Death of Yesterday

by M C Beaton

  Cairn cottage was actually a thirties-style pebble-dashed two-storey building. It fronted directly onto the street. He rang the bell and waited.

  The door was opened by a small figure with curly black hair and rosy cheeks.

  “Miss Friend?”

  “That’s me. What’s up?”

  “Nothing serious,” said Hamish soothingly. “I heard you were about to start work at the factory. I am investigating the recent murders.”

  “You’d better come in. It’s a mess. I’m still unpacking. Come through to the kitchen.”

  The kitchen looked frozen in the early fifties. There was a Belfast sink with brass taps. An old Hoover washing machine, the kind you emptied by putting a hose in the sink, crouched in one corner. The gas cooker had a door of chipped green enamel. Wooden shelves painted sulphureous yellow held a variety of dishes, not one of them matching. In the middle of the linoleum-covered floor was a white plastic-topped table surrounded by four white plastic chairs.

  “I’ve taken the place furnished,” said Joan. “It’s all pretty awful. Want coffee? I brought my own machine.”

  Hamish studied her while she prepared the coffee. She was wearing a faded blue T-shirt and worn jeans. Her figure was plump. She had very wide blue eyes and a generous mouth.

  When the coffee was ready, they sat down, facing each other. “So what’s it all about?” she asked.

  “It’s about these murders,” said Hamish. “You’re new. I was hoping you might be able to find out something about the people at the factory.”

  “Be a police nark?”

  “That sounds bad. I’m at my wit’s end. I just want you to keep your eyes open and see if you can sense anything about anyone.”

  “I suppose I can do that,” she said slowly. “I took the job because the fashions are exciting. It’s an awful thing to say but the murders won’t do us any harm. It’ll bring more press than would normally be interested in a provincial fashion show. Is there anyone you want me to take a good look at?”

  “No one in particular. I need someone to take a new look at all the people there. Here’s my card. Phone me about the least little thing you think might be helpful.”

  When Hamish walked back down the High Street, he considered joining Dick who was still in the café, but was suddenly overtaken by a burning resentment towards the man.

  How could he, Hamish Macbeth, ever settle down and get married with Dick around, playing housewife? He felt crowded and wanted his old solitary life back, where he could dream of some woman coming into his life.

  Instead, he went back to the factory and asked to speak to Freda Crichton. He was led through to a studio at the back of the factory.

  Freda was working on designs. She hailed him by saying, “I’ve got my own studio now. It’s great. What brings you?”

  “Still working on the murders,” said Hamish. He sat down next to her. He decided he could not imagine such as Freda committing three murders.

  “I wish you’d find the bastard that killed Morag,” said Freda. “She turned out to be a two-faced liar, but I still miss her. Now that it’s out that I’m a lesbian, they look at me as if I had two heads. Fortunately, they need my designs.”

  “If it should turn out to be someone in this place, who would you select?” asked Hamish.

  She scowled ferociously and then said, “Pete Eskdale.”

  “Why him?”

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about it. Why should he hire someone all the way from London? I think he’s the father of her child.”

  “But the London end was thoroughly checked out. He took her for dinner. He went back to his hotel and she went back to her digs. Nothing there.”

  Hamish’s mobile phone rang. He moved over to a corner of the studio to answer it.

  When he returned to Freda, he said, “Good news! We’ve overturned the decision not to take blood samples. We can go ahead. Now we’ll find out who the father is!”

  Happily, Hamish returned to the café and collected Dick. There was no point in interviewing all the suspects again until the tests were over and the results came through.

  Normally, it would take quite a time for DNA results, but a rush job was ordered. A month later as purple heather covered the moors and the flanks of the great Sutherland mountains, Hamish received the news. Not one man tested had turned out to be the father of Morag’s baby. He found it hard to believe.

  Hamish decided to investigate the London end for himself. He would need to take a week’s holiday and go unofficially. He felt if he could have a face-to-face talk with Celia Hedron, he might just find out something new.

