"No, they didn't ask. I didn't volunteer the information. The reason I saw him was he was quite often arriving when I was leaving for my classes and leaving when I got back. I felt that to suggest to the police that they might have been having an affair might make me seem like an old gossip."

"I think I should tell them this," said Hamish.

"Do what you like, but how are you going to tell them if you're not supposed to be in Strathbane?"

Hamish looked at her in dismay.

"Look, tell them you met the professor by chance and phoned me. That should cover it."

Hamish thanked her and drove back to Lochdubh. Lugs was still lying asleep beside his untouched food bowl.

That's it, he thought. The report can wait. Lugs is going to the vet. He loaded the sleepy, grumbling dog into the Land Rover and drove to the vet's house.

"I'm finished for the day," said the vet crossly.

"Please," said Hamish. "I'm right busy with a case just now. I'm worried about Lugs. He sleeps the whole time and won't touch his food."

"I'll tell you what the problem is," said the vet with a smile. "That there dog is stuffed."

"Stuffed?"

"A severe case of pasta, ham, and mozzarella cheese."

"What?"

"It's the talk of the village. He's spent all day strolling along to the back door of the Italian restaurant where your friend Willie feeds him large plates of food. You'd better stop the animal or he'll die of obesity."

"Thanks," said Hamish, feeling foolish. He carried Lugs back to the Land Rover. "I'll deal with Willie later," he said. "But first, I'd better do that report."

NINE.

I will make you brooches and toys for your delight Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night.

I will make a palace fit for you and me Of green days in forests and blue days at sea.

I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room, Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom.

-R. L. Stevenson Carson read Hamish's report with great irritation. He had put Hamish down as some fool whose previous exploits in police work had been much exaggerated. But once again the village constable had come up with something important that they had missed.

He decided it was time he had a face-to-face talk with Hamish.

Unfortunately for Hamish, he was strolling back to the station in an old shirt and stained trousers, swinging an empty feed pail, when Carson arrived.

"Not in uniform, Officer?" demanded Carson.

"Well, no," said Hamish with a blinding smile, a sure sign he was about to lie. "It is my day off."

"In the middle of an investigation of two murders, all leave has been cancelled."

"Is that a fact?" Hamish put the pail down. "And here's me thinking I had orders to stay off the case."

Carson looked at him with irritation. Hamish was tall with a friendly face and hazel eyes fringed with thick eyelashes. His red hair gleamed like a beacon. Carson thought, illogically, that no decent policeman should have hair that fiery colour.

"I got your report, Macbeth," said Carson. "I would like to discuss it with you."

"I've got some coffee keeping warm on the stove, sir," said Hamish. "We'll go in."

Carson followed him into the kitchen. He sat down and looked about him. There was a smell of damp dog and woodsmoke. The table was covered with a red and white checked cloth. White painted shelves held glasses and crockery. There was a wood-burning stove sending out a pleasant heat. An old round clock tick-tocked on the wall near the door. Through the window, he could see sheep cropping the grass on a field at the back.

"Your sheep?" he asked.

"Aye," said Hamish.

"Won't be bringing you anything these days."

"That's the pity o' it." Hamish filled two mugs with coffee and placed them on the table. Then he took a bottle of milk out of the fridge, emptied some of it into a jug, and then placed the jug along with a bowl of sugar on the table.

"The longer I keep those sheep," said Hamish, "the more they take on individual personalities. I am afraid they will stay out there until they die of old age."

"You do not strike me as a sentimental man."

"I'm a practical one, sir. No use slaughtering the beasts for a few pennies."

Hamish sat down opposite Carson. Carson frowned. He should have asked permission to sit down, but then it was the man's own house, and Carson had come for a friendly chat.

"Can you tell me," he began, "why Grace Witherington, with a mobile police van outside her house, should choose to phone you with this information?"

"I had been chatting to Professor Tully. He was on that Gaelic programme with her. She said she felt more comfortable talking to me about it, because the police hadn't asked her, and she felt a bit uncomfortable relating gossip."

"MacBain should have told us if he was having an affair with the girl."

"What is Mrs. MacBain like?" asked Hamish curiously.

"I went to see her myself. Hard, blonde, thin, forty-ish. I didn't mention his affair with Crystal, or rather his onenight stand. She said she had phoned him at the television station on the day of Crystal's murder and they had a chat. There certainly is a record of that call on their phone bill, but then she could just have spoken to the switchboard. The girl who was on duty can't remember anything."

"I thought all these television people had direct lines these days," said Hamish.

"Not in Strathbane, they don't. Now, I would like to go over the first case with you from the beginning. I was angry with you for fixing your mind, it appeared, solely on Felicity Pearson. I was inclined to dismiss you as a fool. What made you so sure it was her?"

