by M C Beaton
Over an excellent meal, Lesley listened as Hamish began to talk about the three murders. It was a concise and intelligent report. Lesley felt a stab of irritation that such an obviously intelligent man should waste his talents stuck in a highland village. Of course, if he married the right sort of woman, she would drum some sense into his head.
Then she became aware that Elspeth’s eyes were surveying her. And those eyes seemed to be saying, I know exactly what you’re thinking. To her fury, Lesley found herself blushing. She rose to her feet. “Got to go to the loo.”
“Hamish, oh Hamish,” teased Elspeth when they were alone. “She plans to marry you and make you over.”
“Stop havering, Elspeth, and turn your mind to these murders. What do you think?”
“There doesn’t seem to be anything to connect them. If Fiona McNulty was on the game, then that sort of life can lead to violence and her death may not be connected to the others. Catriona seems to have made so many enemies, it’s hard to know where to start. Now, it’s the one in the middle that fascinates me—Ina Braid.”
“Why her?”
“Think about it. Here’s a decent God-fearing woman, hardly a murderee. So she must have known something. It stands to reason. So the thing to do is to ask and see if she said something to anyone. I feel she must have said something, and if she did whoever she talked to might be too frightened to say anything. She must be part of the first murder, but I can’t see any reason for the murder at Bonar.”
Lesley rejoined them. “We’ve just been discussing the murders,” said Hamish. “Any idea when Fiona McNulty was killed?”
“About four or five days ago at a guess. Someone must have battled their way through the snow to get to her. The mobile home’s parked on heather so there’s no hope of getting a footprint. Everything in the trailer had been wiped clean. Not even a spare hair.”
“Do you know if they found a mobile phone?”
“No sign of one.”
“Anything off that threatening note?”
“What threatening note?” asked Elspeth.
“Someone called her a whore and told her she’d be next.”
“We’re working on it. It was written on a computer,” said Lesley. “But whoever wrote it used gloves.”
“No sign of a weapon?” asked Hamish.
“No, but it was not the same weapon that killed Ina Braid. This was as if it had been done with something like a hunting knife. The stab wounds on Catriona’s body were made with something with a serrated edge, like a bread knife.”
Hamish suddenly wanted to be alone with Elspeth.
“I think you should be getting on your road, Lesley,” he said. “The weather’s changing and you don’t want to be caught in a blizzard.”
Lesley looked from one to the other and then got up and put on her coat. Hamish walked with her to the door of the restaurant. “Good night,” he said firmly. She looked past him to where Elspeth was sitting watching them and then she stood on tiptoe and planted a kiss on Hamish’s cheek, said breathlessly, “I’ll phone you,” and hurried off into the night.
Chapter Seven
The mair they talk I’m kent the better.
—Robert Burns
“What if,” said Elspeth when Hamish returned and sat down, “the murder of Fiona McNulty has nothing to do with the other two? She was a woman living alone in a trailer. Some passing maniac might have wanted money for drink or drugs. Was she sexually assaulted? And was there any money in the mobile home?”
“I’m slipping,” said Hamish ruefully. “I’ll phone Jimmy.”
Jimmy answered and asked, “Where are you?”
“I’m in the Italian restaurant.”
“Be with you in a minute. I’m along at the station.”
Hamish rang off and said, “Jimmy’s in Lochdubh. He’ll be with us in a few minutes.”
Jimmy arrived and shrugged off his coat. “Man, I’m famished.”
“Join us,” said Elspeth. “I can entertain the police on my expenses.”
“As long as you don’t go printing anything you shouldn’t. Willie!” he called to the waiter. “Get me a bowl of spag bol and a bottle o’ plonk.”
“We dinnae serve plonk,” said Willie.
“Well, something red wi’ alcohol in it.” He turned to Hamish. “Man, I’m tired. Give me a bed for the night?”
“Yes, but you’re not getting any of my clean underwear. Jimmy, was the Fiona woman sexually assaulted?”
