Death of a Witch Read Online Free Page A

window, there was no reply to his knock.
    Ina Braid was sixty-three. She was married to Fergus, who worked at a paper mill over in Strathbane.
    Theirs had always appeared to be a comfortable marriage. Tucked up beside her husband in their double bed that evening, Ina opened a romance called
Highland Heart,
removed the bookmark, and settled against the pillows to read. She had just got to the exciting bit where the laird grabbed the village girl in his strong arms and bent his head to hers.
    “What about a wee bit o’ a cuddle,” said Fergus, trying to put his arms round her.
    “Get off!” snapped Ina. “What’s come over ye?”
    “We havenae done—you know—in a long while.”
    “Because neither of us has wanted to. Leave me alone!”
    “I want ma marital rights. Come here!”
    Ina leapt out of bed and stood there, panting. “Keep away from me or I’ll stab ye wi’ the bread knife.”
    “Ye frigid wee hoor!” roared Fergus.
    Something very like that confrontation went on behind several closed doors in the village of Lochdubh.
    Hamish was approaching his station from a field at the back where he had been giving his small flock of sheep their winter feed when he found the minister’s wife waiting for him.
    Mrs. Wellington was the epitome of Highland respectability from her waxed coat and brogues to the felt hat with the pheasant’s feather in it on her head.
    “Come ben,” said Hamish. “Trouble?”
    “Bad trouble,” said Mrs. Wellington.
    “Coffee?”
    “Strong, black, and with a dram in it.”
    “Bad night?”
    “Up most of the night with calls from distressed women.”
    “Wait till I get your coffee and you can tell me all about it.” Hamish put on the kettle and took a half bottle of whisky down from a shelf.
    When he had served Mrs. Wellington, he asked, “Now, what is going on?”
    Mrs. Wellington took a fortifying pull of her brew and said, “Sex.”
    “Sex?”
    “I am being asked for help by some women in the village whose husbands have started pestering them just when they thought all that nonsense was over. Just imagine it, Hamish. A woman settling down for the night as she has done for years with a good book and being subjected to . . . that.”
    Poor old minister, thought Hamish.
    “I think I know what’s at the back of it,” said Hamish, “and yes, I can put a stop to it. Tomorrow is the Sabbath. Tell your man I want to borrow his pulpit to make an announcement.”
    “What about?”
    “I’d rather break the news all at once.”
    After the opening hymn was sung on Sunday, the villagers looked in surprise as Hamish climbed up to the pulpit.
    “This may hardly seem a fit topic for a church,” said Hamish, “but as it is causing misery in the village, I want to give all the men of Lochdubh a warning. If you have been going to a Miss Beldame for a potion to help your sexual prowess, it is the firm belief of Dr. Brodie that what you have been taking is Spanish fly. This does not enhance your prowess. It swells the genitals and could cause damage to your kidneys. I will deal with Miss Beldame myself. None of you is to go near her.”
    Shocked faces stared up at him. He surrendered the pulpit to Mr. Wellington and went and sat in a pew at the back.
    At the end of the service, he slipped out of the church and went back to the police station. He planned to visit Catriona after he had eaten his lunch.
    But there was a knock at the kitchen door and then the Currie sisters walked in.
    “This is a bad business,” said Nessie.
    “Bad business,” echoed Jessie, who always repeated the end of her sister’s sentences.
    “I thought you pair would ha’ known about it before this,” said Hamish.
    “We did,” said Nessie. “But she’s a witch!”
    “A witch,” said Jessie.
    “Look here. There are no such things as witches.”
    “Keep your voice down,” hissed Nessie, looking furtively around.
    “Voice down” came the Greek chorus.
    Hamish sighed. He knew the highlanders were