by M C Beaton
He led the way up through the back of the village. “Why Sutherland!” asked Anna. “It is as far north as you can go on the British mainland.”
“It was the south land of the Vikings,” said Hamish. “That’s Angus’s cottage up there.”
The cottage was perched on the top of a hill with a path winding up to it through the heather.
Angus, looking more than ever like one of the minor prophets with his long grey beard, opened the door as they arrived. “I’ve been expecting ye,” he said. “Come ben.”
“What is ben?” asked Anna.
“Croft houses had a but and ben. The but was where the animals lived, and the ben was where the family lived,” said Hamish.
He and Anna pulled up chairs to the peat fire. Angus sat in his rocking chair, folded his gnarled hands across his chest, and surveyed them. “Have you something for me?” he asked.
Hamish reluctantly handed over a large packet of homemade shortbread which he had bought at a church sale.
“Ah, petticoat tails. My favourite,” said Angus. “I’ll just be putting this in the kitchen.”
“Petticoat tails!” asked Anna.
“The name’s supposed to date from Mary Queen of Scots’ time,” said Hamish. “It’s a corruption of the auld French petit gatelles, meaning ‘little cakes.’”
Angus came back. He swung the blackened kettle on its chain over the fire. “We’ll have tea in a minute. So you are the Russian lady who tried to kill Mr. Blair?”
“I was only having a drink with him,” said Anna stiffly. “If he cannot hold his liquor, it is not my fault.”
“You are ruthless and hard,” said Angus. “You would not have got the position in the Russian police were you not as hard as stone. Be careful, laddie, and do not get in this lady’s way.”
“Angus, when you’ve stopped insulting the inspector here, have you heard anything that might lead us to discover who killed Irena?”
“That would be your late fiancée who turned out to be a hooker. Dr. Brodie has had to lecture the whole village on the subject of AIDS and tell them that you cannae be getting it from teacups and the like. O’ course, now that you know she wass killed by her boss, you wonder who killed her.”
“How did you get that information?” asked Hamish angrily. “We only knew ourselves yesterday, and as it happens we’re still not quite sure that she actually killed Irena.”
“I see things. The kettle’s boiling. I’ll get the cups.”
“Angus, we don’t want tea. We want information.”
Angus closed his eyes. Anna glared at him and half made to rise. Then Angus crooned, “You haff to look in Mrs. Gentle’s past. There iss something in there the whole of her family don’t want you to know.”
He opened his eyes again. “That’s it,” he said briskly.
“That’s it?” echoed Hamish. “I could ha’ guessed that one myself. Come on, Anna.”
Angus’s pale grey eyes fastened on Anna. “He will be the bachelor until the end of his days.”
“This old fool knows more than he is telling,” said Anna wrathfully, and they left the cottage. “Let’s get him into an interview room and get it out of him.”
“We don’t use the rubber truncheons up here,” said Hamish. “Angus was aye a good guesser.”
As they walked back down the hill, Hamish looked fondly down at the village, his village, lying placidly in the sunlight, and wished with all his heart he could get rid of Anna. Her foreignness, her very ruthlessness, was upsetting him.
Seven
What bloody man is that?
—William Shakespeare
Back at the castle, Anna met the members of the family. Andrew Gentle was furious. “We have been questioned and questioned. I do not feel like going over it again.”
The drawing room in which the members of the family were gathered was cold. Outside the narrow windows, the sun shone bravely down, but not a ray of it penetrated into the gloom.
Jimmy Anderson said, “We are going to question you all separately again, and not because of the presence of this Russian police inspector, but because of a new development in the case. We will use the study again. Mr. Andrew Gentle, you first.”
Hamish caught Jimmy by the sleeve. “I’d be better off trying to find out something else.”
“Don’t you want to see how they react to the possibility that their mother might have killed Irena?” muttered Jimmy.
“There are enough of you,” said Hamish. “I’ll be off.”
Outside, he took great gulps of fresh air. Anna’s treatment of Blair still upset him.
He decided to go to the hotel and interview the Irishman again. It was nearly lunchtime. His stomach rumbled.
At the hotel, he went round to the kitchen door. Clarry, the chef, hailed him with delight. Like Willie Lamont, Clarry had worked for Hamish during one of the brief times when Hamish had been elevated to sergeant. If he were ever to be given help again, Hamish wondered if that newcomer would also suddenly discover a yen for the catering trade.
“Any hope of a bite to eat?” asked Hamish.
“Sit yourself down, man, at that wee table by the door and keep out o’ the way. I’ve the lunches to get ready. Soup and a sandwich do ye?”
“That would be grand.”
Clarry had three new Polish girls working for him. He complained that the trouble about Poles was that they took any job going, perfected their English, and then moved up the job ladder as quickly as possible—which meant right out of his kitchen.
The soup was cock-a-leekie, warm and nourishing. Hamish turned over the idea of Mrs. Gentle being a murderer in his head. She had very much wanted to appear a grand and charitable lady. He was sure her image had meant a lot to her. He would need to forget about his newfound dislike of Anna and ask her to contact Scotland Yard to get someone to dig into Mrs. Gentle’s background. He thought the Yard might be more likely to want to please her than Strathbane police headquarters.