“According to the first brief examination, no.”
“Was there any money taken? Any valuables?”
“Not that anyone could see. Her handbag was in a cupboard with all her credit cards and two hundred and ten pounds in cash. There was a gold wedding ring on one finger and a diamond ring as well. She had a wee TV in the living area. That hadn’t been taken. So robbery wasn’t the motive.”
“That’s a pity,” said Hamish.
“Why?”
“I’ve a feeling that if the motive had been robbery, that might have been one less murder to solve. That would have suggested a villain, and we could have checked up with people with a criminal record on the database. It looks awfy like this one was connected to the others. Is there anything in Ina Braid’s background that might lead someone to kill her? She’s been in the village as long as most folks can remember. Churchgoing, member of the Mothers’ Union, absolutely blameless.”
“Fergus Braid in his interview said they had been married for twenty-eight years. Both local. Met at a ceilidh. Ina was working as a secretary over at Braikie. Got married and Ina became a housewife. End of story.”
“She must have known something,” said Elspeth. “I’ve got to do a colour piece. I’ll go around the village tomorrow speaking to people. They all know me and they’ll talk to me easier than they would even to Hamish.”
Hamish felt suddenly uneasy. “Remember, there’s a murderer out there, Elspeth. Don’t go putting yourself in danger.”
“I’ll be careful.”
Hamish awoke the next morning to the sound of a gale hammering at the building. He sniffed. There was a nasty smell of stale booze and sweat that even the many draughts in the police station couldn’t dispel. Then he remembered Jimmy was sleeping in the cell.
He got up, washed and dressed, and roused a protesting Jimmy. He put out a glass of water and a packet of Alka-Seltzer on the kitchen table—Jimmy’s usual breakfast. He went into the bathroom and ran a hot bath. Jimmy was sitting on the edge of the bed, groaning.
“I’ve run a bath for you,” said Hamish.
“I don’t want a bath.”
“Yes, you do. You stink. Get to it!”
Hamish retreated to the kitchen, where he made a pot of strong coffee. Jimmy eventually emerged. He dropped two Alka-Seltzer tablets into the glass of water and then drank it.
“I don’t need a hair of the dog,” he said. “I need the whole coat.”
The wild cat jumped on his lap and sent him tumbling backwards onto the floor.
“Now, isn’t that amazing,” said Hamish. “Sonsie likes you.” He helped Jimmy back into his chair.
“If that’s the result of liking, I’ll settle for loathing any day. I hope Elspeth can get something.”
Elspeth was sitting in the Currie sisters’ parlour, drinking tea. “You should get that big loon to marry you,” said Nessie.
“Marry you,” muttered her sister, her eyes glued to the television set, watching a rerun of a Jerry Springer show.
Elspeth ignored that remark. “I’d be interested to learn anything at all you know about Ina Braid.”
“Well, there’s not much,” said Nessie. The Greek chorus that was her sister was now thankfully immersed in the TV programme. “Have a biscuit. I baked them yesterday.”
Elspeth dutifully bit into a buttery biscuit and waited. The wind yelled and shrieked along the waterfront as if all the demons of hell had been let loose.
Jessie wrinkled up her brow in thought. A downd
raught blew peat smoke around the room but neither of the sisters seemed to notice. “There’s not much to tell,” said Nessie. “Decent body and her sponge cake was as light as light. Not much to look at if you’d seen her afore she died but she was right pretty once. My, what a grand tennis player she was. Champion. Won the cup at the local championships over at Braikie. They’ve had grand courts there but a building developer got his greedy hands on them and they’re now houses where the courts were. My, that Ellie Macpherson, her what runs the post office in Braikie, was as mad as mad. Until Ina turned up, Ellie had been reigning champion.”
“Did they see much of each other?”
“No. Ellie was always a one to bear grudges.”
“Did Ina always get on all right with her husband?”
