Hamish Macbeth 09 (1993) - Death of a Travelling Man (8 page)

“There can’t be anyone else. If you’re thinking of Sean Gourlay, forget it. Oh, she took the odd cake and things over to the bus, but then she’s like that. Always ready to welcome any newcomer to the village. But after the initial visits, she lost interest. There’s something secret and nervy about her. I got out my torch and examined her eyeballs in case she had been taking the drugs for herself.”

“Well, that’s enough to put any woman off her husband, for a start,” said Hamish.

“Aye, but I had to know. It’s not drugs. She’s plain miserable. One minute she’s all over me, and the next, she’s telling me to get lost.”

“Sean Gourlay…” began Hamish.

“Forget it,” sighed Dr Brodie. “Admit it, you’ve had a bee in your bonnet about that one since he came here.”

“But everything’s gone wrong since he came here,” protested Hamish. “Everything’s wrong, everything’s polluted. Mr Wellington’s lost his faith and is ranting rubbish from the pulpit which was written in the last century, and he doesn’t believe a word of it. Mrs Wellington’s a wreck, Jessie and Nessie are selling up, and the women at the Mothers’ Union are that spiteful, you wouldnae believe it. There’s something at the back of it all, and I mean to find out!”

§

The next morning, Sean and Cheryl returned. The next afternoon, they had a public row on the waterfront. Cheryl called Sean every name under the sun. She was astride the scooter and had a rucksack on her back. The fluency of her obscenities amazed the villagers, the mothers clamping their hands over their children’s ears but continuing to listen themselves.

Shorn of obscenities, Cheryl’s complaint was that she was sick of the village and sick of Sean and she was leaving and she would not be back.

Sean shrugged and smiled lazily and then loped off with long strides, up towards the manse. Cheryl drove off on the scooter, put-putting her way out of Lochdubh, over the newly repaired hump-backed bridge, up the long road which led past Tommel Castle Hotel and out of sight.

One down, thought Hamish Macbeth savagely, and one to go.

There’s a great deal to be said

For being dead.

—E. C. Bentley

A
fter a week of squally, sleety rain, the weather became balmy again and the waters of the loch still. Seagulls cruised lazily overhead, swooping occasionally to admire their reflections and then soaring effortlessly up again. On the surface, Lochdubh looked much the same as ever. Smells of strong tea and tar and peat smoke. Sounds of radio, clattering dishes, bleating sheep, and chugging boats.

But underneath it all the theft of the Mothers’ Union funds spread like a cancer. Hamish, after wondering how long Priscilla meant to ignore him, eventually caved in and took the single-track road up out of the village to the hotel.

He felt a slight pang when he saw her busy in the gift shop, her smooth blonde hair lit by a shaft of sunlight. She was selling expensive souvenirs to a group of men who, Hamish noticed with irritation, were taking a long time about their purchases.

At last the shop was empty. Priscilla gave Hamish a guarded look and said, “Coffee?”

“That would be grand. Haven’t seen you around for a bit.”

“I’ve been here, you know,” said Priscilla with an edge on her voice. “I gather you and Doris had a pleasant dinner last week.”

“She invited me,” said Hamish defensively, for he felt guilty at having accepted the invitation, knowing he had only done it in the hope that Doris would tell Priscilla, which she evidently had.

Priscilla handed him a mug of coffee. “Well, let’s hope our new receptionist doesn’t fall for you as well.”

“New receptionist? What’s happened to Doris?”

“Dear me. Didn’t she tell you? She left. She’s got a job in a hotel in Perth.”

Hamish felt nothing but relief. Doris had all but proposed to him and it had been an agonizing and embarrassing evening.

“Well, what’s been going on?” asked Priscilla. “I heard about the money disappearing from the Mothers’ Union.”

“Oh, it’s the bad business.” Hamish pulled a chair up to the counter and sat down. “All the women are at each other’s throats, the one accusing the other. Dr Brodie’s had four packets of morphine stolen and the only suspect was Sean, but he was searched and we couldn’t find anything. His girlfriend’s gone off but the bastard’s still there, like some canker in the middle of the village.”

“It’s those demonic good looks of his, Hamish. He’s just a small-time crook, not the devil. I know he took that scarf and then slipped it back somehow.”

