Death of a Poison Pen hm-20

by M C Beaton

  He frowned and placed the tips of his fingers together and peered wisely over them at Hamish. He always sees himself in a film, thought Hamish. “Hmm. Let me see,” Mr. Arkle said. “Woman of the old school of teaching. Stern disciplinarian. She produced good results. Not a sympathetic type. I can’t tell you much more than that.”

  “May I be having a word with your secretary?”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” He picked up the phone and dialled an extension. “Miss Mather? Could you step into my office? The police would like to interview you.” He put the phone down. “She will be along presently.”

  “Where is her office?”

  “Next door.”

  And you couldn’t just have shouted for her, could you, you twerp, thought Hamish. He saw a shadow outside the frosted glass of the door and jerked it open. A pale wispy girl stood there. “Miss Mather?”

  She looked up at him with wide frightened eyes. “We’ll just step outside,” said Hamish quickly. He had no desire to ask her questions with the head teacher listening and probably interrupting.

  “Shall we go to my office?” she asked, casting a nervous glance at the head teacher’s door.

  “It’s a grand day. Let’s take a wee walk outside.”

  She followed him meekly out of the school and stood beside him on the grey asphalt of the playground.

  “Now, Miss Mather, my name is Hamish. And you are?”

  “Freda.”

  “Why are you looking so frightened?”

  “When a policeman calls, it’s almost always bad news. My mother…?”

  “No, nothing about your family. The fact is that Miss McAndrew was found murdered this morning.”

  She turned white and swayed. He caught her round the waist and led her to a bench at the edge of the playground. “Put your head between your knees. That’s a good girl. Now straighten up and take deep breaths.”

  He waited until a little colour had come back to her face and then asked, “Did you work for her?”

  “Ye-es. For…for the past five years.”

  “Think carefully and tell me honestly, what was she like?”

  “Oh, she was a fine woman and got good results for the school.”

  “Forget she’s dead and tell me honestly what you really thought of her.”

  A seagull landed on the ground at their feet, cocked its prehistoric head on one side, and, seeing no evidence of food, flew off with a contemptuous screech.

  Freda bent her head. She was a drab-looking girl: hair of an indeterminate colour, neither fair nor brown, eyes of a washed-out blue, thin hunched figure.

  “She was a bully,” said Freda. She gave a choked little sob. “She would give little parties at her home and make me act as waitress, pouring out tea, handing round cakes, and she never paid me for it.”

  “If she was such a bully, I’m surprised people wanted to visit her.”

  “Oh, she was nice as pie to everyone, except maybe me and one of the other teachers.”

  “There are four teachers, aren’t there?”

  “Yes, there’s Miss Maisie Hart, Mrs. Henrietta McNicol, Mr. Jamie Burns, and a newcomer, Mr. Matthew Eskdale.”

  “And which one did she bully?”

  “Mr. Burns. He’s quite old, you see, and he wants to hang on to get his pension.”

  “You and Mr. Burns could find other jobs?”

  “Mr. Burns is stubborn and swore she wasn’t going to drive him out. As for me, my mother is not in good health, and finding another job would mean moving to Strathbane. I like to stay close.”

  “Did anyone ever threaten Miss McAndrew?”

  “I don’t think anyone would dare.”

  “What about the parents?”

  “There was an incident last year at parents’ day. Mr. Joseph Cromarty, who runs the ironmonger’s shop in the main street: His son, Geordie, had not been chosen for the school play and he shouted at her and accused her of having a down on the boy.”

  “And did she?”

  “You’d need to ask the boy’s teacher, Mr. Burns. I don’t know about that.”

  The dinner bell shrilled out from the school. Dinner was still in the middle of the day. Some children streamed out into the playground towards parents waiting at the gates. Other children carrying lunch boxes sat down on benches on the other side of the school yard. A harassed-looking elderly man came out and stood on the school steps.

  “That’s Mr. Burns,” whispered Freda.

  “Thanks for your time. I’ll just have a word with him. Would you give me your home address and telephone number?”

  She gave them to him. He thanked her again and she scuttled off into the school, her head bent.

