by M C Beaton
There were two bedrooms. One had been turned into an office. The drawers in a large desk had all been pulled out, and papers were spread over the floor. He examined a computer and found that the hard drive had been taken.
Hamish knelt down and began to go through the papers but they seemed to be all to do with the garage: receipts, orders for spare parts, and wage slips.
Even the wastepaper basket had been emptied out on the floor. His eye was caught by a crumpled sheet of pink paper. He picked it up and smoothed it out. It was a letter. He glanced down at the signature. Margaret Gentle! She had written, “Dear Mark, You can come and stay if you like, but I am going to change my will. I am leaving everything equally to Sarah and Andrew. You have only yourself to blame by thinking you could blackmail me.”
So he knew about her plans to change the will before he even went there, thought Hamish. Had he decided he needed an alibi because he had something more sinister in mind than blackmail? I’ll never know now, he decided. He carefully wiped the front door in case he had left any fingerprints.
He wondered what to do. If he phoned the police and waited for them, he would be in grave trouble with them for arriving on their territory without telling them. Strathbane would be furious. Blair would make the most of it.
The woman who had buzzed him in had not seen him. His flaming red hair was covered in a black wool cap, which he had put on when he had walked from the Docklands Light Railway station.
His footprints would be all over the place. But if he wiped the floor, he would be destroying evidence. Mark Gentle had known his killer. The bottle and glass seemed to tell Hamish that he had poured himself a drink with his back to his visitor when he had been struck down. He wished he had not called out “Police!”
He sighed. He would have to do his duty. There was no getting away with it. He remembered seeing a surveillance camera over the door. The only lie he would tell was that he had found the door unlocked.
Hamish was grilled by the Metropolitan Police for two days, periodically being questioned when he wasn’t actually being shouted at. Orders had come down from Strathbane that he was, on his return, to stay at his police station, suspended from duties, until a disciplinary hearing.
The surveillance camera over the door turned out to be empty of tape. At first it was thought that the murderer might have removed it, but it was found to be only cheapness on the part of the landlords.
Hamish did not tell anyone that Jimmy Anderson had known what he was doing, considering that one of them in deep trouble was enough.
It was at the end of Hamish’s second day in London that the atmosphere suddenly thawed. It was actually said that the Met thought he had done good work and were prepared to forgive and forget. He was told that on his return, he should go back to his normal duties. There was to be no disciplinary hearing.
He was just leaving Scotland Yard when a familiar voice said, “Hamish!”
He turned round. Anna Krokovsky stood there, smiling at him. “We go for dinner,” she said.
“I’m rushing off to the airport to try to catch the plane,” said Hamish.
“Nonsense. You owe me dinner after all I have been doing for you.”
“Oh, that’s why…You spoke up on my behalf.”
“Of course I did. The fools. It would have taken them ages to find that body. There is a good Italian restaurant near here.”
Hamish gave in. It was turning out to be an expensive trip. In the short time between bouts of questioning, he had had to run out and buy a clean shirt and underwear. He had been lodged in a police flat with a large boozy constable who had a vehement hatred of the Scots and said so at great length.
“Why are you still here?” he asked Anna when they were seated in the restaurant.
“I am nearly finished. I leave for Russia next week.”
“Why did you go to the trouble of having Irena’s body flown home?”
“That was on the instructions of Grigori Antonov, her former protector. Strangely enough, he still seemed to retain an affection for her. Odd. He could have bought any pretty female he wanted. Now, from your investigations, it seems that Mark found out something about Mrs. Gentle that she did not want known.”
“There was that ‘bastard in every family’ remark,” said Hamish. “Could it be that Mrs. Gentle had had at one time an illegitimate child?”
“They are still searching the records.”
“The footprints in the flat were size seven,” said Hamish, “or so they told me. That surprises me because I’m convinced our murderer is still in the north. How long had he been dead?”
“A week. But you came down, planning to be here only for the day.”
They ordered their food.
“I did not for a moment think I would find another dead body,” said Hamish. “I was still looking for thon mysterious woman. I went to talk to Kylie Gentle again. She said something about Mark talking to Mrs. Gentle about a bastard and a skeleton in the closet.”
“So you think there might be some illegitimate member of the family lurking around?”
“Maybe not. Maybe ‘bastard’ was just a curse.”
“I feel if you dropped the whole thing—you personally—then there would be no more threats on your life.” Anna rolled a generous forkful of linguine and thrust it into her mouth. Tomato sauce rolled down her chin like blood.
“I cannae do that!” exclaimed Hamish. “Leave a murderer on the loose?”
“Why not? Cases are unsolved every day.”
“Is this what you do in Moscow? Have three murders and chust walk away?”
“If my life was threatened, I might,” said Anna. “You should be flattered. Our murderer obviously rates your intelligence highly.”
“I think it’s because I put it about that Irena had told me something significant.”
“And do you know anything?”
“Not a thing,” said Hamish. “You’ve got tomato sauce on your chin.”
“But surely the murderer would expect you to convey any knowledge to the police.”
“Not if he or she is a secretive plotting madman or -woman. But it must be a woman. There are the footprints and the woman in the phone box.”
