Hamish went out into the street and walked into the ironmonger’s shop. He had expected to see a thuggish man behind the counter, but there was only a small man with thick horn-rimmed glasses and a shock of brown hair. He was wearing a brown cotton coat over his suit.
“I’m looking for Joseph Cromarty,” said Hamish.
“That’s me.”
“I am Hamish Macbeth, constable at Lochdubh.”
“I heard you at the community hall. What’s all this about two murders?”
Hamish told him briefly and then asked Joe if he’d seen anyone loitering around on the Saturday evening.
“I couldn’t see anyone. Half day on Saturday. I spent the afternoon in my garden and then went to the movies in Strathbane with the wife. So I’ve got a cast-iron alibi.”
“Nobody’s accusing you of anything,” said Hamish mildly. “Now, do you know if Miss Beattie had a gentleman friend?”
“What the hell are you implying?”
Hamish stared at the suddenly belligerent face in surprise. “Why are you so angry? Why so defensive? Was her caller yourself?”
Joe Cromarty erupted. “I’ll phone your superiors and I’ll be having you for slander.”
Hamish lost his temper. “What the hell’s the matter wi’ you, you silly wee man? If there was nothing going on between you and Miss Beattie, why are you firing up?”
“I’m sick o’ the gossip in this town. Everyone mumbling and whispering about everyone else’s business.”
“Let’s try another tack. I hear you were furious with Miss McAndrew on parents’ day at the school.”
“That was legitimate. My Geordie’s a bright boy and she only gave him a B in his history exam while she gave Penny Roberts, who’s as dim as anything, an A. Then she wouldn’t let him in the school play. I accused her of favouritism. She was aye keeping Penny in after school for a wee chat. Penny told Geordie the auld woman gave her the creeps.”
“Do you know where Penny Roberts lives?”
“Out on the shore road afore you get to Miss McAndrew’s. It’s a bungalow called Highland Home.”
♦
When he left the shop, Hamish realised he was hungry. He took out his phone and called Angela Brodie, the doctor’s wife, and begged her to collect Lugs and take the dog for a walk. As he put his phone back in his pocket, he felt a tap on his shoulder and turned round and saw Elspeth.
“How are you getting on?” she asked.
“Slowly. What about you?”
“I’m hungry. Let’s find somewhere for lunch and I’ll tell you what I’ve got.”
“Where’s Pat?”
“He got a call from our boss, saying he must have learnt the ropes by now and there was a dried-flower show over at Lairg waiting to be covered.”
“That seems a bit odd considering there are two murders here.”
“Not to Sam. Flower shows with lots of names and pictures sell more papers in the long run, he says. The murders will be covered by the nationals anyway and television.”
“They’re here already,” said Hamish, watching satellite dishes being set up and cables snaking from vans across the street outside the post office.
“Right. There’s a hotel north of here with good food.”
“Which one?”
“The Clachan. My car’s right here.”
Hamish looked around in case Blair was skulking about, but there were only uniformed policemen going from door to door.
They drove north out of Braikie. The coastal road became more rugged and was one-track with grass growing in the middle of it. After a couple of miles, Elspeth swung off to the right and up a winding drive bordered by thick rhododendron bushes.
“This used to be Colonel Hargreaves’s place,” said Hamish.
“He got rheumatism and blamed the climate. He sold up and moved south. An English couple bought it and turned it into a hotel.”
She parked outside the hotel and they both got out. It was a Victorian building dating from the days of the nineteenth century, when the queen had made it fashionable to holiday in Scotland. They were ushered into the dining room by the new owner, John Speir. “You’ve got the dining room all to yourself,” he said, showing them to a table at the window. “But it won’t be quiet for long. Press from all over have booked rooms. Terrible, these murders, but great for the hotel business. Still, I didn’t expect many customers now the summer is over, so it’s a set menu.” He handed them a card each. There was a choice of two dishes for each course. They both chose the same: Scotch broth, poached salmon, and sherry trifle.
“Now,” said Hamish, “what have you got?”
Elspeth’s grey eyes gleamed silver. “Miss Beattie was having an affair.”
“I’d got that far,” said Hamish. “Any idea who it is?”
“Billy Mackay.”
“What! The postman? But he’s married.”
“Why do you think she kept it so secret?”
Hamish half rose. “I should go and see him right away.”
“Sit down, copper. You wouldn’t have found out for ages if I hadn’t told you. He’ll wait and I’m hungry.”
“Who told you?”
“I cannot reveal my source,” said Elspeth primly.
“All right. How did you manage to find out?”
“I’m known in Braikie more for being an astrologer than for being the local reporter, and they’re a superstitious lot. Some woman asked me to read her palm. I told her the usual and then said she was holding back some secret about Miss Beattie.”
“How did you know that?”
“Just a guess.”
Mrs. Harris, thought Hamish. I bet she knew.
“She got frightened and asked me not to put a curse on her if she told me. I promised I wouldn’t use it in the paper.”
“So Mrs. Harris knew you were of Gypsy blood?”
Elspeth’s face fell. “How did you know it was Mrs. Harris?”
“An educated guess. And let’s hope the food comes quickly. I can’t wait to hear what this postman has to say for himself.”
The food was excellent and both enjoyed their meal. Elspeth drove Hamish back into Braikie. He refused to let her come with him to Billy Mackay’s but promised to meet her afterwards, outside the post office in an hour, and tell her what he had found out.
By asking around, he found that Billy Mackay lived in public housing at the edge of Braikie. He knocked at the door. It was answered by a slattern of a woman wearing a stained apron and with her hair in rollers. “Mrs. Mackay?”
“Aye, that’s me.”
“I would like to talk to your husband.”
“What about?”
“I’m making general enquiries, that is all.”
“He’s gone fishing as usual.”
“Where?”
“Up on the Stourie. The pool below the falls. And you tell him the sink still needs fixing and he can stay away as long as he likes but he’ll still have to fix it when he comes home.”
Hamish touched his cap and strode back to the Land Rover. He drove out of Braikie and up into the hills. The Falls of Stourie were a tourist attraction in the summer, but now the car park above the falls was empty except for a red post office van parked against some railings.
He made his precipitous way along a muddy path that led down the side of the falls. The sun was already going down and the cascade of water shone red in the setting rays.
Billy Mackay did not hear him approach because of the sound of the falls. He was a thickset little man in, Hamish judged, his late fifties. Hamish tapped him on the shoulder and he swung around, his face a picture of dismay.
“Up to the car park,” shouted Hamish. “I cannae hear anything here.”
Billy reeled in his line and meekly followed Hamish up the path. He turned and faced Hamish in the car park, wearing a defeated air. He had thin brown hair, a bulbous nose, and surprisingly beautiful blue eyes.