out.”
They found the house with the yellow privet hedge in front. The door was answered by a small, neat-looking middle-aged man. He volunteered that he was a Mr. Southey and, yes, he had bought the house from Drummond’s, the estate agent. The previous owner had been a Mr. Tarrant.
“Not a Mrs. McBride?” asked Hamish.
“No,” said Mr. Southey. But he gathered that the house had been rented before he bought it.
Hamish and Jimmy got the address of Mr. Tarrant from the estate agent. Mr. Tarrant, said his wife who answered the door, was a solicitor and at his office. She gave them directions. Scottish advocates and solicitors are often, surprisingly, clever and charming, but Mr. James Tarrant was like a lawyer out of Central Casting. He was plump and pompous with slightly protruding brown eyes and a pursed little mouth. His voice was high-pitched and querulous.
“Yes, I rented the house to Mrs. McBride. Charming lady.”
“Do you still have the paperwork, her credentials and all that?” asked Jimmy.
He looked suddenly uncomfortable. “I got rid of it all when we arranged the house sale.”
Hamish’s eyes bored into him. “You didn’t ask, did you? She charmed you and paid cash.”
“She paid six months’ cash in advance and I was glad to rent it.”
“When did she tell you she was leaving?” asked Jimmy.
“Well . . . er . . . she didn’t. After the six months and there was no more rent, I called and found the place closed up.”
“Another dead end,” mourned Jimmy. “You get back to Lochdubh and question the folks there and I’ll go back to Drumlie Road and see if the neighbours know anything.”
Chapter Four
I expect that woman will be the last thing to be civilised by man.
—George Meredith
A small sun was shining through a thin veil of mist when Hamish returned to Lochdubh, creating that odd white light so typical of the north of Scotland. He could never quite get used to the mercurial changes of weather in his home county. It was hard to believe that a wind had ever blown across the still landscape. Everything was hushed and frozen as he got out of the Land Rover in front of the police station. No bird sang. There wasn’t even anyone on the waterfront.
Hamish wondered where all the press had gone and why there was not even one sign of Blair and his policemen.
Then as he stood there, he realised how bitterly, bitingly cold it had become. He decided to collect his pets and set off to see the forestry worker before the mist became any thicker. He drove round the end of the loch, round to the other side, and stopped outside the forestry foreman’s office. Hamish blessed the invention of mobile phones when the foreman rang Timmy Teviot and told him to come down to the office. It saved him from driving up the tracks, trying to find the man.
Timmy Teviot was small, thin, and wiry with grizzled hair and a weather-beaten face. “Let’s step outside the office,” said Hamish. “I’ve a few questions to ask you.”
Timmy followed him outside and lit up a cigarette. Hamish had a sudden sharp longing for one. He found it hard to believe that he had given up smoking some time ago.
“It’s about Catriona Beldame, the murdered woman,” Hamish began.
“And what has that got to do with me?” demanded Timmy. His voice was soft and lilting.
“I believe you went to the woman for one of her potions.”
“Who’s the wee gossip then?” demanded Timmy. “I’ll bet it was yon blabbermouth Willie Lamont.”
“Never you mind. I want to know what happened when you went to see her.”
“I went to see her for the indigestion . . .”
“Not again,” said Hamish. “Out with it. What did you really go and see her for?”
Timmy sighed and sat down on a tree stump. “I heard talk that she could make you like a stallion. But it didnae work and all I got was a visit to the doctor. I went back up there and asked for my money back. She laughed at me. Well, I’ll be honest wi’ ye,
They found the house with the yellow privet hedge in front. The door was answered by a small, neat-looking middle-aged man. He volunteered that he was a Mr. Southey and, yes, he had bought the house from Drummond’s, the estate agent. The previous owner had been a Mr. Tarrant.
“Not a Mrs. McBride?” asked Hamish.
“No,” said Mr. Southey. But he gathered that the house had been rented before he bought it.
Hamish and Jimmy got the address of Mr. Tarrant from the estate agent. Mr. Tarrant, said his wife who answered the door, was a solicitor and at his office. She gave them directions. Scottish advocates and solicitors are often, surprisingly, clever and charming, but Mr. James Tarrant was like a lawyer out of Central Casting. He was plump and pompous with slightly protruding brown eyes and a pursed little mouth. His voice was high-pitched and querulous.
“Yes, I rented the house to Mrs. McBride. Charming lady.”
“Do you still have the paperwork, her credentials and all that?” asked Jimmy.
He looked suddenly uncomfortable. “I got rid of it all when we arranged the house sale.”
Hamish’s eyes bored into him. “You didn’t ask, did you? She charmed you and paid cash.”
“She paid six months’ cash in advance and I was glad to rent it.”
“When did she tell you she was leaving?” asked Jimmy.
“Well . . . er . . . she didn’t. After the six months and there was no more rent, I called and found the place closed up.”
“Another dead end,” mourned Jimmy. “You get back to Lochdubh and question the folks there and I’ll go back to Drumlie Road and see if the neighbours know anything.”
Chapter Four
I expect that woman will be the last thing to be civilised by man.
—George Meredith
A small sun was shining through a thin veil of mist when Hamish returned to Lochdubh, creating that odd white light so typical of the north of Scotland. He could never quite get used to the mercurial changes of weather in his home county. It was hard to believe that a wind had ever blown across the still landscape. Everything was hushed and frozen as he got out of the Land Rover in front of the police station. No bird sang. There wasn’t even anyone on the waterfront.
Hamish wondered where all the press had gone and why there was not even one sign of Blair and his policemen.
Then as he stood there, he realised how bitterly, bitingly cold it had become. He decided to collect his pets and set off to see the forestry worker before the mist became any thicker. He drove round the end of the loch, round to the other side, and stopped outside the forestry foreman’s office. Hamish blessed the invention of mobile phones when the foreman rang Timmy Teviot and told him to come down to the office. It saved him from driving up the tracks, trying to find the man.
Timmy Teviot was small, thin, and wiry with grizzled hair and a weather-beaten face. “Let’s step outside the office,” said Hamish. “I’ve a few questions to ask you.”
Timmy followed him outside and lit up a cigarette. Hamish had a sudden sharp longing for one. He found it hard to believe that he had given up smoking some time ago.
“It’s about Catriona Beldame, the murdered woman,” Hamish began.
“And what has that got to do with me?” demanded Timmy. His voice was soft and lilting.
“I believe you went to the woman for one of her potions.”
“Who’s the wee gossip then?” demanded Timmy. “I’ll bet it was yon blabbermouth Willie Lamont.”
“Never you mind. I want to know what happened when you went to see her.”
“I went to see her for the indigestion . . .”
“Not again,” said Hamish. “Out with it. What did you really go and see her for?”
Timmy sighed and sat down on a tree stump. “I heard talk that she could make you like a stallion. But it didnae work and all I got was a visit to the doctor. I went back up there and asked for my money back. She laughed at me. Well, I’ll be honest wi’ ye,
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