by M C Beaton
“Am I interrupting you?” asked Hamish.
“Glad to take a break,” said Angela. “Move a cat and sit down.”
Hamish lifted one of Angela’s cats off a kitchen chair and sat down opposite her. “Something’s puzzling me,” he said. “I’ll need to tell you in strict confidence.”
“Go ahead. Want some coffee?”
“No thanks,” said Hamish, knowing from experience that Angela’s coffee was as bad as her baking. He told her about Mairie’s attempt at suicide, and ended by saying, “Doesn’t that seem daft to you?”
Angela pushed a flyaway wisp of hair out of her eyes. “Not really. Look, Mairie is not married. The church and all its activities are her whole life. If she were Chinese, you would say she was suffering from loss of face. You spend too much time with criminals, Hamish. To some village people, loss of respectability is the worst thing that could happen to them. And it’s not just maiden ladies in villages. There have been cases where some businessman goes bankrupt and kills his family and then himself because he can’t face the shame.”
“You’ve given me something to think about,” said Hamish slowly.
He went back to the police station office and got out his notes on the suspects.
Geordie Fleming. Had he been cooking the books? Had Strathbane done an audit of the accounts? But surely he would hardly kill his own sister. On the other hand, this murderer had been driven insane—by the threat, surely, of some sort of exposure. Morag liked money. Morag could have phoned any man she had had a subsequent relationship with and claimed that he was the father of her child and asked him to pay up.
Pete Eskdale. Hamish favoured Eskdale as a prime suspect. There was a raffishness about him. But he was not married. Even if he had slept with Morag, would he care? Had he had his fingers in the till?
Freda Crichton. She had been deeply in love with Morag. What if her reaction to his story of Morag’s pregnancy had been an act?
Then there was the boss, Harry Gilchrist. Where was his wife? Hamish decided it was time to call on her. She might have some insight into the character of the people in the factory.
Chapter Eight
I am past thirty, and three parts iced over.
—Matthew Arnold
Hamish walked up the front drive and rang the doorbell of the Gilchrists’ villa. Sean Carmichael, the odd job man, answered the door.
“Is Mrs. Gilchrist at home?” asked Hamish.
“No. Herself is still in foreign parts.”
“She’s been away an awfy long time.”
“Herself aye likes the travel.”
“And where is she now?”
“Ask the boss. He got a postcard yesterday.”
Back outside the villa, Hamish phoned Harry Gilchrist. “I wonder if I could drop in and see you,” he said.
“What about? I seem to have been answering police questions for years. Besides, I’m busy.”
“I actually wanted to ask you about your wife.”
“What’s she got to do with anything?”
“Mrs. Gilchrist has been abroad for a long time.”
“My wife likes to travel. I have just received a postcard from her. Up to before she went, she had been working hard, helping me in the business. I felt she deserved a break.”
“Where is she now?”
“This is police harassment. I shall speak to your superiors.” He rang off.
Now, that is very interesting, thought Hamish. I’m going to see him anyway.
He was just parking outside the factory when his phone rang. It was Superintendent Daviot. “What on earth are you playing at, harassing Mr. Gilchrist,” demanded Daviot.
“I just wanted to find out where his wife was,” said Hamish.
“What has that got to do with anything? Mr. Gilchrist is a pillar of the community. He is a member of my lodge. His wife likes to travel. End of story. Do not trouble him and that’s an order.”
“Yes, sir,” said Hamish meekly.
Hamish rang off and thought for a moment. Then he called Joan Friend. “Would you like to do a bit of detecting for me?”
“I’ve a lot to do arranging this show. Just as long as it doesn’t take up too much time,” said Joan.
“Harry Gilchrist got a postcard from his wife. It might be in his desk. Could you get into his office on some pretext and have a look?”
“He should be knocking off for lunch soon. I’ll try then. Where are you?”
“I’m outside, but I’ll go to the café in the High Street. Meet me there if you get anything.”
