by M C Beaton
When he left, Hamish waited impatiently for Harry’s arrival. Harry had said he would arrive in half an hour or so, which by the highland clock could mean as much as two hours. As they say in the Highlands, “mañana” is too urgent a word.
An hour and a half later, Harry arrived. “Sorry, Hamish,” he said. “Sheep on the road.”
Sheep on the road was another of those highland lies, like “I’ve just had two drinks,” “I’ve a bad back,” and “I’ll fix it for you right away.”
“I’ve got the coffee on,” said Hamish. “Did you bring the photos?”
“Yes, but why do you want to see them?”
“It’s this idea I have that the murderer of the American could have come out of the loch. Jock Fleming, the artist, is from Glasgow. So is his wife. Maybe one of them took a diving course at one time.”
“Here you are.” Harry fished a large photo album out of a duffel bag and put it on the table.
“The ones of the diving school are at the back.”
Hamish opened the leather-bound album to the back. There were a lot of photos of scuba divers going into the sea and coming up out of the sea. But he found one of a Christmas party. He eagerly studied the faces, but there was not one single one he recognised.
“Is this all you've got?”
“Pretty much,” said Harry.
Hamish sat back in his chair, disappointed. Then he said, “Was it mostly men?”
“Yes, pretty much. We got the occasional woman, but usually they didn’t stay the course.”
“Remember anyone who did?”
“There was one woman, Sarah Jerome. Middle-aged and quite plump, but she turned out to be a natural. Then a tall thin woman—what was her name? Harriet something or other. She was pretty good.”
Hamish sat sunk in thought. Then he said, “Of course, it’s a long shot thinking it might have been someone who was there at the same time as you. Could you go into the office and use the phone? Call the diving school and ask one of the instructors if there was any woman who passed the course with flying colours. Then ask if Jock Fleming or Dora Fleming was ever a member.”
“Right. Where’s the office?”
“Just through to the right, next to the bedroom.”
Harry seemed to be on the phone for a long time. At last, he came back.
“The name Betty Barnard mean anything to you?”
Hamish put his head in his hands.
“Are you all right?” asked Harry anxiously. “Not having a dizzy spell? Want me to call a doctor?”
Hamish took his hands away from his face. “No, I’m all right now. Tell me about Betty Barnard.”
“She took the course last year. The instructor said he had never seen anyone learn so quickly. Said she was a natural. Someone you know?”
“Oh, yes. May be nothing to do with the murders. I’m not being very hospitable, Harry. But I’ve got to get going on this case.”
“That’s all right. I’ve got a friend over at Cnothan I want to see.”
After he had left, Hamish thought wearily: If she did it, why? The rooms at the hotel had been thoroughly searched. He didn’t remember any report of diving gear.
He suddenly thought of Elspeth. He felt that by his rudeness, he had somehow driven her into writing that silly article. Now she was out of a job. He went into the office and dialled her home number. When she answered, he said, “It’s me, Hamish. Don’t hang up. Elspeth, I may just have found out who the murderer is. If you’ get up here fast, maybe I’ll have a story for you that'll get your job back.”
“Thanks, Hamish,” she said. “I’m so awfully sorry.”
“Just get up here. You can stay in the cell here.”
“I’ll be there by this evening.”
Hamish drove up to the Tommel Castle Hotel. He sat for a moment in the car park, looking at the hotel and remembering simpler days when it was a private residence.
Then he got out of the Land Rover, entered the hotel, and went into Mr. Johnson’s office.
“Hullo, Hamish,” said the manager. “Help yourself to coffee. I wish you’d solve these murders. Bookings are a bit thin on the ground.”
Hamish poured himself a mug of black coffee and sat down wearily. “Tell me, Mr. Johnson, if someone wanted to hide a diving outfit—you know, diving suit and tanks and all that—is there anywhere in this hotel they could hide the stuff?”
