Death of a Poison Pen hm-20

by M C Beaton

  Hamish began to feel irritated with himself. He should have asked questions about Miss Beattie himself.

  “What’s Billy been saying?”

  “They’ve released him.”

  “Does no one tell me anything?”

  Jimmy looked amused. “They don’t usually have to.”

  “It’s chust that I’ve got the long, long list of suspects. I have something for you. Someone saw Miss Beattie visit Miss McAndrew’s cottage three days afore she was murdered. She stayed half an hour and came out crying.”

  “Who told you that?”

  But Hamish wanted to keep Jenny’s name out of it. He didn’t want the police to know he had been taking an amateur round with him.

  Miss Beattie’s unexpectedly younger age raised a lot of questions. Billy would know. He glanced at the clock. Eight in the evening.

  “Finish your whisky, Jimmy, and shut the door behind you. Come on, Lugs.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’ve got to see Billy.”

  Jimmy leant back comfortably in his chair. “Run along. I’m off duty.”

  “And don’t drink too much and drive.”

  Jimmy gave him a limpid look from his bloodshot blue eyes. “Wouldnae dream o’ it.”

  Hamish, with his dog beside him on the passenger seat, sped off to Braikie again.

  ♦

  Billy answered the door. “Where the missus?” asked Hamish cautiously.

  “Out at her sewing circle, thank God. Come in. I thought they were going to keep me there for ages, for I’d had enough o’ that bad-tempered cheil, Blair. So I asked for a lawyer, which is what I should have done in the first place. Got a smart woman. She pointed out that they had no evidence and she really went for Blair. I think he’d met his match.”

  “Billy, I didn’t know poor Miss Beattie was only in her thirties.”

  “Aye, folk forgot all the same. The cancer aged her a lot.”

  “Cancer?”

  “Yes, she told me. It was shortly after she came to Braikie. She got cancer of the fallopian tubes. She said she was frightened to death. Her hair turned almost white. She told me she always lived in fear of it coming back. She’d had one hell of a religious upbringing, and she thought God was punishing her.”

  “Yes, I just learned her parents were strong Free Presbyterians. I think I’d better try to see them.”

  “You can’t. The father died ten years ago of cancer of the lung, and two years after, a heart attack took the mother off. That’s when me and Amy got together. I would stay on in the evenings to console her. She blamed herself for leaving home, I think. There had been some breach, and after she left, she never went to see them.”

  “Can you think of anything in her past that Miss McAndrew could have found out to upset her?”

  “Me and Amy were that close.” A tear ran down Billy’s cheek. “She would have told me.”

  “Even if Miss McAndrew had found out about her affair with you? Wouldn’t that have been enough?”

  “Aye, but she would ha’ told me.”

  “Did she ever talk about her?”

  “Let me see. She used to say things like, “I cannae thole that woman. There’s something creepy and nasty about her.””

  “Anything more concrete?”

  “Hamish, I’m so glad to be out. Look, she’ll be back in a moment. I’ll phone you if I remember anything.”

  Hamish left and drove slowly back, with Lugs asleep on the seat beside him. When he entered the police station, it was to find the bottle of whisky, which, he thought, had thankfully only been a quarter full, standing empty on the table.

  Tomorrow, he decided, he would see what the old folks had to say about Miss Beattie’s past.

  He was just drifting off to sleep when he suddenly opened his eyes with a start. That small boy, what was his name? Archie Brand, that was it. He must call on him.

  ∨ Death of a Poison Pen ∧

  6

  Mordre wol out, certeyn, it wol not faille.

  —Geoffrey Chaucer

  Hamish felt himself reluctant the next day to call at the school and demand to see Archie Brand. He did not like Mr. Arkle and felt sure the head teacher would find some obstacle to put in his way.

  But to his relief, Mr. Arkle was out somewhere and the meek secretary, Freda, went off and collected Archie and brought him into her office.

  “Now, Archie,” said Hamish, “can we go over again what you told me?”

  “It was the night her at the post office was murdered. I was going to the chippy…”

  “What time would that be?”

