by M C Beaton
♦
Sunday arrived in Lochdubh, wet and misty and warm, “a great day for the midges,” as the locals described the weather.
It was as if the whole Highland world had ground to a halt. It was hard to think that only recently the village had been crowded with pressmen looking for rooms.
Hamish Macbeth, as he went about his domestic chores, thought how easy it would be to let all thoughts of the murder go. Leave it to Lovelace.
And yet, he had not been able to find that tramp Scan Fitz.
Hamish had given up waiting for Sheila to phone and give him some explanation of why she had not turned up at the restaurant.
He decided to drive out and try once more to find Scan. He remembered two years ago, when he was out on his rounds, seeing the shambling figure of the tramp trudging along some road or other.
He began his search again. It was only after a morning of fruitless hunting that he remembered the tramp was religious, a Roman Catholic. He began to check Catholic church after Catholic church, until at Dornoch he found that Scan had been sighted at mass the evening before.
Hamish had some mad hope that if he found the tramp, that if Patricia had been seen somewhere far from the scene of the murder and could therefore be cleared, she would recover her memory.
The frustrating thing was that Scan could be cosily ensconced in some croft somewhere, drinking tea, while he drove past on the road outside. By three in the afternoon, he realised he had not eaten and was hungry.
Finding himself in the main street of Golspie, he went into a café and ordered a sausage roll and beans and a pot of strong tea.
He turned over the suspects in his mind. The more he thought about it, the more he decided that it must surely be a member of the television company. And if it was a member of the television company, it must be someone prone to violence.
He finished his meal and decided to give up the search for Scan and return to the police station and see if he could hack into Blair’s reports once more.
But he drove slowly back, still looking to the right and left, hoping to see the tramp.
By the time he reached Lochdubh, the drizzle had thickened to a steady downpour and the waterfront was deserted and glistening in the rain.
He made himself a cup of tea and carried it through to the police office. He played back the answering machine, but there were no messages at all.
He switched on the computer and keyed in Blair’s password but this time could not get into the reports. He swore and switched off the machine and stared into space.
There was a knock at the kitchen door, and he went to answer it. Jimmy Anderson stood there. “Let me in, Hamish, I’m getting fair soaked.”
“The weather had to break sometime.”
“Aye,” said Jimmy, taking off his raincoat and hanging it up on a peg behind the door. “And folks say, “Can’t grumble, we needed the rain,” and it always irritates the hell out o’ me. It’d take a year o’ drought for the Highlands to dry up.”
He sat down at the kitchen table. “I’m sick o’ the Highlands, Hamish. I’m sick o’ Lovelace. I never thought I would want Blair back again. I’m thinking of getting a transfer to Glasgow. See a bit of life. Got that whisky?”
“Yes, and I hope you’ve some gossip for me.”
“Nothing much. Your friend Patricia still seems to have lost her memory.”
“What about The Case of the Rising Tides! Does that still go on?”
“Aye, and it’s a pity Patricia couldn’t see the changes. That Mary Hoyle is the sort of actress she’d love. No bare tits there.”
Hamish took down the bottle of malt whisky and poured two glasses. Then he lit the wood-burning stove in the kitchen to try to dispel some of the damp.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said, stretching out his long legs and staring at his large boots, “that the most likely person with a motive would be one of the television company. You’ve surely been digging into their backgrounds.”
“Yes, every damn one o’ them.”
“What about Harry Frame?”
“The biggest scandal in his background is that he’s actually English. Gossip has it that he thought this Scottish independence lark was a good way to get an identity and get backing. He puts it about that he was educated in England but born in Glasgow. Actually he was born to respectable middle·class parents in Somerset. If, say, by some wild flight o’ the imagination, Penelope found that out, I hardly think he would kill her.”
“I wish it would turn out to be him,” said Hamish moodily. “Here, Jimmy, that’s good whisky, not water. You’re supposed to sip it.”
“If your whisky dries up, so does my gossip.”
