Death of a Gossip (16 page)

At last, to Hamish’s intense relief, he heard the door close. Priscilla threw back the bedclothes and looked down at Hamish’s ruffled red hair.

‘You look quite sweet without that horrible uniform on,’ said Priscilla. ‘You must have been nearly suffocated. Your face is all red and you’re breathing like a
grampus.’

‘I’m all right,’ said Hamish, sitting up with an effort. ‘Let me have a look at those notes.’

Priscilla took them out from under her pillow and handed them to him. He frowned as he studied them, and then his face sharpened. ‘I’ve got to use the phone,’ he said.

‘You look terrible,’ said Priscilla. ‘What is it? Why can’t you use the phone at that police station of yours?’

‘Blair’s there and probably all night. Can I use the one in the estates office?’

‘Yes, so long as no one discovers you.’ Priscilla felt rather sulky and wondered why. ‘I wouldn’t have thought you were so keen on your job.’

‘Aye,’ said Hamish, climbing over her to get out of bed. ‘I’ll just creep down the stairs. No one will hear me.’

‘Good night,’ said Priscilla crossly.

Hamish smiled down at her as she lay against the pillows. ‘Thank you for all you have done, Miss Halburton-Smythe.’ He bent suddenly and kissed her on the cheek, turned red as fire,
and fled from the room.

‘Well, well,’ thought Priscilla. She put a hand up to her cheek and stared in a bemused way at the closed door.

Hamish sat beside the phone in the estates office and in his head turned over the names of his many relatives. There was Rory in London, Erchie in New York, Peter in Hong Kong, Jenny in
Aylesbury, which was near enough to Oxford . . .

At last, he picked up the phone and began to dial.

A pale dawn was lighting up the sky and the water as Hamish Macbeth wearily made his way along the waterfront. There was something he had to do before he went to sleep and it
was something that only duty was prompting him to do. His heart felt heavy, and his lips moved in a soundless Gaelic prayer.

He turned in at a white-painted gate and went around the back of the house to the kitchen door. He rapped loud and long on the glass until he saw a light go on upstairs. He waited, hearing
footsteps descending, shuffling footsteps approaching the kitchen door.

The door opened and Tina Baxter stood blinking at him nervously. She clutched a pink woollen dressing gown tightly at her neck. All colour drained from her face.

‘Aye, it’s me,’ said Hamish heavily. ‘Mind if I come in?’

She stood aside, and he walked past her into the kitchen. She followed him and sat down at the kitchen table as if her legs could no longer bear her weight.

‘I was here earlier,’ said Hamish, ‘talking to you about young Charlie’s future. You were wearing a blue dress.’ He took an envelope out of his tunic pocket and
extracted the piece of material he had found on the bush beside the pool. ‘Is this yours?’

‘Yes,’ whispered Mrs Baxter. She covered her face with her hands and began to cry.

‘I couldn’t help it,’ she sobbed. ‘The disgrace. My Charlie’s name in the papers. I had to shut her mouth.’

Hamish sat down opposite her. His head was beginning to clear, and his earlier fright was beginning to recede as common sense took over. The first rays of sun began to warm the kitchen.

‘Mrs Baxter,’ he said gently. ‘Immediately after the murder all the bushes and braes and heather and trees were combed for clues by the forensic boys. It’s awfy strange
they didn’t find this and I did.’

‘I did it.’ Tina Baxter stared at him, her face working.

‘Aye, that you did. Not the murder. You cut a bit out of your dress and left it there, hoping someone would find it. So now we’ll have another wee chat about Charlie. He’s
twelve years old.
Twelve years old.
Just think o’ that. He’s a strong boy but there is no way he could have overpowered a woman of Lady Jane’s size. Then there’s the
lad’s character . . .’

‘It’s bad blood, bad blood,’ said Tina Baxter, her hands clutching and unclutching the material of her dressing gown. ‘His father was violent. He threatened to kill me if
I didn’t give him a divorce.’ Her voice was rising hysterically.

‘I am thinking,’ said Hamish sincerely, ‘that you would drive a saint to violence. I feel like striking you myself. Do you know that because of your silly clue-planting you had
me thinking you knew that Charlie did it and were trying to fix the blame on yourself? You’re a dangerous woman. Now, here’s what you are going to do. You are going to leave Charlie
here to stay with his aunt and I suggest you go back home and see one o’ thae head doctors. You’ll drive the bairn mad with all your hysterics.

