by M C Beaton
“George the Second?”
“Deborah Freemantle.”
“Aye, she’s got a look o’ the House of Hanover. But don’t take one out of the bedrooms; I’ll give you one from the stock in the office.”
“Why?”
“Saving money. A 40-watt’s good enough for the stairs and passages; 60-watt for the bedrooms.”
“But that means—” Priscilla wrestled with her thoughts—“that we’ve been looking for a 60-watt bulb, not a 40-watt.”
“So what? They didn’t find anything.”
“Wait a minute. All someone had to do was to take the 40-watt bulb out of the tower stair,” said Priscilla, “and then take it to their room, unplug one of the 60-watt and leave it lying harmlessly on the bedside table and put a 40-watt, put the lampshade over it, and there you are!”
“And here’s the police,” said Mr Johnson.
Hamish was coming into the entrance hall with the detectives from Strathbane. Priscilla rushed to him and explained about the light bulbs.
The superintendent was listening as well. He ordered a policeman to inform the guests that they were not to go up to their rooms until they were told they could do so.
“I think I know whose bedroom to go to first,” said Hamish. Right up until Priscilla had told him about the light bulb, he had been planning to send Paul and Luke, who would arrive in a few moments, home. If he was wrong, then Paul and Luke would be in bad trouble and he would need to get them out of it by telling Daviot he had bribed them to lie. “I’m pretty sure who the murderer is.”
“Tell us,” sneered Blair.
“That bedroom first,” said Hamish.
“I’ll go up with Hamish,” said Mr Daviot. “You stay down here, Blair, and make sure none of them escapes.”
Blair cast a look of loathing at Hamish.
Hamish led the way into one of the Checkmate party’s bedrooms and looked around. There was one overhead light with a 60-watt bulb in it. But there were two lamps, one on either side of the bed. He lifted the shade of the first and felt a sour taste of failure in his mouth. 60-watt. He went slowly to the other while Mr Daviot watched him impatiently. Hamish felt like a man with one last chance at the Sixty-Four Thousand Dollar Question. He raised the lampshade and drew a long breath. “It’s a 40-watt bulb,” he said.
“We can’t arrest someone on such flimsy evidence,” protested the superintendent. “We need more proof.”
“I hae the proof,” said Hamish. “Two witnesses.”
“Two witnesses! Why didn’t they come forward before?”
“They’re fishermen. They say they haven’t been reading the newspapers and don’t have a television set, but it’s my belief they were poaching. If you want your murderer, you’ll have to turn a blind eye to that.”
“But fishermen go out at night!”
“Well, they werenae out fishing that night,” said Hamish crossly. “Don’t you want the murderer? Look, let me confront this person. If I’m wrong, I’ll take the rap.”
“Oh, very well, Macbeth.” No Hamish now. “And do remember to address me as ‘sir’ in future.”
Blair, Anderson, MacNab and two police officers were ushered into the library. “Who is it?” Blair kept demanding crossly.
Mr Daviot took his place behind the desk and said, “Send in Mr John Taylor.”
“Whit?” roared Blair. “A Queen’s Counsel commit a murder? Yer away wi’ the fairies this time, Macbeth. I hivnae heard sich a—”
“If you don’t mind,” said the superintendent icily.
John Taylor came in and sat down without fuss. He looked totally composed. He was dressed in a pinstriped suit and impeccable shirt and silk tie, just as if he were ready to go to the Old Bailey.
“I will let you begin the questioning, Macbeth,” said Mr Daviot heavily and Blair grinned. Daviot obviously knew Hamish was making a fool of himself.
“Mr Taylor,” said Hamish, the sibilancy of his accent strongly marked as it always was when he was nervous or excited, “I haff the good reason to believe that you murdered Mrs Peta Gore by stuffing an apple in her mouth and pinching her nostrils so that she died of suffocation. I also believe that you tried to murder Deborah Freemantle. In the latter case, you removed the bulb from the tower stair and put it in one of the lamps in your room, substituting it for the 60-watt bulb that was already there.”
“I did no such thing,” said the lawyer calmly.
“Furthermore,” Hamish went on, “I haff the two witnesses, Paul and Luke Nairn, who saw you up at the quarry with Peta Gore on the night of her death, having a moonlight picnic.”
The only sign of emotion about John Taylor was his long thin hands, which he clasped around one pointed knee. “Witnesses?” he said cynically. “They took a long time to come forward.”
“I’ll bring them in.” Hamish nodded to the policeman on guard at the door, who opened it and shouted. “Paul and Luke Nairn.”
Just like a courtroom, thought John.
The large brothers shuffled in and stood sheepishly in the middle of the room, still in their oilskins and smelling strongly of fish.