Hamish refilled his glass.
“What about Giles Brown?” he asked.
“The director? Well, there’s a thing. You wouldn’t think that wee man could say boo to a goose, but he socked a copper.”
“When? Where?”
“It was in Florida a few years ago. He was filming for some television travel show about British tourists abroad. Some American copper tried to move him on, and Giles lost his rag and socked him. Got two nights in the pokey before the lawyers could get him out. But look at the time factor. He was giving the directions. He hardly had time to run off through the mist and tip her over, or, as she said, drag her over.”
“What if Penelope got it wrong?” mused Hamish. “She was dying when she told me. What if no one pulled her over, but she got one quick push from behind?”
“That would put that delicious wee blonde, Sheila Burford, in the frame.”
“Hardly. She heard her scream and ran towards the sound. What about Fiona King?”
“Done a couple of times for possession of drugs. Had a cat-fight with the woman she was living with, police called, shouting and screaming, lovers’ tiff, nothing much there.”
“What about Penelope’s past? Nothing there at all?”
“Nothing more than I’ve told you.”
Hamish leaned back in his chair and tilted the liquid in his glass. “You know, the murder of Penelope confuses things. Let’s get back to Jamie Gallagher. Angus Harris has a temper, Angus Harris finds his friend was cheated and Angus Harris stood to gain a good bit of money which he must have felt, as the legatee of Stuart’s will, he had been done out of. That would have been a good, solid motive. Where was he when Penelope was killed?”
“Touring about, but no alibi. But why would he kill Penelope?”
“Chust supposing,” said Hamish, becoming excited, “that he killed Jamie Gallagher, but that someone like Fiona, Harry or Giles killed Penelope.”
“Farfetched.”
“So let’s take another leap of the imagination. Where was Mary Hoyle on the day of Penelope’s murder?”
“Why her? No one checked. Why should they?”
“I haven’t seen her in anything for a while,” said Hamish slowly. “Look at it this way: The original idea of the script was to have sex and a stunner in the main part. What if Mary Hoyle got Harry’s ear and pointed out how much better she would be in the part?”
“And he says they’ve already got someone, so she bumps Penelope off? Come on, Hamish!”
“I haven’t met her. Is she at the hotel?”
“Aye, with the others. But you’d better not approach her or you’ll have Harry Frame running to Lovelace.”
“There’s nothing to stop me having dinner at the hotel this evening.”
“Except your wages.”
“I can afford it once in a blue moon. I’d chust like to meet her.”
“Suit yourself. More whisky?”
♦
That evening, Hamish changed into his one good suit. He would really need to buy a pair of shoes to go with it, he thought as he pulled on his boots. He drove to the hotel and went into the manager, Mr. Johnson’s, office.
“I would like to meet this Mary Hoyle,” he said.
“You might be in luck. The rest have gone down to the Napoli.
She’s in the dining room, I think.”
“Any hope of a cheap dinner? Your prices are awfy steep.”
“All right, you moocher, but order the trout and nothing else. We’ve got more trout than we know what to do with. It’s Jenkins’s night off. Tell the waitress, Bessie, to give your bill to me.”
Hamish thanked him and went through to the dining room. He recognised Mary Hoyle, sitting at a corner table, reading a manuscript. As he approached, he saw from the title page that the manuscript was the television printed run-off of The Case of the Rising Tides.
“Excuse me, Miss Hoyle.” She was an attractive woman with dark hair and a clever face, not beautiful, but with a certain presence. Her eyes were striking, being large and green.
She looked up inquiringly. He sat down opposite her. “I am Hamish Macbeth, the policeman at Lochdubh. Don’t worry. I’m off duty and off the case. I just wanted to tell you how much I admire your acting.”
She smiled. “That is very kind of you.” Her voice was low and throaty.
The waitress came up. “I’ll have the trout, Bessie,” said Hamish. He looked around. “But I don’t want to be bothering Miss Hoyle…”
“Oh, stay where you are. I’m nearly finished.”
