Hamish Macbeth 20 (2004) - Death of a Poison Pen (4 page)

She heard the sound of an engine. Down from a lane at the side of the garage came Iain, driving a Robin Reliant, those three-wheeler cars, beloved by some and treated as a joke by many.

It was painted bright pink, not car paint, but with what looked like a flat emulsion.

“Haven’t you anything else?” asked Jenny as Iain stopped the car and got out.

“You can’t do better than this. Of course, you could be taking the bus to Strathbane to one o’ the big companies. They might charge you twenty-five pounds a day.”

Jenny looked at the car doubtfully. “Does it go all right?”

“Like a bomb.”

May as well take it, thought Jenny. It does look ridiculous, but no one up here knows me.

“All right,” she said. She took out her cheque book.

“Haven’t you got cash?” asked Iain.

Jenny fished out her wallet and extracted two twenties and a ten. Iain gave her a crumpled five-pound note as change.

She smoothed it out. “What sort of money is this?”

“It’s a Scottish five-pound note,” said Iain.

“I didn’t know you people had your own money,” said Jenny, as if talking to the member of some strange aboriginal tribe.

Iain shook his head as if in disbelief at her ignorance and handed her the car keys. “This one’s for the ignition and that little one’s for the petrol. You need leaded petrol.”

Jenny thanked him and got in the car. The seats, like the seats in the minibus, had been covered in loose chintz. “I feel like a travelling circus,” she muttered as she put the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life, but the needle on the dashboard showed that the car was nearly out of petrol. She switched off the engine and got out again. Iain came out of the garage. “What’s up?”

“Practically no petrol,” said Jenny.

“Och, well, wait there. I’ll get you a gallon. That’ll get you to the nearest garage. These Robins don’t use much.”

He went into the garage and came back with a gallon can, took the keys from her, and poured the petrol into the tank. He handed her the keys and said, “That’ll be five pounds.”

“What! That’s a disgraceful price!”

“Did nobody tell you that petrol was expensive up here?”

“Oh, very well.” Jenny took out the Scottish five-pound note he had given her and handed it to him.

He gave her a cheery wave as she drove off. The dogged pink car chugged along nicely, up and over the braes. She passed the Tommel Castle Hotel entrance and drove on to the crossroads and turned off for Strathbane. She had to admit that the scenery was worth the visit. What mountains! What majestic scenery!

But when she crested the top of the hill to give her a view of Strathbane, like Hamish Macbeth, she experienced a sinking of the spirits. How awful that such a rundown industrial slagheap of a place should be dumped among the finest scenery in Britain. She saw a small garage by the side of the road and checked the petrol prices. Iain had overcharged her, but not by much. Why did the Scots put up with it? The prices were higher than in England. She filled up the tank and went into the garage shop to pay.

A giant of a man loomed behind the counter. She handed him her credit card and felt relief when it was accepted. She had begun to think that maybe in these primitive parts they didn’t use credit cards. “English?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Jenny brightly. “I’m visiting.”

“You should stay in your own damn country.” Before Jenny could think of an angry retort, a little woman shot out of the back shop. “You behave yourself, Angus. I haff neffer heard the like. Go along with you, lassie, and welcome to the Highlands.”

She rounded on her giant of a husband. “And as for you, you great scunner, you get off tae yir bed and stop insulting the customers.”

Jenny fled. No, it had been a mistake. One more night and back to civilisation tomorrow morning.

Hamish Macbeth kicked his heels in Strathbane police headquarters all day. He had left Lugs with Angela Brodie, the doctor’s wife, and hoped she wasn’t overfeeding the animal. Angela was apt to be absent-minded, so that every time Lugs rattled his food bowl, she thought she hadn’t fed him and would feed him again.

At last he was summoned up to Daviot’s office. “We have a handwriting expert who will see you this evening at seven. You will find him over in the forensic laboratory on the Scotsdale Road. You did bring the file of letters with you?”

“Yes, sir,” said Hamish. “What’s the man’s name?”

“Mr. Glass. Ask for Mr. Roger Glass.”

“Any news of the autopsy?”

“Sinclair is still working on it. We should have a result by tomorrow. You’re going to look very silly if it turns out to be plain suicide.”