“Let me see. It’d need to be someplace the maids don’t clean. They're good girls and not lazy, so there are few places. There’s the storage room in the basement, but if someone wanted to leave anything there, they’d need to ask me for the key. We had a couple here last year who skipped out without paying. They’d run up a huge bill. They left their suitcases behind, and I put them in that storage room. I thought they’d turn out to be full of rocks, but there was some expensive clothes in there. I keep meaning to sort them out and give them to charity.”
“I’d like a look at the place.”
“I’ll give you the key. Just walk down the back stairs and you'll find it.”
He opened the safe, saying over his shoulder, “I keep all the spare keys here. We used to have them up on a board, but in these evil days, we decided it was a bit too risky. Here you are.” He extracted a large key and gave it to Hamish.
Hamish thanked him and made his way down the back stairs. In the old days, he thought, the servants’ quarters would all be down here. He was wishing he’d asked Mr. Johnson which one was the door of the storage room. There were so many doors. He tried them one after another until he came to one that was locked.
He unlocked the door and swung it open. Maybe Betty had just taken the diving gear up to the moors and sunk the lot in a peat bog. But diving equipment was expensive. Yet how would she get the key to this storage room if it was locked in the safe?
There was a window letting in pale light, set high up on the wall. He edged his way through broken furniture, suitcases, and old steamer trunks until he was under the window. There was a steamer trunk under it. He climbed up on it. He put on gloves and pushed the window upwards. It opened. And it opened enough, he noticed, to let someone climb in and drop down into the room.
He turned and looked around. If he found anything, he needed witnesses. He took out his mobile and called Jimmy and spoke rapidly.
Hamish waited until he heard footsteps on the stairs coming down. Jimmy came in, followed by two detectives and a policeman.
“What have you got for us, Hamish?”
“I haven’t searched yet. I need witnesses in case I find anything.” He told Jimmy his theory about the diver and how Betty Barnard had taken a course in scuba diving.
Jimmy sighed. “Sounds like a complete flight o’ fancy to me, Hamish. But now we're here, we may as well get on with it.” He turned round and said, “We're looking for a diving suit and diving gear. It means opening up any cases or boxes. Get to it.”
Hamish went back to the window and looked round the room. She wouldn’t have carried the gear openly. Maybe she put it in a big strong garbage bag. If she met anyone, she could say she was looking for somewhere to dump extra rubbish. She would slide down from the window after throwing the stuff down first. She would pull the steamer trunk under the window so that she could climb out again.
He studied the dusty floor and then the pile of trunks nearest him. He took out a magnifying glass and began to study the trunks. He saw faint marks in the dust. He moved the top trunks until he got to a large leather-bound one at the bottom.
He lifted the lid. I really didn’t want to know, he thought sadly. Lying in the trunk was a rubber diving suit, with goggles and tanks.
“Here, Jimmy,” he said.
Jimmy came hurrying over. “I’d better get the forensic boys in here. Should be enough DNA on that mask.”
Hamish gingerly lifted an edge of the diving suit. “Leave it!” ordered Jimmy.
“Look at this,” said Hamish.
Under the suit was a notebook Hamish r
ecognised. “That’s Hal’s notebook,” he said.
“Right. We’d better take her in for questioning. Good work, Hamish. How on earth did you think of it?”
“It was the heron,” said Hamish sadly.
“Are you sure you're all right? You're rambling.”
“Never mind.”
“Want to come up and make the arrest? It’s your collar.”
“No, that’s fine. I’m feeling a bit shaky. I’ll chust get back to the police station.”
Hamish sat down at the table in his kitchen and stared into space. How could he have been so stupid?
He remembered the laughter and the sunny days. He remembered how Betty had looked after him when even Priscilla had cleared off and left him alone. He had even been thinking of marrying her. There had been no sign of wickedness in her. I think it’s the first time I’ve been well and truly fooled, he thought miserably, and all because I was starting to dream of getting married. Maybe we're all dreamers and fantasists, like poor Effie.
