“It’s odd,” said Hamish. “Her ex-husband in Canada did the same thing and she told me about that readily enough.”
“She’s a grand painter,” said Anderson. “My type of stuff. I cannae thole thae paintings o’ people wi’ two eyes on the one side of their head. Think she did it?”
“I don’t know,” said Hamish. “It takes a bit of strength and bottomless callousness to dump a full-grown man in a tank of lobsters.”
“He was dead at the time he hit the water,” said Anderson. “The pathologist says as how someone struck him a blow on the back of the head which near broke his neck, so Mainwaring could’ve fallen over into the pool and the murderer could’ve run off and come back later to get rid o’ the skeleton. Anyway, we know it’s Sandy Carmichael. He probably got a fit o’ the horrors and thought Mainwaring was a bunch o’ green snakes.” He glanced up at the window. “If I’m no’ mistaken, here comes the village lout. Leave you to it.”
He scampered off just as Alistair Gunn came ambling in.
“Hoo are ye the day?” said Alistair with a great turnip grin and his eyes as hard as Scottish pebbles.
“Sit down,” said Hamish, eyeing him coldly. Alistair Was wearing his usual hat, the leather one, peaked and shaped like an American baseball cap. He was wearing a game coat with rips in the sleeves, and his rubber boots exuded a strong smell of sheep dung.
“Now what do you want?” demanded Hamish.
“I’ve found your murderer for you,” said Alistair.
“That being?”
“Harry Mackay, the estate agent.”
“And why would Harry Mackay want to kill William Mainwaring?”
“Because Mainwaring was competing with him,” said Alistair triumphantly.
“Oh, aye, in what way?”
Alistair hitched his chair forward. “Mainwaring bought thae cottages and crofts. Right? He got the land decrofted. He did it under false pretences. He disnae belong here. I put in ma objections to the Crofters Commission when I learned what was going on, but they told me the time for objections was long past.”
“I checked up on those houses,” said Hamish wearily. “One had a damaged roof and the other had no bathroom and no electric light laid on. Mainwaring bought the one for ten thousand pounds and the other for eight. Small beer to a man like Mackay who sells castles.”
“You’re all the same,” said Alistair bitterly. “Mackay’s a toff and ye willnae touch the toffs. It’s one law for the rich and one for the poor.”
Hamish fought down his temper. He had heard Alistair trapped and shot game for sport, unlike most Highlanders, who only killed what they needed to eat. A brace of dead rabbits hung from his belt. He exuded a sort of peasant cruelty.
“I’ll look into it,” said Hamish abruptly.
“Well, I’m sitting here until I get you to take down a statement,” said Alistair threateningly.
Hamish looked at him thoughtfully and then his thin face lit up in a charming smile.
“Stay as long as you like, you handsome brute, you,” he said softly.
Alistair Gunn stood up so quickly that the chair went flying.
“Oh, don’t go,” cried Hamish. “We have lots to talk about.”
The only answer was the slamming of the police-station door.
Hamish leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head and fought down the desire to go and see Jenny.
Any attraction she’d held for him had surely died when she had confessed to liking Mainwaring and to having lied about her sister. He had an uneasy feeling he had been allowed to share her bed to keep him quiet. And yet he wanted her. He wanted her very badly. Then he wanted a cigarette. Then the longing for her hit him in a second wave, more powerful than the first.
He was just convincing himself that it was all in the order of duty to ask her more questions when there was a commotion outside and then the doorbell rang.
Outside stood three couples, three schoolgirls, and the minister, Mr. Struthers.
The minister herded the party into the police station as Hamish stood aside.
“Behold the guilty!” cried Mr. Struthers, his pale eyes flashing with triumph.
Hamish collected chairs from the kitchen and waited until everyone was seated. Then he took out his notebook. He looked at the three schoolgirls, who were sitting with their heads hanging.
“I guess I am looking at the Mainwaring witches,” said Hamish. “Names?”
Mr. Struthers acted as spokesman. The girls were all fourteen years old. They were Alison Birrell, Desiree Watson, and Marleen Macdonald.
Hamish pricked up his ears at the sound of the names Birrell and Macdonald.
He interrupted Mr. Struthers. “Mr. Birrell and Mr. Macdonald – you are both crofters?”
Birrell was a tough little dwarf of a man and Macdonald an enormous giant. Both nodded. Their wives were sitting holding hands and sobbing.
“And Mr. Watson?”
Jimmy Watson, a dapper little man in a blue serge suit, said, “Motor mechanic.”
Hamish looked at the minister. “I think it would be better, Mr. Struthers, if you took the parents through to the living-room and left me to have a word in private with the girls.” He saw the parents were about to protest and added quickly, “I will not be taking statements until you are present.”
Reluctantly, they shuffled out.
“Now,” said Hamish, perching on the edge of his desk. “We’ll just have a wee talk.”
The girls all looked remarkably alike. Two had red hair and one black, but they had the same sullen, pinched white faces and beaky noses. Bad diet, thought Hamish. Boil-in-bag meals and fish and chips.
He selected the more composed-looking girl, Desiree Watson, and said, “You, Desiree, what on earth were you thinking of to scare poor Mrs. Mainwaring?”
“We couldnae get rid o’ Mr. Mainwaring,” sniffled Desiree, “so we thought we could frichten his missus into getting him to leave.”
“But why should you three girls take it upon yourselves to do this?”
Alison Birrell spoke up. “Will we go to the bad fire, mister?”
Hamish decided that if he reassured them on that point, he would not get another word out of them.
“If you do not make a full confession,” he said, “I shudder to think what will happen.”
The girls clutched each other and began to cry again.
Hamish soothed them down. Haltingly, it all began to come out. They had heard their parents complaining and complaining about Mainwaring. Mainwaring had said that Mr. Watson, the motor mechanic, had overcharged him and had reported the garage to the Consumers Council. So the girls had planned to take matters into their own hands. They had waited behind the churchyard wall until they heard Mrs. Mainwaring coming along.
After half an hour of close questioning, Hamish called the minister and the parents back in and took statements from the girls.
“Will they go to prison?” asked Alec Birrell.
“Not if they co-operate,” said Hamish, thinking quickly. “This witchcraft nonsense is stopping anyone from seeing the facts of the disappearance of William Mainwaring clearly.” He saw the free-lance reporter, Ian Gibb, passing along the street outside and opened the door and called to him.
“Come along, Scoop Gibb.” Hamish grinned. “Another exclusive for you.”
♦
Blair was sitting in the television lounge of the Anstey Hotel, drinking beer, when Hamish reported to him.
“What?” roared Blair. “You draft pillock. Didnae you charge them with something?”
“I did better than that,” said Hamish. He told Blair of giving the free-lance reporter the story. “Don’t you see, man,” said Hamish, “the sooner the press stop asking questions about witchcraft and that skeleton, the better? We’re left with the skeleton, but at least this should take some of the heat off.”