In the café, Hamish wondered whether to buy some food for his pets and then remembered he had left them with Dick. He sometimes felt that Sonsie and Lugs were becoming fonder of Dick than they were of himself and experienced an odd pang of jealousy. Half an hour went by while he ate a dry ham sandwich and drank as much as he could of a truly horrible cup of coffee. He was just beginning to wonder whether she would come when the door of the café opened and she walked in.
“Any luck?” asked Hamish.
“Yes, I took a copy.”
“Good girl. Let’s see it.”
She had copied both sides of a postcard. One side showed a view of Tallinn in Estonia. On the other side was a scrawled message: “Be home soon. Lovely place here. At the President Hotel. Will phone you tonight. Love and kisses, Brenda.”
“What’s this all about?” asked Joan.
“At the moment, I’m just thinking of this and that. Notice anything in particular about the folk at the factory?”
“I’ve hardly finished unpacking,” she said. “Look, I just haven’t got the time.”
“All right,” said Hamish huffily. He had become used to his female friends rushing to help him.
“Got to go!” She dashed off. Hamish stared down at the copy of the postcard. An idea began to form in his head. If he could take a weekend off and get Dick to cover for him, he might be able to book a cheap break to Tallinn. He had a sudden longing to see the mysterious Brenda Gilchrist for himself.
Tallinn, the capital of Estonia, is a small walled city, a carefully preserved mediaeval gem. A cold wind was blowing off the Baltic Sea as he made his way to the President Hotel through the narrow cobbled streets.
He was told at the reception desk that Mrs. Gilchrist was out and so he settled down in an armchair near the door to wait. He had obtained a photo of a staff party at the factory. Standing beside her husband was Brenda, a tall, rangy woman with a mass of brown hair.
Hamish began to feel sleepy and his eyelids were beginning to close when he suddenly heard the receptionist saying, “That gentleman over there is waiting for you.”
She walked over to him. Hamish got to his feet. No glasses now, he thought. Contact lenses.
“Mrs. Gilchrist?”
“Yes, who are you?”
“My name is Hamish Macbeth. I am police sergeant in Lochdubh. I just happened to be here for the weekend and I remembered someone told me you were holidaying here and thought I would have a wee word.”
“About the murders? I’ve been away the whole time. I can’t help you.”
“Maybe we should sit down,” suggested Hamish.
“I haven’t got the time and I haven’t anything to tell you. Goodbye.”
She turned on her heel and walked away.
Now, that’s odd, thought Hamish, sitting down again. A normal reaction would be curiosity. But she’s on the defence and I could swear there was a glimmer of fear in her eyes. What type of wife is it anyway who travels and travels and never goes home?
He took out a notebook and began to scribble in it questions such as: “What kind of woman is Brenda Gilchrist? What type of character? What’s her background? Is she from Cnothan originally? Or does she have money of her own?”
He closed his notebook and sat for a while lost in thought. Suddenly he became aware of someone looming over him. He looked up. Brenda Gilchrist was glaring down at him.
“I have telephoned my h
usband. He has contacted your superior officer, Mr. Daviot. You are to report to him on your return.” And before Hamish could say anything, she marched out of the hotel.
He hesitated a moment and then rose and left the hotel. There was no sign of her anywhere. He wondered whether she had really reported him to Daviot. If she did, it would prove she had nothing to fear.
Hamish walked around the old town all that day under the shadow of the ancient walls, along narrow cobbled streets, across handsome squares while the wind from the Baltic stiffened and ruffled his red hair. Nowhere could he see any sign of Brenda. At last, he returned to her hotel, thinking that as he was in trouble anyway, he might as well try to have another word with her. But he was told at the hotel that she had checked out.
There was nothing more he could do but take the long road home.
On Monday morning, he brushed his uniform before putting it on, polished his boots, and drove to Strathbane to face Daviot.