“Model couple, that’s what they were.”
Elspeth persevered, but it seemed as if Ina had led a blameless life.
She decided to drive to Braikie and see Ellie. Elspeth left her photographer at the hotel. He was a tedious man, and she wanted as little of his company as possible.
But first, bending against the wind and carrying her laptop, she went into the Highland Times office and asked the editor, Matthew Campbell, if she could borrow a desk to send over some copy.
“Sure,” said Matthew, who had once worked alongside Elspeth in Glasgow before he had fallen in love with the local schoolteacher and decided to settle in the Highlands. “Got anything interesting?”
“Not yet. Just a colour piece. You know, the hills and heather and blah, blah.”
“Take that desk over there.”
Elspeth switched on her computer and began to work. Hamish is going to hate me for this, she thought as she typed: “Does a serial killer stalk the mountains and glens of the Highlands?”
When she had finished and was about to leave, Matthew said, “Look, you could do me a favour. I’ve been getting our Angus to do the horoscopes, but he’s down with the cold. Could you just bash out something? You used to do them when you worked here.”
“Oh, all right.”
Elspeth had an idea and began to type busily. For each star sign, she put in a veiled warning, slightly changed in each one. For Gemini, she wrote, “Your sins will find you out. You were seen and whoever saw you is soon going to talk. You will have a sharp pain in your side on Thursday. Do not overwork and curb your volatile nature and propensity to indulge in violent rages.”
The others were all variations on the same theme.
She printed it off and handed it to Malcolm. He read it with his eyebrows raised. “I’d better put a name other than Angus’s at the top of this or someone might murder him, too. Suggest something?”
“Gypsy Rose?”
“Without the Lee? Okay.”
When Elspeth went out onto the waterfront to walk to her car, leaning against the force of the wind, it looked as if the whole countryside were in motion. Whitecapped waves scudded along the loch, clouds streamed across the sky, hedges in gardens sent out a mournful bagpipe sound as the wind whistled through them, and gates swung and banged on their hinges.
She hoped her small Mini Cooper was low enough on the road not to get blown over.
Fortunately the tide was out so that she was able to drive along the shore road into Braikie. The bungalows that overlooked the road were now closed and falling into disrepair. They had been flooded so many times, the owners had been unable to sell them.
The whole coastline of Britain is being eaten away, thought Elspeth, and yet no one does anything about it.
She parked in the main street and went to the post office, which was closed for the half day. Elspeth remembered there was a flat above the post office. There was a door at the side with an intercom. She pressed the bell. A high fluting voice demanded, “Yees?”
“My name is Elspeth Grant. I’m from the Daily Bugle.” The door buzzed. Elspeth opened it and climbed up shallow stone steps to where a thin woman wearing a turban and with bare arms covered in bracelets stood waiting.
She struck a pose in the doorway and said, “I see you have come to consult the Oracle.”
“The Oracle?”
“I know everything about everybody.”
“Well, that’s good,” said Elspeth, following her in.
Incense was burning in the living room. A sofa and two armchairs were draped in violently coloured material, all red and yellow swirls. The carpet and walls were bright yellow. A bowl of yellow silk flowers stood on a round table by the window. Beside the bowl was a large crystal ball. A mobile of various crystal shapes hung from the ceiling. A bookshelf was crammed with books on astrology and the occult.
“Sherry?” offered Ellie.
“Yes, please. I didn’t think anyone drank sherry anymore.”
“My father, God rest his soul, always said that sherry was the only suitable drink for a lady.”
Ellie disappeared and returned with a tray with a decanter on it. But instead of sherry glasses, she poured the drink into two whisky tumblers.
“Slainte,” she said.
“Slainte,” echoed Elspeth. The sherry was heavy and sweet and had a faint chemical taste.
“Now sit down and tell me how I can help you.”
Elspeth sat down in one of the armchairs. Ellie put a little side table next to her covered with a lace doily.