  Poor wee soul, thought Hamish. One bullying boss replaced by another.

  He rose and approached Mr. Burns. “I’ve just heard the news about Miss McAndrew,” said Mr. Burns. He had obviously once been a powerfully built man, but age had rounded his shoulders and turned muscle into fat. He had a thick shock of white hair and sagging jowls, his face marred by red broken veins.

  “Who told you?” asked Hamish.

  “Arkle.”

  “Are you surprised? You don’t seem surprised.”

  “I hated the auld biddy. Mind you, I would have thought everyone was too scared of her to murder her.”

  “Someone obviously wasn’t. Do you know of anyone in particular who might have hated her enough?”

  “Apart from me? No, not a clue. What a goings-on for a wee place like Braikie. First poor Miss Beattie murdered and now this.”

  “Who told you Miss Beattie was murdered?” demanded Hamish sharply.

  “Maisie Hart. She was late for school because she had a dental appointment and the nurse at the dentist’s told her.”

  “And who,” demanded Hamish impatiently, “told the nurse?”

  “She passed the post office on her way to the dentist’s and got chatting to the policeman on duty and he told her.”

  “I suppose it’s all over the town,” said Hamish.

  “Of course.”

  If the cat’s out of the bag, I may as well go the whole hog, thought Hamish with a wild mix of metaphors.

  “So did you know that Miss McAndrew was our poison-pen letter writer?”

  He looked stunned. “Never! I mean, she was a bully, but she was all up front, if you know what I mean. Writing those letters was a poisonous, sneaky thing to do. Come to think about it, they started just around the time she retired.”

  “Did you get one?”

  “Yes. I sent it to you.”

  “Refresh my memory. What was it about?”

  “She accused me of having an affair with Maisie Hart. Maisie’s a pretty wee thing. I was flattered.”

  Hamish felt a tap on the shoulder and turned round. Blair stood there with Jimmy Anderson, MacNab, and a policeman and policewoman. “We’ll take over here, Macbeth.”

  “Don’t you want to know what I’ve got?” asked Hamish.

  “I’ll approach this with a fresh mind, laddie. Get off with you and talk to folks in the shops around the post office and people in the flats above. They might have seen something.”

  Hamish felt sure he was being sent off to cover ground that had already been covered, but he knew it was useless to protest. He walked off.

  He decided to look for the layabout youth of Braikie. There were police all over the place and they would concentrate on the residents around the shops. He wandered along the main street until he saw a group of pallid youths admiring one of their fellows’ motorbikes. They showed signs of dispersing rapidly when they saw him approach, but he hailed them with, “I just want a wee word.”

  He was always amazed at how unhealthy some of the young men of the Highlands could look. In some cases, it was drugs, but it was mostly a combination of bad diet and lack of exercise.

  “Miss Beattie has been murdered,” he said, no longer seeing any reason to keep it quiet.

  There were startled cries and they clustered a
round him, their eyes shining with excitement. “Will the telly be here?” asked one. “Will we get our pictures on the telly?”

  “I should think they’ll be along any minute,” said Hamish. “Now, she was found dead last Sunday, so someone may have called on her on the Saturday evening. Were any of you passing the post office? Did any of you see anyone going up the stairs to her flat or even loitering about?”

  They all shook their heads, and then a little voice from the back of the group piped up: “I saw someone.”

  They parted to reveal a small boy with a white face dotted with freckles and a mop of hair as red as Hamish’s own.

  “Och, Archie,” jeered the one with the motorbike. “You’re aye making things up.”

  “But I did,” he protested.

  “Come here, Archie,” said Hamish. He led the boy a little away and took out his notebook. “What is your full name?”

  “Archie Brand.”

  “And where do you live?”

  “At 6 Glebe Street.”

  “What time would this be?”

  “Around nine. The night Miss Beattie was murdered.”

  “And what were you doing at that time of night? Glebe Street is at the far end. How old are you?”

  “Ten. I was going to the chip shop.”

  “Right, Archie, now think carefully. What or who did you see?”

  “It was a young fellow. I couldnae see clear, for the street light was out. He was wearing black clothes. He had wan o’ thae baseball caps pulled down low.”