Detective Chief Inspector Blair was back on duty and grinned when he saw Hamish. “There you are, laddie,” he crowed. “And deep, deep in the doo-doo.”
He went off laughing as Hamish took the lift up to the top floor. Secretary Helen gave him a thin smile and told him to wait. If he fires me, thought Hamish gloomily, Dick will be left to police my beat and I will lose my home.
At last he was ushered in. He stood nervously in front of Daviot’s desk while the superintendent signed some papers. Then Daviot finally looked up.
“This is a bad business, Macbeth,” he said in the quiet voice he used when he was really furious. “I told you to leave Gilchrist alone and you take an unauthorised trip abroad to pester his wife. I have been lenient with you in the past, too lenient. But this is simply too much. You’re fired.”
In Hamish’s mind, his police station, sheep, hens, pets, all whirled away in a black mist. He’d had an uneasy feeling that, in reporting his visit to Estonia, it might mean Brenda had nothing to fear…and yet…
“You should realise, sir, that I must have had a good reason.”
“Really? Out with it!”
“It’s like this, sir…May I sit down?”
“No.”
“It iss verra odd,” said Hamish, his highland accent strengthened by his nervousness, “that Mrs. Gilchrist has been travelling for a long time. When I approached her, I could swear she was frightened. Why? Don’t you think she might at least have been curious instead of telling me to get lost? Only people with something to hide send the police packing. There have been three murders and I have to look for anything at all that does not fit. And instead of reporting me, you would think that Mr. Gilchrist would want to do his utmost in helping the police instead of blocking us at every turn. The reason the staff at the factory won’t say anything, I am sure, is because they have been told not to and have been threatened with losing their jobs. Surely every penny should be going into the factory and not paying for the boss’s wife’s unlimited travel.”
“I happen to know,” said Daviot frostily, “that Mrs. Gilchrist is a very wealthy woman in her own right.”
“Where does her money come from?”
“Camford Dog Food. When her parents died, she, her sister, Heather, and her brother, Luke, sold the business for a great sum of money. Now, if that is all…”
“Look, sir,” said Hamish, “if you take me out of the investigation, you won’t get anywhere. I know how the locals think. Give me a little more time and I am sure I can get one of them to talk. I solved the wheelchair murder. I am not stupid. Have my past successes nothing to say for me?”
“Mr. Blair is perfectly competent to head the investigation.”
“Mr. Blair is a member of your lodge. That means he is friendly with Mr. Gilchrist. That means that no one will talk to him, least of all Mr. Gilchrist.”
Daviot sat scowling. He had to admit that Strathbane police were enduring a lot of criticism in the press over the unsolved murders. He also had to admit in all honesty that Macbeth’s quirky and unusual ways had produced dramatic results in the past. Besides, his wife was determined to cultivate a friendship with Priscilla Halburton-Smythe and had hopes that her engagement to Hamish might be on again.
“All right,” he said finally. “I will give you one more chance. But be discreet. Keep away from Gilchrist until you have any proof of actual wrongdoing, and I mean concrete proof.”
“What was Brenda Gilchrist’s maiden name?” asked Hamish.
“Camford, like the dog food,” said Daviot reluctantly.
When Hamish returned to the police station, he could hear Dick singing hoarsely above the hum of the new Dyson vacuum cleaner which he had won on a television quiz—Have You a Clue? Hamish felt a stab of irritation. It should be a wife he was coming home to, not some fat, lazy policeman.
He shouted at Dick to switch off the vacuum and told him that they had to go out and research the background of Brenda Gilchrist, her brother, and sister.
“Why?” asked Dick plaintively.
“Because I’ve got a hunch there’s something wrong.”
“I’ve just heard the shipping forecast,” said Dick.
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“We’re to be hit by the tail end of an American hurricane later today. There’s a red alert. Don’t drive unless you have to.”
“Dick, it blows like hell most of the time in Sutherland. Get your uniform on.”
