“That’s it!” exclaimed Hamish. “Mrs. Wellington. The village women were complaining to her about Catriona. What if I should be looking for a woman instead of a man? Take Catriona’s murder. Lesley said that provided the weapon was sharp enough, then a woman could have done it. All the murders seem to have been done in a frenzy of hate. Now, if Ina wasn’t one of the murderees, I might have thought it was her.”
“Why Ina?”
“Never you mind. When’s the funeral?”
“Three o’clock.”
“Maybe see you there. I’ve got to dash.”
♦
As Hamish walked up to the manse, he marvelled at how little he actually knew of what went on behind the lace curtains of the cottages in Lochdubh.
Whoever would have thought that Fergus was a battered husband?
Mrs. Wellington greeted him with a curt “I’m busy.”
“It iss verra important,” said Hamish. Mrs. Wellington always made him feel nervous. She invited him into the manse’s vast and old-fashioned kitchen.
“Don’t sit down,” she barked as Hamish removed his hat.
He turned and faced her. “Before Catriona was murdered, a lot of the women came to you about their husbands visiting her. Was there any particular one that was more upset than the others?”
“If, as I think you are, you are trying to pin any of these murders on the respectable ladies of Lochdubh, then I have nothing to say to you.”
“There have been four murders and maybe there’ll be another one if you don’t help.”
“Then look for a man! Women are the gentler sex, or have you forgotten?”
“Did you know that Ina Braid beat her husband?”
Mrs. Wellington had been rolling pastry. She glared at him and brandished the rolling pin. Hamish took a quick step back.
“Either Fergus is really guilty or all this has turned his brain. I knew Ina Braid, and she was a gentle soul.”
♦
Hamish returned to the station. The wind was rising and blowing powdery snow from the tops of drifts. The sky above was getting darker. Villagers were queuing at Patel’s, frightened that more snow would mean that deliveries of goods wouldn’t get through.
In the police station, he sought out two camper’s gas lamps and placed them in readiness on the kitchen table. More snow would probably mean a power cut. Sonsie and Lugs crashed through the flap on the door. Hamish could see that their coats were embedded with hard little snowballs. He filled a basin with warm water and patiently began to remove the snow from them.
Then he put more peat in the stove before pouring himself a cup of coffee, going into the office, getting his notes, and once more spreading them out on the kitchen table.
The snow meant that he would have at least the whole of what was left of the day free from interruptions. Then he remembered Catriona’s funeral. Surely it wouldn’t take place on such a day.
He phoned Mrs. Wellington. “No, of course not,” she said in answer to his query. “Mr. McBride is unable to get further north because of the snow and we are going to wait until he arrives.”
“What…?” began Hamish when the phone went dead.
He went back to the kitchen and tried the lights. No success. The snow piling up against the kitchen window was cutting out any light.
He lit the lamps and hoped that his sheep were safely in the shelter he had built for them. He suddenly cursed, remembering he hadn’t given them their winter feed.
Hamish strapped on his snowshoes and collected two buckets of feed he had ready by the door. He put on a coat and woollen hat, opened the door, and plunged into the roaring white storm outside. He felt a superstitious shudder as he made his way up the hill at the back.
The wind was screaming and howling. It was as if the old gods had decided to take back Sutherland, take it away from the petty grip of man and restore it to a wilderness.
He was pleased that the low wooden shelter he had built for the sheep was holding up. He poured their feed into a trough, stood for a moment watching them, and then headed back to the station.
♦
Elspeth and Perry struggled back to the hotel. “We’ll never get out of here,” said Perry. “Not that I care much.” But that charming smile of his was not only for Elspeth but also for Priscilla, who had come to meet them.
“Clarry’s made some mulled wine,” said Priscilla. “Like some?”
“Lovely,” said Perry. “Wait till we get out of these wet clothes. My feet feel like two blocks of ice and we’re dripping melted snow all over the place. Come on, Elspeth.”
Priscilla watched them go. Was there anything going on between them? Her father had got on the phone to friends in the south and had found out all about Perry’s impeccable background and had started nagging his daughter to ‘do something.’
Usually that would have been enough to put Priscilla off, but she was becoming more and more fascinated by Perry.
The hotel generator could be heard faintly through the noise of the storm outside. She paced up and down the hall. What was taking them so long? Had they gone to bed together? Perish the thought!
Priscilla decided that she had better retreat to the lounge and look as if she were reading a magazine.
It was a full half hour before they both appeared.
“I’ll get the wine,” said Priscilla.
“Don’t you just ring the bell?” asked Perry.
“Only a few of the staff live in, and they are cleaning the rooms.”
“She moves like a dancer,” said Perry appreciatively. “Very graceful girl.”
“I brought down my laptop,” said Elspeth in a dull little voice. “I thought that after we have our mulled wine, we could go though everything. There might be a clue somewhere.”
“All right. At least if someone wants to kill you, they won’t get anywhere near the hotel in this weather.”
“Something’s up!” Elspeth cocked her head to one side like a bird. Then she ran out of the lounge, through the hall and out the open door. Very faintly, muffled by the roar of the storm, she heard the church bell. But it couldn’t be ringing for Catriona. She had already checked that the funeral was off. The bell, apart from Sundays, was only rung for an emergency.
This she told to Perry who had appeared beside her. “I’d better get back down there,” she said. “There might be a story. I’ll get the photographer.”
“Elspeth, I am not going out into that screaming wilderness again.”
“Suit yourself.”
♦
The emergency was that Mr. Patel’s small son, Bertie, had gone missing. In answer to his frantic cries for help, Hamish had rushed to the church and rung the bell, telling the village men who had struggled to answer its summons to start searching. He then did a quick check of the bedroom that Bertie shared with his brothers. On Bertie’s pillow was an open book, the story of the Ice Queen.
Bertie was only six years old and a dreamy boy. Had he gone out to look for the mythical queen?
♦
Priscilla came back with a tray of mulled wine. “Where’s Elspeth?”
“Our intrepid reporter thought she heard the church bell ringing. Her photographer is refusing to move.”
Priscilla put down the tray. “I’ll go after her. She shouldn’t be on her own. And something serious must have happened.”
“Now I feel like a heel,” said Perry. “I’ll come with you.”
♦
Elspeth skied towards the village. She was halfway there when she realised the wind was slacking. She dug her poles in and came to an abrupt stop. Something was lying on the road.
She went forward. It was a child. A faint whimper escaped it.
Elspeth dragged the child to its feet. A tear-stained brown face looked up at her.