  “And what was he doing?”

  “Just standing outside the post office, looking up and down, and when I came towards him, he turned and looked in the window.”

  “So you didn’t see his face.”

  “No, sir.”

  “What age?”

  “Maybe about ma brither’s age. About seventeen.”

  “Tall?”

  “Not as tall as you.”

  Hamish turned and surveyed the group. “Is your brother there?”

  “Yes, he’s the wan wi’ the motorbike.”

  “About his height?”

  “Just about.”

  Hamish wrote five foot eight in his notebook. “Slim, fat, medium?”

  “I couldnae be sure. He’d wan o’ thae puffy jackets on. I walked on towards the chippy and I turned back once, but he’d gone.”

  “Anyone else around?”

  “No, the street was empty. There wasn’t even anyone in the chip shop.”

  “This could be vital evidence,” said Hamish solemnly. “I may be calling at your home later.”

  In the distance, the school bell shrilled. “You’d best be getting back to school,” said Hamish, closing his notebook.

  “Do I hafftae? I mean, this murder and all. Don’t I get a day off?”

  “Run along,” said Hamish. The boy reluctantly trailed off in the direction of the school followed by the jeers of the gang headed by his brother.

  Hamish walked back to the post office and studied the shops opposite. Some of them obviously used the upstairs of the premises, but above what was once a dress shop and was now an ironmonger’s, he could see curtains at windows. He crossed the road and went up the stairs to the flats above. What had once been a dentist’s surgery had the name of a law firm on the door. He remembered the murder of the dentist. There had been an old man living at the top of the stairs then. Hamish wondered whether he was still alive.

  He mounted another flight of stairs and knocked at the door at the top. The door opened and Hamish thought he recognised Fred Sutherland. He was wearing a dressing gown, striped pyjamas, and a flat cap. “Fred?”

  “No, that was my cousin. I’m Jock. Fred left me the flat. Come ben. Terrible business. Two murders.”

  “Who told you?”

  “Joe Cromarty, the ironmonger. He came up a few minutes ago and says to me that Miss McAndrew’s been murdered and that poor Miss Seattle was murdered as well.”

  Hamish reflected bitterly that the whole of northern Scotland must know about the murders. Gossip in the Highlands spread as rapidly as fire in the heather after a dry summer.

  “Would you like some tea?” asked Jock.

  “No, I just want to ask you a few questions. Miss Beattie was killed sometime on Saturday night.” Hamish crossed to the window. “You can get a good look across the street to the post office. Did you see anyone or anything? Might be around nine o’clock.”

  “I can’t remember the time. I’d been to that meeting o’ yours in the community hall. Wait a bit. I did look across because Miss Beattie always left her curtains drawn back and if she saw me at the window, she’d give me a wave. But the curtains were drawn tight. She did that if she was entertaining someone.”

  Hamish looked at him sharply. “A man?”

  “One night I saw a man’s back at the window and he disappeared into the room and Miss Beattie then drew the curtains.”

  “What age of a man?”

  “I couldnae right say. I just caught a wee glimpse of his back, and the window’s small and cut off the top of his head.”

  “But did you get an impression of his age?”

  “The shoulders were pretty broad and a bit rounded. Wearing a dark suit. Couldnae tell you his age.”

  “You didn’t see anyone loitering in the street?”

  “I didn’t look down. Then I made myself a cup of tea and watched the telly.”

  “Did you know Miss McAndrew?”

  “I met her a few times. There’s an old folks’ club at the community centre. She would come there sometimes. She was promoting a reading and writing class for the elderly. Waste of time. In our day, no child in the parish left school without being able to read and write. Bossy woman. All teeth and dyed-blonde hair.”

  “You didn’t like her?”

  “Nobody did.”

  “I always got the impression she was well respected.”

  “Och, you know what parents are like in Scotland. She managed to get good grades, and as long as she got good grades for the kids, the parents didn’t really care what she was like.”

  “I gather Mr. Cromarty had a row with her.”

  “Och, him? Nothing in that. He shouldn’t be running a shop. He’ll have a row with everyone.”

