by M C Beaton
“Not necessarily. You’re thinking of Miss McAndrew. A lot of people probably disliked her. Her recent crush on young Penny must have made a lot of parents feel that their own precious offspring was being passed over. You’re forgetting about Miss Beattie. I did manage to find out that everyone liked her.”
“Wouldn’t her affair have diminished her respectability?”
“No. Billy Mackay, the postman, is well liked. His wife is not.”
“Is there anything else you’ve found out about the villagers?” asked Hamish. “I mean, anyone who was acting suspiciously? Anyone on that road to Miss McAndrew’s?”
“Nothing, really. Oh, I forgot one thing. There’s an old folks’ club in Braikie.”
“I know,” said Hamish. “I’m taking old Mrs. Harris there on Friday, you know, the one who found Miss Beattie’s body. She’s lonely and needs to get out more. Also, I may pick up some gossip.”
“I’ll go with you,” said Elspeth.
Hamish looked at her with a flicker of annoyance in his eyes. Couldn’t she wait to be asked? But instead he said, “What do you know about the old folks’ club?”
“It’s maybe not much. But when Mr. Blakey was setting it up, he asked the Currie sisters for advice.”
“So?”
“Well, that means the Currie sisters will know a good bit about Braikie and the people in it.”
Hamish groaned. The Currie sisters were twin spinsters of the parish and never lost a chance to criticise him.
“I’ll see them tomorrow,” he said gloomily, “after I see Angus.”
♦
The weather of Sutherland had made one of its mercurial changes when Hamish left the following morning, with Lugs on the leash, to walk to the seer’s. The sun blazed down and the mountains soared up into a pale blue sky. He was halfway up the hill at the back of the village when he sensed someone following him and turned round. Jenny came up, her face scarlet with exertion. “What is it?” he asked impatiently.
“I just wanted to apologise again,” said Jenny.
She looked so pretty and so distressed that Hamish said, “That’s behind us now. I’m on my way to grill our local seer. Like to come and meet him?”
“Oh, yes, please. Can he really tell the future?”
“I doubt it. But he can be a good source of gossip. I’ve got fish for him. He aye likes a present.”
“Oh, I haven’t got anything.”
“I’ll say the fish is from both of us.”
Hamish cast a calculating eye down on the top of Jenny’s curls. Priscilla had said that people talked to Jenny. Once again, he thought she might come in useful.
And so it seemed. For Angus’s welcome was at first sour as he ungraciously received a present of two trout from Hamish. “Could you no’ bring anything better?” he complained. “My freezer’s full of fish.”
“It’s a present from both of us,” said Hamish, stepping aside and revealing Jenny.
“Come ben,” said Angus, suddenly expansive. “So this is the wee lassie I’ve been hearing about. The one who’s a friend o’ Priscilla.”
Now, how did he hear that? wondered Hamish.
Angus’s cottage parlour was as picturesque as ever with a blackened kettle hanging on a chain over a peat fire. Three high-backed Orkney chairs were grouped in front of the fireplace, and Angus waved them towards them.
“Tea?” he asked Jenny.
“Yes, please,” said Jenny, looking around with interest.
Angus shuffled off to his kitchen at the back, which Hamish knew was generously furnished with the latest kitchen gadgets, including a large freezer. He also knew Angus had an electric kettle in the kitchen, but, for visitors, he preferred to go through the business of unhooking the old kettle from the fire.
When they all had cups of tea in their hands and Lugs was stretched out in front of the fire, Hamish began: “Now, Angus, there is the question of these murders. Have you heard anything?”
Angus stroked his long grey beard. His eyes fell on Jenny, who was leaning forward eagerly. “I do not hear. I see things,” he said portentously. Jenny let out an excited little gasp, and Angus beamed at her.
“What do you see?” asked Hamish patiently. Angus closed his eyes. The old grandfather clock in the corner gave an asthmatic cough and then chimed the hours. Jenny decided that it was worth all the humiliation of being found out to be here and witness this. Hamish, however, was becoming bored and restless. He knew Angus was putting on his usual act and wished he’d get over it and get down to what he had really heard.