“I’ll take that chance, sir.”

Hamish went back to the police canteen to pass the time. He collected a tray containing egg and chips and tea and made for a table by the window.

He looked down into the street outside before he sat down. Across the road stood a shocking-pink Robin Reliant. I wonder what Iain is doing in Strathbane, thought Hamish, and then put it out of his mind.

Outside, Jenny decided to give up waiting for Hamish Macbeth. Robin Reliant enthusiasts were constantly knocking on her window to get her attention so that they could reminisce about the glories of their youth when they had owned such a car.

She glanced at her watch. If she was going to buy clothes, she’d better get a move on. She parked the car in a multi-storey in the centre which was built over a shopping arcade. In the arcade were several shops selling sporting goods, but they all seemed dreadfully expensive and she had no desire to buy clothes she would not be likely to wear again. Somehow the nonappearance of Hamish Macbeth had made her decide to stay on a bit.

At the end of the arcade, she found a store called Murphy’s, full of cheap clothes and surprisingly cheap woollens. She bought two sweaters and a warm pair of wool trousers and an anorak. Then she moved to the shoe department and tried on shoes until she found a serviceable walking pair. On to the underwear department to purchase several pairs of white cotton briefs. I may look like a frump, she thought, but I’ll be a comfortable frump.

She went into the toilet in the car park and changed her clothes and then surveyed herself in the mirror. The anorak, a garment she had once sworn never to be seen dead in, was cherry red. One of the new sweaters she had bought and now put on was lambswool and a dull gold colour. The trousers were dark brown and the flat shoes, brown.

Jenny walked to her car with a new feeling of freedom. Everything felt amazingly comfortable.

Her only regret was that her new anorak clashed violently with the colour of her car, but with an odd feeling of belonging, she headed out of Strathbane and took the road to Lochdubh.

At seven o’clock precisely, Hamish was ushered into Mr. Glass’s office. He had expected to meet a scholarly man wearing an old tweed jacket and thick glasses. Instead, he found himself looking at a man about his own age, mid-thirties, with sandy hair and a round cherubic face, wearing an open-necked checked shirt and jeans.

His voice, in contrast to his appearance, was dry and precise. “You have the letters? It is Hamish Macbeth, is it not?”

“Yes, it is. I have the letters here.”

“It will take me some time.”

Hamish sighed. “It’s an urgent case. Can’t you at least try to give me some analysis of the type of person who wrote the letters?”

“I’ll do my best. You’ll find coffee in the pot over there. Help yourself.”

Mr. Glass sat down and opened the file. Hamish poured a cup of coffee, sat down in a chair in the corner of the cluttered office, and tried to be patient.

At last he said, “How can you really tell a person’s character from their handwriting?”

“Attitudes and feelings influence the formations of handwriting. Handwriting is a sort of mental photograph of what’s going on inside you.”

“What if someone deliberately disguised their handwriting?”

“Makes it a bit harder. But the real traits of character have a way of showing through.”

Silence again while Hamish fidgeted. There was a large plain clock on the wall, like the clocks you sometimes still see in Highland school classrooms. It had a loud tick-tock which seemed to get louder as the minutes dragged by.

“Ahum,” said Mr. Glass.

“You’ve got something?” asked Hamish eagerly.

“Too early.”

Hamish’s patience gave out. “Look, man, one woman’s dead and that woman was a postmistress and it’s my guess it was murder and there’ll be others if you don’t get a move on. Give me an idea!”

“All right.” Glass capitulated. “See this letter to a Mrs. Wellington accusing her of having an affair with you?” He looked up at Hamish and a little gleam of malice darted through his eyes.

“Aye. You would pick that one. Go on. I’m looking.” Hamish bent over him.

“As far as I can see, she has made no effort to disguise her handwriting.”

“She? You’re sure?”

“Pretty sure. She suffers from a low opinion of herself and never really feels safe.”

“I’m not surprised the biddy doesnae feel safe, writing letters like that.”

“No, that’s not what I mean. She is always frightened of people finding out what her character really is like so that then they won’t like her. She is often depressed. See how the lines of her writing descend and how the letters turn back? Look at the low f-bars. She wears a mask the whole time.”