  “I’d better speak to him. If you hear anything, phone me at Lochdubh.”

  Hamish went out into the street and walked into the ironmonger’s shop. He had expected to see a thuggish man behind the counter, but there was only a small man with thick horn-rimmed glasses and a shock of brown hair. He was wearing a brown cotton coat over his suit.

  “I’m looking for Joseph Cromarty,” said Hamish.

  “That’s me.”

  “I am Hamish Macbeth, constable at Lochdubh.”

  “I heard you at the community hall. What’s all this about two murders?”

  Hamish told him briefly and then asked Joe if he’d seen anyone loitering around on the Saturday evening.

  “I couldn’t see anyone. Half day on Saturday. I spent the afternoon in my garden and then went to the movies in Strathbane with the wife. So I’ve got a cast-iron alibi.”

  “Nobody’s accusing you of anything,” said Hamish mildly. “Now, do you know if Miss Beattie had a gentleman friend?”

  “What the hell are you implying?”

  Hamish stared at the suddenly belligerent face in surprise. “Why are you so angry? Why so defensive? Was her caller yourself?”

  Joe Cromarty erupted. “I’ll phone your superiors and I’ll be having you for slander.”

  Hamish lost his temper. “What the hell’s the matter wi’ you, you silly wee man? If there was nothing going on between you and Miss Beattie, why are you firing up?”

  “I’m sick o’ the gossip in this town. Everyone mumbling and whispering about everyone else’s business.”

  “Let’s try another tack. I hear you were furious with Miss McAndrew on parents’ day at the school.”

  “That was legitimate. My
Geordie’s a bright boy and she only gave him a B in his history exam while she gave Penny Roberts, who’s as dim as anything, an A. Then she wouldn’t let him in the school play. I accused her of favouritism. She was aye keeping Penny in after school for a wee chat. Penny told Geordie the auld woman gave her the creeps.”

  “Do you know where Penny Roberts lives?”

  “Out on the shore road afore you get to Miss McAndrew’s. It’s a bungalow called Highland Home.”

  ♦

  When he left the shop, Hamish realised he was hungry. He took out his phone and called Angela Brodie, the doctor’s wife, and begged her to collect Lugs and take the dog for a walk. As he put his phone back in his pocket, he felt a tap on his shoulder and turned round and saw Elspeth.

  “How are you getting on?” she asked.

  “Slowly. What about you?”

  “I’m hungry. Let’s find somewhere for lunch and I’ll tell you what I’ve got.”

  “Where’s Pat?”

  “He got a call from our boss, saying he must have learnt the ropes by now and there was a dried-flower show over at Lairg waiting to be covered.”

  “That seems a bit odd considering there are two murders here.”

  “Not to Sam. Flower shows with lots of names and pictures sell more papers in the long run, he says. The murders will be covered by the nationals anyway and television.”

  “They’re here already,” said Hamish, watching satellite dishes being set up and cables snaking from vans across the street outside the post office.

  “Right. There’s a hotel north of here with good food.”

  “Which one?”

  “The Clachan. My car’s right here.”

  Hamish looked around in case Blair was skulking about, but there were only uniformed policemen going from door to door.

  They drove north out of Braikie. The coastal road became more rugged and was one-track with grass growing in the middle of it. After a couple of miles, Elspeth swung off to the right and up a winding drive bordered by thick rhododendron bushes.

  “This used to be Colonel Hargreaves’s place,” said Hamish.

  “He got rheumatism and blamed the climate. He sold up and moved south. An English couple bought it and turned it into a hotel.”

  She parked outside the hotel and they both got out. It was a Victorian building dating from the days of the nineteenth century, when the queen had made it fashionable to holiday in Scotland. They were ushered into the dining room by the new owner, John Speir. “You’ve got the dining room all to yourself,” he said, showing them to a table at the window. “But it won’t be quiet for long. Press from all over have booked rooms. Terrible, these murders, but great for the hotel business. Still, I didn’t expect many customers now the summer is over, so it’s a set menu.” He handed them a card each. There was a choice of two dishes for each course. They both chose the same: Scotch broth, poached salmon, and sherry trifle.