by M C Beaton
“It’s me. Jenny Ogilvie from London.”
The grumbles coming from the other side of the door reminded Jenny of the cartoon dog Muttley. Then the door opened. “What time of night d’ye call this?” demanded Mrs. Dunne.
“I have come all the way from London,” said Jenny coldly. “And if this is the sort of welcome you give visitors, perhaps I would be better off at the hotel.”
In the light streaming out from the door, Jenny had seemed to Mrs. Dunne like a small girl. But the cold authority in Jenny’s voice made her say hurriedly, “Come in, lassie. You must forgive me. We aye keep early hours. I’ll show you to your room. I only serve the bed and breakfast, mind, but if you’re hungry, I’ve got some food I can give you.”
“Just a sandwich and some coffee would be fine,” said Jenny.
“Right. Pick up your suitcases and follow me.”
This was obviously a world where no one carried anyone’s luggage, thought Jenny as she struggled up the wooden staircase after Mrs. Dunne.
Mrs. Dunne opened the door. “This is your room. I’ve given you the best one, it being quiet this time of year.”
Jenny looked dismally round, wondering, if this was the best room, what on earth the others were like. A forty-watt bulb burned in a pink and white glass shade. There was a narrow bed under a slippery quilt against one wall. A closet covered by a curtain, which Mrs. Dunne pulled back with a magician’s proud flourish, was where she would hang her clothes. A wash-hand basin of Victorian vintage with a pink glass mirror above it was over in one far corner, and in the other stood a desk and a hard upright chair. In front of the fireplace, filled with orange crepe paper in the shape of a fan, stood a one-bar heater. The floor was covered in shiny green linoleum, on which were two islands of round rugs.
“You put fifty pee in the meter to start the fire,” said Mrs. Dunne. “Breakfast is from seven o’clock until nine o’clock, no later. I’ll expect you to be out of your room by ten because I have to clean it and I don’t want guests underfoot. You can sit in the lounge downstairs if it’s a wet day. We have the telly – colour, it is. Now I’ll show you the bathroom.”
Jenny followed her along the corridor outside to a room at the end of it. The bathroom held an enormous Victorian bath. Above it was a cylindrical gas heater. “When you want a bath, put fifty pee in the meter above the door, turn this lever to the right, and light the geyser.”
“Do you mean I don’t have my own bathroom?” asked Jenny.
“No, but there’s only the two forestry workers and they’re out early and don’t use the bath much.”
Jenny repressed a shudder. “What about laundry?”
“What about it? Can’t you be doing your smalls in the hand basin?”
“No, I would prefer to do them in a washing machine with a tumble dryer.”
Mrs. Dunne sighed. “Well, you can use the one in the kitchen downstairs, but only if I don’t need it. There’s no tumble dryer but you’ll find a clothesline in the back garden. Go and unpack and come downstairs and have something to eat.”
Jenny returned to her room. She felt thoroughly tired and depressed. She hoped this policeman would prove to be worth all this suffering. She opened one suitcase and unpacked a diaphanous nightgown and a silk dressing gown and laid them on the bed. Then she began to hang away some clothes and put underwear in the drawers.
When she heard Mrs. Dunne calling her, she went reluctantly downstairs. “I’ve put your food on a tray in the lounge,” said Mrs. Dunne. “When you’re finished, put the tray in the kitchen – it’s at the back of the hall – and don’t forget to switch out all the lights. Good night.”
“Good night,” echoed Jenny. She went into the lounge. It was an uncomfortable-looking room with an acid three–piece suite which seemed to swear at the orange and sulphurous-yellow carpet. Above the cold fireplace some amateur had tried to copy the Stag at Bay and failed miserably. The television was operated by a coin box. A tray on the coffee table held a plate of ham sandwiches, two fairy cakes, and a pot of tea. The ham sandwiches turned out to be delicious and the tea was hot and fragrant. Slightly cheered, Jenny finished her supper and carried the tray through to the kitchen. Then, carefully switching out all the lights behind her, she made her way up to her room.
