Death of a Dustman by MC Beaton Page A

look like the sort o’ cheil that would let a dustman blackmail me?’
    ‘He had found a letter from your bank refusing to let you have any more credit.’
    ‘And do you think he would try to blackmail a poor crofter wi’ that? Man, you know the situation in the Highlands. It’s crawlin’ these days wi’ crofters getting
letters like that. But I haff my pride, and I don’t want them at Strathbane pawing over letters to me!’
    ‘I can’t suppress evidence – well, not for much longer, Angus. It’s probably of no importance and yet, why did he keep it? Did he call on you?’
    ‘Chust to empty the bins, him and his silly uniform.’
    ‘We’ll leave it for the moment. I still can’t figure out why Fergus would keep such a letter unless he hoped to get something out of it.’
    ‘That’s your job, isn’t it?’ sneered Angus. ‘Always looking for dirt. Well, good clean peat dirt iss all you’ll be finding here.’
    ‘Think about it,’ said Hamish. ‘Where were you the night Fergus was killed?’
    ‘What night would that be?’
    ‘July twenty-second.’
    ‘I wass down on the waterfront having a jar wi’ some o’ the fishermen afore they went out.’
    ‘The bar’s closed.’
    ‘Aye, but we wass just sitting on the harbour wall, Archie Maclean, me and the others, having a smoke and a crack.’
    ‘I’ll check that. Then what?’
    ‘Then I walked home. I didnae want to drive so I hadnae the car.’
    ‘And you didn’t see Fergus on that night?’
    ‘Not a sight.’
    ‘Right. But think again why he might have kept that letter.’
    Angus bent to cutting peats and Hamish walked away, followed by his dog. When he got to the Land Rover, he drove back to Angus’s croft and called in at the kitchen door. ‘Anybody
home?’
    Kirsty appeared, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘I’ve just been to see your man, Kirsty. I found a letter from your bank manager among Fergus’s effects, and I wondered if he
had been trying to blackmail you.’
    She looked shocked. ‘I neffer heard the like. Why blackmail us? That letter should’ve told him we didn’t have any money.’
    ‘That’s what puzzles me,’ said Hamish.
    ‘He wass friendly enough,’ said Kirsty. ‘We neffer had any trouble wi’ him taking our rubbish, not like them in Lochdubh.’ Her eyes fell to Lugs, and she gave a
little shriek.
    ‘What’s up?’ asked Hamish.
    ‘That dog of yours. You shouldnae hae a dog like that.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘It’s got blue eyes.’
    ‘So?’
    Kirsty lowered her voice. ‘Animals wi’ eyes like that are people who’ve come back. Get it out of here. It’s bad luck.’
    Lugs suddenly darted round Hamish and into the cottage. Kirsty let out a wail of terror and threw her apron over her head. ‘Get it out!’ she screamed.
    Hamish pushed past her into the kitchen and scooped up his dog, who was sitting under the stove, looking longingly up at a stew pot which was simmering on the hob.
    Tucking the dog firmly under one arm, he marched out of the cottage. Kirsty was sitting on a rock, keening and holding her arms tightly about her body.
    ‘Come on, Kirsty,’ said Hamish. ‘It iss chust the wee dog.’
    ‘Go away,’ whispered Kirsty.
    Hamish shrugged helplessly. Although he suffered from a fair amount of Highland superstition himself, he was still amazed at how extreme it could be in other Highlanders.
    He carried Lugs back to the Land Rover. Better check with Archie whether Angus had been where he said he had been on the night Fergus had been killed.
    ‘Aye, I mind fine he was here,’ said Archie, sitting like a gnome on the harbour wall in the tight suit he usually sported and which the villagers swore his wife
boiled, dried and ironed.
    ‘At what time?’
    ‘Early-ish. About seven o’clock. We was just about to go out, but Niven had a bottle o’ whisky and we passed it around.’
    ‘So what was Angus talking about?’
    ‘Price o’ sheep. Usual crofter’s complaint.’
    ‘Did he talk about