Hamish Macbeth 24 (2008) - Death of a Gentle Lady

by M C Beaton

  Hamish spent a pleasant day wandering around the village and chatting to the locals. When he settled down for the evening in front of the fire, he wondered if the murderer would come for him. If I were the murderer, thought Hamish, I wouldn’t drive down that road into the village. Everyone would see the car. So what would I do? I’d park a bit away at the top of the road and wait till it was after midnight. The weather’s on the turn, and there’s no moon tonight. I’d come quietly down into the village. But how would I know which cottage?

  He lay back on the sofa and stared up at the nicotine-stained ceiling. He should really report this place to the Scottish Tourist Board, he thought. What a dump for a holiday let! His eyes began to close, and soon he was fast asleep.

  He was awakened by a hammering at the door and the voice of his neighbour, Ellie, shouting, “There’s a fire down by the harbour!”

  He made for the door and then stopped. That’s it, he thought. Light a big fire, get everyone running out of their cottages, and wait.

  “You go ahead,” said Hamish.

  He pulled a black woollen cap over his head, then pulled a sweater on over his shirt. He left the cottage quietly and headed towards the river. He had seen a track leading along the side of the river up to the top of the cliffs. Near the top, he turned and looked back. A shed by the harbour had been set on fire; the locals were passing buckets of water, one to the other, to throw on the flames.

  Hamish gained the road and walked along to the west, looking for a parked car. He then turned and walked back along to the east. At last he saw it on a bend of the road. It was a small battered-looking van, and the number plates had been removed.

  He tried the handles at the back and found that the van was unlocked. He climbed inside, shut the doors behind him, and settled down to wait.

  An hour had passed when he heard the sounds of someone approaching. Let her drive off a bit, thought Hamish grimly, and then I’ll have a surprise for her.

  The driver’s door opened. He heard the engine roar into life, and in a split second he realised he had not heard the driver’s door close.

  He tore open the back door of the van, tumbled out, and leapt, seeing nothing but blackness below him. His flaying hands caught hold of a branch sticking out of the cliff. He clung on for dear life.

  There was the sound of an explosion far below, and then flames shot up into the night sky.

  He saw he was hidden by the overhang of the cliff. His arms felt as if they were about to be torn from their sockets. He kicked his boots into the soft ground of the cliff until he found footholds and felt the pressure on his arms slacken.

  In the light from the flames below, he saw a rocky ledge to his left. With all the strength left in his arms, he swung himself over and fell panting on the ledge. Using tufts of grass for purchase, he swung himself back up over the top of the cliff and, taking out a powerful torch, swung it to the left and right.

  Moorland stretched for miles either way. He pulled out his mobile phone and woke up Jimmy Anderson.

  “I’ll get the police helicopter up and we’ll search the moors,” said Jimmy. “Go back and lock yourself in.”

  Hamish stayed awake, listening to the sound of the police helicopter overhead. At last he could not bear the inactivity any longer and went out. The harbour was full of police cars. A forensic team was working on the burnt-out van, which had fortunately hit a large rock instead of plunging down onto one of the houses.

  James Fringley appeared beside him. “I gather you’re not who you said you were,” he said.

  “No. Who told you?”

  “A copper asked me which cottage had been rented to Hamish Macbeth. I gather that’s you and you’re that policeman from Lochdubh. Why are you here?”

  “Headquarters has me hidden up here because some murderer is after me,” said Hamish wearily.

  “Do me and everyone in this village a favour and get the hell out of it as soon as you can. There were fishing nets burnt in that shed, and that van could have killed someone.”

  Hamish guessed the would-be killer had probably guessed he would search for him up on the clifftop. The back of the van had been cramped, and he had changed his position from time to time. Maybe the van had rocked a little, alerting the murderer to the fact that he was inside.

  Jimmy arrived at Hamish’s cottage at six in the morning to find the policeman still awake, packed and ready to leave.

  “No success,” said Jimmy. “We kept the helicopter up as long as we could but then Daviot came on the phone screaming about the cost. All we can do now is put a police guard outside your station.”