The phone in the office rang shrill and loud. He went to answer it. It was Jimmy, his voice sharp with anger.
“She’s gone!”
“Whit?”
“Gone. And it’s all the fault of that gabby porter and even gabbier manager. Sammy, the porter, asks Johnson what the police are doing now. Johnson says Hamish Macbeth is down in the storage room looking for diving gear. ‘That should help with his poaching,’ said Sammy, who considers himself no end of a wit. So when Betty Barnard walks into the hotel, he decided to try the joke out on her. Result: she’s gone. Left everything behind and scarpered. We've got roadblocks set up, and police are watching all the ports, railway stations, and airports.”
“I’m going to see Dora Fleming,” said Hamish. “I think that one knew more than she was telling us.”
“Okay. Get back to me.”
Hamish went out and walked along to Sea View. He turned in the doorway and saw that the cat and dog had followed him. “Stay there,” he ordered.
“What now?” asked Mrs. Dunne.
“I want to see Mrs. Fleming.”
“I telt her to pack her bags and get out. I won’t have drugs in this house.”
“Where did she go?”
“I don’t know. But I tell you this: No one in Lochdubh would have her. That artist came and helped her with her bags.”
Hamish ran back for the Land Rover, the dog and cat loping behind him. He put them in the police station and drove up to the Tommel Castle Hotel.
“Is Jock Fleming in?” he asked Mr. Johnson.
“No, he wanted his ex-wife to move in, but enough’s enough. I only gave him a free room because he was painting Priscilla’s portrait. I told him to find other accommodation.”
“Do you know where they went?”
“They wanted cheap accommodation, so I told them to try the caravan park over at Cnothan. Hamish, I’m right sorry about Sammy…”
But Hamish was already out the door.
The caravan park was situated outside Cnothan. Hamish went to the office and asked if a Mr. and Mrs. Fleming had booked a caravan, and he was directed to one over against the wall near the entrance.
He knocked at the door. Jock opened it and scowled. “What now?”
“Let me in,” said Hamish. “You've been withholding valuable information.”
Jock stood aside. Hamish removed his cap and walked past him. Dora was sitting at a table at the far end.
“Betty Barnard,” said Hamish, “killed Hal Addenfest, and so she killed Effie as well. I do not believe you pair divorced because Jock discovered that you, Dora, had been a prostitute. I think you found out that Jock had been having an affair with Betty. Maybe after the divorce, Jock, you went off Betty, but she was still in love with you. The hold she had on you was that she sold your paintings like no one else could sell them. But she was crazy about you. Crazy enough to kill, and I think you suspected it all along. You may as well tell me, because when she’s caught, it'll all come out. She’s made a run for it. Where would she go?”
Jock hung his head. “I can’t think. Maybe Glasgow.”
“Betty wouldn’t go back there when she knows the police are looking for her.”
“Honestly I can’t think of anywhere else.”
“When that cocaine was found in Dora’s room, didn’t you suspect Betty?”
“I didn’t. Honest. I thought there was some madman on the loose.”
“You should have told me about Betty. It might just have stopped that American from being murdered. I’ll get back to you, Jock. Not only me but Jimmy Anderson will have a lot of questions to ask you.”
After Hamish had left them, he phoned Jimmy and told him where they were.
“Still not a sign of the Barnard woman,” said Jimmy. “That bleeding artist can get his paints out and draw us a picture of her.”
“No need,” said Hamish heavily, “I have a photo of her.”
“How did you get that?”
“We were friendly. We went out on a picnic once, and I took my camera. The film hasn’t been developed, but I’m heading back to Lochdubh. I’ll meet you at the police station and give it to you.”
“Everyone’s on to digital cameras these days,” grumbled Jimmy. “This camera of yours should be put in a museum.”
“Don’t complain. There’s the film.”
“Why did we never think of Betty Barnard?”
“Because she seemed the only sane one of the lot of them,” said Hamish. “I thought the hotel was searched from top to bottom.”