  He had to admit that it was grand to have Dick on hand to look after his beloved pets. Usually when he went away, Sonsie and Lugs would go out looking for him. But they were fond of Dick and he was sure they would stay with him.

  He phoned Celia and arranged an appointment. Before he left the Highlands, he had an impulse to go and visit the seer, Angus Macdonald. He did not believe much in Angus’s psychic abilities, but knew he did have a miraculous way of finding out useful gossip.

  Angus always expected some sort of gift. Dick had won a fast-boiling electric kettle in a pub quiz in Strathbane. They already had one. With Dick’s permission, Hamish packed it up and headed for the seer’s cottage.

  Angus, looking more like one of the minor prophets than ever with his grey beard and long shaggy locks, was delighted with the present. “Come ben,” he said. “You’ll have come about the murders.”

  Hamish sat down in a high-backed chair by the smouldering peat fire and took off his cap. “Heard anything useful?” he said.

  Angus sat down in his battered armchair on the other side of the fire and closed his eyes. “I will consult the spirits,” he said.

  “Och, Angus, drop the malarkey and just…”

  “Shh! It’s all about the money,” he crooned. “Herself liked money. Wanted a baby but didnae like the men.”

  “Angus, how…?”

  “Quiet! Ach, couldnae ye keep your mouth shut? They’ve gone.”

  The seer opened his eyes and studied Hamish. “Well, you’ll be wanting to get married, but good luck. You’ll need it. Quite a good few folk will want to stop ye.”

  “And who am I going to marry?” asked Hamish cynically.

  “Thon lassie, Elspeth Grant.”

  “Havers. I havenae seen her in ages.”

  “Oh, but you will.”

  “Angus, you hear gossip. What’s going on at that factory?”

  “If you hadnae have chased the spirits off, I could ha’ told ye.”

  Hamish got to his feet. “I’ve a good mind to take that kettle back.”

  “Why? You’ve got another one,” said Angus.

  “How did you know…? Oh, never mind.”

  The following day, Hamish packed an overnight bag, and got Dick to drive him to Inverness airport.

  When he arrived in London, he found the weather was warm and he had to remove the sweater he was wearing under his jacket and stow it in his bag.

  Celia Hedron lived in the top half of a house in Gospel Oak. She turned out to be a slightly built, wispy girl, with fine fair flyaway hair and pale eyes.

  “It’s a shame you’ve come all this way,” she said. “I’ve been racking my brain, but I can’t think of anything.”

  “All the men at the factory have been tested,” said Hamish. “Not one of them turns out to be the father of Morag’s baby. Would there possibly have been someone before she left London?”

  “We were maintaining a cold silence. I kept out of her way as much as possible. Just before she left, she went out to some party at Giles Armitage’s studio. She couldn’t help crowing about it because I hadn’t been invited. Giles was a student at the same time as us. Rich daddy, which is why he can afford a studio.”

  “Why didn’t you mention this before?”

  “Didn’t seem important.”

  “Have you got Armitage’s address?”

 
“Yes, I’ll get it for you.”

  Hamish tucked the slip of paper with the address in his pocket and questioned her further, but she could not add anything to what she had already told him.

  Giles Armitage’s flat was in Fulham at the top of a tall white stuccoed house. He turned out to look more like a City broker than an artist. He was tall and slim with thinning brown hair, a pleasant face, and small black eyes. He was dressed in a Jermyn Street striped shirt and tailored trousers.

  When Hamish introduced himself and said he was asking questions about Morag Merrilea, to his surprise, Giles said, “What’s she been up to?”

  “Where have you been, laddie?” exclaimed Hamish. He told him about Morag’s murder.

  “I’ve been visiting friends in Brazil,” said Giles. “I never bothered to read the papers when I was away. I only got back yesterday. Poor cow! She came to one of my parties the evening before she was due to take up a job in the Highlands. Wait a bit! I’ve just been going through my mail and I think there’s one from her. I haven’t opened it yet.”

  “Open it now!” commanded Hamish.

