by M C Beaton
Then came the questions. How had the police suddenly come to the conclusion that Mr. Harrison might have murdered his nurse?
Daviot smoothed back his silvery hair. “We use our intuition,” he said. “It is known as good old-fashioned policing.”
Blair pushed forward to the microphone. “I would like to say that all the credit for solving this difficult case is due to the efforts of Superintendent Daviot.”
“Northern Times,” called a reporter. “Was Hamish Macbeth anything to do with it?”
“Hamish Macbeth,” said Daviot smoothly, “is merely one of our officers on the case. He is to be commended for trying to save Mr. Harrison. That is all. No more questions.”
“And that’s that,” said Hamish. “Well, at least there won’t be any suggestions of promotion and moving me to Strathbane. Oh, damn, there’s the door. Leave it. Probably some reporter.”
“Open this door immediately, Macbeth,” called a peremptory female voice.
“Oh, God. It’s Fiona,” said Charlie.
Hamish went and opened the kitchen door. Fiona strode in.
“What the hell has been going on?” she raged. “Did you precious pair not think to keep me in the loop?”
“It’s like this,” said Hamish quietly. “There was no time to contact you in Inverness. It all happened so quickly. Sit down. Have a dram and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Hamish poured three shots of whisky and then began to talk. Fiona listened carefully until he had finished.
She said, “So because of your mistake in not guarding Harrison’s hotel room door, you get no credit at all. That must rankle.”
“It doesn’t,” said Hamish. “If I keep a low profile, then it means I can keep my police station here.”
“I fail to understand an unambitious man,” said Fiona. “Surely you, Charlie, don’t want to be buried up here forever?”
“Suits me fine, ma’am,” said Charlie.
“The pair of you are a waste of intelligence,” said Fiona. “I’m off. Coming, Charlie?”
“I’ve got stuff to type up,” said Charlie, his normally pleasant face closed down like a shutter.
Fiona stalked to the door and nearly tripped over the little poodle. “What a ridiculous dog,” she said.
“Got a name for it yet?” asked Charlie when the door had slammed behind Fiona.
“Sally.”
“That’s not French.”
“It’s a British poodle,” said Hamish. He bent down and stroked the dog’s springy fur and thought of Sonsie with a sudden wrenching pang. He almost wished the wild cat had died to spare him the agony of constantly wondering how she was.
An hour later, the kitchen door opened and Jimmy walked in. “I saw Old Iron Knickers driving away,” he said. “Bet she was in a right taking.”
“Something like that,” said Hamish. “So is everything quiet at Strathbane?”
“Aye. Daviot has almost come to believe he’s a genius. I see the whisky on the table. Don’t worry. I’ll help myself. The things that go on up here in peasantville! Murderous nurses. Old boys in wheelchairs who can walk. What next?”
“Absolutely nothing, I hope,” said Hamish.
Epilogue
I must down to the sea again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way
where the wind’s like a whetted knife.
—John Masefield
The wrapping up of the murders seemed to take an immense amount of paperwork. At some point, Hamish Macbeth began to feel he would never, ever be able to return to his lazy life.
But at last it was all over and he and Charlie spent long lazy sunny days on their vast beat or out in the loch, fishing.
Down in Strathbane, Chief Detective Superintendent Blair dreamt of winkling Hamish out of his station. Then one day he thought he had found a glimmer of hope. Blair was sure there had been something going on between Fiona Herring and Carter. If only he could get proof, then Carter would be removed and it would be one crack at least in that lazy Macbeth’s life. Opportunity finally came his way one night when he was driving home. The car in front of him, a Jaguar, was slewing across the road. He drove in front of it, forcing the driver to stop.
From his gold Rolex to his Savile Row suit, the driver was just the sort of “posh git” who got up Blair’s nose. He demanded his driving licence. The driver’s name was Peter Tuck of London. He said he was booked into the Tommel Castle Hotel for a fishing holiday.
Blair breathalysed him and found he was well over the limit.
“Get out of your car. I am impounding it,” ordered Blair. “You will come with me to headquarters, where you will be formally charged.”
Peter was a florid middle-aged man, his face covered in a sheen of sweat. He took out his wallet. “Maybe we can settle it here,” he said.
“Are you trying to bribe a police officer?” roared Blair.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Ossifer,” slurred Peter, putting his wallet away.
Blair liked bullying. And bullying posh people was something he really enjoyed.
Peter was locked up in the cells for the night to sober up and was told he would be up before the sheriff in the morning.