  “I’ll alert the villagers,” said Hamish. “Any strange woman appearing in Lochdubh and they’ll make a citizens’ arrest. There is no need for a police guard. Do you know, I don’t think she or he will try again. I think whoever it is could possibly be mad, and made even madder with fear that I might guess something.”

  “It’s up to you. What a dump this place is. Worse than Lochdubh.”

  “It’s really lovely,” said Hamish. “That reminds me. I’ve a present for you.”

  He took out the wood carving that looked so like Blair.

  “Man, that’s grand,” said Jimmy. “Can I stick pins in it?”

  Lochdubh looked reassuringly the same. As soon as he had unpacked, Hamish got into bed, joined by his cat and dog, and fell sound asleep.

  He awoke in the late afternoon to find Elspeth standing over him.

  “You cannae chust walk into a man’s bedroom!” he howled.

  “I came to see if you were alive,” said Elspeth. “I bought you a present.”

  “I don’t want a present,” said Hamish sulkily. “All I want iss a bit o’ peace.”

  “Smell something?” asked Elspeth.

  Hamish propped himself up on the pillows and sniffed the air. “Coffee?”

  “Yes, good coffee. I bought you a percolator.”

  “Have you seen Sonsie and Lugs?”

  “Last time I saw them, they were strolling along the waterfront, heading for the Italian restaurant. They must be hungry.”

  Hamish got out of bed and stretched and yawned. Then he realised he had not put on any pyjamas and was stark naked.

  Elspeth giggled. “That’s quite a blush you’ve got, Hamish. It goes all the way—”

  “Get out!” he roared.

  When Hamish had washed and dressed, he found Elspeth in the kitchen. She poured him a cup of coffee.

  Hamish drank a little and then smiled. “This is grand. Thank you. Now, what do I have to do for this?”

  “Nothing. There’s a clampdown on reporting what happened up in Grianach. Editor’s phoned all over. Story suppressed. Unless you can think of anything, I’ve got to get back to Glasgow.”

  Hamish looked at her thoughtfully. She had lit the stove. The kitchen was warm. She was wearing a chunky grey sweater over jeans, and the grey seemed to highlight the odd silvery colour of her eyes. Her hair had reverted to its usual frizzy look, which seemed to suit her better than when it was straightened.

  “I may be back,” said Elspeth. “The editor of the Highland Times is retiring, and Matthew is taking over as editor. He’ll need a reporter.”

  “Wouldn’t it seem a bit tame after the city?”

  “Not with the goings-on you seem to conjure up. I’m highland to the bone, and I don’t really seem to fit in in Glasgow. Then the photographer I have with me, Billy, is a complete lout. All he does is sneer at this place, and the more he sneers at it, the more I realise how much I love it.”

  “I was sorry to hear about you being jilted,” said Hamish. Elspeth had been left at the church on her wedding day. She had been about to marry a fellow reporter but he had run off and left her. “Were you very hurt?”

  “I was angry and then I was relieved,” said Elspeth. “And while we’re on the subject of jilted people, how are you getting on with Priscilla?”

  “I cancelled the engagement,” said Hamish. “Not her. I
havenae seen much o’ her. She’s traipsing around the hills and heather with that Irishman.”

  “Not any more. He’s left, and she’s too busy rehearsing her part with that writer. I’m still amazed you actually got around to proposing marriage to someone, Hamish. That Russian, I mean.”

  He sighed. “I thought I was doing the right thing, Elspeth. I did it to keep my police station. And the idea was that we’d divorce after a while.”

  “It’s wonderful how you got permission to marry her so easily. They’re clamping down on these arranged marriages. There was a woman down in England who charged a hefty fee to marry foreigners. When they caught up with her, she’d married five and not a divorce paper in sight.”

  Hamish suddenly remembered the day he had bought an engagement ring to present to Elspeth, only to find out that she had promised to marry her fellow reporter.

  He had bought Irena another ring. He wondered what had happened to it. Inspector Anna had arranged to have the body flown back to Moscow for burial. Why she had persuaded her bosses to go to that expense, he did not know.