"It seemed so likely," said Hamish. He stood up and opened the lid of the stove, shoveled in some peat, and sat down again. The clock ticked lazily, the coffee was delicious, and from outside the window came the faint bleating of sheep and cackle of hens. Carson began to have an idea why this odd policeman had either shunned promotion or sabotaged promotion. "She had lost so much that was dear to her," said Hamish. "Rory would be running after Crystal. If he was having an affair with Felicity then that must have made her even more bitter."

"But you did not know he was having an affair with her when you put in your initial reports."

"True. Then it was because I sensed she was furious over losing her show. I was in her flat. All those photographs. A sort of shrine to Felicity Pearson. People always assume it's the beautiful who are vain."

Suddenly in Hamish's head, he heard Professor Tully mourning the loss of his television job because it would mean no more free shirts.

Carson looked in sudden irritation at Hamish. The man was sitting as if he had been struck by lightning. His eyes were glazed and his mouth was open. Inbreeding, thought Carson sourly. Must be a lot of it in these villages.

"Wardrobe," said Hamish faintly.

"What?" Carson half-rose to leave. Hamish Macbeth was obviously subject to mental seizures of some kind. Better humour him.

"I'm sure you do have a wardrobe. We all have a wardrobe."

"No, no." Hamish's eyes were sharp and clear again. "The television station wardrobe."

"What about it?"

"The hat and glasses that the person driving the BMW was wearing. Did anyone check the station's wardrobe department?"

"No," said Carson. He looked at him in amazement. Then he said, "Let's go. Now!"

"Aye," said Hamish, heading for the door.

"Put on your uniform first. You look a disgrace."

Hamish meekly went off to the bedroom to put on his uniform. Carson helped himself to another mug of coffee. How was it that this village policeman could hit on things that the whole force had missed? A blinding flash of the obvious, he thought sourly. He should have thought of it himself.

A small, neat man called Derry Hunt was in charge of the wardrobe department. "Yes," he said. "We've always got stuff on hand, even suits. Now Professor Tully, he turned up in a suit that strobed dreadfully, so we had to supply him with one. He wanted to keep it, but I said an odd shirt or two was all right, but a suit, no."

"What we're looking for," said Carson, "is a floppy brown hat and dark glasses."

"I might have those among the odds and ends."

"Do you do all the wardrobe work yourself?" asked Hamish.

"No, I've got a wee girl who works for me. Does the ironing and mending, things like that."

"Do you just hand over the stuff?" asked Hamish. "Or is it logged somewhere?"

"Of course it's logged."

"Can we see the records?" asked Carson.

Derry produced a large ledger. "No computer for me," he said. "I wouldn't know how to operate one. Let me see, what day are you looking for?"

"The day Crystal French was murdered. Monday, twenty-eighth August."

"Or the day before," put in Hamish.

He ran a long forefinger down the page. "Here we are. Brown hat, black glasses."

"Who took them out?" asked Carson.

Hamish found he was holding his breath.

"Felicity Pearson."

"You're sure?" snapped Carson.

"Yes."

"And did she return them?" asked Hamish.

"Yes, took them out on the twenty-seventh, back on the twenty-eighth."

"Have you got them?" asked Hamish.

"I'll go and look, but since they've been returned, they should be here somewhere."

Carson drew a thin pair of gloves out of his pocket. "Put these on," he ordered. "Lift them very carefully and bring them to us."

They stood there impatiently, waiting.

Then Derry came back, carefully carrying a large floppy hat with a wide brim and a pair of dark glasses.

"Put them on the desk. Turn the hat up," said Hamish. "I want to look inside."

Derry's gloved hands gently lifted the hat over. To his amusement, Hamish pulled a magnifying glass out of his pocket and studied the inside of the brim.

"You look like Sherlock Holmes," said Derry, but Hamish was letting out his breath in a long hiss of excitement. He handed the glass to Carson. "Look there, sir. A hair. A brown hair. How soon can we get it compared to Felicity Pearson's hair?"

"As fast as I can arrange it. Got one of those envelopes?"

Hamish produced a cellophane envelope.

"Tweezers?"

"Forceps, scalpel?" said Derry cheekily, and Carson gave him a withering look.

Hamish found a pair of tweezers. Carson gently lifted the hair and put it in an envelope.

"How soon can we find out if that hair is Felicity's?" asked Hamish.

"I'll make them rush it," said Carson. He turned to Derry. "Is there some sort of plastic bag we can put the hat and glasses in?"

Derry went off and came back with a plastic shopping bag. "Come with me," said Carson to Hamish. "We're going back to police headquarters."

When they arrived and walked up to Carson's office, Jimmy Anderson was coming down the stairs, and he stared in surprise at Hamish.

"Do you know what this means?" demanded Carson. "If that hair should prove to have belonged to Felicity Pearson, then it's ten to one she murdered Crystal. So that will leave us with the unsolved murder of Felicity herself."