Death of a Dustman by MC Beaton

back. I told him I’d spent too much on the wedding, and he’d need to wait, but he would
drop in on his rounds and ask for tea and sit there grinning at me. I could’ve killed him!’ Josie gasped and put a hand to her mouth as if to stuff the words back in.
    ‘A lot of people could,’ said Hamish. ‘But, lassie, I know it was a sore blow, but you’d have had to tell folks finally. What about the presents?’
    ‘I must have been mad,’ said Josie, her eyes filling with tears. ‘I was going to go down to Inverness and stay with Auntie Margaret and get work. I was going to tell folks here
that Murdo wanted a quiet wedding in Inverness.’
    ‘And keep all the presents?’
    ‘I was going to return them when she had gone,’ said Mrs Darling.
    ‘So you didn’t pay the money?’
    ‘Five hundred pounds is an awful lot of money. I was trying to string him along until something happened.’
    ‘Something did happen. Someone murdered him. You’ll just need to tell folks you’ve been jilted and forget that silly pride of yours. People get jilted every day. I’ve
been jilted so many times, I think it’s a way o’ life. Now I must ask you both what you were doing on the night of July twenty-second, that’s when Fergus was murdered.’
    ‘We were watching a video together, me and Mum,’ said Josie. ‘Then we went to bed.’
    ‘No witnesses?’
    They both shook their heads.
    ‘Thank God it’s all over,’ said Mrs Darling.
    ‘Aye, well let’s hope that’s an end to it. But I cannae sit on evidence like this forever. But I’ll try to keep it quiet for a bit.’
    ‘Thank you,’ breathed Josie, suddenly all seductive. ‘I know you’re doing it just for me.’
    Murdo’s a lucky man, thought Hamish, getting to his feet. ‘I’m doing it for you and your mother and for the peace of the village. But don’t get too cocky with me, Josie
Darling. Just pray I can find a murderer before your letter goes to police headquarters.’
    Hamish then walked down to the Bank of Scotland. The bank house stood next door, one of those whitewashed gothic villas that the Victorians had considered suitable to house
bank managers.
    The bank was still open, so the husband would be at work. He pressed the house bell. A voice called, ‘I’m in the garden at the back.’
    Hamish walked along the path at the side of the house. Mrs McClellan was standing in the garden at the back, a trowel in one hand. The rain had cleared, although the clouds were still low and
heavy.
    ‘Mr Macbeth,’ she said, ‘what can I do for you?’
    She was wearing an old Laura Ashley print frock, faded by many washings. She had a small-featured face with only a few wrinkles around her dark brown eyes. Her thick brown hair was piled in a
loose knot on top of her head.
    ‘Can we sit down somewhere, Mrs McClellan? You’re not going to like this.’
    A bleak look settled in her eyes. ‘Come into the kitchen,’ she said. ‘We can talk there.’
    As soon as they were both seated at the kitchen table, she said in a quiet voice, ‘You know, don’t you?’
    ‘I know Fergus kept an old newspaper cutting describing how you had been charged with shoplifting. When was that? There was no date on the cutting.’
    ‘Twelve years ago.’
    ‘And was he blackmailing you?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Did your husband know?’
    ‘No, I was terrified of him finding out. He was manager of the main bank in Strathbane when I was charged. He felt ashamed of me. He moved us here. I got treatment, and I haven’t
lapsed since. I knew my husband couldn’t bear Lochdubh knowing about my past. He would have moved again, and this time, I don’t think he would have taken me with him.’
    ‘How much did Fergus want?’
    ‘One thousand pounds. I told him I couldn’t get that much together without my husband finding out so he said he would take it in installments. I had paid him two hundred by the time
he was murdered. Now it’s all for nothing. You’re here and there is