Death of a Macho Man hm-12

by M C Beaton

  “It iss the terrible thing, Hamish,” he said crossly, “when the man who does his civic duty and reports the finding off the body should be suspected of murdering him.”

  Hamish put a mug of coffee generously laced with whisky in front of the fisherman and sat down beside him at the kitchen table. “There is one thing, Archie,” said Hamish cautiously. “I have heard that you were down at the harbour with Randy the night before the murder and you were heard threatening him.”

  “Och, ye’ll no’ be paying attention to a thing like that. He riled me up and it wass just the words. Hot air. Everyone says they’ll kill someone when they’re angry with that someone.”

  “But that someone doesn’t usually end up dead!”

  “I’m not the only one who threatened the big man.” Archie buried his nose in his mug. “I heard about the fight with Andy MacTavish.” Archie raised his head. He smoothed his sparse grey hairs over his bald patch and twisted his neck in his starched collar. “I wass thinking o’ a certain lady.”

  “Come on, man. Out with it. I’ll find out soon enough.”

  “I should not be blackening the lady’s name.”

  “I’m getting more fascinated by the minute. Why this uncharacteristic gallantry?”

  “Whit?”

  “I mean it’s not like you to bother protecting a lady’s name.”

  “How do ye know that?” demanded Archie wrathfully. “Let’s not quarrel,” said Hamish patiently. “You are a suspect, Archie. A lot of people will be suspects. Honest people have nothing to fear.”

  “They’ve got everything to fear when a chiel like Blair is barging around accusing everyone.”

  “Come on, Archie. Out with it. Who’s the lady?” Archie drained his mug and wiped his sleeve across his mouth. “Rosie Draly,” he mumbled. Hamish looked at him in surprise. “The writer!”

  “Herself.”

  Rosie Draly had recently bought a cottage out on the Crask road. Hamish had made a call on her when she arrived. She had not been particularly welcoming. She said she did not have much time for the police. Her car had been stolen in Glasgow and the police had not only done nothing, they had been rude.

  Hamish knew that she wrote historical romances, mostly set in the Regency period. She did not take part in any of the village activities. She travelled to London quite often to see her agent. She was in her forties, small and trim with fair hair and a small, closed face. He had almost forgotten about her.

  “I didn’t know she had anything to do with the villagers,” he said. “How did you get to know her?”

  “I wass up her way to see Andy, who lives a wee bittie further on. Andy wasnae home and she wass in her garden and I said, “Fine day,” the way you do and she offered me a cup o’ tea. She wanted to know all about the fishing ‘cos she was putting a bit about a fishing boat in one o’ her books. She gave me one called His Lordship’s Passion. I couldnae read it but the wife said it was rare, all about them lords and ladies.”

  “So what’s this about Randy?”

  “It wass two weeks ago and it wass blowing up something dreadful and we were all stuck in the harbour. I thought I’d take a wee dauner up there I hae a bit o’ a crack. I liked talking tae her. I heard the shouting when I got outside. A window wass open and I could see as plain as day, herself and Randy. She wass crying and shouting, “I’ll kill you, you moron, you bastard.” And Randy, he laughs and says, “Chust you try, you faded auld bitch.” I got myself out o’ the way, me already getting fed up wi’ Randy and his daft stories. But it couldnae hae been her what did the murder.”

  “Whynot?”

  “Think, Hamish. A big man like that, and ladies don’t use shotguns. You won’t be telling Blair about her?”

  Hamish smiled. “I’ll try not to.”

  His next visitor was the forestry worker, Andy MacTavish. He was a big man with a flat-topped head and a thick neck. He looked like an Easter Island statue. “It’s a bad business, Hamish,” he said wearily. “You’ll have to find out who did it or that man Blair will drive me mad.”

  “I’m not officially on the case.”

  Andy sat down on a kitchen chair which creaked under his bulk. “You can use your brains, which is more than Blair can. I had a fight with Randy. Was you hearing about that?”

  “Aye, what brought that about?”

