Hamish Macbeth 20 (2004) - Death of a Poison Pen (7 page)

“What the hell are you implying?”

Hamish stared at the suddenly belligerent face in surprise. “Why are you so angry? Why so defensive? Was her caller yourself?”

Joe Cromarty erupted. “I’ll phone your superiors and I’ll be having you for slander.”

Hamish lost his temper. “What the hell’s the matter wi’ you, you silly wee man? If there was nothing going on between you and Miss Beattie, why are you firing up?”

“I’m sick o’ the gossip in this town. Everyone mumbling and whispering about everyone else’s business.”

“Let’s try another tack. I hear you were furious with Miss McAndrew on parents’ day at the school.”

“That was legitimate. My Geordie’s a bright boy and she only gave him a B in his history exam while she gave Penny Roberts, who’s as dim as anything, an A. Then she wouldn’t let him in the school play. I accused her of favouritism. She was aye keeping Penny in after school for a wee chat. Penny told Geordie the auld woman gave her the creeps.”

“Do you know where Penny Roberts lives?”

“Out on the shore road afore you get to Miss McAndrew’s. It’s a bungalow called Highland Home.”

When he left the shop, Hamish realised he was hungry. He took out his phone and called Angela Brodie, the doctor’s wife, and begged her to collect Lugs and take the dog for a walk. As he put his phone back in his pocket, he felt a tap on his shoulder and turned round and saw Elspeth.

“How are you getting on?” she asked.

“Slowly. What about you?”

“I’m hungry. Let’s find somewhere for lunch and I’ll tell you what I’ve got.”

“Where’s Pat?”

“He got a call from our boss, saying he must have learnt the ropes by now and there was a dried-flower show over at Lairg waiting to be covered.”

“That seems a bit odd considering there are two murders here.”

“Not to Sam. Flower shows with lots of names and pictures sell more papers in the long run, he says. The murders will be covered by the nationals anyway and television.”

“They’re here already,” said Hamish, watching satellite dishes being set up and cables snaking from vans across the street outside the post office.

“Right. There’s a hotel north of here with good food.”

“Which one?”

“The Clachan. My car’s right here.”

Hamish looked around in case Blair was skulking about, but there were only uniformed policemen going from door to door.

They drove north out of Braikie. The coastal road became more rugged and was one-track with grass growing in the middle of it. After a couple of miles, Elspeth swung off to the right and up a winding drive bordered by thick rhododendron bushes.

“This used to be Colonel Hargreaves’s place,” said Hamish.

“He got rheumatism and blamed the climate. He sold up and moved south. An English couple bought it and turned it into a hotel.”

She parked outside the hotel and they both got out. It was a Victorian building dating from the days of the nineteenth century, when the queen had made it fashionable to holiday in Scotland. They were ushered into the dining room by the new owner, John Speir. “You’ve got the dining room all to yourself,” he said, showing them to a table at the window. “But it won’t be quiet for long. Press from all over have booked rooms. Terrible, these murders, but great for the hotel business. Still, I didn’t expect many customers now the summer is over, so it’s a set menu.” He handed them a card each. There was a choice of two dishes for each course. They both chose the same: Scotch broth, poached salmon, and sherry trifle.

“Now,” said Hamish, “what have you got?”

Elspeth’s grey eyes gleamed silver. “Miss Beattie was having an affair.”

“I’d got that far,” said Hamish. “Any idea who it is?”

“Billy Mackay.”

“What! The postman? But he’s married.”

“Why do you think she kept it so secret?”

Hamish half rose. “I should go and see him right away.”

“Sit down, copper. You wouldn’t have found out for ages if I hadn’t told you. He’ll wait and I’m hungry.”

“Who told you?”

“I cannot reveal my source,” said Elspeth primly.

“All right. How did you manage to find out?”

“I’m known in Braikie more for being an astrologer than for being the local reporter, and they’re a superstitious lot. Some woman asked me to read her palm. I told her the usual and then said she was holding back some secret about Miss Beattie.”

“How did you know that?”

“Just a guess.”

Mrs. Harris, thought Hamish. I bet she knew.

“She got frightened and asked me not to put a curse on her if she told me. I promised I wouldn’t use it in the paper.”