  “About nine. There was this fellow standing outside the post office. He was looking up, you know, at the upstairs windows.”

  “Right. Now tell me as much as you can remember.”

  “He was all in black,” said Archie, red-faced and squirming in his seat. “He had a baseball cap pulled down over his eyes and his clothes were black. He had wan o’ thae down-filled jackets and a pair o’ black trousers and black sneakers.”

  “Did you see his face?”

  “Naw. Thon cap was pulled right down.”

  Hamish stifled a sigh. Nothing more there.

  “Thanks, Archie. If you remember anything more, phone me at the police station in Lochdubh.”

  “Right, boss,” said Archie proudly.

  ♦

  Hamish returned to Lochdubh and phoned Jimmy. “Have you got a time of death for Miss McAndrew?” he asked.

  “Sometime during the night, Hamish. You know how it is. They can never pinpoint the exact time. But she was killed in her bed and she hadn’t yet eaten any breakfast, and from the contents of her stomach, they guess it must have been somewhere in the small hours.”

  “No sign of forced entry?”

  “None.”

  “That’s odd. I don’t see her getting out of bed and letting her killer in and then going back to bed and waiting to be stabbed. I’d swear whoever it was got her when she was asleep. What kind of lock on the front door?”

  “Just a Yale. Easily picked.”

  “Footprints, fingerprints?”

  “No fingerprints. No footprints. This is one coldblooded murderer. He’d vacuumed his way out of the house. The vacuum was lying just inside the door.”

  “Anything in the bag?”

  “Our murderer took the vacuum bag with him. Not a fibre, not a hair.”

  “Anyone been down to Perth to check on Miss Beattie’s background?”

  “Perth police did that. An old neighbour remembered she had some sort o’ falling-out with her parents and left. They were a close-mouthed religious pair and never spoke about it.”

  “I’m not getting anywhere with my enquiries. How about you lot?”

  “Blair’s got another case down here which leaves me in charge. You know what he’s like. When a case seems impossible to solve, he dumps it on some other sucker, said sucker being me.”

  “I’m going to the old folks’ club tonight. Maybe some of them will remember something.”

  “My, my. The excitement of living in the Highlands. Have fun.”

  ♦

  Pat Mallone walked along the waterfront, filled with unease. He had a great deal on his conscience. The day before, Elspeth had said, “Thank goodness that’s finished. I’ll get a cup of coffee and send it off.”

  Pat had stopped by her desk. “Your colour piece?” he had asked.

  “That’s the one. Be a lamb and have a look at it. Won’t be long.”

  Pat had sat down at Elspeth’s computer. He quickly read the piece. It was brilliant. A wild impulse seized him. It was all ready to be sent off to the Bugle. He erased Elspeth’s byline, put his own on, and sent the article off. Then he erased his byline and typed Elspeth’s back in.

  “What do you think?” asked Elspeth, appearing behind him.

  “Great,” said Pat. “I sent it off for you.”

  “That’s a bit high-handed of you. I might have wanted t
o make changes.”

  Pat twinkled up at her, turning on the full force of his Irish charm. “I’m sure you thought it was perfect.”

  Elspeth grinned. “As a matter of fact, I did.”

  What Pat now hoped was that because the article was not written by a member of their own staff, the Bugle would not use the byline on the piece, but if they were pleased with it, they might offer him a job. He would need to sweat it out until Sunday when the paper appeared.

  He saw Jenny walking towards the police station. He hurried to waylay her.

  “Where are you off to?” he asked.

  “I was just going to see if Hamish was at home.”

  “I think I saw him driving off earlier,” lied Pat. “I’ve got to cover an amateur dramatic show at Cnothan this afternoon. A children’s affair. Feel like coming?”

  “Yes, all right,” said Jenny.

  “How long are you staying?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jenny. “I’ve got a lot of leave owing.” As a matter of fact, she had phoned her office that morning and claimed that she had caught the flu. The only trouble was they had asked for a doctor’s certificate.

  Pat looked down at her guilty, flushed face.

  “Is that the truth?”

