A small, thin, birdlike woman with sharp features came up to him. “You will be Mr. MacGregor’s replacement,” she said briskly. “I am Mrs. Struthers, the minister’s wife. Can we expect to see you at church on Sunday?”
“Oh, yes,” said Hamish amiably. “My name’s Macbeth. I am a member of the Free Church myself.” Hamish had taken careful note of the denomination of Cnothan’s main church. He was not a member of the Free Church, or, indeed, of any other church.
“Well, that’s splendid!” cried Mrs. Struthers. “Now, I heard you asking about a telly. We have a black-and-white one we are going to raffle at Easter. I could lend you that.”
“Very kind of you,” said Hamish, smiling down at her. That smile changed his whole face. It was a smile of singular sweetness.
In no time at all, Hamish was resting his boots on a footstool in the manse and being plied with tea and scones.
“I am thinking, Mrs. Struthers,” said Hamish, “that it will be a wee bit difficult for me here. They never did like incomers in Cnothan.”
“Well…” said Mrs. Struthers cautiously, going to the window to make sure there was no sign of her husband returning from his rounds, her husband having preached about the iniquities of gossip the previous Sunday, “People here are very nice when you get to know them. All it takes is a few years.”
“I haven’t got the time,” said Hamish. “I’m only here for three months.”
“They’ll come around quicker,” she said, “because they’re all united against a really nasty incomer.” She looked around and her voice dropped to a whisper. “An Englishman.”
“Oh dear,” said Hamish encouragingly. “They do not like the English?”
“It’s not that,” said the minister’s wife. “It’s just he’s such a know-all. It’s a crofting community round here. They don’t like being told how to run things, particularly by an outsider, but Mr. Mainwaring, that’s his name, will tell them what they are doing wrong. Not in a nasty way, mind. But as if he’s laughing at them. His poor wife. He won’t even leave her to run the house, but supervises her cooking. He even chooses her clothes for her!”
“The fiend!” cried Hamish, registering extreme shock, very gratifying to the minister’s wife, who had not had such an appreciative audience in years.
“Have another scone, Constable. Yes, she is a member of the Women’s Rural Institute and gave us a very good lecture on how to dry and arrange flowers. Most stimulating…She was doing very well, but he walked in at the question time and started grilling her – his own wife!”
“Fancy!”
“Yes. And she turned as red as fire and began to stammer. Wicked it was. And…”
The sound of a car crunching on the gravel outside made Mrs. Struthers turn as red as fire herself. “I had better go,” said Hamish, not wishing to waste time talking to the minister.
But as he rose to his feet, Mr. Struthers, the minister, came in. He had a pale face and pale-blue eyes and a thin mouth. His tow-coloured hair was carefully sleeked down. Mrs. Struthers, rather flustered, made the introductions. “I trust you have not been gossiping,” said the minister severely.
“On the contrary,” said Hamish, “your good lady has just been encouraging me to visit the kirk on the Sabbath. She was telling me all about your powerful sermons.”
He shook hands with the minister, collected the small television set, and said goodbye. The minister’s wife went to the window and watched the tall figure of the constable as he walked away with a rather dreamy smile on her face. “Such a fine man,” she murmured.
Hamish ambled up the main street, comfortably full of tea and home-made scones and jam. At the top, opposite the police station, he noticed an old cottage, set a little back from the road, with a sign outside which said, PAINTINGS FOR SALE.
There was what appeared to be a teenage girl digging the garden. As if aware she was being watched, she turned around, saw Hamish, and came up to the garden gate. Her figure was as trim and youthful as a girl’s, but Hamish judged her to be about the same age as himself – in her thirties. She had an elfin face, a wide smile, and a mop of black curls.
“Jenny Lovelace,” she said, holding out a small, earthy hand.
“Hamish Macbeth,” said Hamish, smiling down at her. “Is that an American accent?”
“No, Canadian.”
“And what are you doing in the wilds of Sutherland, Miss Lovelace?” asked Hamish, putting down television set and two grocery bags on the ground and shaking her hand before leaning comfortably on the gate.
“I wanted peace and quiet. I came over on a holiday and stayed. I’ve been here four years.”
“And do you like it? I gather they don’t like incomers here.”
“Oh, I get along all right. I like being alone.”
“I get the idea life has been easier for the incomers since a certain Mr. Mainwaring arrived. He sounds like a right pain in the neck.”
Jenny’s face hardened. “Mr. Mainwaring is about the only civilized person in the whole of this place,” she said sharply.
“I always go and put my big foot in it,” said Hamish sadly. “It comes from not being in the way of talking to pretty girls. My mind gets all thumbs.”
Jenny giggled. “Your mind doesn’t have thumbs,” she said. “Gracious! What’s that terrible howling coming from the police station?”
“It’s my dog, Towser. He wants his food, and when he wants his food, he screams for it. I’d best be on my way.”
“Drop round for a coffee,” said Jenny, turning away, as Hamish stooped to pick up his belongings.
“When?” Hamish called after her.
“Any time you like.”
“I’ll drop by the morn,” called Hamish, feeling suddenly happy.
Towser’s howling stopped when he saw his master. He lay on the kitchen floor and stared at Hamish with sorrowful eyes. “I’ve got some liver for ye,” grumbled Hamish, pouring oil in a pan. “See, low-cholesterol oil, good for your fat heart.” The doorbell on the police-station extension sounded shrilly. Hamish made a move to answer it. Towser started to howl again.
Hamish ran and wrenched open the door. A middle-aged man stood on the step. He was tall, well-built, and had a large round head and neat prim features, small round eyes, a button of a nose, and a small primped mouth. Although he must have been nearly sixty, he had a thick head of brown hair, worn long so that it curled over his collar. He was wearing a waxed coat with a corduroy collar, gabardine breeches, lovat stockings, and brogues – and a red pullover. English, thought Hamish. They aye love thae red pullovers.
“Come in and I’ll be with you in a minute,” gabbled Hamish as Towser’s howling rose to a crescendo. Hamish darted back to the kitchen and put the liver in the frying pan. When it was ready, he cut it up into small pieces, arranged it on a dish, and put it in front of the dog.
“So we’ve lost one fool of a policeman to find another,” said a sarcastic upper-class-accented voice from the doorway of the kitchen. “Let me tell you, Constable, that I am going to write to your superiors and say that feeding good butcher’s meat to a spoilt mongrel takes precedence in what’s left of your mind over solving crime.”
“Sit yerself down, Mr. Mainwaring,” said Hamish, “and I’ll attend to you. I havenae had time to draw breath since I arrived.”
“How do you know my name?”
“Your reputation goes before you,” said Hamish. “Now, we can stand here exchanging insults or we can get down to business. What’s the crime?”