“So Mrs. Harris knew you were of Gypsy blood?”

Elspeth’s face fell. “How did you know it was Mrs. Harris?”

“An educated guess. And let’s hope the food comes quickly. I can’t wait to hear what this postman has to say for himself.”

The food was excellent and both enjoyed their meal. Elspeth drove Hamish back into Braikie. He refused to let her come with him to Billy Mackay’s but promised to meet her afterwards, outside the post office in an hour, and tell her what he had found out.

By asking around, he found that Billy Mackay lived in public housing at the edge of Braikie. He knocked at the door. It was answered by a slattern of a woman wearing a stained apron and with her hair in rollers. “Mrs. Mackay?”

“Aye, that’s me.”

“I would like to talk to your husband.”

“What about?”

“I’m making general enquiries, that is all.”

“He’s gone fishing as usual.”

“Where?”

“Up on the Stourie. The pool below the falls. And you tell him the sink still needs fixing and he can stay away as long as he likes but he’ll still have to fix it when he comes home.”

Hamish touched his cap and strode back to the Land Rover. He drove out of Braikie and up into the hills. The Falls of Stourie were a tourist attraction in the summer, but now the car park above the falls was empty except for a red post office van parked against some railings.

He made his precipitous way along a muddy path that led down the side of the falls. The sun was already going down and the cascade of water shone red in the setting rays.

Billy Mackay did not hear him approach because of the sound of the falls. He was a thickset little man in, Hamish judged, his late fifties. Hamish tapped him on the shoulder and he swung around, his face a picture of dismay.

“Up to the car park,” shouted Hamish. “I cannae hear anything here.”

Billy reeled in his line and meekly followed Hamish up the path. He turned and faced Hamish in the car park, wearing a defeated air. He had thin brown hair, a bulbous nose, and surprisingly beautiful blue eyes.

“It’s about Miss Beattie, isn’t it?” he said. “The wife’ll kill me.”

“How long had your affair with Miss Beattie been going on?”

“About ten years.”

“Man, weren’t you frightened of anyone finding out?”

“We kept it really quiet. I’m the postman, see, so no one thought anything of me being around the shop. I don’t know if you could really call it an affair. It was the talking, you see. The companionship. Her at home, after the children grew up and left, she let herself go and nag, nagged, nagged from morning till night.”

Hamish judged that Billy’s parents had probably brought him up to speak Gaelic. He had the clear perfect English of someone who had started his life translating in his head from Gaelic to English.

“When did you last see Miss Beattie?”

“Last time was two weeks ago.”

“Why such a long gap?”

Billy hung his head. “I got one of those filthy poison-pen letters. Whoever wrote it said he knew about the affair and if I didn’t stop seeing her, the whole of Braikie would know. I told her about it and we were both frightened, so we agreed to stop seeing each other. Man, if I had known it would have driven her to take her own life, I would have risked the scandal.”

Hamish sighed. “Billy, you’re in for a shock. Miss Beattie was murdered.”

“But she hanged herself!”

“Someone drugged her first.”

“Who?”

Hamish was sure that Miss Beattie had guessed the identity of the poison-pen writer and that somehow Miss McAndrew had killed her and then someone had killed Miss McAndrew. And Billy was a prime suspect. He would need to take him in for questioning. He knew that probably someone other than Mrs. Harris would know about the affair.

He said gently, “I’m afraid I can’t hush this up, Billy. I’ve got to take you in for questioning.”

He gave a weary shrug. “I’m glad in a way it’s out. I was proud of her friendship. She was a grand lady.” He began to sob, dry racking sobs.

Hamish went to the Land Rover and came back with a flask of brandy. “Get some of that down you, Billy. There, man. I’m right sorry.”

It was Blair’s bad luck that Daviot should still be in Braikie at the mobile unit which had been set up outside Miss McAndrew’s bungalow when Hamish turned up with Billy and explianed why he was taking him in.

“We’ll take him down to Strathbane,” said Daviot. “Anderson, you come with us. Detective Chief Inspector Blair will stay here to supervise the ongoing investigation. You’d better come with us, Hamish.”

Blair scowled horribly. He knew that when the boss used Hamish’s first name, the constable was in high favour.

