Free Death of a Witch by M. C. Beaton

tell me?”
    “I’m telling you the truth, I swear.”
    “Your eyes tell me you’re lying.”
    “That would make a good song, Hamish,” said Timmy. “Got to get back to business.” He nipped quickly into his caravan and slammed the door.
    Hamish remembered that Colin Framont and his wife, Tilly, lived next door to the Braids. Perhaps they could give him some details about Ina Braid’s life and whether she had made any enemies.
    Tilly answered the door to him. “Come ben, Hamish,” she cried. “Isn’t it awful. Poor Ina who wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
    Hamish removed his peaked cap and followed her into the living room, where her husband was watching television. He rose when he saw Hamish and switched the television off.
    The living room was neat and clean. Almost too uncomfortably clean, thought Hamish.
    “I wonder if you, Tilly, could tell me what sort of a person Ina was,” began Hamish. “I never really knew her that well.”
    “Very quiet,” said Tilly.
    “Did she and her husband ever quarrel?”
    “Never a cross word.”
    “That’s going a bit far, Tilly. All married couples surely quarrel sometimes.”
    “Yes, but not violent. I mean I never heard any shouting or yelling. Besides, if there had been anything like that, Ina would have told me.”
    “I keep wondering whether it had anything to do with the death of the woman who called herself Catriona Beldame.”
    “It could be,” said Tilly. “I mean, there could be some maniac on the loose. The police have been in her house, searching it from end to end. Poor Fergus. He must be heartbroken. They took him away for questioning. They must be mad.”
    “He should be back soon,” said Hamish. “It seems he has an alibi.”
    “Oh, that’s grand, isn’t it, Colin?”
    “Aye,” said Colin. “I’ll give him a knock and get him in here for a drink.”
    Hamish asked more questions, but they did not seem to have anything interesting to say.
    When Hamish began to walk down the lane, he saw a tall figure silhouetted by the lights from the waterfront. The fog had thinned to a slight haze.
    “Is that yourself, Fergus?” he called.
    “Yes, it’s me, Hamish.” His voice broke on a sob. “That bastard Blair. I could kill him!”
    “Hush, now. Don’t let anyone hear you saying things like that. I’ll walk you back to your house. Do you want me to go and get you a dram?”
    “I’ve got a bottle in the house. Come back wi’ me, Hamish. I feel a wreck.”
    Housekeeping in Lochdubh, thought Hamish as he looked around the living room in Fergus’s cottage, was not a chore but a religion. It was so clean, it looked sterile.
    He took off his cap and sat down as Fergus took a bottle of whisky from the sideboard along with two glasses and poured a couple of drinks.
    Fergus settled back in an armchair and looked moodily at the fireplace. He took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one. “Who on earth would kill Ina?” he said. “I can’t get it into my head that she’s dead. I keep expecting her to walk into this room any moment.”
    “Your ash is about to drop on the carpet,” said Hamish. “Can I get you an ashtray?”
    “None in the house,” said Fergus, flicking the ash into the fireplace. “Ina was allergic to cigarette smoke.”
    “I have to ask you this, Fergus. Could she have been seeing another man?”
    “What? Ina? Man, who’d even look at her?”
    “That’s a wee bit harsh.”
    “Well, she wasn’t a beauty, that’s for sure.”
    The doorbell rang. “I know who that is,” said Fergus. “It’s them next door. Could you go and tell them that after I answer police questions I’m going straight to bed?”
    Sure enough, Tilly was standing on the doorstep holding a casserole. She listened to Hamish making his excuses for Fergus and then handed him the casserole. “It’s a good lamb stew,” she said. “You tell him I’ll be round first thing in the morning to pick up his laundry and do his cleaning.”
    Hamish took the