Death of a Gentle Lady

where the hero seemed to be always partnered with some beautiful female with green eyes and high cheekbones. He liked particularly the ones that were comfortingly familiar. The hero would at one point be suspended and then brought back with the grim warning, ‘You’ve got twenty-four hours.’ He got to the bit where the hero was beating up the villain. Good thing he’s not in Britain, thought Hamish cynically, or the villain would sue for assault.
    His mobile phone rang. He sat up and tugged it out of his pocket.
    It was Elspeth. ‘How are things in Grianach?’ she asked.
    Although the fire was blazing, Hamish felt suddenly cold.
    ‘How did you know?’ he asked.

Chapter Ten

    In the highlands, in the country places,
Where the old plain men have rosy faces,
And the young fair maidens
Quiet eyes
– Robert Louis Stevenson

    ‘Everyone in Lochdubh seems to know, Hamish. I was sent back up to cover the bomb. Shall I come and join you? Are you on holiday?’
    ‘Is that what they are saying?’
    ‘You know this village. Chinese whispers. But certainly that seems to be the sum total of it.’
    ‘Elspeth, leave me alone for a bit. But you might have a story down there. I was sent up here to stop the murderer from finding me and trying again. If you can find out who was spreading the news about me, you’ll at least find someone who’s interested in seeing me dead. And get back to me if you’ve found out anything.’
    ‘All right. Give me a few paragraphs about the bomb in the kitchen.’
    Hamish gave her a brief description.
    ‘I know Grianach,’ said Elspeth. ‘Weird place. They make wooden things.’
    ‘That’s right. Trouble is, a tour bus comes every two weeks.’
    ‘And you think the murderer might travel that way to find you?’
    ‘Perhaps. But probably too complicated.’
    The next morning, Hamish went out to explore the village. It nestled at the foot of steep cliffs, and any car approaching from outside could clearly be seen on the one-track road down into it. There was a horseshoe bay in front of the village, the waters calm in an unusually placid day. Far out beyond the bay, he could see the whitecaps of the great Atlantic waves.
    He sat down on a bollard on the jetty. It was all so remote and peaceful. The air smelled of tar, fish, baking, and peat smoke.
    A voice behind him said, ‘Enjoying the view?’
    Hamish stood up and turned round. ‘I’m James Fringley,’ said the man. ‘I heard you’ve arrived.’
    Racking his memory for who he was supposed to be, Hamish remembered suddenly that he was supposed to be Mr William Shore.
    ‘William Shore,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘You’re English.’
    James was a small dapper man dressed in a Barbour and jeans. Hamish judged him to be in his fifties. He had silver hair, carefully barbered, and neat features.
    ‘Are you visiting like me?’ asked Hamish.
    ‘No, I live here. I used to be a bank manager but I took early retirement. We’re about to start setting up the stalls. The bus arrives today.’
    ‘I’m surprised a tour bus found this place.’
    ‘I wrote to them,’ said James. ‘What with the fishing dying off, I thought it would be nice to help the villagers. Do you know, the European Union cut the cod and fishing quotas last December and Scotland wasn’t even represented? Luxembourg was there. One tiny landlocked country having a say. It’s mad. We’ve a lot of home industry now, and every month or so I load up the van and go south to flog the stuff around the shops. I mean, look at the beauty of this place. A man would do anything to keep it as grand as this. I’m off to the church hall to start helping with the stalls.’
    ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Hamish.
    ‘You’re highland, aren’t you?’ asked James curiously. ‘What brings a highland tourist here?’
    Hamish was blessed with the highlander’s facility to lie easily and convincingly. ‘It was the wife,’ he said. ‘She threw me out. I thought if I went away for a bit, she’d come to her senses.’
    ‘That’s bad. Got children?’
    ‘No, we’ve only been married three months. I blame her mother,’ said Hamish bitterly. ‘Awfy auld queen. What about you?’
    ‘Mine died of cancer. We didn’t have children. I came here four years ago on holiday and decided to stay. Probably the last place in Britain where you can buy a cheap house.’
    The figures of the villagers could be seen approaching the church hall. ‘They’re all verra