  “No,” said Jenny, turning even redder. “I said I had the flu and now they want a doctor’s certificate.”

  “So we’ll pinch one.”

  “How do we do that?”

  “I’ll tell this local doctor I’ve got back pain, you create a diversion, and I’ll nick one.”

  “Could you?” breathed Jenny.

  “It’s worth a try. Come on. The surgery’s open.”

  They walked into the surgery. Pat explianed his problem to the receptionist, glad he had taken the precaution of signing on when he’d first arrived in Lochdubh and therefore was saved the business of filling out forms. “After I go in,” he whispered to Jenny, “create a diversion in the waiting room, something to get him running out.”

  “I’ll try,” Jenny whispered back.

  There were only two elderly patients before Pat was due to be called. Jenny tried to read a romantic story in the People’s Friend. But the print jumped before her nervous eyes.

  At last it was Pat’s turn. He breezed in. “Sit down,” said Dr. Brodie. “What’s up with you?”

  “It’s my back,” said Pat, his eyes roving over the doctor’s desk.

  “That’s unusual,” said Dr. Brodie.

  “Why?”

  “People usually complain of bad backs on a Monday so they get a week off work.”

  “I’m not trying to get off work,” said Pat. “I just want something to ease the pain.”

  “Did you do anything to strain it?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did. Sam wanted me to lift the photocopier to another part of the office. It was heavier than I expected.”

  “I should think it’s nothing more than a temporary strain. I’d better examine you just the same. Go behind the screen and strip to the waist.”

  Why wasn’t Jenny doing something? wondered Pat.

  Then he heard the sound of a heavy fall from the waiting room, and the receptionist came running in, shouting. “Doctor, come quick. There’s a lassie’s fainted.”

  Pat peered over the screen. The minute Dr. Brodie was out of the room, he ran round the screen, his eyes scanning the desk. There it was, the book of forms. He quickly tore one off the top and put it in his jacket pocket and then went into the waiting room, where Jenny was being helped into a chair.

  “I’m all right,” she was saying. “Just a dizzy turn.”

  The doctor saw Pat. “I’d better examine this young lady first. You wait here.”

  “Right,” said Pat. “Actually, I’m probably making a fuss about nothing. A couple of painkillers’ll probably put me right.”

  Jenny was helped into the consulting room. Pat waited anxiously. She was gone for ages. Jenny had to have a full examination. At the end of it, Dr. Brodie studied her rosy cheeks and bright eyes and said slowly, “I would say you are one remarkably healthy lady. Have these murders made you nervous?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Jenny, seizing on the excuse. “I was helping Hamish with his enquiries yesterday and it was all very exciting. I think the horror of it all got to me today.”

  “I don’t know what Hamish was thinking of to involve you in two nasty murder cases,” said Dr. Brodie. “I’ll be having a word with him.”

  “Oh, don’t do that,” pleaded Jenny. “I wouldn’t want to get him into any trouble.”

  “Nonetheless, I’ll be speaking to him. If you get another fainting fit, come and see me. The receptionist will give you the necessary forms to fill in with the name of your London doctor. Send that young man in.”

  After examining Pat thoroughly, Dr. Brodie felt he was wasting his time. Both Pat and Jenny seemed to be in perfect health.

  After they had gone, he phoned the police station. Hamish was out, so he left him a message and then walked to his home – to find Hamish sitting in his kitchen, drinking coffee.

  Hamish listened patiently to Dr. Brodie’s lecture and then said cynically, “Did you check your prescription pad?”

  “No, why?”

  “A healthy young man like Pat Mallone claims to have a bad back. Then a healthy young woman has a fainting fit, which means you have to run out, leaving Pat alone. Didn’t that make you suspicious?”

  “I’d better go back and check.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  They walked together to the surgery. Once there, Dr. Brodie checked his prescription pad. “Nothing missing,” he said.

  “And everything looks the same?” asked Hamish. “Nothing’s been moved?”

  “Not that I can see.”