“First question,” said Elspeth. “Did you ever meet Catriona Beldame?”
“Yes. I suppose you heard that.”
Elspeth hadn’t but maintained a discreet silence.
“I wanted to see if she was genuine,” said Ellie. “There are so few of us about.”
“So few of what?”
“White witches.”
“Go on.”
“I did not stay long. I got out of that cottage as fast as I could.”
“Why?”
Ellie lowered her voice dramatically. “She was a black witch. I can still hear her dreadful laughter as I ran away.”
Elspeth translated this as—I said something silly and she began to laugh and I was offended.
“I said to her as I fled, ‘The flames of hell will engulf you’”—Ellie leaned forward— “and they did! I didn’t put a curse on her, mind. That is not my way.”
This woman is bonkers, thought Elspeth. “Do you know of anyone who might want to murder her?”
“It was the devil, come to claim his own.”
“And what about poor Ina Braid?”
A variety of emotions crossed Ellie’s face. It was obvious she was trying desperately to think of something but that she didn’t really know anything. “There are things I could tell you,” she said.
“Then go on, do,” said Elspeth sharply. “You are said to bear a grudge against Ina because she used to beat you at tennis.”
“That’s because I let her win although I was always the better player. I am a Christian. I do not bear grudges.”
“Then who else might have disliked Ina?”
“I cannot. I would be putting my life in danger.”
Elspeth closed her notebook and got to her feet. “Thank you for your time, Miss Macpherson. Got to rush.”
“Oh, do stay. There are other things I could tell you.”
But Elspeth was already out of the door and clattering down the steps.
Ellie was offended and felt thwarted as well. She had dreamt of featuring in the newspapers. When she opened up the post office for business the next day, she began to regale the customers with mysterious hints of how she really knew the identity of the murderer but was too afraid to say anything. The gossip swirled out from Braikie as if borne on the gale and spread around the surrounding villages.
Angela Brodie called on Hamish that evening.
“Come in,” he cried. “I’m right weary. All I seem to do is question folks over and over again without getting anywhere.”
“Have you heard about Ellie Macpherson?”
“The postmistress?”
“Yes, her. Aren’t you supposed to say po
stperson or something? I can’t keep up with all this PC rubbish.”
“Don’t ask me. I don’t pay any attention to it. What about her?”
“Your friend Elspeth called on her. The Currie sisters told her that Ellie was a good fund of gossip. Now Ellie is saying that she knows the identity of the murderer but couldn’t say anything because she feared for her life.”
“That’s an awfully dangerous thing to say.”
“Don’t worry about it. Ellie is a drama queen. Nobody takes her seriously.”
“A frightened murderer just might. Angela, have you heard anything, the slightest thing?”
“I’m afraid not, Hamish. And yet—I’m probably being overimaginative but it’s as if there’s a sort of communal secret in this village. I talk to people and I always get the feeling they are holding something back. You don’t think the villagers would shield one of their own?”
“No, they would not. This business about Ellie bothers me. I’ll take a run over to Braikie in the morning and tell the silly woman to keep her mouth shut.”
The gale was still blowing the next morning. Hamish fed his sheep and hens, told Sonsie and Lugs to look after themselves, and set off for Braikie. The incoming tide was threatening the shore road. He realised he would need to stay in Braikie until low tide came round again. It was possible to get into the town from two other roads, but that would have meant a long detour coming in from Lochdubh.
There was a small crowd standing outside the post office. “What’s happened to Ellie?” asked Hamish sharply.
“We don’t know,” said one woman. “She hasn’t opened up and she hasn’t answered her door.”
Hamish rang the bell himself. No reply. There was a narrow lane up the side of the post office. He went along it and around to the back of the building. He looked up at the window of Ellie’s flat. It was not very high up. He hauled a dustbin up to the wall and climbed up on it. Then he grabbed the drainpipe and shinned up it so that he could look in at the window.
