Jenny slumped down on the floor and began to cry.
“I’m sorry,” said Hamish. “This is going to look to you like another betrayal. I have to tell Blair. I don’t think you killed him, but I have to tell Blair. You can’t keep anything in the Highlands quiet, and sooner or later someone is going to tell Blair you went for walks with Mainwaring.”
♦
To Hamish’s relief, Blair did not take the news about Jenny’s friendship with Mainwaring very seriously. His prime suspect was Sandy Carmichael. He sent MacNab and Anderson up to the gallery to grill Jenny and then leaned forward and said threateningly, “Carmichael is our man. Don’t go digging up any mair suspects.”
“Meaning you want it to be Carmichael,” said Hamish cynically. “A drunk can be shut up before he gets to court and starts talking about lobsters easier than anyone else. But you’ll always have a problem. The press are getting tired of the witchcraft angle. They want to know about that skeleton and whose it was.”
“Bugger the press,” said Blair viciously. “Why isnae there something to distract them? Why doesn’t another Russian reactor blow? Why doesn’t someone assassinate Maggie Thatcher?”
“If we could solve the witchcraft bit, they might begin to cool off,” said Hamish thoughtfully. “That scaring o’ Mrs. Mainwaring, I’m sure it wasn’t connected with the murder.”
“Then go and see what you can find out,” howled Blair.
Hamish was ambling down the main street in the direction of the manse when a voice behind him said, “Psst!”
He turned about and found himself looking down at Mrs. MacNeill, she who had been so reluctant with directions when he first came to Cnothan.
“I know who murdered Mr. Mainwaring,” she muttered.
“Tell me about it,” said Hamish.
She was carrying a heavy shopping bag. “Look as if you’ve offered to carry this home for me,” she hissed.
Hamish looked at her curiously. The woman’s eyes were glittering with excitement.
He took the bag from her and she led the way to the bungalow called Green Pastures.
The living-room of the bungalow was gloomy and and overfurnished. Victorian furniture designed for grander rooms stood about looking as if it had been there before an auction. There were two black sofas, a Benares brass bowl full of dried pampas-grass, enormous glass case that held a moth-eaten golden eagle, a carved oak sideboard like an altar, and black leather, horsehair-stuffed, high-backed chairs.
“Now,” said Mrs. MacNeill, “take out your notebook, Constable.”
Hamish dutifully produced pencil and notebook waited patiently.
“It wass herself that did it,” said Mrs. MacNeill triumphantly.
“Mrs. Mainwaring?”
“Och, no. Mrs. Struthers.”
“The minister’s wife?” Hamish was tempted to put away his notebook. “Why on earth would she do that?”
“It wass the microwave cooking class for the Mothers’ Meeting,” said Mrs. MacNeill eagerly. “Herself wass giving the talk and very proud of herself and puffed up wi’ vanity she was, too. Then Mr. Mainwaring came in and he starts to criticize her and then he takes over the lecture himself. We all just went away, but I crept back after he had left, for herself said we could try the cooking and I saw no reason to waste money on my own dinner when I could eat some of the things she’d offered. She didnae see me, but I saw her. She was drinking sherry from the bottle, like a harlot.” Hamish blinked. “And then she mutters something about killing Mr. Mainwaring.”
Hamish’s pencil stopped gliding over the pages of his notebook. An idea struck him. “I’ll just be off and have a word with Mrs. Struthers.”
“You’ll break the news gently to Mr. Struthers,” said Mrs. MacNeill eagerly. “He’s a fine man and he disnae ken he’s married to an evil woman.”
“I won’t be making any arrest yet,” said Hamish stonily. “Thank you for the information.”
“‘A fine polisman you are,” said Mrs. MacNeill waspishly. “Mr. MacGregor would have had her in the handcuffs.”
Hamish got to his feet. “If ye can think o’ anything else, Mrs. MacNeill, let me know,” he said. And deaf to the complaints that followed him out of the house, he went on his way.
Mrs. Struthers looked glad to see him. She fussed over him and gave him tea and scones. After they had exchanged some gossip, Hamish said, “I have just been hearing about your lecture on microwave cookery.”
The minister’s wife turned red. “That was the most awful evening of my life,” she said. “I could have killed that man.”
“But you didn’t?”
Mrs. Struthers sighed. “I hadn’t even the courage to stand up to him. I just stood there like a…like a…humiliated rabbit.”
“Aye, well, to get back to the original crime, the witchcraft scare. I was hoping your husband could help.”
“What on earth could he do? That’s him coming now.”
“Och, I’ll just have a wee word with him.”
♦
That Sunday, Mr. Struthers preached the most fiery sermon of his life. He claimed the three women who had frightened Mrs. Mainwaring by pretending to be witches were as good as murderesses. They were murdering their own souls with malice and spite. With great relish, he outlined what would happen to them when they got to hell, and being jabbed by pitchforks was the least of what was waiting for them. He thundered and he blasted and he called down the wrath of God on Cnothan. He compared Cnothan to Sodom and Gomorrah. Unless the guilty confessed, there was no hope for them and no hope for Cnothan. Fire from Heaven would consume them all. The church was crowded.
As Mr. Struthers leaned over the pulpit, the congregation cringed back.
When Hamish left the church, he was surprised to see the sharp, foxy features of Detective Jimmy Anderson peering at him from the church porch.
“What are you doing here?” asked Hamish. He felt lightheaded from a long night on the moors searching for Sandy,
“Blair’s idea,” said Anderson gloomily. “Some woman called round at the hotel to make a statement that the minister’s wife had done it. Blair tells me to go to church and clock the congregation. Seems Sandy Carmichael never missed a service. Blair didnae believe the woman’s story but he gets this mad idea that Carmichael might turn up. Any chance o’ a dram?”
“I have some whisky at the police station,” said Hamish.
“Lead on, Macduff,” misquoted Anderson cheerfully. “I need a good belt to get rid of the taste of all that hell-fire and damnation.”
When they were seated in the police station on either side of the desk, Anderson asked curiously, “I didnae know they still went in for sermons like that. No one’s going to take it seriously, though.”
“You don’t know Cnothan,” said Hamish. “When approaching Cnothan, set your watch back one hundred years. It’s a time warp here. Preach a sermon like that anywhere else in Sutherland – Lairg or Domoch or Golspie – and the minister would soon find the worthies of the town petitioning for his transfer. For goodness’ sakes, man, they stil believe in fairies in this part o’ the world.”
“Talking about fairies, one of the local louts is going around saying you’re one yourself.”
“And which lout would that be?” asked Hamish curiously.
“A great big turnip heid called Alistair Gunn. Said you stank o’ scent.”
“That wass my aftershave,” said Hamish stiffly. “Or rather, it’s MacGregor’s. And if ye don’t stop sniggering, I’ll take that glass away from ye.”
Anderson changed tack. “We didnae get much out o’ that artist o’ yours, Jenny Lovelace. Sticks to her story. Said he insulted her art. Said she was crying. Said she thought she’d sound daft if she told you what it was about, so she said her sister had died. She doesnae have a sister.”