  A doctor’s line to say she was sick, thought Hamish. He opened his mouth to say something and then decided to remain quiet. He had a feeling that such as Jenny might find out something if she stayed, and he was willing to turn a blind eye to a small crime in the hope of solving the bigger ones.

  ♦

  Hamish returned to the police station to find a grey-haired woman waiting outside. “Constable Macbeth?” she asked doubtfully, looking up at Hamish and then down to the peculiar-looking dog at his heels.

  “The same. And you are?”

  “Mrs. Dinwiddie. Miss Beattie’s sister.”

  “Come into the station,” said Hamish.

  In the kitchen, she sat down primly on the edge of a chair and crossed her ankles. She wore her grey hair in an old–fashioned bun. Her face looked tight and her mouth was a thin line. Hamish wondered briefly if it had got that way after years of clamping down on emotions. Then he reminded himself that her sister had recently been murdered and she may have just been holding grief at bay.

  He made two mugs of tea and then said gently, “How can I help you?”

  “I heard about you,” she said, “from Amy, my sister. She always said you were so clever. I’ve had enough of that Detective Blair. I want to know if you are any further forward in finding out who killed Amy.”

  “At the moment, no,” said Hamish. “But I will,” he added, with a confidence he did not feel. “Depend on that. Tell me about your sister. Why did she leave home?”

  “It happened when I was away at the university in Edinburgh,” said Mrs. Dinwiddie. “She wrote to me and said she couldn’t stand living at home any longer. Our parents were very religious, very strict. It was easier for me because they were proud of me getting to university. Anyway, I wasn’t a rebel like Amy. Amy wanted to wear make-up and go out with the boys, and they kept locking her in her room. Then they would get members of the congregation round to read the Bible to her and lecture her. One day, she just took off. Father said her name was never to be mentioned again.”

  “What did she work at before she came up to Braikie?”

  “She worked in a supermarket as a checkout girl. Actually, she was pretty bright at school, but fell to pieces just befor
e the final exams. I think Father was harder on her than he ever was on me. I used to worry that she might have a breakdown. I wrote to her about their deaths, but she didn’t bother to come to the funerals.”

  “What about boyfriends?”

  “She would be allowed those but only if it was some fellow from the church. She was seen out with a bunch of bikers and locked in her room for two weeks after that. I never knew if there was anyone special. She didn’t tell me.”

  Perth, thought Hamish. Perhaps the secret lies somewhere in her past.

  “Did the police give you her papers? Old photographs? Things like that?” he asked.

  “Not yet. They are going to release them to me soon.”

  “I would like to see them. You see, Mrs. Dinwiddie, sometimes if I can form a picture of a person and their background, I can get an idea of why they might have been killed.”

  “I’ll send them to you.”

  “When’s the funeral?”

  “Tomorrow, in Perth. I’ve made the arrangements.”

  “I would be grateful if you could let me have your address. You live in Perth, don’t you?”

  “Yes, here’s the address.” She produced a card from her handbag.

  “I might call on you soon.”

  “Let me know when. Because if I have any photos or papers that might interest you, I’ll keep them instead of sending them up here.”

  Hamish thanked her and saw her out.

  He returned to the kitchen and fed Lugs, forgetting in his preoccupation with the case that the animal had already been fed.

  He sat down at the table and stared into space. “The problem is, Lugs,” he said to the dog’s uncaring head, which was buried in his food bowl, “there’s too many damn suspects. Was it one of the parents? Or the school-teachers? That might account for Miss McAndrew’s murder but not Miss Beattie’s. Are there two murderers here? Maybe I’ll pick up something at the old folks’ film show.”

  Lugs ambled away from his now empty food bowl, keeled over, and fell asleep.

  ♦

  Early that evening, Hamish put a selection of videos in a bag and went out with Elspeth to her car. There were still too many police in Braikie and he did not want to be spotted giving a civilian a lift in a police car. He was almost relieved to see Elspeth wearing one of her usual grunge outfits: old anorak, jeans, and tweed fishing hat. There was always something unsettlingly attractive about Elspeth when she dressed up. He was wearing a suit, collar, and tie and maliciously hoped he was making Elspeth feel inferior.