  He suddenly decided to take the plunge. “Excuse me a minute,” he said. He went into the bedroom and took the ring in its little box out of his bedside table. His heart was hammering.

  Just as he walked into the kitchen, the door opened and Priscilla walked in.

  Hamish stuffed the box in his pocket and shouted, “Damn it, don’t you ever knock?”

  “I’m off,” said Elspeth hurriedly.

  “I’ll come with you,” said Priscilla. “It seems I am not welcome.”

  Say something, yelled a voice in Hamish’s head. But he stood there, frozen, as they both walked off.

  He walked along to the Italian restaurant to be told that his animals had been fed and then had gone away.

  By asking people on the waterfront, he learned that they had been spotted heading for Angela Brodie’s cottage.

  Angela opened the door to him. “I’ve sent them home,” she said. “The poor things seemed so hungry that I fed them first.”

  “Angela, they’ll be as fat as butter. They’ve already been stuffing themselves at the Italian restaurant.”

  “Oh, well, they say that pets take after their owner, and you always were a moocher, Hamish. I suppose you want a coffee.”

  “No, I do not. I haff the verra good coffeemaker. Elspeth gave it to me.”

  “Did she, now. You ought to marry that lassie, Hamish.”

  Hamish stared down at her, his mouth slightly open and a vacant expression on his face.

  “What’s up?” asked Angela. “You look as if you’ve been struck by lightning.”

  “I’ve been struck with a flash o’ the blindingly obvious,” said Hamish.

  He turned and ran to the police station, got into the Land Rover, and sped off to the Tommel Castle Hotel.

  He erupted into the manager’s office. “Where’s Elspeth?” he asked. “Which room?”

  “Oh, she’s gone. Left about ten minutes ago. Coffee?”

  Hamish slumped down in a chair in the office.

  “Why not?” he said.

  When he left the manager’s office, he stood in the reception wondering whether to chase after Elspeth. But that sudden desire to ask her to marry him had faded. He sighed. Perhaps when this case was solved—if it ever was solved—he might take a trip down to Glasgow.

  “Got over your bad temper?” asked Priscilla, interrupting his thoughts.

  “Sorry about that,” said Hamish. “This case is getting to me. Murderers are usually stupid and have nearly got away with it before because they were lucky amateurs and the last people you would suspect. But this one isn’t an amateur. The only amateur attempt was that wire on the stairs.”

  “I’ve heard weird and wonderful stories about what happened up at Grianach.”

  “Still no odd strange woman booked in here?”

  “No, only Polish maids. Do you know the Northern Times has brought out a free Polish newspaper?”

  “Maybe the Highland Times will do the same.”

  “Not enough up here as yet. Have dinner with me and tell me about it.”

  Hamish hesitated. Priscilla smiled. “Sonsie and Lugs will be fine. Gosh, it’s like dealing with a man with a possessive wife waiting at home.”

  “All right, then. That would be grand.”

  Over dinner, Hamish told her all about the happenings in Grianach. When he had finished, Priscilla said, “You must still be in shock. Have you considered that?”

  Hamish stared at her for a long moment. Was he? Was that what had prompted his sudden desire to propose to Elspeth? And it was hard to think of Elspeth with the cool beauty of Priscilla facing him across the table.

  “I might be,” he said.

  “I called on your mother the other day,” said Priscilla.

  “I was over in Rogart and thought I would look her up. You should go home a bit more often, Hamish.”

  “I’ll try. I bought presents for her in Grianach. Oh, I’ve one for you. Ma was so upset about the wedding. She made me feel ashamed, particularly when it got out that Irena was a prostitute.”

  “So what happens now?”

  “I think I’ll spend the next few days writing down everything I know. They might give me time off. I’m tempted to go down to London and talk to Kylie Gentle. I can’t ignore the fact that it must, somehow, have something to do with that family.”

  Eleven

  I think for my part that one half of the nation is mad—and the other half not very sound.

  —Tobias Smollett

  Hamish was granted leave. Daviot seemed relieved that he would be out of the way. Jimmy said that the van had been stolen from outside a croft near Grianach. He supplied Hamish with Kylie Gentle’s address in London but warned him that he was on his own. He would need to cover his own expenses.