“Could be an accomplice.”
They talked on, turning over ideas, until Hamish glanced at his watch. “If I hurry,” he said, “I can catch the late-night flight to Inverness.”
“Go on, then. I will pay for this meal and put it on expenses.”
Hamish thanked her and fled. He did not return to the police flat, considering that he was only sacrificing some dirty laundry and a disposable razor.
When he finally arrived at the police station in Lochdubh, it was to find a message from Jimmy telling him to send over a full report and take a few days off.
As he struggled along the waterfront the following morning, bending his lean form before a vicious gale, he decided to go to Patel’s and buy some groceries.
The shop was busy, and a poster behind the counter advertised the production of Macbeth. It was to be shown in two days’ time.
Hamish bought a ticket. “Eight pounds!” he exclaimed.
“A lot of money was spent on the costumes,” said Mr. Patel. “You cannae hae kings and the like dressed in any auld things.”
Hamish gloomily paid up. The visit to London had made a hole in his dwindling bank balance. He bought groceries and then decided to take the presents for his mother over to Rogart and spend the day there.
He did not return until the early evening, feeling relaxed and comfortable and full of good food. He wondered how Priscilla would cope with being Lady Macbeth. It was quite a big part to learn.
Waves were mounting on the sea loch and the wind screamed and roared through the blackness of the long northern night.
The following morning, he took out the present he had bought for Priscilla and went up to the Tommel Castle Hotel.
He found Priscilla in her room, walking up and down, rehearsing her script. S
he broke off when she saw him.
“You’re supposed to knock, Hamish.”
“You never knock at the station. I’ve a present for you.” He handed her the wood carving.
“This is beautiful. Where did you get it?”
“Up in Grianach. You should take a run up there and buy some stuff for the hotel gift shop. They have grand tweeds as well.”
“I might go over tomorrow. Care to come with me?”
“Fine. I’m not welcome there and was told not to come back, but if you buy stuff, they won’t mind seeing me again. How’s the play going?”
“I wish I’d never started. I keep reminding myself it’s not the Royal Shakespeare Company.”
“You’ll be fine. Thon Irishman has left?”
“Yes.” A slight look of guilt appeared in Priscilla’s blue eyes. She felt she had led Patrick on only to show one highland constable who had jilted her that she was attractive to other men. She had found it quite difficult to persuade Patrick to leave.
“Are you sure you want to go tomorrow?” asked Hamish. “Surely you’ll be rehearsing like mad.”
“I’ll be glad to get away from here for a bit.”
“Why?”
“Why, why, why. Always the copper. If I work hard on the script today and put it all out of my mind tomorrow, then I’ll do better than if I worried and worried. Come at nine. I’ll get us a picnic lunch.”
The following morning, before Hamish arrived, Priscilla was just finishing her breakfast when she was joined by Harold Jury. “We’ve got a hard day’s work ahead of us,” he said. “I’ll drive you down to the village hall for the final rehearsal.”
“I won’t be there,” said Priscilla. “I’m going off for a picnic with Hamish and I’m going to put the whole thing out of my mind until this evening.”
“You can’t do that. I am the producer and I am ordering you to be at the hall!”
Priscilla stood up. She wavered. Then Harold put an arm around her waist and said softly, “I know you fancy me, darling, and that’s what’s making you nervous. Once this play’s over, we’ll have fun.”
“I’ve never encouraged you,” said Priscilla. .
“Oh, yes you have. I saw you trying to make me jealous by flirting with that Irishman.”
“Get this straight,” said Priscilla, her eyes like chips of ice. “I’ve never fancied you, nor will I ever.”
“You’re nothing but a prick tease.”
“And you’re nothing but a prick,” said Priscilla. “Get yourself another Lady Macbeth.”
She headed for the door. He caught her arm and twisted her round, his eyes blazing. “You can’t do this to me!”
Mr. Johnson appeared flanked by the chef, Clarry, who was wielding a meat cleaver.
“Miss Halburton-Smythe,” said Mr. Johnson, “I believe Hamish is waiting for you.”
Harold released her, his face flaming with rage.
“What’s up?” asked Hamish as he climbed into the passenger seat of Priscilla’s car after lifting Sonsie and Lugs into the back.
“I’m not going to be playing Lady Macbeth,” said Priscilla. “Harold ordered me to stay for the rehearsal today.”
“You can see his point,” said Hamish awkwardly. “Or was there anything else?”
“Yes, he got frisky.”
“Oh, dear. Then who is going to play Lady Macbeth?”
“Angela has been understudying.”
“Poor Angela.”
“Hamish, I have just endured a rather nasty scene. Don’t mention that damn play again!”
The day was blustery but fine as Priscilla negotiated the zigzag road down to Grianach.
“It’s beautiful, Hamish. That’s a good natural harbour. Good protection. The waves out there look enormous.”
Priscilla parked by the harbour. Hamish let the dog and cat out and stood breathing in the clean, salty air. James Fringley came striding forward to meet them.
“I thought I told you never to come here again,” he said.
