“I don’t think there’s a place here with a studio available,” said Hamish.
The man laughed. “I’m a landscape painter. I work outside.” He thrust out a hand. “I’m Jock Fleming.”
“Hamish Macbeth. You could try Mrs. Dunne along at Sea View, just along the end there. You can’t miss it.”
Jock looked down at the dog and the cat, waiting patiently at Hamish’s heels. “That’s an odd pair of animals you’ve got there,” he said.
“They’re company,” said Hamish dismissively.
“Really? It’s a good thing I’m not superstitious, or I’d be crossing myself,” said Jock with an easy laugh. “A wild cat and a dog with blue eyes!”
Hamish grinned. He took an instant liking to the artist. He was a powerful man in, Hamish judged, his early forties with shaggy black hair streaked with grey. He had a comical, battered-looking face and seemed to find himself a bit of a joke.
“When you’ve got settled in,” said Hamish, “drop by the police station and we’ll have a dram.”
“Great. See you.”
Hamish watched him go. “Well, Lugs,” he said. “That’ll be one incomer who won’t be any trouble at all.”
♦
Hamish was disappointed as two days passed and Jock did not call for that drink. But on the third day, as he walked along the waterfront in the morning, he saw Jock at his easel, surrounded by a little group of women.
Walking up to the group, Hamish said, “Move along, ladies. The man can’t do any work with you bothering him.”
“I don’t mind,” said Jock cheerfully. “I like the company of beautiful ladies.”
Freda, the schoolteacher, giggled and said, “He’s giving us lessons. Why don’t you run along, Hamish?”
“Yes,” agreed Nessie Currie. “Go and catch a criminal or something.”
“I’ll see you later for that dram, Hamish,” called Jock as Hamish walked off.
I hope that one isn’t going to turn out to be a heart-breaker, thought Hamish. He decided to visit Angela Brodie, the doctor’s wife.
The kitchen door was open, so he walked straight in. Angela was sitting at her kitchen table at her computer. She looked up when she saw Hamish and gave a sigh of relief, pushing a wisp of hair out of her eyes.
“I can’t get on with this book, Hamish,” she complained. “When the first one was published, I thought I was all set. But the words won’t come.”
“Maybe you’re trying too hard.”
“Maybe. Let’s have coffee.”
Angela’s first novel had been published the previous autumn. Reviews were good, but sales were modest.
“The trouble is I am damned as a ‘literary writer,”’ said Angela, “which usually means praise and no money.”
“Perhaps something in the village will spark your imagination,” said Hamish, covertly shooing two of her cats off the table where they were trying to drink the milk out of the jug.
“Like what?”
“Like this artist fellow. Seems to be a big hit with the ladies.”
“Oh, he jokes and teases them. But I can’t see anyone falling for him.”
“Why?”
“In a funny kind of way, there’s nothing about him that gives any of them the come-on. He’s just a thoroughly nice man.”
“Painting any good?”
“He’s just started, but I looked his name up on the Internet. He’s considered to be a very good landscape painter. He paints pictures in the old·fashioned way, and people are going for that. I think they’re moving away from elephant dung and unmade beds or whatever the modern artist has been exhibiting at the Tate. I don’t think he’s going to cause any dramas. Where are your animals?”
“I left them playing in the garden.”
“Don’t you find it odd that a dog and a wild cat should get on so well?”
“Not really. A relief, if you ask me. If Lugs hadn’t taken to the cat, I’d need to have got rid of it.”
“Be careful, Hamish. It is a wild cat, and they can be savage.”
“I don’t think there’s such a thing as a pure wild cat any more. They’ve been interbreeding with the domestic ones for years. When I found Sonsie up on the moors with a broken leg, I didn’t think the beast would live. Someone had been mistreating that animal. I’d dearly like to find out who it was.”
“Maybe it just got caught in a trap.”
“I’ve a feeling Sonsie had been kept captive somewhere.”
“Here’s your coffee. Is Effie Garrard still around?”
“Yes. I visited her the other day and asked around about her. Patel is selling her stuff, and so is the gift shop up at the Tommel Castle Hotel. She does charge awfy high prices.”
“Are you going to the ceilidh on Saturday?”
“I might drop in.”
“You’ll need a ticket. Five pounds.”
“Five pounds! What on earth for?”
“The church hall needs repainting.”
“I thought some of the locals would have done that for free.”
“Oh, they are. But it’s to raise money for repairs to the roof, paint, and new curtains.”
“And what would I be getting for five pounds?”
“A buffet supper. The Italian restaurant is doing the catering.”
“That’s decent of them. I’ll go.”
“You must be getting very bored,” said Angela, putting a mug of coffee in front of him. “No crime.”
“And that just suits me fine. No crime now and no crime on the horizon.”
♦
Effie Garrard was a fantasist. Dreams were as essential to her as breathing. While Hamish sat in the doctor’s wife’s kitchen drinking coffee, Effie approached the village of Lochdubh, wrapped in a dream of attending her own funeral. Villagers wept, the piper played a lament, famous artists came from all over to give their eulogies. She had decided to walk instead of taking her car because the day was so fine. The twin mountains behind the village soared up to a clear blue sky. Little glassy waves on the sea loch made a pleasant plashing sound as they curled onto the shingly beach.
A pleasurable tear ran down Effie’s cheek, and she was wondering just how long she could stretch out this splendid dream when she saw Jock at his easel.
Her dream bubble burst as she experienced a jealous pang. She wanted to be the only artist in Lochdubh.
Probably some amateur, she thought, approaching him. Jock’s coterie of admiring women had left for dinner – dinner in Lochdubh still being in the middle of the day, except in posh places like the Tommel Castle Hotel.
Effie stood behind him and studied his work. His colours were magnificent. He had caught the purplish green of the forestry trees on the other side of the loch, and the reflections in the glassy loch had been painted by the hand of a master.
She did not want to interrupt him, but he turned round and smiled at her. “Grand day,” said Jock.
“Oh, please go on. I’m an artist myself, and I hate to be interrupted,” said Effie.
“I don’t mind. I was just about to take a break. What do you do?”
“Small pictures of birds and flowers, and I’m a potter as well.” She held out her hand. “Effie Garrard.”
“I’m Jock Fleming. Wait a bit. I saw some of your pottery at the gift shop up at the hotel. You’re very talented.”
“Thank you. I live up in the hills above the village. Drop in on me any time you like.”
“I’ll do that.”
Jock smiled at her again.
Effie gazed up at him in a dazed way. “Come now,” she said.
“Can’t. I promised the policeman I’d drop in for a dram.”
“I know Hamish. I’ll come with you.”
“Not this time. It’s man’s talk. But I’ll see you around.”
Effie retreated, cursing herself. She had been too pushy.
But she would act differently the next time. And, oh, there would be a next time. She hardly noticed the walk home. This time she was at her own wedding with Jock at her side. The church bells rang out over Lochdubh, and the villagers threw rose petals. “I loved you that first moment I saw you,” Jock murmured.