  Jimmy had a further bit of astonishing news. Blair was back on the job and sober. “He’s found God,” said Jimmy. “He keeps a Bible on his desk and lectures us all on our sins. He was a nasty bully when he was drunk and now he’s even nastier. The man’s a right religious maniac.”

  “Won’t last long,” said Hamish cynically. “One setback and he’ll be screaming that God doesn’t exist and straight down to the pub.”

  Anxious not to leave his pets too long, Hamish drove to Inverness and took an early plane to London. Kylie and her husband lived in a flat in St. George’s Mansions in Gloucester Road in Kensington.

  He took the tube to the Gloucester Road tube station and walked along until he reached St. George’s Mansions. He rang the bell marked GENTLE, hoping his journey wouldn’t turn out to be a waste of time with them gone on holiday somewhere. But Kylie herself answered on the intercom. When Hamish announced himself, there was a little gasp of surprise, and then he was buzzed in.

  Kylie, looking like an elegant stick insect, stood in the doorway to greet him. “What’s happened now?” she asked crossly. “The police have already been round asking if any of us have been near a place called Grianach. I told them we’d never even heard of it. Come in.”

  Hamish, feeling uncomfortable in all the glory of his best suit, collar, and tie, followed her into a pleasant living room.

  “It’s got nothing to do with that,” he said. “I can’t help feeling that something happened at your family reunion that maybe gave Irena the idea she could blackmail someone apart from Mark.”

  “Sit down,” said Kylie. “Didn’t we go through that all before?”

  “I thought maybe you might have had time to think of something.”

  Hamish studied her covertly. Could she be the murderer? Could she be trying to protect someone?

  Her face was Botoxed into expressionlessness. She stared at him for a long moment. Then she said, “It was the usual business, my mother-in-law demanding we all run around her, hinting that if she did not have the correct amount of grovel, she’d leave her money elsewhere. Mark was oiling about. Then he suddenly got furious. He�
�d got the news that she planned to change her will. He was talking a lot to Irena. Then he suddenly seemed to get cheerful again. Oh, he made one odd comment. He said, There’s a bastard in every family and a skeleton in every cupboard, isn’t there, Auntie?” Mrs. Gentle went quite white with rage.”

  “I think I might pay a call on him,” said Hamish. “Where is he?”

  “I’ll write it down for you. It’s a garage in Peckham.”

  Hamish looked up the address in a battered old copy of the London A to Z he had brought with him. He found the nearest tube station on the map and set off.

  It was a cold, dusty, windy day. London seemed much dirtier than he remembered.

  When he found the garage, it was closed. He asked around and was told it had been closed for the last week. No one knew where the workers were.

  He pulled out his phone and asked Kylie where Mark Gentle lived, hoping it would be somewhere nearby, but Kylie gave him an address in East India Dock.

  It took him an hour and a half to get there. Mark’s flat was in the middle of what had been damned as Yuppie Town. Nothing but flats for the City workers. No shops or pubs or churches.

  Mark lived in a small converted Victorian warehouse fronting onto one of the old docks. Hamish rang the bell, but there was no reply. He rang all the bells until a woman answered, and he said, “Police. Let me in. I’m looking for Mark Gentle.”

  She buzzed him in. He mounted the stairs to Mark’s flat and hammered on the door. He could hear the sound of rap music coming from inside. He knocked again.

  He took out a bunch of skeleton keys and fiddled with the lock for half an hour until he got the door open. His heart sank as he recognised the smell.

  He walked in through a small hall into a large living-room-cum-kitchen. Mark Gentle lay sprawled on the floor. The back of his head was matted with dried blood, and there was a pool of dried blood on the floor. He still had a wineglass clutched in one hand; over by the window, a bottle lay on its side.

  Rap music was belting out from a stereo. Hamish switched it off.

  He pulled on a pair of latex gloves. He could do nothing for Mark now. The man looked as if he had been dead for at least a few days. He would need to call the police, but he wanted to search first.