At Strathbane, it was a long interrogation. But it transpired early on in the interview that on the Saturday evening that Miss Beattie was murdered, Billy had been down in Strathbane for a reunion with some of his old army friends and had not got back to Braikie until the small hours of the morning. His alibi checked out. He was to be kept in the cells overnight, however, for further questioning. He was now a suspect in the death of Miss McAndrew. They would hold him until they discovered from the autopsy some idea of the time of her murder. Hamish was dismissed.

He left headquarters to find Elspeth waiting outside for him.

“You stood me up,” she accused.

“We’ll have something to eat and I’ll tell you about it,” said Hamish.

In the Italian restaurant, Jenny sat alone at one table and Pat sat alone at another. At last Pat called over, “My date hasn’t turned up.”

“Neither has mine,” said Jenny gloomily.

“So why don’t we have a meal together?” suggested Pat.

Jenny gave a shrug. “Why not?”

Fear death?—to feel the fog in my throat
,

The mist in my face
.

—Robert Browning

J
enny lay awake for a long time. Pat had told her all about the murders in Braikie and so it was understandable that Hamish Macbeth had forgotten his date with her. Nevertheless, it rankled. If he had been meeting Priscilla, thought Jenny jealously, he would at least have phoned to apologise. Pat had been good company, and, yes, he was attractive and amusing, but he would not make Priscilla jealous. She could imagine Priscilla’s cool amusement. A reporter? On a local paper? And what took you to Lochdubh and why didn’t you tell me?

How quiet it was! Suffocatingly quiet. She crawled out of bed and went to the window and opened the curtains. A thick wall of mist leant against the window. She suddenly felt nervous. It looked as if the whole of the world was blanketed in thick sea fog. And out there, shrouded in the mist, was a murderer.

Jenny went back to bed. This trip had all been a dreadful mistake. She would leave in the morning.

Hamish Macbeth, too, was lying awake. He suddenly remembered he had forgotten his dinner date with Jenny. His restless thoughts turned back to the murders. People had sent him their poison-pen letters. But he shrewdly suspected that the only ones he had received were the ones without a grain of truth in the accusations. Someone, somewhere, he thought, had received a letter from Miss McAndrew which had hit on something the recipient had desperately wanted kept quiet. And there were so many suspects! Jimmy had phoned him before he went to bed to say that Miss Beattie’s birth certificate had been found among her effects, proving that she was legitimate. She had also made out a will leaving everything to Billy Mackay. His thoughts turned back to Jenny Ogilvie. He had better check out her background. It was odd that such a pretty girl should choose to holiday in Lochdubh at such a time of year. He decided to question her first thing in the morning before moving on to Braikie.

Elspeth was awake as well and also thinking about Jenny. She had a shrewd suspicion that Jenny was not just an ordinary tourist. For some reason, Jenny was after Hamish Macbeth. Why? It hadn’t been love at first sight. When Jenny had first set eyes on Hamish, Elspeth was sure she had been disappointed in him. Better check up on her, thought Elspeth sleepily.

A silent morning broke with every sound still muffled by the thick enveloping mist. Once more Hamish phoned Angela and begged her to look after Lugs. This time Lugs went eagerly, straining at the leash, and when the dog saw Angela, he wagged his ridiculous plume of a tail and leapt up at her, barking with joy. I cannae even keep the affections of my dog, thought Hamish gloomily after he had thanked Angela, and then he headed for Sea View to interview Jenny.

He was told Jenny was at breakfast and made his way into the small dining room.

“Good morning,” said Hamish, removing his cap and sitting down opposite her. “I am here on official business, but first I would like to apologise for forgetting about our dinner engagement. Have you heard about the murders?”

Jenny nodded, and then said, “What official business?”

“I have to question everyone. Have you had any connection with Lochdubh before this, or do you know anyone connected with Lochdubh?”

“No,” said Jenny quickly, and then fiddled with a piece of toast.

“So why Lochdubh for a holiday?”

“I wanted to get clear away. I stuck a pin in the map.”

Now, why is she lying? wondered Hamish, looking at her bent head, at the guilty flush rising up her neck, and at the nervous fingers now crumbling the toast.

He took out his notebook. “May I have your address?”

“Number 7 A Crimea Road, Battersea.”

“And where was it you said you worked?”