It was very cold. London had been enjoying an Indian summer. She had not expected it to be so cold. She scrabbled in her purse looking for a fifty-pee piece but could not find one. She washed her face and hands, deciding to put off a bath until the following day. Shivering in her flimsy nightgown, she crawled into bed. There were two hot-water bottles in the bed and the sheets smelled faintly of pine soap. The bed was amazingly soft and comfortable. Jenny, normally a restless sleeper, plunged down into a deep and dreamless sleep.
♦
Hamish drove towards Strathbane the following morning with Lugs beside him on the passenger seat of the police Land Rover and with the petition in a briefcase in the back. It was a beautiful clear day. Not even a single cloud wreathed the soaring mountain tops. A heron flew across the road in front of him, slow and graceful. The air was heavy with the smells of pine, wood smoke, and wild thyme.
But his heart sank as the Land Rover crested a rise on the road and he saw Strathbane lying below him – the City of Dreadful Night. It had originally been a thriving fishing port, but European Union regulations and a decline in fishing stocks had put the fishermen out of business. Stalinist tower blocks reared up to the sky, monuments to failure and bad architecture.
He was lucky it was a Sunday. The bane of his life, Detective Chief Inspector Blair, hardly ever worked on Sunday. Hamish knew Blair would block any proposal of his out of sheer spite. He was even luckier to meet Chief Superintendent Peter Daviot in the reception area.
“What brings you, Hamish?” asked Daviot.
It was a good sign that he had used Hamish’s first name. Hamish held out the petition and explianed his need for the services of a handwriting expert.
“We have an overstretched budget,” said Daviot. “Don’t you think it’ll just blow over?”
“No, I don’t,” said Hamish.
“Don’t what?”
“I mean, I don’t think it’ll blow over, sir. It’s been going on for some time. My concern is this: If we don’t track down this poison-pen letter writer soon, he or she, instead of wild accusations, might hit on a truth that someone doesn’t want known. Braikie’s a very churchy place. Everyone prides themselves on their respectability. It could be that one of these letters could drive a man or woman to suicide.”
Daviot looked at the tall policeman with the flaming-red hair. He knew that when it came to cases, Hamish Macbeth often showed remarkable powers of intuition.
“Type up a report and give it with the petition to Helen.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Hamish made his way up to the detectives’ room where Detective Jimmy Anderson sat with his feet up on his desk.
“I was just thinking of going out for a dram,” he said when he saw Hamish.
“Give me a minute, Jimmy,” said Hamish. “I’ve got to type something out for Daviot.”
“So what’s so important the big cheese has to see it himself?”
Hamish told him as he switched on a computer.
“Hardly earth-shaking stuff, laddie. Tell you what. I’ll be along at the Wee Man’s. Join me when you’re finished.”
No one could remember why the nearest pub, the Fraser Arms, had been nicknamed the Wee Man’s.
Jimmy left. Hamish rapidly typed up his report and nipped up the stairs to where Helen, Daviot’s secretary, gave him a sour look.
“Working on the Sabbath, Helen?” asked Hamish.
“If you have something for Mr. Daviot, leave it with me and do not waste my valuable time.”
Hamish gazed on her fondly. “You know something, Helen? You’re right ugly when you’re angry.” And then he scampered off before she could think of a reply.
♦
&nb
sp; Despite Jimmy’s urging, Hamish would only drink mineral water at the pub. He often wondered why Jimmy had never been done for drunk driving. He set off again, stopping outside the town to give Lugs a walk on the heather. As usual, when he approached Lochdubh, his spirits lifted even though the day was darkening. Mist was rolling down the flanks of the mountainsides, and thin black fingers of rain clouds were streaming in from the west on a rising wind. The crisp feel of the day had gone and he could feel a damp warmth in the air blowing in from the Gulf Stream.
He parked outside the police station and went into the kitchen – and glared at the figure of Elspeth Grant, sitting at his kitchen table.
“How did you get in?” he demanded.
“You left the door open,” said Elspeth. “An open invitation.”