“Like the Phantom of the Opera?”

“No, no. She assumes a role, possibly that of a strong, confident woman, and has probably been playing that part all her life.”

“She’s old?”

“I think so. She has an overstretched personality. Because she thinks so little of herself, she tries to achieve more than she is capable of.”

“So even though she may be retired, she may have worked at something. I mean, not married and had children and been a housewife?”

“I can’t go as far as that. You’ll need to give me more time.”

“Phone me at Lochdubh when you’ve got something more.”

The following morning Hamish telephoned headquarters but was told that the results from the pathologist would not be ready until later that day.

There was a knock at the door. He opened it and recognised Jenny. The day was crisp and clear and she was dressed in her new ‘sensible’ clothes.

“What is it?” asked Hamish. He was anxious to get off to Braikie.

Jenny blinked. She had forgotten to come armed with an excuse. She thought of one rapidly.

“It’s very remote up here,” she began, batting a pair of eyelashes, heavy with waterproof mascara, at him.

“So?”asked Hamish.

“I wonder if it’s safe for a woman on her own to travel around?”

“Safest place in the world. Now, if you don’t mind…”

Jenny’s face reddened. “Are you usually so rude to visitors?”

Hamish took another look at her. She
was
very pretty. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve got a case that’s worrying me. Look, I’ll take you for dinner tonight.”

Jenny brightened. This was more than she had hoped for. “Where?”

“That Italian restaurant on the waterfront. At eight this evening? I should be free then.”

“Lovely. I’ll look forward to it.”

As she walked off, Hamish shook his head. A pretty girl lands on your doorstep, he chided himself, and you practically tell her to get lost.

Jenny had left the door open. He went to close it and found Elspeth standing there, staring up at him. He had not heard her arrive. But Elspeth always seemed to
materialise
.

“What now?” he asked.

“The handwriting expert. Did you see him?”

“Yes. Oh, come in. I’m trying to get off on the road to Braikie, but maybe it would be a good idea for you to hear what the man said.”

Elspeth followed him into the kitchen. “What was she doing here?”

“Who?”

“The newcomer, Jenny Ogilvie.”

“Wanted some advice, that’s all. Now, here’s what the handwriting expert said.” He told her of Glass’s findings.

“So,” he said, “what is there in Braikie for an over-achiever? Maybe it is some woman who left and went to London, say, and made a success of whatever she did, then retired and returned to Braikie.”

“I don’t think so. She’s obviously had a lifetime of studying the locals.”

“Okay, Sherlock, come up with a better idea.”

“I think it would be someone with some sort of local power. The minister isn’t a woman. The bank manager’s a man and a newcomer at that. I have it!”

“Have what?”

“What about a schoolteacher? Braikie School is small and the headmistress has a lot of power.”

“They don’t call them headmistresses any more,” said Hamish. “It’s ‘head teacher’ in this politically correct world.”

“Bugger political correctness,” said Elspeth. “Who do we know?”

Hamish thought about it. “Miss McAndrew retired last year. I never really knew her.”

“Try her,” urged Elspeth.

“All right. But from the little I know of her, she seems a highly respectable lady.”

“I’d better get off.” Elspeth walked to the door and then hesitated. She turned round. “We haven’t had dinner together for a while. What about this evening?”

“I have a date.”

“Oh, Hamish. There’s something odd there. She’s stalking you.” And with that she was gone, leaving Hamish staring at the empty space where she had been standing only a second before.

Hamish fed Lugs but decided not to take his dog with him. It was going to be a tricky call. He could hardly walk into Miss McAndrew’s home and accuse her of being a poison-pen writer. Maybe he should pretend he wanted her advice.

He drove off to Braikie, enjoying the splendid day, wondering how long it would last before the weather broke again. He drove along the shore road, noticing that for once the sea was calm, smooth glassy waves tumbling onto the rocky beach.

He called at the school and asked a teacher if he might have Miss McAndrew’s address. He was told she lived in a bungalow called Braikie Manor on the shore road.

Interested to meet this woman who wanted to give the impression that she lived in a manor house, Hamish drove back out again on the shore road. He had been told that the bungalow was situated on a rise, just beyond the edge of Braikie.