“And how are you getting on?” asked Hamish.
“Very well. It’s an easy part.”
“You must be playing a different character to the one portrayed by Penelope Gates.”
“Yes, I persuaded Harry that he was on the wrong track trying to sex it up. Play it straight and it could run forever. Harry saw sense at last.”
“Did you know him before?”
“Of course. The theatre and television world in Scotland is very small. We all know each other.”
“So you knew Penelope Gates?”
“I met her at a couple of parties. She wasn’t an actress. Just a body.”
With a flash of Highland intuition, Hamish said, “When you heard on the grapevine that Harry was going to do this series, you went after the main part, only to be told he wanted Penelope.”
“Who told you that?”
“Someone or other,” said Hamish vaguely. He longed to ask her where she was on the day of the murder but did not dare go that far for fear she would complain to Harry, who would promptly complain to Lovelace. “How are you enjoying Patricia’s book?” he asked instead.
“It’s a bit old·fashioned, even for the sixties. More like a between-the-wars detective story. It doesn’t have the pace of a Christie or the brilliance of a Sayers, but it’s all right, a bit dull.”
“I’ve never read it.”
She smiled and handed over the manuscript. “You can have this. Now if you’ll excuse me…?”
“Grand talking to you.”
Hamish watched her leave the dining room. Bessie brought his trout, which he picked at while his mind raced. Forget the murder of Jamie. Here was a good motive for the murder of Penelope.
He finished his meal, told Bessie to take his bill to Mr. Johnson and went out. Sheila Burford was just coming into the reception area. She saw him and coloured slightly.
“I’m very sorry I stood you up, Hamish,” she said. “Something came up.”
But Hamish no longer saw her as an attractive girl but as a possible source of information. “Come into the bar,” he urged. “I want a wee word with you.”
“Just a short time, then,” said Sheila reluctantly. Using a funeral as an excuse, she had gone down to Glasgow, where she had registered her own film and television company. Then she’d taken Eileen’s cut and edited film with her own name on it as producer to Scottish Television. She was still waiting to hear what they thought of it.
She said she only wanted a glass of tonic water, and Hamish had the same, just in case the dreadful Lovelace came in and caught him drinking whisky.
“So what do you want to talk about?” she asked.
“Mary Hoyle.”
Sheila looked at him in surprise. She had somehow expected Hamish to ask her out again.
“What about her?”
“Did you know she was after the part of Lady Harriet before Penelope got it?”
“No, but I can see why she would expect Harry to give it to her.”
“Her being the better actress?”
“Well, no, because she hadn’t had any significant work for some time, and she and Harry used to live together.”
Hamish’s eyes gleamed. “There’s a thing. I wonder where she was on the day of Penelope’s murder.”
“You mean Mary Hoyle would come all the way up from Glasgow on the off chance of bumping Penelope off, that she would climb up the mountain on a misty day and just happen to pull Penelope over!”
The excitement left Hamish’s hazel eyes. “Now you put it like that, it does sound daft. Still, I’d like to know where she was on the day of the murder.”
“You’re a policeman. You ask her.”
“I cannae. That beast Lovelace might get to hear of it, and I’m off the case. You couldnae ask her yourself?”
“Just like that!”
“You could chust sort of sneak it into the conversation. I know, you thought you saw her in Drim on that day. Please.”
“I’ll try,” said Sheila doubtfully.
“And you’ll phone me?”
“Oh, all right.”
“You won’t forget?”
“Okay, okay, I’ll ask her. Now can I go to bed?”
Hamish stood up. “I’ll wait to hear from you tomorrow. Don’t let me down.”
♦
When Hamish got back to the police station, he felt restless. He decided to take The Case of the Rising Tides to bed.
It was certainly soporific reading. But he managed to get halfway through it before he finally fell asleep, the papers scattered around the bed.