“He’s doing a rare job, nonetheless. He’s managed to talk Mr Wellington out of his faith and Mr Wellington has been using some old sermons he found and it’s all hell-fire and damnation and they love it. Archie Maclean told me he gave up seeing a video of
The Werewolf Women of Planet Xerxes
because, to quote him, ‘the kirk was better fun’. You should hear those sermons. A real medieval hell, wi’ devils and pitchforks and weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. I tried to get him to talk to the priest, I tried to get him to preach kindness and love thy neighbour, but the man’s sunk in gloom. Mrs Wellington looks a wreck. Nessie and Jessie Currie are selling up and leaving, and what that’s got to do with Sean I don’t know, but I feel it has. Angela Brodie’s gone on the twitch again and this time is spending a fortune on clothes.”

“It sounds awful. How’s Willie?”

“I don’t know whether the lad’s smitten with Lucia Livia, or whether it’s the dirty stoves at the restaurant he’s after. He lives to clean. Look at that!” Hamish held up one glittering black boot for her inspection. “Even the insoles are polished. Look at my shirts! Starched, every one of them. I’ve got such knife-edged creases in my trousers, it’s a wonder I don’t cut myself.”

“Some people would think you were lucky,” pointed out Priscilla, “living as you do with a combination of housekeeper and valet.”

“No, it iss not! I sat down to my breakfast this morning and Willie screeches, “A fly! A fly!” seizes a can of fly-killer and pumps it all over the kitchen and all over my food. If they ever take a blood sample from me, it’ll be three parts insecticide and one part disinfectant. But I’ve got used to Willie. He’s a kind enough lad. He’s jist stark-staring mad, that’s all. No, I feel if I could sort Mr Wellington out and get him to put some sense into the villagers, things would get better.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Priscilla, unhitching her coat. “I’m just about to lock up for lunchtime anyway.”

“You? What can you do?”

“He might just listen to me. It’s worth a try.”

“Well,” said Hamish doubtfully, “do your best. Have you forgiven me?”

“For letting Blair get away with all sorts of mayhem? I still think that was bad of you, Hamish, but when have I ever been able to stay mad at you for long?”

“It’s a long time since you’ve been to see me.”

“I’m an old-fashioned girl. The gentlemen are supposed to call on me.”

“Well, I’ll call on you tonight and take you for dinner.”

“Can’t. The hotel’s too busy. Sunday’s free. Let’s catch the hell-fire sermon and then go to the Napoli.”

“Suits me. But see if you can do something with Mr Wellington!”

§

Priscilla found the minister in his study. He was sitting in front of the fire, reading a book. “Oh, Miss Halburton-Smythe,” he said in a dull voice, “what can I do for you?”

“I’ve been hearing about you from Hamish,” said Priscilla.

The minister gave her a tortured look. “Ah, yes,” he said with a weary sigh, “about my loss of faith.”

“I am more concerned about you losing your marbles,” said Priscilla incisively.

He turned his head away. “There is so much suffering in the world,” he moaned, “and what can I do about it?”

“You could do something with your own parish. If everyone did some good about themselves, their family and their neighbours, the ripples might begin to spread outwards. I spoke to several of the village women before I came here. The place is riddled with spite. Instead of being sunk in self-absorption and self-pity, you might get off your bum and write a sermon to change the horrible spite and gossip of your parishioners. If you want your faith to come back to you, then you might start by acting as if you’ve got a heart and soul!”

Mr Wellington’s head jerked round and he glared at Priscilla. “There has often been talk that you might marry Hamish Macbeth,” he said, “but now I think I know why the man is so reluctant to propose.”

“Why, you old horror!” said Priscilla, quite unruffled.

He rose to his feet. “How dare you attack a minister of the Church!”

“Take a look at yourself in the mirror,” said Priscilla. “Take a good hard look and then ask yourself if you are not looking at the most selfish man in the whole of Lochdubh. Forget about your lost faith. If it’s such a terrible thing, don’t you think you might try instilling some thoughts of faith, charity, and goodness into your flock? Why should they lose their faith, just because you’ve lost yours? I am going to hear your sermon on Sunday and I warn you, if you start reading out one of those old sermons, I will get to my feet and attack you in the middle of the church for being a fraud.”