“This is Miss Priscilla Halburton-Smythe,” said Hamish. “Priscilla, Mr. James Fringley, who handles the sales of the stuff. Priscilla here is anxious to give you an order for goods for her hotel gift shop.”
James smiled. “If you just walk up to the house with me, Miss Halburton-Smythe, I can show you a range of goods.”
“You wait here, Hamish,” said Priscilla.
Hamish sat down on a bollard and looked out over the glittering water. The light’s too bright and sharp, he thought. A big storm is coming. While he sat there, a few of the locals appeared, saw him, and sheered away.
Pity, he thought. I could get to love this place almost as much as Lochdubh. How far away it is from the cities, the drugs, and the crime.
He turned his dinner with Anna over in his mind. There was something about the woman that repelled him. It was as if some inner kernel of her was as cold as ice. He had met Russians before, all sorts of warm, jolly people. Still, to have risen to the rank of inspector must mean she had to be very tough indeed.
Hamish suddenly wanted a cigarette. He wanted to sit smoking and staring out to sea. But he had given up some time ago. I would be stupid to start again. Just the one, he thought. He rose and went into the village shop and said to the troll behind the counter, “Ten Bensons, please.”
A flood of angry Gaelic erupted from the man, which Hamish translated to mean that if he didn’t get out of the shop he would be hit on the head with an axe.
He retreated to the harbour. The craving had gone and he gave a sigh of relief. To think he had nearly blown it.
Priscilla came back with a delighted James Fringley. “Business is over, Hamish. I think we should go up into the hills for our picnic.”
As she drove off, Hamish asked, “Where’s the goods?”
“He’s bringing it over tomorrow. That stuff will sell like hotcakes. I’m even going to put an ad in the Highland Times. Christmas is coming, and people will be looking for presents.”
They picnicked on a flat rock in a hollow protected from the wind high up on the moors.
Hamish, watching Priscilla as she efficiently laid out the picnic, thought that she was, for him, rather like cigarettes. Just when he thought the craving had gone, back it would come. He longed to take her in his arms but dreaded rejection. He forced himself to chat lightly about this and that until the yearning went away.
When they arrived back at the hotel, Hamish asked, “Will you be watching the performance?”
“No, I’m going off to London. I’ll tell Mr. Johnson about Fringley bringing the stuff for the gift shop.”
“You seem to be able to come and go with that job of yours.”
“I take contracts, Hamish. That’s the blessing about being a computer programmer. I’ll start another contract when I get back.”
Hamish was torn between relief and sadness that she was going. Without Priscilla around, he could really concentrate on the case.
He decided to call on Angela and see if she was ready for her big part. He found her in her kitchen, sitting in front of her computer as usual.
“What’s this?” asked Hamish. “I thought you would be walking up and down, feverishly remembering your lines.”
“I’m not going, Hamish.”
“Why?”
Angela sighed and pushed a lock of hair away from her thin face. “I just don’t want to do it. It’s Harold. Why should I bother to help him out when he was so rude to me?”
“How rude?”
“I went up to the hotel yesterday to talk to him about writing. He said to me loftily that he couldn’t be bothered wasting the time to talk to me. He said if I was having difficulties, I should wait for inspiration. So when he came tearing down here to tell me to play Lady Macbeth, I told him I hadn’t the time because I was waiting for inspiration. I suggested he get inspired and find someone else.”
“Unlike you to be so harsh.”
“Hamish, I have met many writers at writers’ co
nventions and not one has blethered on about inspiration. It’s hard work, and you just sit down and do it. Every writer knows that.”
Hamish scratched his fiery hair. “Angela, don’t you feel you might be letting the rest of the folk in the village down? They’re all so excited about being in a play.”
“Yes, I was struck by guilty conscience, so I phoned him and said if he was absolutely stuck, I would do it. He said harshly he had someone and hung up on me.”
“I wonder who it could be?” marvelled Hamish. “No one else has had time to learn the lines.”
“Maybe he’s got some actress up from London. Anyway, I’m still mad at him.”
“Writing seems to have stiffened your spine,” said Hamish. “The old Angela could be bullied into doing anything for anyone. Even your kitchen’s still clean!”
“Well, you know how it is. I think I am a real writer at last. I sit down at the computer and am overcome by a burning desire to defrost the fridge.”
“Keep at it. I’ll be going to the play tonight. What about you?”
“I can’t now, Hamish. What if it’s a dreadful failure and everyone blames me for letting them down?”
“I’m sure the ambitious Harold will have found someone.”
Twelve
The glass is falling hour by hour, the glass will fall forever
But if you break the bloody glass you won’t hold up the weather.
—Louis MacNeice
The wind had roared away earlier and now mist was creeping up the loch, making the dark evening even darker. Hamish was glad they had a calm night for the performance because he had checked his barometer and the glass was falling.
He walked along to the church hall. He wondered whether the murderer would try to kill him again.
People were streaming out of cottages, and the air was full of excited chatter. I don’t like Harold, thought Hamish, but he’s certainly brought a bit of excitement to the village.
The men had all put on their best suits; some of the women were even wearing their church hats. Hamish was in casual clothes and wondered whether he should go back and change but decided against it.