  He went over to a desk at the window and flicked through a pile of mail. “This looks like it. Postmarked Cnothan. Let’s see. ‘Dear Giles. Surprise. You’re going to be a fa…’”

  He turned quite white and the letter fell from his nervous fingers to the floor. Hamish snatched it up.

  He read: “Dear Giles. Surprise. You’re going to be a father. I’ll bring the baby up on my own but I shall expect you to pay maintenance. That was quite a night we had. I tried to phone you but got no reply and some friends of yours said you were out of the country. Contact me when you get back. Love and kisses, Morag.”

  “It was just a one-night stand,” said Giles. “I can’t believe it. I was drunk. She waited behind after everyone else had gone. She was all over me.”

  “Didn’t you use any protection?” asked Hamish.

  “She said she was on the pill.”

  “I’ll need to tell the Yard,” said Hamish. “You’ll need to give a DNA sample. I hope you’ve got a good alibi.”

  “Let me see,” said Giles desperately. “My God! Let me think. I got up the following morning with a blinding hangover and she’d gone. I felt awful. I mean, I didn’t fancy her one bit. Two days later, I left for Brazil. I’ve still got the tickets and my friends—I’ll give you their address—will vouch for the fact that I was out there the whole time.”

  Hamish went outside and phoned Celia Hedron and gave her the news and then begged her to tell Scotland Yard that she had asked him to call on her if he was ever in London; otherwise they would be furious if they thought he had been poaching on their territory. Then he phoned Jimmy with the news and told him to contact Scotland Yard. To avoid upsetting the Metropolitan Police, Hamish retreated to Lochdubh to wait for results.

  Two weeks later he received the news that Giles Armitage was indeed the father of Morag’s unborn child but that his alibi was solid. There was absolutely no way he could have been in the Highlands of Scotland or anywhere in the British Isles to commit the murders.

  “And so that’s that,” said Jimmy, moving his chair aside in Hamish’s kitchen to let Dick hang new curtains up at the windows. “Gingham,” said Jimmy with a grin. “Very folksy. When are you pair getting married?”

  “She could have slept with someone else and then told whoever that the baby was his,” said Hamish.

  “Dangerous thing to do these days,” said Jimmy, “when anyone can buy a paternity kit from the chemists.”

  “Not necessarily. What good’s a paternity kit without the child?” asked Hamish. “Can be done without the mother but not without the child. I’d like to go over Peter Eskdale’s alibi again.”

  “Waste of space. All the alibis have been gone over and over.”

  “According to our chief.”

  “How’s Blair?”

  “Out of hospital and seemingly indestructible. Off the booze, which means he’s in an even fouler temper than usual. Something’s got to break. Someone somewhere knows something.”

  “Whoever the murderer is,” said Hamish, “it’s some lucky, panicking amateur. What if thon hotel where Hannah was picked up had CCTV cameras that worked? What if someone had been driving along the Struie Pass when the body was being dumped?”

  “I’d best be off,” said Jimmy. “Other cases. Drugs, drugs, and more drugs. It’s been a grand summer but the air’s getting a bit nippy.”

  After he had gone, Hamish whistled to his pets and took them for a walk along the waterfront. The wind was screaming down the loch, sending little whitecaps scurrying along the tops of the waves. The mountains reared up like steel engravings, every gully and crevice clearly marked, a sign of rain to come.

  He had a sudden impulse to talk to his friend Angela Brodie, but before he reached the doctor’s cottage, he was waylaid by the minister’s wife, Mrs. Wellington, large and tweedy as ever.

  “We haven’t seen you in church,” she boomed. “You have not solved these dreadful murders over in Cnothan. You should think of asking Him for help.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Hamish impatiently.

  “And you should go and see Mairie Torrich. She’s been taken to Braikie hospital.”

  “What’s up with her? I barely know the woman. Why should I go and see her?”

  “Because she tried to commit suicide. Didn’t you hear? Well, she did hush it up. She tried to hang herself but didn’t make a good job of it and got a bad case of whiplash.”

  “Why did she try to hang herself?”

  “That’s what I want to find out. She won’t tell anyone. Suicide’s a crime. Find out. She’s a staunch member of the church.”