Angus opened his eyes. They were staring and unfocussed. “Oh, God,” he said in a low voice. “Old people. Old people fainting and screaming. Something horrible. Something evil.” Lugs gave a sharp bark.
“Who? What?” demanded Hamish.
Angus’s pale eyes now focussed on him. “I think I’ll go and lie down,” he said.
“That’s all?” Hamish looked at him in irritation. “Old people fainting and screaming?”
“Leave me alone, laddie, and take your young lady away.” The seer got to his feet and began to shuffle towards the back premises.
“But have you heard anything?” called Hamish.
Angus turned. “You’ll let that one” – he pointed at Jenny – “get away like all the rest. You’re doomed to being a lonely man, Hamish.”
“Come on, Jenny,” said Hamish. “What a waste of time and trout.”
Outside in the sunshine, Jenny clutched his arm. “I think he really saw something.”
“Och, he’s an old fraud.”
“Where are you going now?” asked Jenny, scurrying to keep up with Hamish’s long strides.
“I’m going to call on the Currie sisters. They might have heard something.”
“Can I come?” pleaded Jenny.
“I don’t see why not.”
♦
Unfortunately for Jenny, the Currie sisters had found out what thongs looked like. Dr. Brodie, aware of the strait-laced sensibilities of the villagers, confined the magazines in his waiting room to conservative publications like Horse & Hound, Country Life, Scottish Field, and People’s Friend. But Nessie Currie had been to the dentist’s in Inverness the day before and had perused the magazines in that waiting room. They were of the girlie variety, full of detailed descriptions of orgasms, how to get your man, and sexual practices which the Currie spinsters had naively believed belonged solely in the brothel. There were also advertisements of saucy underwear.
They were remarkably alike, thought Jenny as two pairs of beady eyes behind thick glasses focussed on her. She was unfortunate in that the Currie sisters never let a thought go unsaid.
“I would have thought it very uncomfortable to wear, to wear,” said Jessie, who, like Browning’s thrush, had an irritating way of saying everything twice over.
“Are you talking to me?” asked Jenny.
“Who else? Who else?”
“Couldn’t believe our eyes. Catapult, indeed,” said Nessie.
Jenny’s face flamed red.
“We saw it illustrated in a dirty magazine,” said Nessie. “You’ll damage yourself wearing something like that. You go down to Strathbane to the draper’s in the main street and get yourself some respectable knickers with elastic at the knee.”
“Could we get down to business?” said Hamish crossly. “I have two murders to solve.”
“So why aren’t you solving them?” demanded Nessie. “Instead of going around with young lassies.”
“Young lassies,” echoed Jessie.
“I have to ask everyone if they’ve heard anything,” said Hamish, who was used to dealing with the Currie sisters. “Now, did either of you know Miss McAndrew or Miss Beattie?”
“Both,” they chorused.
“So tell me about them.”
“Miss McAndrew was a bit bossy,” said Nessie. “She had the reputation of being a good schoolteacher. She came to one of our church concerts last year. Miss Beattie, well, we
thought her a respectable body. We didn’t know she had been…er…romancing the postman.”
“How did you hear that?”
“The women in Patel’s were all talking about it. So Jessie and me, we decided that Miss McAndrew was in love with the postman and jealous of Miss Beattie, so she strung her up.”
Hamish’s glance flicked to the new digital television set. The Currie sisters had obviously been exposed to a recent diet of American films.
“So who killed Miss McAndrew?” he asked.
“Why, postman Billy, of course. Now that we’ve solved your case for you, you can leave us alone.”
“That’s very clever of you,” said Jenny suddenly. “I wouldn’t have thought of that.”
Both sisters beamed on her. She looked so young and pretty and respectable in her new anorak and trousers. “The only trouble is,” said Jenny, “that Pat Mallone told me that Billy had an alibi. He was down in Strathbane at an army reunion the night Miss Beattie was murdered.”
“So what? So what?” demanded Jessie. “Where was he the day Miss McAndrew was murdered, when she was murdered?”
“Oh, of course you’re right,” said Jenny. “What do you think of Billy?”