♦
Sheila almost forgot Hamish’s request, but the following day during a break in the filming, Harry instructed her to take a cup of coffee to Mary’s caravan.
She almost felt like refusing and saying she was not a waitress, when she saw a way of asking that question for Hamish.
Mary Hoyle was creaming her face when Sheila knocked and entered the caravan. “Good, put it down there,” said Mary without turning around.
“Something’s been puzzling me,” said Sheila.
“What?” said Mary absently.
“I think I saw you in Drim on the day of Penelope’s murder.”
Mary threw a soiled tissue into the wastepaper basket and turned round. “What’s your name?”
“Sheila Burford.”
“I wish Harry would employ sensible, intelligent girls instead of little tarts who are all bust and no brains. You are mistaken. I was not in Drim on the day of the murder.”
“Where were you?”
“Do you know who you are speaking to? Get out of here and find something to do. That is, unless you are expected to do anything other than allow Harry and the other men to gawp down your cleavage.”
Sheila, who was wearing a low-necked blouse, turned and left the caravan. Damn them all. If only she could sell that film of Eileen’s.
She took out her mobile phone and called Hamish Macbeth.
“Thanks, Sheila,” said Hamish when she reported the conversation.
Sheila remembered how nice Hamish was compared to the people she was working with. “I’m really sorry I stood you up, Hamish. I tell you what, I’ll take you for dinner on Wednesday evening at the Napoli. It’s a firm date.”
“Grand,” said Hamish. “I’ll be there.”
He rang off and stared into space while his mind raced. If only he could get down to Glasgow and start ferreting into Mary Hoyle’s movements on the day of the murder. Perhaps he could phone in sick. Perhaps –
There was a knock at the door.
Hamish opened it.
The sun was shining once more. A tramp squinted up at him. “Any chance of a cup of tea?”
Hamish beamed.
“Come
in, Scan Fitz,” he said. “You’re chust the man I want to see.”
∨ Death of a Scriptwriter ∧
9
Did ye not hear it? – No;’t was but the wind, Or the car rattling o’er the stony street.
—Lord Byron
“This is verra good of you, Officer,” said Scan, eating biscuits and drinking tea.
He was an old bearded man with young-looking, light grey eyes in a tanned and wrinkled face. His clothes smelled of peat smoke and heather, but nothing more sinister. Scan was a clean tramp.
“As a matter of fact, I’ve been looking for you,” said Hamish.
“It wisnae me that took Mrs. Hegarty’s knickers off the washing line, whateffer she might say,” said the tramp, looking frightened.
“Relax, Scan,” said Hamish, “Nothing criminal. Now, have you heard about the murders?”
“Over at Drim. Aye.”
“There’s one thing I want to know. There’s a writer called Patricia Martyn-Broyd. You probably don’t know her…”
“I know everyone,” said the tramp. His eyes ranged round the kitchen. “I’m still a wee bit hungry.”
Hamish went to the freezer and took out a plastic bag of stew. “I’ll heat this up for you.”
“Verra kind, I’m sure.”
“Now, Scan, while the stew’s heating up, tell me how you know Patricia, the writer woman.”
“I called at her cottage…oh, maybe a few months back.”
“I didnae know you had been up here that long. Where were you before that?”
“Down south, but it iss not the same as the Highlands.”
“So tell me what happened when you called at the cottage.”
“I asked her for a cup of tea and a bite and said I could do some odd jobs for her in return. Herself looked down her nose and said, “Be off with you or I’ll call the police.””
“So you know what she looks like,” said Hamish eagerly. “This is what I want to know. On the day of the murder of that actress, Patricia said she was in a state and chust driving about. She has a white Metro. Did you see her anywhere?”
“White Metro, no. That stew smells rare, Hamish.”
“Bide your time, Scan. It won’t even be thawed out yet. What do you mean, ‘white Metro, no’?”
“Chust that. I couldnae be sure, mind. I wass between here and Drim and…Here, you’re not trying to pin the murder on me!”
