He then made his way to the Grand Hotel and went into the cocktail bar to wait for Mrs Fleming’s secretary.
♦
Clarry was moving patiently from house to house, particularly those near the phone box. No one so far had seen anything. He was walking back along the waterfront when he saw the Macleod children coming towards him.
“How’s your mother?” he asked Johnny.
“She’s trying to get rid o’ that man from the restaurant,” said Johnny. “She telt him the house was clean, but he’s cleaning everything again.”
“I’ll see to it,” said Clarry. “Come with me.”
From Hamish, Clarry had heard tales of Willie Lament’s fanatical cleaning. Followed by the children, he marched up to Martha’s cottage.
Martha was sitting on a chair outside the front door. From inside came the frantic sound of scrubbing.
“I can’t seem to stop him,” said Martha helplessly.
“I’ll stop him. When’s the funeral?”
“They’re going to release the body next week, they say. If only you could find out who did it. I’ll never be at peace until then.”
“I’ll find out,” said Clarry stoutly. He went in to confront Willie.
“Get out of here!” roared Clarry. “And stop persecuting a poor widow woman!”
Willie, who was down on his hands and knees with a scrubbing brush, turned a pained face up to Clarry. “I was just doing my bit for the community.”
“Well, do it somewhere else. Out!”
“Weellie!” called a voice from outside.
Willie leapt to his feet. “The wife!” He went outside and Clarry followed him. Clarry had not met Willie’s wife before, and he blinked at the vision of Italian loveliness facing him.
“Weellie,” said Lucia Lamont severely. “You are wanted in the restaurant.”
“Right,” said Willie meekly.
Lucia gave Martha a dazzling smile. “You must not mind him. He loves cleaning.”
The odd couple walked off arm in arm.
“Come inside,” said Martha to Clarry. “I’ll make us some tea.”
Clarry happily went with her into the cottage, followed by the children. Johnny came in carrying the baby, which he put on Clarry’s lap. “So how are you all bearing up?” asked Clarry.
“We’re still in shock,” said Martha.
“What you all need,” said Clarry predictably, “is a good feed and a funny video.”
“Oh, Clarry,” said Martha, and she began to cry.
Clarry handed the baby to Johnny and went and clumsily patted Martha’s shoulder. “Don’t cry. Clarry’s here. I’ll look after you all.”
Johnny grabbed his arm and looked up into his face.
“Forever?” he asked.
“If your mother would like that,” said Clarry, feeling bolder now, gathering Martha into his arms.
♦
Hamish left the Grand Hotel feeling flat. He had elicited nothing much from the secretary that he did not know already – that since the death of her husband, Mrs. Fleming had gone power mad. But whether her craving for power and fame would drive her to killing one dustman seemed too far-fetched.
Then he brightened. There was dinner with the new schoolteacher to look forward to. Just time to get back and change.
Clarry was not there. Hamish let Lugs out into the garden at the back and then prepared some food for the dog. He had a quick bath and shave and then was brushing his teeth when he realised with horror that he had forgotten to buy a new toothbrush. He was brushing his teeth with the brush he had used on Lugs. He shuddered and rinsed out his mouth.
When he let Lugs in, the dog glanced up at him and, as if registering the glory of suit, collar and tie, crept to his food bowl with his tail between his legs. Hamish dressed for the evening meant no company for Lugs.
Hamish found he was excited with anticipation. He remembered the glorious beauty of the vision he had seen beside the removal truck. All thoughts of the murder of Fergus, all speculation about who had murdered Fergus, had gone from his head. Although the nights were drawing in, it was still light and the flanks of the two mountains which soared above the village were bright with heather. One early star shone in the clear, pale greenish-blue of the evening sky, and the setting sun sent a fiery path across the black waters of the loch. The air was full of the smells of a Highland village: tar and peat smoke, strong tea, pine and the salt tang of the waters of the sea loch.
He straightened his tie and went into the restaurant. There were various customers, some he recognised and some he did not. People came from far and wide to dine at the restaurant.
Willie appeared at his elbow. “I’ve put her at your usual table, over by the window.”
Hamish looked across. A squat middle-aged woman was sitting there. She had a greyish heavy face with a great wide mouth. Her large pale eyes had thick, fleshy lids. Her salt and pepper hair was secured at her neck with a black velvet bow. She looked like an eighteenth-century man from a Hogarth engraving.
“There’s some mistake,” hissed Hamish. “I’m meeting the new schoolteacher.”
“Well, that’s her.”
“You sure?”
“Introduced herself,” said Willie. “Said she was meeting you.”
The sun disappeared outside the restaurant windows and the sun set in Hamish’s heart. He cautiously approached the table.
“Mrs. Cartwright?”
She grinned up at him, exposing yellowing and irregular teeth. “Mr. Macbeth, how kind of you to entertain me on my first night.”
Hamish sat down opposite her. “We’re a friendly village. What would you like to drink?”
“Campari and soda, please.”
“So I gather you’ve just arrived,” said Hamish. “I saw the removal van. Come from far?”
“From Edinburgh. I hate moving. But I have a super-efficient niece, Flora. You fuss too much, Auntie, she said. Let me organise the whole thing.”
“You should have brought her with you,” said Hamish.
“Oh, she went straight back to Edinburgh. She’s an advocate, and she’s got a case coming up tomorrow.”
There was a silence while they studied the menu. When she had selected what she wanted, Hamish gave their order.
He thought of Priscilla and felt a weight of unhappiness settle on his stomach. He wasn’t still in love with her, he told himself, but somehow he didn’t want her to get married.
“Is it this murder?” he realised Moira Cartwright was asking him. “You look quite gloomy.”
“Yes, it is,” lied Hamish. “I’m hoping one of the locals didn’t lose their rag and hit him too hard.”
“Tell me about it.”
So Hamish did and found, as the meal progressed, that he was beginning to relax. She was that rare thing, an excellent listener.
“What puzzles me,” ended Hamish, “is why no one saw him.”
“I know this seems a bit way out, but if this Fergus got a phone call and went off without telling his wife who he was meeting…”
“That wouldn’t be unusual. The only communication Martha Macleod had with her husband was the occasional fist in her face.”
“I was going to say he might have been in disguise. But now you’ve told me about the wife, surely the answer’s obvious. She did it. Or someone close to her. You know, murder, like charity, usually begins at home.”
Hamish was about to say stoutly that when Martha hadn’t been with him she’d been with Clarry, but that was what he wanted to think. He had slept heavily that night. Clarry could have nipped out if it transpired that Martha really knew where Fergus had gone.
He had not told Moira about the blackmail. But that was one thing he could not keep to himself for much longer.
“What is it?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Nothing. I just wish it were all over.”
“Have you considered these Currie sisters as suspects?”