Death of a Gentle Lady

small,’ said Hamish.
    ‘Maybe inbreeding, but they’re all sane enough.’
    Hamish helped to carry trestle tables down to the harbour. Then the villagers started to set out their wares. Hamish was amazed at the wood carvings. They were very good indeed. One stall had beautiful lengths of tweed. ‘That’s your neighbour, Ellie,’ said James. ‘She’s got a loom in a shed in her garden.’
    Hamish decided to buy presents before the bus arrived. He bought a wooden salad bowl for his mother, two carved candlesticks for Angela, and an attenuated wood sculpture of a woman for Priscilla.
    The prices were remarkably reasonable. Then he noticed a carving of a man, a fat bloated man whose face was set in a horrible sneer. It looked remarkably like Blair. Hamish bought it as a present for Jimmy.
    Then he thought how much his mother would like some tweed and bought a length of a heathery blue-and-pink mixture.
    He carried all his purchases back to his cottage and returned just in time to see the tour bus make its precipitous descent of the cliff road. He walked behind a shed at the end of the harbour and looked around. The bus was full – full of elderly ladies and two elderly men.
    He came out of hiding and walked towards it. Two were being helped into wheelchairs. Some walked with sticks.
    Hamish went up to the tour guide, a slim woman in a yellow suit. ‘Where are this lot from?’ he asked.
    ‘A retirement home in Perth,’ she said. ‘Great for us. They booked the whole bus, and this is a quiet time of year. I’d better go and help them with their purchases.’
    Hamish was pleased to see that sales were brisk.
    After half an hour of buying, the tour operator called out, ‘If you will make your way to the village hall, there is a buffet lunch.’
    Hamish thought a free meal was just what he needed after having spent so much, but when he got to the hall, James was at the door. ‘Six pounds for the lunch, and cheap at the price.’ Hamish paid up.
    He collected a plate of cold chicken and salad from the buffet and sat down next to one of the elderly gentlemen who turned out to be stone deaf, so Hamish contented himself by studying the women just in case one of them might look like someone in disguise. But for a start, not one of them was tall enough to fit the description of the woman who had made that phone call.

    Superintendent Daviot was told that a Miss Elspeth Grant of the Bugle was waiting to speak to him.
    He hesitated. But he was wearing a new suit and thought he looked very fine. ‘Does she have a photographer with her?’ he asked.
    ‘Yes, a sour-faced Glasgow type,’ said the sergeant at the front desk.
    ‘Send them up,’ said Daviot.
    He brushed back his silver hair and asked Helen to prepare coffee and biscuits. He had met Elspeth before but not the photographer, who was a sullen, middle-aged man with a bloated face.
    ‘Do sit down, Miss Grant,’ purred Daviot. ‘We have met before.’
    Elspeth indicated the photographer, who was crouched on the floor, taking cameras out of his box. ‘That’s Billy Southey.’
    Helen came in with a laden tray. Elspeth waited until coffee had been poured and Helen had left before saying, ‘I hear Hamish Macbeth is hiding out in Grianach.’
    Daviot looked at her in shock. ‘Who told you that?’
    ‘It’s all over Lochdubh, and I want to know why. Some man turned up at that bar on the waterfront and started shooting his mouth off. The thing is, if it was supposed to be such a secret, how did it leak out?’
    ‘I will look into it right away. I do not want you to write anything just now. It is a matter of PC Macbeth’s security.’ He pressed a buzzer on his desk. When Helen entered, he ordered her to get Jimmy Anderson up immediately.
    Blair was lurking around the detectives’ room. He was waiting to see Daviot to explain he was ready to return to work. He hated the idea of Jimmy being in charge.
    A policewoman appeared and called to Jimmy, ‘You’re to go up to the super’s office right away, sir.’
    ‘Now what,’ grumbled Jimmy, heading for the door.
    In Daviot’s office, Elspeth was saying, ‘He was a thin, scruffy man in his forties. Looked like a druggie.’
    ‘It’s a pity no one got a photograph,’ said Daviot.
    ‘Oh, but they did. A photographer from the Highland Times was out taking pictures for the calendar. I looked through them. He’s got a shot of the harbour and people on the waterfront, and that looks like our