‘If you don’t do what I say, I will let the newspapers know that you believed your own boy capable of murder and nearly got him accused of it by your clumsiness.’

Hamish rose to his feet. ‘So think on that, Mrs Baxter. I’ll bring mair scandal down on your head than you ever could hae imagined.’

It was the last day of the fishing course. Unless the police requested otherwise, Blair would take their home and business addresses and allow them to leave on the Sunday
morning. The river Anstey was still closed to them. Heather and John had suggested they fish the Marag.

On returning to the police station, Hamish found that Blair was still asleep. He typed up his notes, studied the results, and then put them to one side. He thought long and carefully about each
member of the fishing school. He decided he was being haunted by the scale of the crime. He began to read through his well-thumbed ten-volume edition of
Famous Crimes.
Motives tumbled one
after another before his tired eyes. Murder for money, for passion, for revenge. Alcohol or drugs brought out the Hyde side of the character, but no one in the fishing school case drank daily to
excess and not one of them had shown any sign of being a drug user. He made one pot after another of strong tea. His dog, Towser, prowled about uneasily, stopping to lick his master’s hand as
if wondering what was keeping him from his bed, for Towser liked to stretch out on the bed at Hamish’s feet.

‘It is all a matter of lack of conscience,’ thought Hamish.

By the time the little fishing class was setting out for their last day, Hamish was sound asleep, his dog snoring at his feet, and a sheaf of notes clutched to his chest.

He was awakened by Blair shaking his shoulder. ‘It’s noon,’ snarled Blair savagely. ‘By God, I’ll report you for sheer laziness. I’ve got a job for you.
You’ll come along with me to that hotel this evening and you’ll take down the addresses of the whole lot of ’em. I don’t just mean their home addresses, we’ve got
those. I mean where they work and where they’re likely to be visiting.’

‘Get out!’ said a small, shrill voice behind Blair. The large detective swung around in amazement. Charlie Baxter stood in the doorway clutching a mug of tea. ‘This is
Constable Macbeth’s house,’ he said, ‘and you’ve got no right to bully him.’

Blair stared at the boy, who was white with anger.

Hamish, who had fallen asleep in the shirt and flannels he had worn the night before, swung his legs quickly out of bed.

‘Into the kitchen with you, Charlie,’ he said. ‘What time will you be wanting me at the hotel, sir?’

‘Six o’clock,’ snapped Blair. ‘And tell that kid to mind his manners.’ He stomped off where he could shortly be heard haranguing MacNab and Anderson in
Hamish’s office.

‘I’ve prepared breakfast for you, Mr Macbeth,’ said Charlie shyly. ‘It’s on the table.’

‘Aye, you’ve done very well,’ said Hamish, tucking into charred bacon and rubbery egg. ‘Quite the wee housewife. Aren’t you going fishing?’

‘I thought you might run up to the Marag with me,’ said Charlie. ‘You see, I have to thank you. Mother left in a rage. I don’t know what you said or what Auntie said to
her afterwards, but I’m to stay.’

‘Isn’t that the great thing,’ smiled Hamish.

‘Och, your ma’s a decent body, but she worries overmuch about everything.’

‘Perhaps we’ll catch the murderer together, Mr Macbeth.’

‘We might at that. Wait till I put on my uniform and we’ll be off.’

There was a festival air about the fishing school. Even Daphne seemed to have stopped her bitchy behaviour. All of them had come to the conclusion at breakfast that none of them had done it and
Lady Jane had probably come across a poacher or some itinerant madman. Tomorrow, they would all return home with a story they could dine out on for years.

Alice drew Hamish aside and showed him a silver and cairngorm ring she was wearing on a string around her neck. ‘Jeremy gave this to me,’ she said. ‘He bought it at the gift
shop this morning. I was going to put it on my finger, but he said to keep it secret for the moment.’

‘Why?’ asked Hamish curiously. ‘It is not as if the man is married.’

‘Oh, you men are so secretive,’ laughed Alice.

‘If I were to be married to the lady of my choice,’ said Hamish slowly, ‘I would shout it from the mountain top.’

But Alice only giggled happily and walked away. Hamish went to sit on a rock where he could get a view of everyone in the fishing school and there he stayed for the whole of the day. At last, at
five o’clock, he walked up to Heather and said, ‘You are all expected in the hotel at six o’clock, Mrs Cartwright. They will want to wash and change. Mr Blair wants me to take
your names and addresses, and myself will be having a bit of a word with you.’

‘All right,’ said Heather, looking curiously at Hamish’s face. ‘I’ll get them together.’