The wind was howling dismally and ruffling the black waters of the loch in Cnothan when they parked outside the factory. The winds of Sutherland usually started with this howling sound which then rose to an eldritch screech and then rose even higher to a peculiar banging sound as if the rain clouds were colliding.
“Going to be bad,” muttered Dick. “Who are we going to talk to?”
Hamish glanced at his watch and then reversed the Land Rover until it was outside the Loaming. “Maisie Moffat will be along soon. If we can get her aside and buy her a few drinks, we might get some background on Brenda.”
“Why don’t we ask that odd job man who takes her to the airport?”
“Maybe later.”
They parked and entered the pub. Hamish bagged a corner table. Dick went over to a blackboard to see what was on order for lunch. “What do you want?” he called over one chubby shoulder. “They’ve got lasagne and chips today.”
“Nothing. Just a tonic water,” said Hamish.
Dick came back to join him, carrying the tonic water for Hamish and a half-pint of lager for himself.
Dick’s lasagne arrived after ten minutes. “That actually looks good,” said Hamish, surprised.
“They get a tray of it from the Italian restaurant in Lochdubh,” said Dick. “Do you think Sonsie and Lugs will be all right?”
“They’ll be fine,” said Hamish. “They’re probably along at the kitchen door of the Italian restaurant, cadging food. Here’s Maisie.”
Maisie had just entered with several other members of the staff. Hamish rose and went to meet her. Dick saw him talking to her and then she followed him reluctantly to join Dick.
“Dick, get Miss Moffat a large vodka and Red Bull,” said Hamish.
When Dick went to the bar, Hamish said, “All I want is a bit of background on Brenda Gilchrist.”
“Oh, her? She back yet?”
“No, but did she always travel like this?”
“Only this year. She was more o’ a Women’s Institute type. Good works if it meant she could boss people.”
“Where did she come from?”
“I didnae ken. But she was Camford Dog Food. The factory was down in Inverness. Ta.” She took the drink Dick was offering her and took a great gulp.
“Did you ever meet her sister?”
“Came up once or twice. Didn’t lower herself to speak to the staff. Just looked around the place.”
“And the brother, Luke?”
“Never saw him.”
“Dick, get Miss Moffat another drink.”
&nb
sp; Dick cast a fulminating look at his cooling lasagne and stumped up to the bar.
“I’d appreciate it,” said Hamish, “if you did not tell anyone what I was asking about.”
“I wouldnae dare,” said Maisie. “I can tell you that if Mr. Gilchrist heard I’d be out o’ a job.”
“So why are you talking to me?”
She grinned, taking her fresh drink from Dick. “’Cos I knew you’d get me a drink and I can usually only afford to order a shandy at lunchtime. Go doon tae Inverness and ask the dog food people. They’d know more about the family than me.”
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” grumbled Dick as Hamish took the road to Inverness under an increasingly black sky. “What if the Inverness police see us?”
“I looked up the dog food place. It’s actually outside Inverness on the Black Isle.”
“The Black Isle’s flat,” said Dick gloomily.
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“We’ll be blown over.”
“Havers!”
Meanwhile, Geordie Fleming had not gone for lunch. Instead he had gone home to put another dose of poison at the roots of the monkey puzzle. He had tried again to get permission to cut it down and had once more been turned down. Geordie had heard the dire weather forecast so he poured a lot of poison down on the left-hand side of the tree. The wind would blow fiercely from the west and with any luck, the weakened roots would send the tree toppling over sideways so it would not hit the house. The top of the tree was already swaying in the screeching gale.
He hated that tree with a passion. Because of it blocking light from the house, he had to burn electric light during the day, even in summer.
As Hamish drove into the Black Isle, the Land Rover bucked and swayed dangerously.
The Black Isle is not an island but a peninsula, surrounded on three sides by water: the Cromarty Firth on the north, the Beauly Firth to the south, and the Moray Firth to the east. It got its name because snow was supposed never to lie on it.
