by M C Beaton
The seating was on a first-come, first-served basis, and he could only get a seat at the back of the hall.
He studied his programme. Priscilla was still listed as playing Lady Macbeth.
The hall was full. He recognised people from other towns and villages in Sutherland. The play had been well advertised in all the local papers.
The school orchestra were murdering the ‘Toreador’s March’ from Carmen. Too ambitious, thought Hamish.
At last, they screeched off into silence and the curtains parted. The Currie sisters and Mrs. Wellington, barely recognisable in their costumes and make·up; as the three witches, began, “When shall we three meet again ⁄ In thunder lightning or in rain? Or in rain?”
“That’s our Jessie,” murmured a woman in front of Hamish.
The play proceeded, the lines of Shakespeare sounding odd. Hamish wondered idly whether he had wanted his characters to speak in Scottish accents.
It was amateur, very amateur. Macbeth stumbled over his lines. Matthew, playing Banquo, made a wild gesture and his kilt fell off, revealing a natty pair of boxer shorts decorated with red hearts. The audience cheered. Just when it looked as if the production would degenerate into farce, Lady Macbeth made her entrance.
Hamish sat up straight and peered over the heads of the villagers in front of them. She was tall with long red hair. She began to speak. It was a deep husky voice, mesmerising, her lines spoken with passion. The effect on the audience was electric.
It was only after half an hour that Hamish realised that Lady Macbeth was not being played by a woman but by Harold Jury himself.
No one bothered about the stumbling actors surrounding Harold. He held the audience from beginning to end, and when he walked forward to take his curtain call and whipped off his wig, there were cries of amazement followed by resounding cheers.
Hamish slid out of the hall and returned to the police station. He needed to think. They had been looking for a woman. What if the murderer had been someone dressed up as a woman?
It couldn’t be Harold because he was a well-known author. Surely Harold had been properly checked into. Or had he?
The police, including himself, had not asked where he was on the days of the murders.
He decided to go to Strathbane in the morning and consult Jimmy. But Blair would be there, demanding to know what he was doing.
Was Harold one of those multitalented people? He had acted like a true professional. What size were Harold’s feet? Surely not size seven. He was a tall man. He had been wearing a long gown covering his feet.
Hamish hurried back to the hall. He knew there was to be a buffet supper afterwards, the Italian restaurant having generously offered to contribute it.
The actors were still in costume. Harold had his wig on again and was in the middle of an admiring throng.
Willie Lament was serving out plates of food. He hailed Hamish. “Wasn’t Harold a real Oliver?”
“Olivier” corrected Hamish automatically.
“Have some chicken and penne,” urged Willie.
“Not now,” said Hamish. Willie looked at Hamish in surprise, wondering what was causing him to turn down a free meal.
If only I could see under Harold’s dress and get a look at his feet, thought Hamish.
He turned back. “Any wine, Willie?”
“Aye, look, bottles of the stuff. Help yourself.”
Hamish poured himself a plastic cup of red wine and headed in Harold’s direction. Harold saw him approach and smiled, his eyes glittering in his stage make·up;.
“Here’s our local bobby,” he said.
“I thought you were chust grand,” said Hamish. He stumbled, and his cup of wine shot over the skirt of Harold’s costume.
“You clumsy oaf!” yelled Harold.
“Really, Hamish,” complained Mrs. Wellington. She took a paper napkin and began to dab at Harold’s long velvet skirt.
“It’s all right,” said Harold, rapidly recovering from his outburst. “Red skirt, red wine, no damage done.”
But that skirt still remained over his shoes.
“I’m right sorry,” said Hamish. He pulled his notebook out of his pocket. “I’d like it fine if you could give me an autograph.”
“Certainly,” said Harold.
Hamish dropped his notebook. He crouched down and stumbled forward, knocking Harold over.
People rushed to help Harold to his feet.
“I’d better go,” babbled Hamish. “I’m a menace.”
“That you are,” boomed Mrs. Wellington.