  “Hewas insulting a lady.”

  Hamish eyed him narrowly. “That lady wouldn’t be a Miss Rosie Draly, by any chance?”

  To his amazement, the big forestry worker actually blushed. “Och, Rosie was in the way of talking to me. She wanted to write a story about the Highlands and I was giving her some background. Randy caught me leaving there one day and he sneers that I was getting my leg over. I told him I would knock his silly head off, but he damn near knocked mine off.”

  Hamish was all at once thankful that Randy was dead, for he had privately believed that all his bragging about his wrestling and fighting was simply a bluff.

  “Did you want to kill him?” asked Hamish.

  “Aye, I did that, and I told him so. I didn’t think anyone was around, for we kept the fight private, like, but you know what it’s like here. Someone asked the next day about the fight.”

  Andy’s face was still bruised. “They probably took one look at you and knew you’d been in a fight,” said Hamish.

  “I could have sworn I could have beaten him,” said Andy half to himself. “He had fists like iron.”

  Hamish looked at him. “Did he wear gloves?”

  “Boxing gloves?”

  “No, any kind of gloves.”

  “Aye, he had a pair of leather gloves on.”

  Hamish was suddenly impatient to talk to Rosie Draly before Blair got to her, if be got to her, for the locals would not talk willingly to him. He decided to call at Tommel Castle first and see Priscilla. He wanted to find out a little mote about Rosie before he called. It was not often Hamish had to ask Priscilla for gossip, but of late, he had to admit, he had contented himself with his own affairs and had not been much interested in who was doing what in and around the village.

  When Andy left, Hamish went out to the police Land Rover, noticing gloomily that it was still raining, heavy rain driven in on an Atlantic gale. He drove up to Tommel Castle, the windscreen wipers working furiously to compete with the slashing downpour.

  Priscilla was not in the gift shop. He found her in the hotel reception, coping with an angry French tourist, a small squat woman who was complaining noisily that all the brochures for Tommel Castle Hotel depicted sunshine and blue skies and Priscilla was explaining in very British-accented French that they were not responsible for the Highland weather.

  Hamish waited patiently until the row was over and then approached the desk. “Wanted to ask your advice, Priscilla.”

  Priscilla looked at him impatiently. She was not feeling very warm towards Hamish Macbeth. Because of ban, she had endured a boring afternoon on his behalf entertaining Mrs. Daviot to tea. But men, Hamish was not supposed to know about that. “All right,” she said ungraciously, “I suppose you want acofree.” She walked off out of the hotel in the direction of the gift shop without waiting to see whether he was following her. She was wearing a well-cut trouser suit with a yellow silk blouse. Her hair was blown about by the wind as she crossed to the gift shop, but a ruffled Priscilla never lasted for very long. As soon as she was inside, she ran a comb through her blond hair, which promptly fell into its usually smooth, well-groomed shape.

  She poured two mugs of coffee from the coffee percolator in the comer. “So what’s this about, Hamish? How’s murder?”

  “Murder’s not supposed to be my concern. You know, Blair. He’s managed to get the official word to keep me off this case.”

  “And you’re not staying off it?”

  “Just asking about. Tell me about Rosie Draly?”

  “The writer?”

  “That one.”

  “I put her down as one of the many people who rush
up to the Highlands to find the quality of life and then the rain and the midges drive them back down south. I shouldn’t think she’ll last up here much longer. You know how it is, Hamish. We get dreamers and writers and artists, but the Highlands soon defeat them. They think they’re running away to the quiet life, but they forget to leave their characters behind and find it’s the same old thing up here, but just a bit more boring.”

  “You’re a cynic.”

  “I don’t like seeing people disappointed. Most of the incomers are nice.”

  “But not Rosie Draly?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Just a feeling.”

  “I didn’t think I had any strong feelings about her at all. She came in here once or twice for a drink. She asked for whisky without ice, and the new barman, Gregor Davies, gave her whisky with ice. He apologized, but she went on and on about it. He called me in. I could not believe she was complaining so much about something so trivial, but it was as if this little mistake had made her want to vent her frustration at having actually bought a house in Sutherland on me.”