She marched out. Hamish was strolling along the waterfront. He came up to her. “How did you get on?” he asked.

“All right. I think a few gentle words were all that was needed.”

§

The church was crowded as usual on Sunday. Priscilla and Hamish managed to find space in a pew at the back. “Look,” said Priscilla, nudging Hamish. “There’s your devil.”

Sean Gourlay was standing beside a pillar at the side of the church but where he could command a good view of the pulpit. He was wearing a black shirt and black cords. His odd green eyes glittered strangely in the light.

“Come to see his handiwork,” muttered Hamish.

There were hymns, a reading from the New Testament, and then the minister leaned forward over the pulpit.

A rustle of papers as peppermints were popped in mouths and then the congregation settled back to enjoy what Archie Maclean called ‘a guid blasting’.

In a quiet, carrying voice, the minister began to talk of the theft of the funds. Sean crossed his arms and looked amused. The minister went on to say that this had caused malice and gossip in the village, turning one family against the other. His voice rose as he begged them to love their neighbour as themselves. His whole sermon seemed to be spoken directly to Sean. He spoke of the suffering in the world and reminded them that Jesus Christ had died on the cross for them. He said that the suffering in the village had been brought about by themselves. They had let one common theft poison their lives. “There is no place for evil in this village,” he said. “Look into your hearts and pray for charity, pray for kindness, and pray to the Good Lord for forgiveness for your sins. Let us pray together.”

Before he bent his head; Hamish noticed Sean walking quickly out of the church. It was silly, he told himself, to be so worried about one mere mortal, to be so superstitious, but somehow the minister’s confrontation with Sean, and that was surely what it had been, reminded him of old tales he had heard when he was small in the long dark winter evenings of the black devil in man’s form, walking into a Highland village one day and causing ruin and disaster.

A very subdued congregation shuffled out of the church. Mrs Gunn shook hands with Mrs Wellington and said they must think up a scheme to raise money to restore what had been taken and another woman patted Mrs Battersby on the back and said she had been doing a grand job as treasurer and hoped she would go on doing so. Groups of people were standing around the graveyard outside, talking to each other.

Hamish shook Mr Wellington’s hand and said, “A grand sermon.”

“Thank you,” said the minister. Then he suddenly added, “Do not worry about Sean. I have a feeling he will be leaving us.”

“And what was that supposed to mean?” asked Hamish over lunch. “Knowledge or the second sight?”

“I think, like you, he’s decided Sean is the real reason for all the misery. When you think of it, who else could have taken that money?”

“But he and Cheryl weren’t even here!”

“They could have slipped back during the night. It’s a simple matter to find the key and open up the village hall.”

“Well, let’s hope the minister’s right. If Sean doesnae move on, I’ll need to think of some way to get him moving! What did you say to Mr Wellington to get him to see sense?”

“Just a few gentle and womanly words,” said Priscilla.

Hamish looked at her with admiration. “Aye, it’s a grand thing, a woman’s touch,” he said. “I must have been ower-blunt.”

§

Mr Wellington returned to the manse after evening service feeling comforted. By next week, he knew, his congregation would have dwindled to the usual small number, but instead of giving them what they wanted, he had given them what they sorely needed to hear. His wife had taken sleeping pills and gone to bed. He stared at the bulk of her sleeping form uneasily. She was taking a lot of sleeping pills these days.

He slept restlessly that night. At two in the morning, he got up to go to the bathroom. On his way, he peered out of a passage window which overlooked the manse field at the back. All the lights in the bus were blazing. He gave a little sigh. Supplying Sean with free electricity had been his wife’s idea. She would have to tell Sean that they could do it no longer. He would speak to her in the morning, although it would be a difficult scene. Hamish had told her, he knew, about Sean’s criminal record, but she had refused to take it seriously.

In the morning, on his way to the bathroom to shave, he once more looked out. It was a dark rainy morning and the lights were still blazing in the bus.

So when his wife tottered to the breakfast table, he snapped at her. “Get dressed and tell that young hooligan that you befriended that he is no longer to use our electricity. In fact, while you are at it, you can tell him to go. I am not letting him use the field any more.”

“But you said you were in sympathy with these travellers,” she protested.