Hamish fled the hall. His heart was beating hard. When Harold had tumbled over, it was revealed he was wearing a pair of women’s shoes with low heels—and Hamish was willing to bet they were size seven. One thing was for sure: Harold had small feet.
He went back to the police station, got into the Land Rover, and headed off through the night to Strathbane. Jimmy lived in a flat near the police headquarters.
Hamish mounted the stairs and rang the bell. Jimmy answered the door, his eyes bloodshot and a strong smell of whisky emanating from him.
“Hamish! What’s up?”
“Let me in, Jimmy, and I’ll tell you.”
Jimmy listened carefully and then said, “I’ll put some coffee on. I need a clear head.”
He went off to the kitchen and came back with two mugs of black coffee.
“Now, let me get this straight,” he said. “You see Harold Jury acting as Lady Macbeth. He’s got small feet. So you immediately decide that he might be a murderer. He’s a fairly well-known author, Hamish.”
“Not that well known. He was only nominated for the Booker.”
“What are you getting at? That he might not be Harold Jury? He was interviewed by Strathbane Television, and no one popped up to say that man is an impostor.”
“Humour me, Jimmy. I daren’t go down to London again. Phone the Met in the morning without Blair hearing you and get someone to go round to his flat and check with the neighbours for a description.”
“No need for that. There’s probably a photograph of him on the Internet.”
Jimmy switched on the computer. Hamish waited anxiously. “Here we are. It’s Harold all right.”
“Let me see.”
“There he is at the awards ceremony.”
“It’s hard to tell from that photo,” said Hamish. “Looks the same. Hey, look at his feet. Can you enlarge that?”
“Sure.”
“See!” said Hamish, practically quivering with excitement. “Normal large feet.”
“You mean our Harold may have stolen the real Harold’s identity?”
“Could be.”
“Look, Hamish, I’ll go to the hotel in the morning and take his fingerprints. If he is who he says he is, we’ll look right fools. Also, I’ll need a right good excuse to ask for his fingerprints. If he refuses and phones Strathbane, and I have to explain your mad idea, I’ll get a rocket for going along with it.”
“I tell you what, I have the fingerprint kit. I’ll get the manager to tell me when he’s out of his room. I’ll lift a print and bring it over to you.”
“Don’t get caught, whatever you do. I’m sobering up and the soberer I get, the dafter your idea seems!”
Hamish barely slept that night. He headed to the hotel first thing in the morning and went into the manager’s office, carrying his fingerprint kit in a bag.
“You’re up early,” said Mr. Johnson.
“I’ve a favour to ask. I want to get into Harold Jury’s room while he’s out.”
“He’s out all right. He left in the middle of the night. Asked the night porter for his bill and cleared off.”
“Get me to that room before the maids clean it! And give me a description of the car he was driving and the registration number.”
The hotel room was neat and tidy, and the bed had not been slept in. Hamish took out his fingerprint kit and began to dust the surfaces. He swore under his breath. Everything seemed to h
ave been wiped clean.
Where in a hotel room would even a careful villain forget to wipe? He went into the bathroom and carefully dusted the handle of the cistern on the toilet with aluminium powder. “Bingo,” he muttered. “One perfect print.”
He carefully peeled it off, rushed out, and headed to Strathbane after calling Jimmy.
A thinner, whiter Blair came lumbering up while Jimmy and Hamish were searching the fingerprint database. “Whit’s up?” he demanded.
Jimmy explained hurriedly. “Havers,” said Blair. “Get back to your village, Macbeth.”
“Anything the matter?” Daviot loomed up behind them.
Jimmy explained again while Blair silently fumed over his superior’s habit of gliding silently into the detectives’ room.
“Got it!” cried Jimmy. “Look at this!”
Up it came on the screen. Real name, Cyril Edmonds. Charged in 1999 with sending a letter bomb to his ex-fiancee. Served eighteen months.
“We’d better get the Met round to Harold Jury’s address to see what happened to him,” said Hamish.