“Not really their fault. They were concentrating on the rooms, not the basement. I’ll get off to Strathbane with this film. If I hurry, we can just make the morning edition of the newspapers with her photo.”
After he had gone, Hamish decided to visit Caro. He felt she had a right to know that her sister’s killer had been found.
Caro eyed him warily when she opened the door to him. “What now?”
“Can I come in? We've found who killed Effie.”
She looked at him with startled eyes and then turned away as he followed her in.
“Who is it?” she asked.
“Betty Barnard.”
“What? But she was up here the other day. She was going to be my agent, and I was very excited because she is so high-powered. How? Why?”
“The how is because she turned out to be a champion diver. She came out of the loch to attack the American. She killed him, so it stands to reason she killed Effie. I can only guess she was crazily in love with Jock. When Effie said she was pregnant, Betty must have been so mad with jealousy that she believed her.”
“What did she say when you arrested her?”
“We haven’t got her. She’s on the run. But don’t worry. We'll catch her.”
Caro sat down and looked up at the tall figure of the policeman. “So,” she said slowly, “she must have been as obsessed as poor Effie.”
“Though in her case, a fantasy turned into reality,” said Hamish. “Most people just dream of killing someone. She put it into action. What is it about Jock Fleming that drives women mad? He just seemed at first like a nice, easy-going fellow.”
“He exudes a strong sexual excitement and danger. I think some people carry around a sort of strong chemical in their make-up. I was drawn to him myself.”
“Will you go back south now?”
“I don’t know. Brighton is so noisy and crowded. It is so beautiful here.”
“Don’t leave Brighton yet,” said Hamish. “The winters here can be awful, long, and dark.”
“Do you get much snow?”
“Occasionally we get terrible blizzards, but we're near the Gulf Stream, and that keeps us a bit milder than central Scotland. But it’s a lonely life up here on the moors.”
“I’m only a short drive from the village. If I stay, the first thing I’ll do is get that corrugated iron off the roof and replaced with tiles. When it rains, the noise just goes on and on.”
When Hamish got back to the police station, it was to find Elspeth had arrived. Although he had locked up the station, Elspeth, like the locals, knew he kept a spare key in the gutter above the door.
“Right, Elspeth,” he said. “Get out your notebook, and I’ll tell you what I know.” Hamish experienced a sudden guilty pang. He had promised Matthew the story.
Elspeth wrote busily. Hamish broke off to say, “Remember, you got this information from the hotel staff. You can say we're hunting for Betty Barnard, because her photo’s going out to the papers tonight. Chust say she’s wanted for questioning.”
“Why did she do it?”
“I don’t know if you can say this. Well, maybe you can say it’s local speculation that she was in love with Jock Fleming. It was well known in the village that Hal took notes. He may have seen something relating to the murder and told Betty. I think she romanced him when nobody was looking and then phoned him that night and arranged to meet him on the beach. She probably drove down to the far side of the loch and got into her diving gear in the shelter of the trees, dived into the loch, and swam across. He was so intent on staring up at the water-front, waiting for her to arrive, that he didnae hear her coming.”
“I’ll say it’s thanks to your brilliant deduction that they found out it was her,” said Elspeth.
“No, give Jimmy Anderson the credit. He’s been marvellous to work for.”
“If you say so.”
“Go into the office. You can use my computer, type it out, and e-mail it across. I’ll make up the bed in the cell. I’d give you my bed, but”—he hesitated and then went on defiantly—“the dog and cat aye sleep wi’ me.”
“The cell is fine, Hamish.”
When Elspeth went off into the office, Hamish took the dog and cat out for a walk and then returned to get dinner ready. Archie had left six mackerel on the kitchen table. Hamish cooked one for Sonsie and then fried some liver for Lugs. He boiled potatoes, and when they were nearly ready, he took two of the mackerel, gutted them, dipped them in egg, rolled them in oatmeal, and fried them in the pan.
He then put a bowl of oatmeal on the table and a block of butter.