“We’ll start with you, Luke,” said Hamish. “Chust tell us in your own words what you saw.” Meaning I hope you remember my words, thought Hamish desperately.
“We wass up by the quarry when we heard talking,” said Luke. “It wass the bright moonlit night. We saw this man here as clear as day. He was pouring wine. He wass sitting on the ground. Beside him wass a great fat wumman and she was shoving a meat-pie in her mouth. I haff never seen the like. I haff never seen anyone eat a meat-pie like that, not even Geordie over at Crask. We didhae stop, Paul and me, we walked on a bittie, and we wass admiring the view when behind us, from the direction o’ the quarry, we heard a scrabbling, choking sort o’ sound and Paul here, he says, Nae wunner she’s choking, the way she eats.”
He fell silent. A clock ticked in the corner of the room. John Taylor sat very still. Witnesses? thought Blair, privately delighted; A couple of liars. Admire the view! Havers.
And then John opened his mouth and spoke. “I did it, yes,” he said.
Hamish charged him while the superintendent leaned back in his chair, limp with relief.
Hamish dismissed Paul and Luke. Then he asked John, “What happened? Take it slowly. No one heard a car driving off that night. Why?”
“Chance,” said John wearily. “I thought afterwards I was a master criminal, but I simply got away with things by being a complete amateur. I wanted to get even with my son and daughter for having been cruel to me. They were expecting to inherit my money. It was not enough revenge to simply leave it to some charity. I wanted them to suffer. I planned to marry and have children, but when I got here, I realized the folly of it all. Who was going to look at an old-man like me?”
“Then came Peta’s news of her millions. That one would have been happy to marry anyone to spite Maria. I thought, I’ll marry her and then I’ll be fabulously rich and then I shall tell my ungrateful son and daughter that they aren’t getting anything. I went to her room and suggested we slip off for a romantic picnic at midnight. The awful creature was thrilled at the idea. I went down to the kitchen and packed up one of those picnic hampers with what I could find. I knew the hotel cars often had the keys left in them. I took the Volvo. Peta came out.”
“The car would not start. And would you believe it, the very sight of her gross figure in the moonlight had made me change my mind. I said, “Let’s leave it.” No, she had to try one of the other cars but the keys were missing from those. I suppose they take them in for the night but because Jenny had used the Volvo, the keys had been left in it.”
“So I decided, that was that and was relieved. But she then suggested I get in the Volvo and she would push it down the drive, which was on a slope. I tried to persuade her to abandon the project but she insisted. She pushed the car down the drive and the engine started.”
“Was the quarry your idea?” asked Hamish.
/>
“No, hers. She couldn’t wait to eat, you see. I decided to make the best of a bad job. She guzzled and slobbered. I drank the wine. To pass the time I told her about the hurt that had been inflicted on me by my children saying I was boring. She finished the meat-pie and wiped her mouth and said with a coarse laugh, ‘Well, you are a bit of an old stick, aren’t you? If I was one of your kids, I’d run a mile.’”
“One minute I was sitting there and the next minute I had pushed her on her back and rammed the apple into her mouth. I remember shouting something, but I don’t know what. I grabbed her riose with my fingers and squeezed it. I had that done to me at school and I remembered it hurt very much. That’s all I really wanted to do. Hurt her. But she was suddenly still and I realized I had killed her.”
“I was terrified. I gathered up all the stuff in the hamper, every scrap, every crumb I could see and wandered across the moors until I came to a peat bog. I weighed it down with a boulder and sank it. I returned to the car and drove to the castle.”
“Oh, I thought I was so clever. I wore gloves. I typed the note on her machine and then packed her clothes and carried the lot out again. I had left the car at the castle gates. I got rid of her luggage and her typewriter in the same peat bog. If I had been really clever, I would have put her body in the peat bog as well, but I could not bear to touch her.”
“Once it was all over, I felt rested, strangely peaceful, as if someone else had done the murder. I thought the fates were protecting me because I had completely forgotten about fingerprints in the car, for I had not worn gloves at the time I drove off with her.”
“When Jenny left the car with the windows open and then I saw the maids cleaning it out, I remembered the fingerprints and was delighted that a benign Providence was taking care of me. My shoulders were aching, for I had pushed the car back up the slope the last bit to the front of the castle in case the noise of the engine would wake anyone, but apart from that I felt lightheaded and well.”
“So what about Deborah?” asked Hamish gently.