  After Mrs. Wellington had bustled off, Hamish sighed. He would have to leave a visit to Angela to another day. Someone on his beat had tried to kill herself. It was his duty to look into the matter and make sure no one had driven her to it.

  He drove to Braikie hospital and was ushered into a small ward where the frail figure of Mairie lay. She was a thin, pale woman in her fifties with greying hair and neat features.

  She flinched when she saw Hamish and said hoarsely, “Have you come to arrest me?”

  “No, Mairie. I would like to know what drove you to do such a thing.”

  A tear ran down her cheek. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she whispered.

  “Something or someone must have driven you to it,” said Hamish gently. “Look, I’m not taking notes.” He stood up and drew the curtains round the bed. “Just you tell Hamish. You’ll feel better if you get it off your chest.”

  She began to cry. Hamish found a box of tissues and handed it to her and then waited patiently.

  At last, she sobbed and said, “It was the shame. I’d always been respectable. I’ve always gone to church. It was the baking competition.”

  “Go on,” urged Hamish, wondering if she had tried to poison someone.

  “I baked a sponge cake and for the first time in my life, it was a mess. I-I w-went over to Tarry’s Cakes in Invergordon and I b-bought one. And I won first prize. I hadn’t expected to win. I couldn’t tell anyone. Then Mrs. Macleod’s niece came visiting from Invergordon. Mrs. Macleod brought her along to the Mothers’ Union. She looked at me and said, ‘I’ve seen you before—in Tarry’s Cakes. You were buying one o’ their famous sponge cakes. No one makes a sponge cake like Tarry.’ Well, the others gave me odd looks. Nessie Currie said, ‘Miss Torrich can bake just as well. She won first prize with her sponge cake.’

  “Oh, they all looked at me so. I wanted to sink through the floor. I’ve always been a respectable body. I couldn’t bear it. Lochdubh seemed full of accusing eyes, everywhere I went. I decided to end it all but I couldn’t even get that right.” She began to cry again.

  “Be back in a minute,” said Hamish. He went out into the corridor and phoned Dick. “Have you heard any gossip about Mairie Torrich putting a shop cake into the baking competition?”

&nbs
p; “Not a word.”

  “So don’t talk about this to anyone. Right?”

  “Okay. But what…?”

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  He went back to Mairie and waited until she had finished crying. “It’s nothing but your guilty conscience,” he said. “No one suspects a thing. Just get better and forget about it. But why try to kill yourself over something so trivial?”

  “I’ve always been a respectable body, someone people could trust. There’s nothing worse in the world than to lose respectability.”

  “Havers!” said Hamish. “There’s war, famine, and pestilence for a start.”

  “You don’t understand!” she wailed.

  “I’m beginning to. What did you tell the hospital psychiatrist?”

  “I haven’t seen him. I said I bumped my car and that’s how I got whiplash.”

  “Why wasn’t I called?”

  “Mrs. Wellington found me. She said it would be better to stick to the whiplash story.”

  “Mrs. Wellington sent me along. She thought someone had driven you to it. We’d better just say you were depressed.”

  “Maybe I should confess.”

  “I think you’ve taken the whole thing too seriously. There’s cheating goes on all over the Highlands. It’s part of our genetic make-up, like telling lies and poaching,” said Hamish cheerfully.

  She smiled at him mistily. “How can I ever thank you? You are so strong, so kind.” She reached out to take his hand. Hamish smiled nervously and backed off.

  “No thanks needed.” He fled out of the ward.

  Back in Lochdubh, he made his way to the manse. Mrs. Wellington stared at him when he explained that Mairie had been severely depressed.

  “I don’t know what’s up with folk these days,” complained Mrs. Wellington. “We never used to hear about depression. People just pulled themselves together and got on with things.”

  “It’s caused by a fault in the brain,” said Hamish. “She’ll need a lot of kindness.”

  “Oh, all right. But I’ve never heard the like!”

  Hamish then called on Angela Brodie. The doctor’s wife was working on her latest novel.