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at the back and coaxed Diarmuid to take a bath. Then he fried him eggs and bacon, made him a pot of strong tea laced with more whisky, and went on his way, promising to call again.
    As he had forecast, the sleet was already changing to snow as he turned the Land Rover in to the short drive that led to Balmain.
    Balmain was a bungalow, and not a very good one either. It was a square, thin-walled affair with a temporary look, having the appearance of some lakeside summerhouses. The original croft house stood close by, now being used as a shed. Some scraggly wellingtonias acted as a shelter belt. He rang the doorbell, which sounded like Big Ben, and waited.
    He had imagined Mrs Mainwaring would turn out to be a small, faded, timid woman, but it was a giantess who answered the door. Mrs Mainwaring was nearly six feet tall. She was powerfully built and had an enormous bust and a great tweed-covered backside, which she wordlessly displayed to Hamish as she turned and walked off into the house, leaving the door open. He followed her in and found himself in a book-lined living-room. A quick curious glance at the titles told Hamish that it was doubtful the shelves contained one work of fiction, either classical or modern. There were a great number of ‘How to’ books on carpentry, painting, sheep-rearing, art, and gardening. There were shelves of books on popular psychology, and row upon row of encyclopaedias and dictionaries. There were two easy chairs, a low coffee-table, a desk with a typewriter, two filing cabinets, and a large Persian rug on the floor. There were no knickknacks or ornaments, no magazines or newspapers. And the room was cold. The fireplace was ugly, being made of acid-green tiles. A single log smouldered dismally, occasionally sending puffs of smoke out into the stale, cold air of the room.
    ‘Sit down, officer,’ said Mrs Mainwaring in a deep voice. ‘My husband is out somewhere at the moment. He told me he had been to see you.’
    ‘I wondered,’ said Hamish, looking round for a place to lay his cap and finally setting it neatly on the coffee table, ‘if you would mind coming with me to the churchyard and showing me exactly where it was you were attacked.’
    ‘I wasn’t attacked,’ said Mrs Mainwaring. ‘Just startled. Not every day I see witches.’ She gave a sudden bellowing laugh.
    ‘Whateffer,’ said Hamish politely. ‘When would it be convenient for you to visit the scene of the crime?’
    ‘It wouldn’t be convenient,’ said Mrs Mainwaring. ‘William would just say I was making a fuss.’
    ‘But your husband is most insistent that I find out who frightened you.’
    ‘He likes poking his nose into things and annoying people,’ said Mrs Mainwaring. ‘Annoying the replacement constable must be the breath of life to him.’
    ‘Would you say you were unpopular in the community?’ asked Hamish.
    ‘ I’m not. He is,’ said Mrs Mainwaring roundly. ‘In fact, I like this place. Nice people.’
    ‘I would not say that they are very friendly to incomers, even someone like myself from the west coast,’ Hamish pointed out.
    ‘Well, they’re not hypocrites like the English,’ boomed Mrs Mainwaring, as if speaking of a nationality other than her own. ‘They’re all right when you get to know them. William got soured, that’s all. He ran about at the beginning being charming to everyone and they rebuffed him, and so now he wants his revenge on the lot of them.’
    Hamish sighed and took out his notebook. ‘Now, Mrs Mainwaring, if we can just get down to the facts.’
    ‘Put your book away. I can’t be bothered. I am not really interested in who it is. I can’t take something like that personally when it was all directed at William.’
    ‘What shall I tell your husband?’
    For the first time a little crack appeared in Mrs Mainwaring’s self-assured manner. ‘Have a whisky,’ she said, and lumbered out of the room without waiting for an answer.
    ‘The coffee will do just