During the night, Blair began to wonder if he could put this drunk to use. The man would be staying at the hotel. As a guest, he could talk to the staff and find out if there had been anything going on between Fiona and Charlie Carter.
A sober and frightened Peter listened to Blair’s suggestion. “If you do this for me,” said Blair, “you can have your car and licence and we’ll say no more about it.” Peter readily agreed.
Blair stared at him out of his piggy bloodshot eyes. “Talk to anyone about this arrangement,” he said, “and I’ll have ye. Get it?”
“Yes, yes,” said Peter. “Just get me out of here.”
By the time Peter had checked into the hotel and was settled in the bar with a large whisky, he began to look back on the adventure as a bad dream. The day was sunny. The luxury hotel soothed his rattled nerves. He would make this his one drink, get some fishing, and try to lead a healthy life. The fees for fishing on the Anstey were steep, but he was a rich man. But one drink led to another and by the time he got to the river, he was unsteady on his feet.
Charlie, fishing downstream from Peter, looked along the sparkling peaty waters of the Anstey just in time to see Peter falling off the bank and into a salmon pool. He hurried along and pulled Peter out and dumped him on the bank. The smell of whisky coming off the man, thought Charlie, was polluting the very air. Charlie had the benefit of free fishing and the use of the hotel’s Land Rover to get to the river. He heaved Peter up and, escorting him to the Land Rover, dumped him in the passenger seat, then drove back to the hotel. He found where Peter’s room was and took him along. He stripped off his wet clothes and tossed them on the floor, got him into his pyjamas, and threw him on the bed.
Charlie was turning to leave when a mobile phone on the bedside table began to ring. Charlie picked it up and stared down at the number on the screen. Strathbane! He decided to answer it.
“This is Blair,” snarled the familiar voice. “What have you found out?”
Charlie was a good mimic. He put on an upper-class English voice and said, “I’ve only just got here.”
“You’ve had time enough, laddie,” said Blair. “I want proof that the inspector was being bonked by Charlie Carter and I want it soonest or I’ll have you.”
Charlie sat down on a chair beside the bed, his superstitious highland soul telling him that he would never, ever get away with that night with Fiona.
He rose stiffly and went out into the hall and phoned Hamish, asking him to come quickly because Blair was on the warpath.
Then Charlie went out into the car park and waited for Hamish to arrive.
Hamish listened carefully to what Charlie had discovered. “Blast the man!” he said. “You’d better phone Fiona.”
“I cannae!” wail
ed Charlie. “Every time I look at her, I see her with no clothes on.”
“Some men have all the luck,” said Hamish. “Phone her. She’s got the clout to deal with this.”
Miserably, Charlie phoned Inverness and told Fiona that Blair was trying to find out about their affair through some drunk called Peter Tuck. He obviously had some hold on him. “The man’s a chronic drunk,” said Charlie. “Maybe Blair let him off on a charge in return for spying.”
“I’ll see to it,” said Fiona. “You’ll hear from me later.”
Blair was glad it was a quiet day. He had enjoyed a liquid lunch and was leaning back in his chair with his feet on his desk, his hands folded over his paunch, his eyes slowly closing.
His feet were suddenly swiped off the desk. He sat up, blinking his eyes, to see Daviot and Fiona looming over him. “My office. Now!” snapped Daviot.
Blair climbed up the stairs to Daviot’s office, terror gripping him.
When they were seated, Fiona began. “There is a man called Peter Tuck, staying at the Tommel Castle Hotel, who has orders from you to find out if I had been having an affair with policeman Charlie Carter.”
“He must be fantasising,” said Blair. “As if I waud do such a thing.”
“I have checked with the custody sergeant,” said Fiona. “Last night you arrested this Mr. Tuck for being over the limit. He spent a night in the cells and was due in the sheriff’s court this morning. The charges were dropped. His impounded car was returned to him and he was sent on his way. Why did you drop the charges?”
“We’re overburdened with petty cases and the court is overworked,” said Blair sanctimoniously. “I made up my mind just to let him go.”
“Your Mr. Tuck got drunk and fell in the river. Charlie Carter rescued him and put him to bed. While he was passed out, his mobile rang. Charlie answered it and it was you, Blair, and under the impression you were speaking to Tuck, you ordered him to find out if I was having an affair with Carter. What have you to say before I drag your fat carcase to court?”
“Oh, Inspector Herring,” pleaded Daviot. “Think of the scandal. Blair, you are suspended from duty. Leave us.”
