They both ordered Welsh rarebit and a pot of tea. “Now, Iona,” began Hamish, “what happens when you have to leave the switchboard? Who relieves you?”

“Anyone who happens to be passing. Or I phone someone like, say, Jessie Cormack and ask her if she would mind taking over while I have a pee.”

“So,” said Hamish, “let’s go back to the day Mark Lussie was murdered. Just before you closed for the evening, did anyone take over for you?”

She wrinkled her brow. Then her face cleared. “Oh, I mind fine. I was bursting and Mrs. Baxter was just coming out of her husband’s office. So I called to her and asked if Jessie was very busy because I had to go to the loo and herself says, ‘Run along. I’ll do the board for you.’ ”

“You’re sure about that?”

“ ’Course I’m sure. I’m hardly likely to forget Mrs. High and Mighty stooping to help someone like me out.”

“But you didnae say anything about this when I first questioned you.”

“You were asking me about calls I put through and it fair flustered me and I forgot about Mrs. Baxter.”

“I heard you were bitter about Annie being made Lammas queen two years running,” said Hamish.

“I was right furious. I went around swearing I’d kill the conniving bitch.” Iona turned red. “I didn’t, mind. I wouldn’t. The provost, Mr. Tarry, got to hear about my complaints and he sent for me and told me if I wanted to keep my job, I’d better shut up. He said the council had voted unanimously for Annie. Annie flirted with anything in trousers. She probably went out of her way to make sure she’d be elected.”

Hamish drove her back to the town hall and then braced himself to go and confront Cora again. To his relief, he saw that her husband’s car was no longer outside the house.

The curtain twitched as he walked up the front path and rang the bell.

Cora answered the door, her well-upholstered bosom heaving with outrage. “You dare to come here again!”

“Now, now,” said Hamish soothingly. “We may haff got off on the wrong foot. I haff chust learned that on the day Mark Lussie was murdered, you took over the switchboard for a wee while. I need to ask you about that for, you see, the last call Mark Lussie made was to the town hall.”

She stared at him with those eyes of hers which were like Scottish pebbles and then said abruptly, “You’d better come in.”

Hamish followed her back into the living room and removed his cap.

“Sit down,” she barked.

Hamish sat down on a leather armchair, which welcomed him with the usual rude sound.

“Can you remember any calls?” he asked.

“Nothing in particular.”

“It would have come from someone who sounded like Mark-a young person.”

“There was a call to be put through to town planning-that was a woman-and one for health and safety-that was a man, not young-and one for waste disposal. The one for waste disposal sounded young. That’s all I can remember.”

Hamish took out his notebook and checked it. “Waste disposal. That would be Percy Stane.”

“Yes, that’s him.”

“Did any of the callers ask for anyone by name?”

“No, just the department.”

“Not many people would know how to operate an old-fashioned switchboard like the one at the town hall.”

“I was a secretary at the town hall before I married my husband. I used to fill in on the switchboard. If you have no more questions, I may warn you,” she said as Hamish headed for the door, “that my husband has already reported you to Superintendent Daviot.”

“Oh, good,” said Hamish, and he left her staring after him.

Hamish went to the town hall and walked into Percy Stane’s office. Percy looked up at him, his eyes wide with fear like a trapped animal’s.

“I’ve told you all I know,” he blurted out.

“There might be something you have forgotten,” said Hamish. “Look, try to remember the day Mark Lussie died. Did you get a phone call?”

“I didn’t know him all that well. I wouldn’t know his voice.”

Percy wrinkled his brow in thought. Then his face cleared. “There was the one call. When I said, ‘Waste Disposal,’ the voice said, ‘Wrong department. Put me back to the switchboard.’ ”

“Man or woman?”

“A man. Maybe young. He didn’t say which department he really wanted.”

“Keep thinking about it and if you remember anything at all, here’s my card. Give me a call. Do you know if the provost is in his office?”

“He’ll be at the bank.”

Hamish walked out to the main street and along to the West Highland Bank where Gareth Tarry, the provost, was the manager.

He was told to wait. Hamish waited and waited. He wondered whether the provost was really busy or simply one of those irritating people who like to show off their authority.

At last, he was ushered in. “I’m very busy, Sergeant,” he said, “and I don’t see how I can be of any help to you.”

“How come Annie Fleming was elected Lammas queen two years running?”

“It was put to a vote. A secret ballot. There are ten councillors and all of them voted for Annie.”

“That’s odd, considering some of them hae daughters of their own.”

“I can prove it! I still have the ballot papers.”

“Where?” asked Hamish. “At the town hall?”

“No, in my safe here. Wait a moment. I just shoved the box in there. I’m more here than at the town hall and so I keep a lot of official stuff in the safe.”

He rose, went to a large safe in a corner of his office, and fiddled with the combination. He bent down and scrabbled about on the inside, finally lifting out a square wooden box with a slot in the top. “I need the key,” he muttered. He went to his desk and searched through the drawers, finally producing a small brass key.

He placed the box on his desk and unlocked it. “See for yourself.”

Hamish took out several of the folded ballot papers and opened them. His eyebrows rose up to his hairline in surprise. “These are all typed! That’s odd. You’d think they’d just scribble a name. Why go to the bother of typing it? Did you vote?”

“No, I never vote unless a casting vote is needed.”

“Weren’t the councillors surprised when you said the vote was unanimous?”

“I simply told them that Annie had been voted for.”

“Who’s the nearest councillor to here?”

“There’s Garry Herriot. He runs the ironmonger.”

Garry Herriot was a small, prim man dressed in a brown overall. He had very pale grey eyes.

“Mr. Herriot,” Hamish began, “can you tell me who you voted for to be Lammas queen last year?”

“I voted for Iona, the lassie on the switchboard.”

“Would it surprise you to learn that all ten votes were for Annie Fleming?”

“Yes, it would. I happen to know of two others who voted for Iona. What happened?”

“One of you got into that ballot box and put in a list of typed votes for Annie. Did you type yours?”

“No, I just wrote Iona ’s name on the slip of paper and popped it in the box. But the box was on the provost’s desk and it was locked.”

“Did the provost count out the votes in front of you all?”

“No, he just said Annie had been voted again. We all assumed she’d got the majority of votes.”

“The provost can’t be in the town hall all the time. He must spend most of the day at the bank.”

“His secretary, Alice Menzies, handles all the phone calls and things like that.”

Hamish went back to the town hall and got directions to Alice Menzies’s room. He wondered whether Alice would turn out to be some other highland beauty whose nose had been put out of joint by Annie. But she turned out to be a middle-aged woman in a tweed suit and wearing thick spectacles. Hamish told her about the ballot papers.

“That’s awful,” she said. “But you can stop looking for the culprit. I know who did it.”

At last, thought Hamish.

“It was Annie herself,” said Alice. “She came up here just before the ballots were due to be counted. She said she had an appointment with Mr. Tarry. I told her to go along to the bank but she said the provost had told her to wait in the town hall office. I let her in. She was only there a short time and then she came out and said she must have made a mistake.”