“I set up roadblocks when you phoned, and the trains and airports are being watched,” said Jimmy. “We sent out a description of his car and the registration number. The very fact that he wiped his fingerprints off everything in the room he could think of damns him.”
“You should have reported to me first,” howled Blair. “There wasn’t time,” said Jimmy. “You were out.”
“I’ll go and search up in the hills,” said Hamish. “If he’s clever, he’ll find a place to hide out until he thinks the hunt is dying down.”
All day long Hamish searched and questioned people in the outlying crofts, but the man he now knew as Cyril had disappeared into thin air.
He had left his pets with Angela before he started his search. She was so shocked when she learned the real identity of ‘Harold’ that she did not protest.
The wind was beginning to rise as he wearily returned to the police station. His barometer had not lied. He knew from experience that a nasty storm was coming. He decided to relax and have a cup of tea before going to pick up Sonsie and Lugs.
He opened the kitchen door, and stiffened.
“Who’s there?” he called.
Cyril Edmonds walked into the kitchen from the living room. He was holding a gun.
“You’re a bastard,” hissed Cyril. “I could have got away with it if it hadn’t been for you.”
“I think you are the one who is the genuine bastard,” said Hamish. “Was Margaret Gentle your mother?”
“Worked that out as well, did you?” sneered Cyril. “Do you know what she did?”
“Why don’t you sit down and tell me?” suggested Hamish.
“You mean why don’t you sit down and talk while you think of a way to disarm me?”
“I’m genuinely curious. You are one verra clever man.”
Cyril’s eyes glittered. “Yes, I am, amn’t I? I planned this revenge for a long time. Do you know what she did, my precious mother? She’d got pregnant by some lowlife that frequented the nightclub where she worked. Abortions were expensive in those days. She worked as long as she could and then stayed with a barmaid from the club down in the East End. The barmaid wanted a baby so as soon as I was born, I was handed over. No adoption papers. The barmaid and her nasty husband who couldn’t have children were to bring me up as their own. Well, right after that, the barmaid became pregnant and had twins. I was forgotten after that. He beat me regularly. When I was thirteen, he let his homosexual brother have the care of me and the abuse started. But I got the brother to pay for my education, I got as much as I could out of him, and then I killed him and dumped his body in the Thames.
“I joined an agency and began to get bit parts in films and television. I hadn’t any formal training but I was damn good.
“All I ever thought of was getting even with her. I read about her marriage. I stalked her. I wanted some identity to adopt to finally track her down and not be suspected. I’m not homosexual, but there is a type of homosexual that is easily gulled. I picked up Harold Jury in a pub. He begged me to move in with him. He had a nice flat and lots of money. He had a private income from a trust, which allowed him to ponce about as a writer. Ideal. I chose him because we looked a good bit alike.”
“Where did Irena come in?”
“I studied the comings and goings at the castle. When Irena went out one day on her own to shop, I followed her and struck up a conversation. She hated Mrs. Gentle, she said. I asked her why she didn’t leave, and she confessed to having a stolen passport. Said she was afraid her old Russian protector would send the boys to hunt her down. We spent a lot of time together. She agreed to help me. I said I would, in return, help her get a visa. She was flirting with Mark Gentle and that worried me a bit. Then she phones me one day and says she’s going to marry you. I was terrified she would betray me.
“I told her to meet me down in the cellar and we’d have a celebration drink before she went off to be married. She’d given me a key and she’d found out where the back stairs were.
“She came down to the cellar, saying, “Hurry up. I’ve got to change for my wedding.””
The wind howled and shrieked around the police station.
“I’d got a bottle of sherry and two glasses laid out. She was in such a hurry that she gulped down a glass of sherry without even noticing that I wasn’t drinking. I’d drugged the sherry. She turned to leave and collapsed on the floor. I hit her on the head with a hammer. Then I carried the body over and shoved it in that trunk and piled the others on top of it.”
“How did you get Mrs. Gentle to meet you?”
