No smoke came from the chimney and the curtains were tightly drawn. And yet, mused Hamish, the old man could not be too much of a recluse, for the fencing around the croft was in good repair and there was a fair-sized flock of Cheviots cropping the grass.
He knocked on the low door but there was no reply. The wind soughed and whistled through the stunted trees that formed a shelter belt to one side of the house. A flock of sea-gulls wheeled overhead and then landed in the field in front of the house. “Bad weather coming,” muttered Hamish. He tried the handle of the door and found it unlocked. He opened it and went in.
Like most croft houses, it had a parlour, seldom used, to one side, and a living-room-cum-kitchen on the other. He went into the kitchen.
Diarmuid Sinclair sat beside the cold hearth wrapped in a tartan blanket. He looked like one of the minor prophets or the Ancient Mariner seeking one of three to stoppeth. He had a long white beard and glittering eyes, bushy eyebrows, and a rosy, wrinkled face.
“Blowing up outside,” said Hamish. “Cold in here. Want the fire lit?”
Diarmuid looked at him with the sorrowful eyes of a whipped dog, but said nothing.
Hamish made a clicking noise of impatience. He went back outside and round the house to the peat stack and collected some peats. He chopped kindling and took the lot back indoors and proceeded to light the fire.
When it was crackling merrily, he swung the smoke-blackened kettle on its chain over the blaze and then went to a shelf in the corner and found mugs, a carton of milk, and a jar of instant coffee. When the kettle was boiling, he made the coffee, put in plenty of sugar, and, fishing in his pocket, produced a flask of whisky and poured a generous measure in one cup.
He handed the cup to the old man, who drew a wrinkled hand out from under his rug and waved it away.
“I am not wasting good whisky,” said Hamish severely. “Drink it, ye miserable old sinner, or I’ll arrest ye for impeding the law in the process of its duty.”
“I am the sick man,” quavered Diarmuid.
“You look it,” said Hamish heartlessly. “And it’s no wonder, sitting there feeling sorry for yourself and too damn lazy to light your own fire.”
Diarmuid drank a large mouthful of hot coffee and whisky.
“I see you haven’t heard the news,” he said drearily. “Ma wife died.”
“That wass two years ago,” said Hamish. “And life goes on, and the poor woman can’t be having much of a time up there what with worrying about you neglecting your grandson and committing suicide. For that’s just what you are doing, you auld scunner.”
“I’m a poor auld man,” wailed Diarmuid.
“You’re about sixty, although I admit you’ve done your best to look like eighty. What on earth are you thinking about to turn your own son and grandson from the door?”
“They don’t need me. I’m a poor auld – ”
“Oh, shut up,” said Hamish morosely. He walked to the window and looked out on the desolate scene. “Aye, it’s blowing hard and the sea-gulls are in your fields. There’ll be snow before long.”
Diarmuid tilted his mug and drained the rest of the scalding contents in one gulp.
Then he threw back the rug and eased himself to his feet, releasing a strong smell of unwashed body. “That’s where you’re wrong,” said Diarmuid. He went to a barometer on the wall and tapped it. “Never wrong,” he said. “Says ‘set fair.”
The wind howled and the first drops of sleet struck the panes of the windows. “It’s wrong,” said Hamish. “Look. Sleet. It’ll turn to snow before evening.”
“Nobody’ll listen to a poor auld man,” mourned Diarmuid. “That machine never makes a mistake.”
Hamish seldom lost his temper, but loneliness, worry that Priscilla might even now be in Lochdubh, and fury at the self-pity of Diarmuid boiled up in him. He seized the barometer from the wall, walked to the front door, and threw it out on the grass. “See for yourself, you stupid barometer,” he howled.
There was a strange rusty sound from behind him. Ashamed of himself, Hamish ran out and retrieved the barometer, scared he had given Diarmuid a heart attack. The crofter’s choking and creaking noises were becoming louder by the minute.
“There, there,” said Hamish, quite frightened. “Me and my damn temper. Sit down, man.” Diarmuid sank back into his armchair by the fire, still choking, grunting, and wheezing. It was then that Hamish realized the crofter was laughing.
♦
It was an hour before he left Diarmuid. As if the laughter had broken his self-imposed isolation, the crofter would not stop talking. Hamish found the croft house boasted a surprisingly modern bathroom at the back and coaxed Diarmuid to take a bath. Then he fried him eggs and bacon, made him a pot of strong tea laced with more whisky, and went on his way, promising to call again.
As he had forecast, the sleet was already changing to snow as he turned the Land Rover in to the short drive that led to Balmain.
Balmain was a bungalow, and not a very good one either. It was a square, thin-walled affair with a temporary look, having the appearance of some lakeside summer-houses. The original croft house stood close by, now being used as a shed. Some scraggly wellingtonias acted as a shelter belt. He rang the doorbell, which sounded like Big Ben, and waited.
He had imagined Mrs. Mainwaring would turn out to be a small, faded, timid woman, but it was a giantess who answered the door. Mrs. Mainwaring was nearly six feet tall. She was powerfully built and had an enormous bust and a great tweed-covered backside, which she wordlessly displayed to Hamish as she turned and walked off into the house, leaving the door open. He followed her in and found himself in a book-lined living-room. A quick curious glance at the titles told Hamish that it was doubtful the shelves contained one work of fiction, either classical or modern. There were a great number of ‘How to’ books on carpentry, painting, sheep-rearing, art, and gardening. There were shelves of books on popular psychology, and row upon row of encyclopaedias and dictionaries. There were two easy chairs, a low coffee-table, a desk with a typewriter, two filing cabinets, and a large Persian rug on the floor. There were no knick-knacks or ornaments, no magazines or newspapers. And the room was cold. The fireplace was ugly, being made of acid-green tiles. A single log smouldered dismally, occasionally sending puffs of smoke out into the stale, cold air of the room.
“Sit down, officer,” said Mrs. Mainwaring in a deep voice. “My husband is out somewhere at the moment. He told me he had been to see you.”
“I wondered,” said Hamish, looking round for a place to lay his cap and finally setting it neatly on the coffee table, “if you would mind coming with me to the churchyard and showing me exactly where it was you were attacked.”
“I wasn’t attacked,” said Mrs. Mainwaring. “Just startled. Not every day I see witches.” She gave a sudden bellowing laugh.
“Whateffer,” said Hamish politely. “When would it be convenient for you to visit the scene of the crime?”
“It wouldn’t be convenient,” said Mrs. Mainwaring. “William would just say I was making a fuss.”
“But your husband is most insistent that I find out who frightened you.”
“He likes poking his nose into things and annoying people,” said Mrs. Mainwaring. “Annoying the replacement constable must be the breath of life to him.”
“Would you say you were unpopular in the community?” asked Hamish.
“I’m not. He is,” said Mrs. Mainwaring roundly. “In fact, I like this place. Nice people.”
“I would not say that they are very friendly to incomers, even someone like myself from the west coast,” Hamish pointed out.
“Well, they’re not hypocrites like the English,” boomed Mrs. Mainwaring, as if speaking of a nationality other than her own. “They’re all right when you get to know them. William got soured, that’s all. He ran about at the beginning being charming to everyone and they rebuffed him, and so now he wants his revenge on the lot of them.”