Charlie and Hamish waited and waited at the hotel until Fiona arrived in the late evening. “Blair has been suspended though he should have been sacked,” she said. “But I want this whole business buried as soon as possible. If Blair gets vindictive, he may hire a private detective. Now let’s see Mr. Tuck.”
Hamish was almost sorry for Peter as Fiona told him to pack up and leave for London or she would have him arrested on a number of charges. If he left immediately, no more would be said of the matter.
Babbling his thanks, Peter packed as quickly as possible, settled his bill, and roared off.
It was unfortunate that he stopped in a pub in Inverness to still his shaking nerves with several large drinks and even more unfortunate that he should buy a bottle of whisky for the car to refresh himself on his journey. It never really gets dark in the summer in the Highlands. Late in the evening, there is a sort of grey gloaming. It can trick the eyes, particularly the eyes of a very drunk man. South of Inverness, Peter was sure there was a woman in white standing in the middle of the road. He swerved violently and the Jaguar plunged off the road and rolled down and down, turning and turning and finally crashing into a great ice age boulder. Peter died in the crumpled wreck of his car.
“And that, in its way, is murder,” said Hamish Macbeth. “If Blair had booked him and kept his car impounded, this would never have happened. Did Fiona leave all right, Charlie? Why did she want to see you in private?”
“Wanted to give me a proper goodbye,” said Charlie, blushing to the roots of his hair. “But I couldnae. Herself was right angry. You haven’t looked at your post.”
“It’s all junk these days,” said Hamish, flipping through it. “Oh, what’s this?”
He opened a stiff square envelope. Inside was an embossed card. It was an invitation to Dick and Anka’s wedding.
Hamish handed it to Charlie and said bitterly, “I never will understand women. Wee Dick and gorgeous Anka! How did he do it?”
“Just being Dick,” said Charlie. “He’s sort of cosy.”
“I’m beginning to think there’ll never be a lassie for me,” said Hamish.
When Charlie had left, Hamish sat turning the invitation over and over in his long fingers. Then he thought that he had never really seen beyond Anka’s beauty.
He leaned down and patted Lugs and then Sally for comfort. “I’m done wi’ beauty,” he told them. “If a gorgeous female turns up on my doorstep, I’ll tell her to take a hike.”
He left the station and walked up to his favourite spot where the roaring Atlantic waves at the entrance to the loch pounded the cliffs. There was something mesmerising about the towering green-and-black waves, something about the noise and tumult which soothed his brain.
Back at the police station, he was just about to make a cup of coffee when there came a knock at the kitchen door. He opened it. Christine Dalray, the forensic scientist, stood there, her attractive face lit up in a smile. She was wearing a pretty, floaty summer dress, quite short, revealing her long, long legs to advantage.
“I’m back to sort out the mess in the lab at Strathbane,” she said. “Do you know that despite the cleaning there was one hair lodged under the seat in Helen Mackenzie’s car and the DNA was that of Harrison?”
“No, I didnae know that,” said Hamish. “What a waste of an investigation.”
“Never mind. I’m here to take you to dinner.”
Hamish hesitated only a moment. “Grand,” he said.
As he walked out of the station with her, Hamish noticed that Charlie had left an offering to the fairies.
“Do you believe in fairies?” he asked Christine.
“Not a bit of it. I’ve never even seen a ghost. Don’t believe in them, either.”
Little did Hamish Macbeth know that he was shortly to meet one as murder once more was due to return to his beat.
More Hamish Macbeth Mysteries by M. C. Beaton
Death of a Liar
Death of a Policeman
Death of Yesterday
Death of a Kingfisher
Death of a Chimney Sweep
Death of a Valentine
Death of a Witch
Death of a Gentle Lady
Death of a Maid
Death of a Dreamer
Death of a Bore
Death of a Poison Pen
Death of a Village
Death of a Celebrity
Death of a Dustman
Death of an Addict
Death of a Scriptwriter
Death of a Dentist
Death of a Macho Man
Death of a Nag
Death of a Charming Man
Death of a Travelling Man
Death of a Greedy Woman
Death of a Prankster
Death of a Snob
Death of a Hussy
Death of a Perfect Wife
Death of an Outsider
Death of a Cad
Death of a Gossip
A Highland Christmas
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Welcome
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue
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More Hamish Macbeth Mysteries by M. C.
Beaton
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Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Marion Chesney
Cover illustration by Griesbach / Martucci
Cover copyright © 2016 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
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ISBN 978-1-4555-5826-1
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