“Easy. That bitch liked power. I’d hidden in the castle at that family reunion and I knew all their voices. So I dressed as a woman and phoned her and put on Mark Gentle’s voice, pleading with her and saying I had to see her. She loved that. I said I would meet her on the cliff at the side of the castle.
“So she turns up all dainty and lovely-old-lady, the act she had perfected.”
Hamish glanced quickly at the coffee machine. He had forgotten to switch it off.
“I loved every minute of telling her who I was. She turned to run and I caught her round the neck, strangled her, and hurled her over the cliffs. My God! The joy of sinking my hands at last into her wrinkled neck and seeing the fear in her eyes. What are you doing?”
“I’m getting a cup of coffee.”
“You’re a cool one. Any last words?”
“Why didn’t you clear off? Why the play?”
“Because I loved doing it. I love anything to do with the theatre. I felt safe. I liked being an author. I liked having Harold’s money to stay at a posh hotel. It’s so remote up here, so far from anything I’d ever known. Safety. Respectability. I wanted a bit of that. And that bitch Priscilla led me on.”
“So why kill me?”
“Because I could have got away with it. You didn’t fool me with that spilled glass of wine or knocking me over. You wanted to see my feet, and the minute I realised that, I knew you were onto me. You could have seen my feet anytime before but it was because I was dressed as a woman. I have small feet for my height. Dancer’s feet. Priscilla told me they were looking for a woman with size seven feet. Before I finish you, what was it Irena told you that was so important?”
Hamish half turned, his hand on the coffeepot.
“She told me nothing. I only put that about to try to flush you out. The mileage you must have covered. Up to Grianach, down to London. Why did you put that amateurish bit of wire over the stairs?”
“I thought that with any luck it might work and if it didn’t, it would reinforce the idea that a woman was the culprit, maybe one of the family.”
“Why did you kill Mark Gentle?”
“I had to see him. I couldn’t risk leaving any loose ends. I had to make sure Irena hadn’t confided in him.
“He invited me in when I said I was Harold Jury. He said he’d heard I w
as staying up in the Highlands when he was there. I asked him if Irena had said anything about me. He began to look suspicious and asked me what was so important about anything that Irena might have said about me. I had to kill him. Well, let’s get on with this.”
In one fluid movement, Hamish threw the contents of the scalding hot coffeepot in Cyril’s face.
He screamed as Hamish wrested the gun from his hand. But he stumbled to his feet and lashed out and kicked Hamish full in the stomach. As Hamish doubled over, he heard the kitchen door slam, and as he clutched his stomach and headed in pursuit, he heard the roar of a car engine.
Outside in the hell of the shrieking gale, Hamish doubled over again and vomited. Cursing, he finally straightened up, jumped into his Land Rover, and headed in pursuit.
He took the humpbacked bridge out of Lochdubh at such speed that he bumped his head on the roof of the vehicle. Great sheets of rain were obscuring his view. The windscreen wipers were barely coping.
Hamish could not see the shine of any taillights ahead. Would he have gone to the hotel?
He talked rapidly into the police radio as he drove. He screeched across the gravel at the hotel forecourt and rushed inside. The night porter swore that no one at all had come in.
Hamish sat down suddenly in a chair in the reception. He was sure Cyril would not take any of the main roads in case of roadblocks.
Then he thought—the castle! Would he hole up there? It was worth a try.
He got back into the Land Rover and hurtled back out into the night.
He was driving fast along a narrow road leading to the castle when a tree crashed down in front of him, blocking the road.
Swearing, he climbed out. Why should the county of Sutherland, usually bereft of trees, choose to throw this one in his path?
He wrestled to try to move it. It was an old ash tree which had seen many years. In the light from his headlamps, he could see the great broken roots and the branches whipping back and forth as if the tree were a live thing in its death throes.
He switched off the lights and the engine and leapt over the tree, setting out on foot. At times he was blown backwards by the sheer force of the gale.