“Well, next time, wait until I’m at home.” I’ll need to keep remembering to lock the door, thought Hamish. He was so used to leaving it open while he went to feed his hens and check on his sheep that he often forgot to lock it when he was out at work.
“How did you get on with the petition?”
“I gave it to Daviot. He says he’ll see what he can do.”
“It’ll be too late,” said Elspeth, looking at him with her silver eyes.
“I think he’ll get moving on it.”
“Oh, Hamish, you know what the red tape is like. They’ll pass memos back and forth and it’ll take weeks.”
“Well, let’s see how it goes.”
There was a knock at the door. Hamish opened it and found an attractive face staring up at him. Jenny Ogilvie held out one small hand. “I would like to speak to Hamish Macbeth.”
“I am Hamish Macbeth.”
He was surprised to see disappointment flash across her large brown eyes. The pair surveyed each other.
Jenny was disappointed. Gone was the craggy Highlander of her dreams. She saw a tall, gangling, red-haired man with hazel eyes and a gentle face. Hamish, for his part, saw an attractive girl with black curly hair, large eyes, and a curvaceous figure. She was dressed in a smart skirt and jacket and flimsy high heels.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
“I’m a tourist here,” said Jenny, “and I arrived yesterday. I don’t know this neck of the woods and I wondered if you could tell me good places to visit.”
“Come in,” said Hamish.
He introduced Jenny to Elspeth. “Sit down,” said Hamish. Both regarded each other with the wary suspicion of cats. “Drink?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Jenny here is a tourist and wants to know where she should visit,” said Hamish, lifting down a bottle of whisky and glasses. “Elspeth here is our local reporter. She’ll help you out.” Elspeth glared at Hamish’s back.
Lugs, roused from slumber by the sound of voices, came up to the table, put a large paw on Jenny’s leg, and drew it downwards, leaving white ladders on her tendenier tights.
Jenny squeaked with alarm and drew her legs under the table. “Come here, Lugs,” ordered Elspeth. “Good dog. Settle down.” She turned her clear gaze on Jenny. “If you really want to sightsee, you’ll need a car. Do you have one?”
“No, I did the last of the journey by taxi, a chap called Iain Chisholm.”
“I think you’ll find he has a spare car to rent, and his prices are low.”
“Thank you. I’ll try him in the morning.”
“Mostly, people who come up here are walkers, hill climbers, or fishermen. They have some sort of hobby. But if you drive around, there’s some wonderful scenery. Where are you staying?”
“Sea View.”
“You’re right next to the Highland Times offices. Drop in tomorrow morning and I’ll give you some maps and tourist brochures.”
Hamish joined them at the table and poured whisky into three glasses. “Do you drink it neat?” asked Jenny.
“Aye, but I can put water in it if you like.”
“It’s all right,” said Jenny quickly, not to be outdone by Elspeth. Was Elspeth his girlfriend? If she was, then her plot was doomed from the start.
“So what made you decide to come this far north?” asked Hamish. His Highland voice was soft and lilting. Jenny began to understand a little of why her friend Priscilla appeared to be so fascinated with this man.
“I came up from London. Just felt like getting as far away as possible.”
“Broken heart?” asked Elspeth.
“No,” said Jenny crossly.
Elspeth finished her whisky and stood up. “I’d best be getting along.” She walked to the door and then turned and said to Jenny, “Good hunting, but you’ll find the prey is difficult to catch.”
Jenny’s face flamed. “What do you mean?”
“Just a Highland expression,” said Elspeth, and she went out and closed the kitchen door behind her.
“I’m sorry I butted in on you and your girlfriend,” said Jenny.
“Just a friend. So what do you do in London?”
“I work for a computer company.”
“And what’s the name of it?”
Jenny looked at him, startled. She worked for the same company as Priscilla. “I work for Johnson and Betterson in the City,” she said, inventing a name.
“Ah. If you’ve finished your drink, I’ll walk you back. Lugs needs some exercise.”
Lugs needs to be put down, thought Jenny, standing up and ruefully looking down at the wreck of her tights.
Hamish opened the door. The rain still hadn’t arrived, but he could sense it coming.