When he had finished the plate of egg salad sandwiches which had been served with the soup, he thanked Clarry and went into the dining room in search of Patrick Fitzpatrick.
He noticed that Priscilla and Harold were dining together. They seemed to be getting along very well, and that surprised him. He had found Harold a pompous bore, but the man seemed to be entertaining Priscilla nicely.
He realised the other diners were all staring at him as he stood in the doorway. There was no sign of Patrick. He retreated and asked at the desk if Patrick was in the hotel; he was told that the man had taken a packed lunch and gone out walking.
And then he turned and saw Elspeth. She was wearing an Aran sweater and jeans, with her frizzy hair screwed up in a knot on top of her head.
“Get onto those caterers, did you?” he asked her.
“Let’s go outside,” said Elspeth. “It’s a grand day.”
They stood together in the forecourt. “I think they told us pretty much what they had told you,” said Elspeth, “but it was certainly enough to make a story. Most of the other press have left, but I’m sure my story will bring them running back.”
“If she killed Irena,” said Hamish, “it must have been because Irena had found out something that Mrs. Gentle did not want known. I wonder if her husband really did die of a heart attack.”
“I researched that. Seems to have been okay. He was being treated for heart disease. Due for a bypass operation just before he died.”
“Before she met him, she was a hatcheck girl. Find anything about that in your research?”
“No, because she married Byron Gentle before he made his millions. He was a grammar school boy who got a scholarship to Oxford. After leaving Oxford, he passed his stockbroker exams and started work in the City. He seems to have been very gifted. He married her while he was still studying for his exams. Where’s the Russian?”
“Up at the castle wi’ Jimmy, grilling the folks. I’m right off her.”
“Why?”
“B
lair got on the wrong side of her, so she took him into the bar here and plied him with so much vodka that he got another attack of alcohol poisoning. She could have killed him.”
“Wouldn’t be any great loss if she had,” said Elspeth. “Lochdubh’s abuzz with another murder.”
“What?”
“The production of Macbeth. They’ve all gone stage-mad. Matthew has even volunteered to play Banquo’s ghost. Of course, there aren’t many parts for women—only the three witches and Lady Macbeth.”
“Angela’s playing Lady Macbeth, I know that. Which ones are playing the three witches?”
“The Currie sisters and Mrs. Wellington.”
“Good casting.”
“You know,” said Elspeth, “it would be interesting to know what the Gentle family talks about when they’re on their own.”
“That’s something we can’t find out.”
“If you get me into the castle, I could hide a tape recorder somewhere.”
“Not on your life. This is becoming a police state. We’ve got more CCTV cameras in Britain than any other country in the world. I think Lochdubh must be one o’ the last places without one.”
“I bet you wish they did have one,” said Elspeth. “Then you might have seen who made that phone call, the one you’ve been asking everyone about.”
“Here’s Mr. Fitzpatrick,” said Hamish as the tall Irishman limped into the forecourt. “I’ve got to ask him a few questions.”
“You again!” said Patrick. “What’s up? I’ve walked too far and want to get these boots off.”
“Just a few more questions. Thanks, Elspeth. I’ll talk to you later. What do you do for a living, Mr. Fitzpatrick?”
“I own a bookshop in Dublin.”
“And you are able to take a holiday from the shop?”
“I left my partner in charge.”
“On the day of the first murder, that would be September twenty-fifth, where were you?”
“I wrote it in my diary. I’ve got it here.” He pulled a fat little leather-bound book out of his anorak pocket and thumbed the pages. “Here we are:”
Went up into the foothills in the morning with my binoculars. Saw a capercailzie. Took a photograph. Ate lunch. Walked further but back downhill and round to the forest opposite the village. Very boring, nothing but miles of evergreens. Walked back to the hotel for tea. Fell asleep in the lounge. Woke up with the noise of the press arriving. Showered and changed. Ate dinner. Watched television. Went to bed.
“There you are.”
Hamish’s highland curiosity overcame him. “That’s all verra boring. Why do you bother to write it down?”
“It’s a sort of aide-memoire. The minute I see those brief notes, I can conjure up the whole day.”
“Have you been near The Folly up near Braikie?”
“No.”
“Can you be giving me your name and address?”
“I’ve got a card here.” Once more he ferreted in the capacious pockets of his anorak until he found a small card case. He extracted one and handed it to Hamish. “Why don’t you arrest Harold Jury?”
“What for?” asked Hamish quickly.
“Being the most arrogant man on the planet. What Miss Halburton-Smythe sees in him is beyond me.”
“Likes him, does she?”
“Well, they’ve always got their heads together.”
Hamish walked into the hotel in a thoroughly bad mood. He found Priscilla in a corner of the lounge, poring over a book, a small frown marring her smooth forehead.
“Studying?” asked Hamish.
“I’m studying Macbeth. I have somehow, I don’t know why, allowed myself to be persuaded into taking the role of Lady Macbeth.”
“But Angela was going to do that!”
“Harold decided she wasn’t tall enough.”
“I’m surprised you should bother.”
