in the pool; expertly flicking the fly so that it skimmed on the peaty gold of the water. He had just reeled in his second trout when he had a feeling of being watched. He tipped the trout into the old–fashioned fishing basket he used and turned slowly about. There was a stand of silver birch behind him.
“Come out,” he called.
There was a rustling and then the slight figure of Heather Baxter appeared. “You’re staying at Mrs. Aubrey’s,” she said.
“News travels fast,” said Hamish. “How are you?”
“Fine, chust fine. Da and I get along well.” Hamish looked at the composed little figure. Would this child kill her own mother so as to have a quiet home and her father to herself? The thought was a repugnant one. It was the fault of the atmosphere of Drim, which easily conjured up Gothic fantasies in the mind.
“Catch anything?” Heather asked.
“Twoirout.”
“Da would like a trout for his tea, and so would I.”
“And so would I,” said Hamish. “Sit down over there and I’ll see what I can do.”
She sat down and clasped her hands over her knees and closed her eyes. Hamish threw her an amused look. “Praying?” She nodded fiercely and he wondered if she was praying to the Christian God or one of the Celtic pagan ones. To his amazement, he caught his next trout almost immediately.
Heather opened her eyes. “And another,” she said solemnly and fell to praying again. He cast again but without much success. The day began to grow darker. And then the hair began to rise on his neck, for Heather’s voice was rising in a keening sound. He knew she was chanting in Gaelic but he could not make out the exact words. He was about to call to her to stop her nonsense when he felt a tug on the line.
Some minutes later, Heather’s voice died away and she looked in satisfaction at the large trout he was landing.
“Come home with me,” she said after she had wrapped the present of two trout up in docken leaves. “Mrs. Aubrey’s a dreadful cook.”
“Off with you,” said Hamish, “and don’t put your faith in the old gods, Heather. That sort of thing’ll turn you potty.”
“It got me the trout for Da’s tea,” said Heather practically, and off she went.
Hamish headed back to the village, carrying his catch. He nodded and said, ‘Good evening’ and ‘Grand night’ to passing villagers, who stopped and stared at him but did not return his greeting.
Edie received the trout with enthusiasm. “I have a new French cookery book,” she said, “and there is a very interesting way of baking trout with cheese, so…”
“My treat, my cooking,” said Hamish firmly. “I’m a dab hand wi’ the trout.”
He gutted the fish and grilled them and served them with boiled potatoes and peas.
He felt a sudden wave of fatigue. He had not had much sleep on the train north. He cocked his head. A gale was beginning to blow up outside. “I thought you were too sheltered here in Drim to get much wind,” he said. “Oh, we get it all right when it’s blowing in from the west,” said Edie. “I hate the wind.”
The noise outside rose. The wind, channelled down the loch between the tall walls of the mountains, screamed and howled.
It was cosy in the kitchen. The fish were excellent and the potatoes, which turned out to have come from Edie’s garden, floury, and almost sweet.
“Strange the way Peter Hynd left,” said Hamish, pushing away his empty plate. He groped in his pocket for a packet of cigarettes and then realized with a start that he had given up smoking some time ago.
“Cigarette?” asked Edie, holding out a packet.
For one awful moment he nearly took one. “Given up,” he said curtly.
“You don’t mind if I…?”
“Go ahead.”
Edie lit her cigarette and then said, “The men here were very nasty to Peter. I think that’s why he left. You know shortly before he went, someone threw a brick through his window.”
“I didn’t hear about that!”
“No, well, you wouldn’t. You know how they all stick together in these villages.”
Hamish looked at her. “Peter Hynd liked to flirt. Was there anyone in particular? Was it just flirting?”
“Ailsa Kennedy was hinting that he had gone further than that with her, but no one really believed her. Then there was Jimmy Macleod’s wife, Nancy. Alice MacQueen said she saw her leaving Peter’s cottage in the middle of the night, but she would hardly leave her husband’s bed to go out in the night without him knowing. Still, it’s all over now. The house has been sold.”
“What? So soon?”
“Yes, the man from Newcastle and his wife were here early today. A Mr. Apple. He’s got the grand plans for building that extension. He’s going to move the builders in right away.”
“Like all incomers, he might find it hard to get help.”
“He’s importing his own. Got caravans for them and a mobile home for himself and his wife coming up by road tomorrow.”