‘I will go on,’ said Hamish, ‘and make sure that no other guests are allowed in the lounge.’

At the hotel, Hamish found Blair, MacNab and Anderson waiting for him. ‘They are coming,’ said Hamish, ‘and will be in the lounge at six. I am just going to tell Mr Johnson to
keep other guests out of the lounge. You see, I am going to find your murderer for you, Mr Blair.’

MacNab sniggered, and Jimmy Anderson said, ‘You’ve been reading too many detective stories, Hamish. Great detective gathers suspects in the library and unmasks killer.’

‘Aye, chust so,’ said Hamish, walking off.

‘He’s mad,’ growled MacNab. ‘I’ll tell him to go home and have some black coffee.’

‘No,’ said Blair. ‘Let him get on with it. I want him to make a right fool of himself. I’ll have him out of his cushy job in a week.’

And so Hamish found Blair surprisingly mild and cooperative when he returned. Yes. Blair grinned. MacNab would guard the door and Anderson the window.

At last, one by one, the members of the fishing party entered the lounge. Hamish stood with his back to the empty fireplace and waited until they were all seated.

‘Before I take down your addresses and send you on your way tomorrow,’ he said, ‘there’s just a few things I have to say.’ MacNab stifled a laugh.

‘It was a wee bit difficult for me to see at first which one of you had done the murder because you all seemed to have a motive.’

‘Get on with it.’ Daphne Gore yawned. ‘I’m dying for a drink.’

‘John and Heather Cartwright,’ went on Hamish, ignoring the interruption. ‘A bad press might have ruined your school, and there was no doubt that Lady Jane meant to give you a
bad write-up. You had a letter from friends in Austria telling you how she had managed to ruin
them.
Mr Cartwright lives for this fishing school and Mrs Cartwright lives for her husband.
Both could have committed the murder . . . or one of them.

‘Marvin and Amy Roth . . .’

‘I’m not going to listen to any more of this,’ said Heather. She half rose from her chair, her face flushed with distress, changed her mind, and sat down again, looking not at
Hamish, but at her husband.

‘Marvin Roth,’ said Hamish, ‘was involved in a scandal some years ago when he was charged with running sweatshops in the garment district of New York and employing illegal
aliens. He did not want his past raked up just when he was set on entering politics, and he guessed from a remark Lady Jane made that she knew all about his past.

‘Then Amy Roth. Always talking about being a Blanchard from Augusta, except you aren’t a Blanchard by birth. You married Tom Blanchard ten years ago and the marriage only lasted a
few weeks, but you kept his name and background. Lady Jane must have known that.’

Marvin polished the top of his bald head. ‘Look here,’ he said desperately. ‘Amy didn’t say anything about being a Blanchard by birth, now did you, hon?’

‘Oh, yes, she did,’ said Daphne. ‘Right down to the last mint julep.’

‘You misheard,’ said Marvin, giving Daphne a cold, pale look.

‘Then we come to Major Peter Frame,’ said Hamish.

‘Not again,’ said the major, burying his face in his hands.

‘You care very much for your reputation as an officer and a gentleman,’ said Hamish. ‘You have an excitable temper and you were heard to threaten Lady Jane’s life. You
were never in the war, nor have you a particularly upper-class background. Lady Jane gave you a rough time.

‘Alice Wilson.’ Alice smiled tremulously at Jeremy, who frowned and looked at the door. ‘You got into minor trouble as a child and it’s plagued you ever since. There was
a big reason why you did not want the matter to get out. Perhaps you might have killed because of it.’

Nobody moved, but they seemed to shrink away from Alice.

‘I wouldn’t,’ gasped Alice. ‘Jeremy, please . . .’

‘Charlie Baxter,’ went on Hamish. ‘Well, you had a bad time with her ladyship, and boys of your age can do terrible things under stress.

‘Jeremy Blythe. I think you are a ruthless, ambitious, selfish man. You messed up two women in your Oxford days and God knows how many more. You want to be elected a member of the
Conservative party, and Lady Jane’s story, had it appeared, would have meant the end of your ambitions.’

‘This is cruel,’ thought Alice wildly. ‘He could have taken us aside one at a time. It’s like some horrible game of truths, bringing all our skeletons out of the
closet.’ She looked angrily at Hamish, who was consulting a sheaf of notes. He raised his eyes and looked around the room. ‘He doesn’t know who did it!’ thought Alice with a
sudden flash of intuition. ‘He’s looking for some sign that will betray the murderer.’