“I don’t hold with adultery,” said Nessie. “But mind you, that wife of his is a fiend and Billy aye had the reputation of being a kind and decent man. If I were you, I’d be talking to Penny Roberts’s parents. Now that they know Miss McAndrew was writing those dreadful letters, they might come out with something about her that they didn’t realise before.”
“We’ll do that. What a good idea!” enthused Jenny.
“You know Mr. Blakey at the old folks’ club?” said Hamish.
“Senior citizens,” corrected Jessie. “He rightly came to us for advice. At the beginning, we vetted the videos for him in case there would be anything nasty. But we haven’t been there for a while.”
Both Jenny and Hamish rose to their feet. “You’re a good lassie,” said Jessie. “A good lassie. We hope to see you in church on Sunday, church on Sunday.”
“I’ll be there,” said Jenny with a warm smile.
The Currie sisters stood at their parlour window and watched Hamish and Jenny leave. Jenny stumbled and clutched at Hamish’s arm for support.
Nessie shook her head. “It’s that evil underwear. Enough to unbalance anyone. Do you think she’s a virgin?”
“She’d have to be, to be,” said Jessie. “I mean, it would be uncomfortable otherwise when you think – ”
“I’d rather not, if you don’t mind,” said Nessie severely. “And you shouldn’t be thinking such thoughts. But she’s a brand to be saved from the burning. We’ll have a go at her after church on Sunday.”
∨ Death of a Poison Pen ∧
5
I had rather take my chance that some traitors will escape detection than spread abroad a spirit of general suspicion and distrust, which accepts rumour and gossip in place of undismayed and unintimidated inquiry.
—Learned Hand
Hamish explianed to Jenny that he could not take her to Braikie in a police vehicle, but she said cheerfully that she would follow behind him in her ‘ridiculous little car.’
Jenny’s ambition had changed. She was no longer interested in snaring Hamish Macbeth, but – remembering how much Priscilla had talked about the cases she and Hamish had solved together – in returning to London with the story about how her help had solved two murders.
Hamish just hoped Blair would not see him around with Jenny in tow. He had to admit to himself that she had a knack of getting people to warm to her.
He decided to call on Penny Roberts’s parents first. He stopped in the main street and checked a computer list of addresses, then swung the Land Rover round and headed out again towards the coast end of the town and stopped outside a row of Victorian villas. The Robertses lived in a neat house, two-storeyed, with pointed gables. He knocked at the door, guiltily aware of the small figure of Jenny behind him, realising it must look odd to bring a civilian along with him.
A dark-haired skinny woman opened the door and surveyed him. She had a thick-lipped mouth, small eyes, and an incipient moustache. Must be a friend or relative, he thought. “Police,” he said. “I wondered if I could be having a word with Mr. or Mrs. Roberts.”
“Come in,” she said, stepping back. “I’m Mrs. Roberts.”
Startled, Hamish thought that Penny must surely have inherited her stunning looks from her father, but when they were ushered into a living room, Mr. Roberts was introduced. He was also dark and skinny and very hairy. “I am Hamish Macbeth.” Hamish removed his cap and tucked it under his arm. “As this is an unofficial visit, I hope you don’t mind my friend Jenny Ogilvie joining us.”
“Not at all,” said Mrs. Roberts. “Sit down. A dreadful business, all this.”
Jenny glanced around the living room. There was a two-bar electric fire, glowing orange in front of a fireplace, blocked up with newspaper. But the furniture, like the house, was dark and Victorian with two oils of Highland landscapes hanging from walls decorated in faded wallpaper.
“This house must have been in your family a long time,” said Jenny.
“Yes, it belonged to my great-grandfather,” said Mrs. Roberts. “I was lucky in a way, if you can call it luck. My mother died a week before me and Cyril” – she nodded towards her husband – “were due to get married. Of course, we were going to stay with Mother, but the poor soul was fair gone with Alzheimer’s, so it was a blessed release.”
“Housing is so difficult these days, Mrs. Roberts,” said Jenny.