  “Have you read any of her books?”

  “No. But I believe there are some you can get from the mobile library. It’s due in the village tomorrow.”

  “What about this John Glover?” asked Hamish. “Nice chap. Well-travelled. Here he comes,” said Priscilla, I looking out of the window.

  The door opened and John Glover walked in. “Another policeman!” he said. “The place is fair crawling with them.”

  “That does happen after there has been murder done,” said Priscilla. “Coffee?”

  “No, thank you, I’m going down to Strathbane to see an old friend.”

  “Which bank do you work for?” asked Hamish.

  “Scottish and General in Renfrew Street.” John turned to Priscilla. “I wondered whether you might like to have dinner with me tonight?”

  Priscilla did not particularly want to have dinner with John, but the venomous look Hamish cast at the banker made her cross. Hamish did not own her. In fact, Hamish had rejected her. “I would like that,” she said with a smile. “Say about eight?”

  “See you then,” said John. “‘Bye, copper.”

  “You know,” said Hamish thoughtfully, “I could swear his clothes were tailored in London. I didnae think that bank managers these days earned enough to wear expensive suits and holiday at posh hotels in the Highlands.”

  “Scottish and General is an important bank, Hamish. What don’t you like about him?”

  “I didnae say I didn’t like him. I chust think there’s something odd about him.”

  “Could you be a little bit jealous?”

  Hamish’s face and temper flamed. “Fancy yourself, don’t you?” he said nastily and walked out.

  He stood outside on one leg like a stork and wondered what had crane over him. He put his head round the gift-shop door and said, “Sorry,” and then walked off towards the Land Rover. He forgot quickly about John Glover because he was suddenly very curious to talk to Rosie Draly.

  When he parked outside, he could see her working at a word processor by the window of the living-room, her face lit by the green light from the screen. He went up the short path and knocked at ate door. From inside, she swore loudly and clearly, “Shit!” Then he heard the sound of high heels clattering across the floor.

  She swung the door open and looked him up and down, from his red hair gleaming under his peaked cap to his large regulation boots.

  “I suppose it’s this murder,” she said. “Come in.”

  He followed her into the living-room and looked covertly around. The stone-flagged floor was uncarpeted, and despite a peat-fire smouldering in the grate, the room was stuffy and cold. There were makeshift bookshelves, planks resting on bricks all along one wall, crammed with hardbacks and paperbacks. There were a battered sofa and two chairs, and a dining table on which the writer had been working. Harrush was surprised. He had somehow expected a writer of romances to have a more cosy life-style.

  “Well, what do you want to know?”

  “May I sit down?” asked Hamish, removing his cap.

  “Suit yourself.”

  He sat in one of the chairs and surveyed her. She was wearing black trousers and one of those striped French sailor’s tops which middle-aged women seem to go in for. Her high-heeled shoes were scarlet and strapped, almost old-fashioned, the jtldad a French prostitute wore when leaning against a lamppost in a fifties movie. Her fair hair was neat and curled to JE frame her neat, closed face. Her mouth was thin and small, hardly the mouth of a passionate woman, hardly the mouth of a woman who knew anything about romance at all.

  Hamish’s first question surprised her. “Why romances?”

  “Why not?”

  “I just wondered.”

  “I write historical romances set in the Regency period,” she said patiently. “That’s eighteen eleven to eighteen twenty. It’s a period in history I know a great deal about.” Hamish wanted to ask her if she knew a great deal about romance but some-bow guessed that the question would irritate her and he did not want to make her angry before finding out what she had had to do with Randy Duggan.

  “I won’t keep you long,” he said. “I gather you had a row with Randy Duggan, the man that’s been murdered.”

  “Oh, him. He was one of the locals I talked to. I’m tired of writing historicals. I wanted to try my hand at a detective story. I became interested in using real people. He seemed an Meal character for a villain.”

  “So what was the row about?”