They walked together along the quiet waterfront. “I hope you won’t be too bored here,” said Hamish as they approached Sea View.
Jenny stopped suddenly and stared.
“What’s the matter?” asked Hamish.
He looked and saw Jessie and Nessie Currie, the local twin spinsters, the minister’s wife, and Mrs. Dunne, standing together at the gate of the boarding house. Mrs. Dunne was holding up a piece of Jenny’s underwear, a black silk thong. “Now, what in the name o’ the wee man would you say that was?” she was asking.
Hamish reached out a long arm and snatched it from Mrs. Dunne. “That is the makings of a catapult for Miss Ogilvie’s nephew. You should not be going through her things.”
“I didn’t,” protested Mrs. Dunne. She turned to Jenny, who was standing there wishing an earthquake would strike Lochdubh and bury them all. “It was lying in the corner of your room. I found it when I was cleaning. I didn’t know what it was and I thought it might have been left by the previous tenant.”
Hamish handed the thong to Jenny. She stuffed it in her handbag, marched past them, and went up to her room. She sank down on the edge of her bed and buried her head in her hands. This holiday had all been a terrible mistake.
♦
Hamish went back to the police station, mildly amused. From the washing lines of Lochdubh, he knew that the usual female underwear consisted of large cotton knickers with elastic at the knee.
When he walked into the police station, the phone in the office was ringing. He rushed to answer it.
It was Elspeth. “You’d best get over to Braikie,” she said. “Miss Beattie, who worked in the post office, has been found hanged. And there’s one of those poison-pen letters lying on the floor under her body.”
∨ Death of a Poison Pen ∧
Chapter
There are certain persons for whom pure truth is a poison.
—Andre Maurois
Hamish drove to Braikie through a rising storm. Rain slashed against the windscreen and great buffets of wind rocked the Land Rover.
He cursed police headquarters for their penny-pinching ways. He pulled up outside the post office. It was a sub post office and sold groceries as well. He knew Miss Beattie lived in a flat above the shop. A thin little woman was huddled in a doorway. “Are you Mrs. Harris who found the body?” asked Hamish.
“Aye, and a terrible sight it is.”
“What on earth were you thinking of to report it to th
e Highland Times and not to the police?”
“I could only get your answering machine,” she whined.
Hamish heard the distant sound of a siren. He had reported the death to the ambulance service and to police headquarters before he had driven off from Lochdubh. “You’d better show me where you found her.”
Mrs. Harris emerged from her doorway and led him to a lane at the side of the post office and pushed open a door, revealing a flight of stairs leading up to Miss Beattie’s flat.
He went first, saying over his shoulder, “I hope you didn’t touch anything.”
“I was that feart, I couldnae,” she said.
“How did you find her? Do you have a key?”
“No, but herself promised me some of her homemade cakes. I couldnae get a reply, so I went up the stairs and there she was. The door was open.”
When they got to the landing, Hamish ordered, “You stay there.”
He opened the door and went in. The light was on and Miss Beattie’s body hung from a hook in the ceiling. One of the poison-pen letters was lying on the floor. Hamish took out a pair of forensic gloves and slipped them on.
He read: “I have proof that you’re a bastard. Your father never married your mother and I’ll tell everyone.”
He looked up at the contorted face swinging above him. A window behind the body was open, sending it turning in the wind.
He heard the thud of feet on the stairs. He went out to meet the ambulance men. “I’m afraid there’s nothing you can do,” he said. “They’ll be arriving from Strathbane soon. I hope they’re not long. I want to get that poor woman’s body down.”
As they waited, he hoped Blair would consider a mere suicide beneath him. To his relief, when the police arrived, they were headed by Detective Jimmy Anderson.
The police photographer took pictures and then the ambulance men took the body down. Hamish cast his eyes around the room. There was no note that he could see, only that poison-pen letter on the floor.
The pathologist arrived and began his examination. Hamish scowled. Something was nagging at the back of his brain. Jimmy Anderson was reading the letter.
“For heaven’s sake,” he said. “The Highlands have aye been crawling with bastards and nobody gives a toss.”