Hamish was about to interrupt her, but Mrs. Roberts smiled on Jenny and said, “Call me Mary. You’re quite right. We could never have afforded a place like this. Not then. But Cyril is doing nicely now. He’s a civil engineer with Bradley’s in Strathbane. Not at work, I can see you’re wondering. With all this going on, Cyril took a few days off.”
“Quite right,” said Jenny. “You want to be with your family at a time like this.”
Hamish cleared his throat. “Did you get any of the poison-pen letters?”
There was a brief silence. “No,” said Mary Roberts. “I mean, it turns out it was Miss McAndrew that was writing them and she was so fond of Penny that she wouldn’t attack us. I mean, after all, we’ve no guilty secrets.”
And yet, Hamish thought, I feel you’re lying. He pressed on. “Weren’t you made uneasy that the headmistress should make such a pet of your daughter?”
“We were pleased for her,” said Cyril. “I mean, Penny’s a bright girl, head and shoulders above the rest. It seemed natural to us that Miss McAndrew should take such a great interest.”
Hamish’s eyes roamed briefly around the room. There were photos of Penny everywhere: Penny as a toddler, Penny as a schoolgirl, Penny on holiday in Cornwall.
“Did you know Miss Beattie well?” asked Jenny.
“We knew her the way everyone else in Braikie knew her,” said Mary. “We chatted a bit over the counter, that sort of thing.”
“But you didn’t socialise with her?”
“No, she really isn’t in our class,” said Mary with all the simple snobbery of a small, remote village.
Hamish looked at them for a moment, puzzled. There was a secret in this room – in the air.
“Didn’t you have any inkling that Miss McAndrew was a poison-pen writer?”
“Oh, no,” said Mary. “I mean, such a respectable body! How could we dream she would do such a thing?”
Jenny spoke suddenly. “Before Penny,” she said, “who was teacher’s pet?”
“Pardon?”
“I mean, before Penny, do you know who was Miss McAndrew’s favourite?”
Mary Roberts and her husband exchanged glances. “Let me see,” said Mary. “There was Jessie Briggs.”
“And is she still at school?”
“No, she left two years ago.”
“Where does she live?” asked Hamish.
“
At the council houses. Highland Close. I don’t know the number.”
“Is she working?”
“I don’t know.”
Hamish asked more questions about their opinion of the late Miss McAndrew, but they did seem genuinely bewildered that the respected headmistress had been anything other than perfect.
♦
Outside, Hamish said, “What prompted you to ask about another favourite?”
“Just an idea,” said Jenny eagerly. “I mean it stands to reason, if she’d made a pet of Penny, then she might have had other pets.”
“Clever idea,” said Hamish, and Jenny glowed. “We may as well go and see this girl and hope that she and her family weren’t so starry-eyed about Miss McAndrew.”
They drove in tandem to Highland Close. Hamish knocked at the first door and got Jessie Briggs’s address.
Followed by Jenny, he walked up the path and knocked at a front door, noticing that the paint was peeling and the front garden behind him was full of weeds. Somewhere inside, a baby cried.
The door was opened by a thin, tired-looking girl. Her blonde hair was showing an inch of dark roots. She had startlingly green eyes and Hamish guessed that made-up and dressed up, she might still attract a lot of admiring looks.
“I am PC Hamish Macbeth,” he said. “This is Jenny Ogilvie. Do you mind if we come in?”
“Yes, but be quiet. I’ve just laid the bairn down and I could do with a rest.”
She led them into a cluttered living room. Several empty bottles of Baccardi Breezer stood among film magazines on a coffee table.
“Are your parents home?” asked Hamish. The room smelled of stale cigarette smoke, stale booze, and unwashed nappies.
“No, I live on my own. Unmarried mother.”
Hamish and Jenny sat down side by side on a battered sofa. Jessie picked up a wastepaper basket and shovelled empty bottles into it. “Tea?” she asked.
“No, don’t bother,” said Hamish quickly, anxious to get this interview over and get out into the fresh air.
“So is this about the murders?” asked Jessie, sitting down opposite them.
“Yes, it is,” said Hamish. “We gather you were something of a favourite with Miss McAndrew?”