  “I can’t remember any row.” She lit a cigarette.

  “You were overheard.”

  “Damn this place! You get more privacy in the city. It was all tiresome. He came on to me and I told him to get lost and we exchanged a few insults.”

  Despite the tarty shoes, Hamish could not imagine any man making a pass at Rosie, but then, Archie Maclean and Andy MacTavish had both seemed somewhat smitten. He was not getting very far and Blair might soon send someone or come himself to interview her and find out he had already been there. Bugger Blair! This was his beat.

  “I would really like to read one of your books,” he said.

  “Then I suggest you buy one,” snapped Rosie. “I only get a certain amount free from the publisher and I like to keep them. Why do you want to read one? To find if there are dark recesses in my character which make me a possible murderess?”

  “Something like that,” said Hamish and smiled at her.

  “You’re honest, I’ll admit that,” she said returning his smile.

  “Why did you come here…to Sutherland?”

  “I thought I would write a historical based on Bonnie Prince Charlie and would soak up the atmosphere.” She looked at the rain streaming down the window. “Instead, you could say, the atmosphere soaked me.”

  “So do you plan to stay on?”

  “For a bit I paid too much for this cottage and I have found out it will be difficult to sell unless I can find some other sucker sold on the Highland dream.”

  “Och, the place is just fine if you would stop looking for what isn’t here,” said Hamish.

  “I’ll tell you what isn’t here.” She ground out her cigarette and lit another. Bands of cigarette smoke now lay in layers across the stuffy room. “Help. If I need a repair to the roof or someone to dig the garden or a tap fixed, I get the same old story…I’ll be round tomorrow, but tomorrow never comes up here. There’s been a leaking tap in the bathroom since I how to fix a new washer on it.”

  “Have you got the new washer?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “I’ll fix it for you. I’ll get the tool-box from the Rover.”

  “Thank you,” she said, surprised. He went out into the driving rain and soon returned bearing his tool-box. She showed him where the bathroom was. After what seemed to her only a few moments, he returned and said, “That’s it fixed.”

  “Marvellous. Look, I’m sorry I was so
rude. Here’s one of my books.” She picked one off the table. “It just arrived yesterday.” Hamish looked at a hardback called The Viscount’s Secret. “Thank you,” he said. “Don’t you want me to sign it for you?”

  “Of course,” said Hamish quickly. “The name’s Hamish Macbeth. Tell me, Miss Draly, how far have you got with this detective story?”

  “Not far at all. It was just an idea.”

  “And how was the murder to be done? Insulin? Rare South American poison known only to a tribe up the Amazon?”

  “Nothing like that.” Her face, which had softened after the pap repair, had become closed and tight again. “I must get on with my work.”

  “Just one more thing. What did you think of Randy Duggan? Did you believe his stories?”

  “He bragged so much about himself, it was hard to tell what was true and what wasn’t. But I’ve travelled in the States, and yes, I would say he had been there.”

  “Why did you want to cast him as the villain?”

  “Becausehe was such an old-fashioned sort of bully.”

  “And Archie Maclean and Andy MacTavish? How were they to feature in the story?”

  She got to her feet and clacked on her high heels over to the living-room door. “They weren’t,” she said. “I just wanted some local colour. Now, if you’ve finished…?”

  He left, feeling baffled. He felt he still knew nothing about ter. He decided to go back to the police station and read the book she had given him to see if that would give a clue to her character.

  But he found Blair waiting for him, an angry Blair. “I hope too havenae been poking your nose into this case, Macbeth,” he growled.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it said.” Hamish, lying with all the true ease of the Highlander. “I am just going through to my office to check the sheep-dip papers. Then there’s that break-in over at Cnothan.”

  Blair’s piggy eyes glared at him. The detective chief inspector was impatient to solve this case and prove he had done so without any help from Hamish Macbeth. “I’m surprised you’re still on the force,” said Blair. “But then, you’ve got friends like the Earl of Farthers to speak up for you. Ach, it makes me sick. And you not even a Freemason ermer.”