“The village is all excited about it. It’ll be good for the schoolchildren.”
“Fond of this Harold Jury, are you?”
“A very interesting and intelligent man.”
“Aw, come on!”
“Hamish, let’s face it, the conversation around here can get a bit tedious. There are only four subjects—sheep, fishing, the weather, and more sheep.”
“And murder,” snapped Hamish, turning and stalking off.
Hamish decided to go back to the castle. He wanted to look in Irena’s room again. If she had been blackmailing someone and it had something to do with the family, she might have hidden something somewhere. It was a faint hope because he had checked the room thoroughly—and the forensic team would then have gone over it.
There were no press waiting outside the gate. He stopped and spoke to the policeman on guard. “Still busy up at the castle?”
“No, they’ve all gone back to Strathbane. The family’s still here.”
“What about the Russian?”
“Herself’s gone back to Lochdubh.”
Hamish drove on. No attempt had been made to put anything in the way of a garden in front of the castle. The locals must have been allowed to graze their sheep on the turf or—most likely—have just driven their sheep in when the castle was empty. The turf of what had once been a lawn was short and springy.
He was met in the hall by Andrew—short, hairy, and truculent Andrew—who glared at him. “What now?” he demanded.
“I’ll just be having a wee keek at Irena’s room again.”
Andrew stared at him for a long moment and then said, “You’re that copper she was going to marry, aren’t you?”
“That’s right.”
“Could you do with a drink?”
“A coffee would be fine.”
“Come into the kitchen. There’s still some in the pot.”
Wondering at this sudden friendliness, Hamish followed Andrew into the kitchen.
The kitchen was half modernised with gleaming fittings along one wall, but the old kitchen range still dominated the other, and the floor was stone-flagged and cold. In fact, the whole kitchen was cold.
Hamish asked for a black coffee. “Sit down at the table,” said Andrew. “This is a bad business.”
“I’m sure the police will soon decide they have questioned you enough,” said Hamish, “and then you can all leave. Will you sell this place?”
“I honestly can’t think anyone would want it. Why did you want to marry Irena?”
“She came to me in great distress. Mrs. Gentle had fired her. She was worried about her visa and what she would do when it ran out. I know it sounds silly now, but she was so upset that I decided to marry her. That way she could stay. I don’t want to distress you, but you must have heard by now that Mrs. Gentle, or someone who was helping her, may have killed Irena.”
“That’s ridiculous. Think of the difference in size alone. Irena was a great big strapping girl, and my mother was old and frail.”
“I don’t think she was exactly frail. Irena was killed by a sharp blow to the head. Given enough time and peace and quiet, your mother could well have dragged her over and tipped her into the trunk.”
“I still can’t believe it. Did Irena confide in you much?” asked Andrew.
“No. It stands to reason,” said Hamish. “I thought I was helping a Turkish girl called Ayesha, not a top-flight Russian hooker.”
“I’ll leave you to finish your coffee,” said Andrew abruptly, and rose and left the room.
Hamish stared after him. Now, there’s someone worried that Irena told me something the family don’t want me to know. He was suddenly hungry. There was a loaf of bread on the counter. He cut two slices, then opened the fridge, took out a packet of butter and one of ham, and made himself a couple of sandwiches. He poured another cup of coffee and sat down at the table.
He was interrupted by daughter Sarah. “What do you think you are doing?” she demanded.
“Mr. Andrew Gentle kindly offered me coffee and told me to take my time finishing it,” said Hamish blandly. �
��I brought my sandwiches with me,” he added, hoping that Sarah would not notice the loaf was now missing two slices.
She sat down suddenly next to him and ran her fingers through her hair. “This is awful.”
“It should be over soon.”
She clutched his arm. “You know?”
“I simply meant you should be able to leave very soon. Do you think it possible that your mother could have killed Irena?”
“I confess I found my mother pretty cruel. But murder! No, it’s ridiculous. She liked power over people, you know. She often wondered out loud why Irena put up with it, and wondered whether she were an illegal alien. If only my mother hadn’t been murdered after Irena was killed, I might have thought Irena had done it.”
“At the family party, could Irena have possibly overheard anything that might lead her to blackmail your mother? I mean, why should Mrs. Gentle, after having treated her so badly, suddenly decide to give her a wedding reception and ten thousand pounds?”
“Nothing I can think of. There was a lot of friction because Mark was stirring things up, oiling to Mother and being poisonous to all of us behind her back.”
“He must be delighted that he benefits from the will and Mrs. Gentle didn’t have time to change it.”
“He should be the prime suspect, but it appears he has a cast-iron alibi.”
“Do you all have alibis?”
“Yes, of course. But the police seem determined to try to break them. That’s why we’re still all here. That Russian inspector is the worst. She raps out question after question.”
John Gentle, Sarah’s nephew, drifted into the kitchen. “Consorting with the enemy, Sarah?”
“I think he’s on our side,” said Sarah with a measured look at Hamish. “After all, Irena nearly tricked him into marriage.”
John smiled maliciously as he settled himself into a chair opposite Hamish. “She was trying to hook a bigger fish,” he said.
“What? Who?” demanded Hamish.