“When she said, “I saw you do it’, I thought at first, and rightly, as it turned out, that she was showing off, that she knew nothing. But you see, I had quite forgotten in my mind until then that I had killed Peta. It all came back, the horror of it. I could see the faces of all those I had prosecuted in the past rising to haunt me. I was consumed with such a rage against her. Again, it was the luck of the amateur. I suppose anyone could have seen me going into the kitchen. I was amazed it was not locked up. I did not go to get the meat cleaver. Somehow, I was returning to the scene of my earlier crime, or rather, the beginning of it. I switched on the light and there on the chopping block lay that meat cleaver. I picked it up. It felt good in my hand. I have a dim memory of going up the tower stairs and taking the light bulb out and slipping it in my pocket. Then nothing until that terrible screaming. I ran to my room and quickly took a bulb out of the bedside light and put the bulb from the tower stair in the socket instead.” He let out a ragged sigh. I’m glad it’s all over.”
Mr Daviot said to the policeman at the door, “Take Mr Taylor out to the car. MacNab and Anderson, go with him. I will follow in the other car with Blair.”
When they had gone, Mr Daviot turned to Hamish. “Well done,” he said. “How did you arrive at such a conclusion…or did you have any help?” He looked at Blair, who looked pleadingly at Hamish and mouthed, “Central heating.” For Blair had promised Hamish at the end of the last case that in return for Hamish’s allowing him the credit, he would see to it that central heating was installed in the Lochdubh police station.
But Hamish was weary of Blair, weary of his spite and stupidity and malice. “No, I worked it out myself,” he said, avoiding Blair’s look of venom. Blair got to his feet. “Ah’ll jist catch up wi’ the others,” he said.
“Oh, very well.” Mr Daviot looked surprised. Blair usually stuck to him like a shadow, which was why Blair was forgiven such a lot. Mr Daviot would never admit he liked crawlers, but Blair was so very good at it, always remembering to send flowers on Mrs Daviot’s birthday, always saying loudly that Mr Peter Daviot was the best superintendent in the country.
“Now, Hamish,” said Mr Daviot when Blair had gone.
“It was such a long shot,” said Hamish. “I knew, I think I had known all along, that I was looking for someone mad, or at least temporarily insane. And then it came to me, something my cousin said about eccentrics and then about John Taylor being a great old character. John Taylor had once pushed a policeman in the face outside the Old Bailey for not showing him due respect. That was all. Then I thought, there’s madness. An eminent QC does not lose his rag like that, particularly when that QC was in the wrong. An eminent QC does not sign up with a marital agency, nor does he plan to marry and start a family at his age. It does not happen. Something was badly wrong with John Taylor. No one else fitted the picture. I became convinced that this was no carefully planned murder but simply committed by someone who had lost his mind. I may as well tell you now that it is no use producing the Nairn brothers in court. They lied. I put them up to it.”
Peter Daviot looked at him appalled. “It is just as well we have his taped statement, and in front of so many witnesses. Man, man, what a scandal if you had been wrong.”
“Aye, well, by the time I got to the castle, I thought I wass the madman,” said Hamish, himself appalled at the enormity of what he had done. “I wass going to send the Nairn brothers home after you started the questioning again and then Priscilla told me about the light bulbs, and as you know, we found the missing light bulb in John Taylor’s room. When Mr Taylor told me that he had wanted to marry again because he was lonely, he began to cry and I remember thinking at the time that he wass a man on the verge of a nervous breakdown, but for a while I thought it might be the strain of him finding himself in the middle of a murder inquiry.”
“I should give you a reprimand for the gamble you took,” said Mr Daviot severely, “but on the other hand, I am relieved this dreadful case is over. This will mean promotion for you, Hamish.”
Hamish looked startled. “I am not looking for the promotion,” he said desperately. “But if you could see your way to getting some central heating put in the police station…”
“Always the modest lad, Hamish. Oh, I’ve heard rumours flying about that it was you who solved those last murders and let Blair take the credit. Blair’s a good, solid policeman, but he does not have your flair. How many bedrooms do you have in that police station?”
Hamish eyed him warily. “Mine and a small spare one I use if any of my little brothers and sisters are visiting.”
“Excellent. I think you should be promoted to sergeant and we’ll send some young lad up to help you. I have the very policeman in mind.”
Hamish pleaded and protested, but Mr Daviot was adamant. “You should be thinking of your future, Hamish. You’ll be getting married to your Priscilla soon, or so my wife believes, and you’ll need the extra pay. It’s time I took your career in hand.”
Hamish was still protesting when he followed Mr Daviot out to his car. Blair was sitting moodily behind the wheel.
“You had better go home and type up your statement,” said Mr Daviot. “Give my regards to Priscilla and tell her my wife was asking after her.”
Mr Daviot got in and Blair shot off with an angry grinding of gears.
Hamish went wearily to his Land Rover and drove to the police station. As he got out two large figures loomed up. The Nairn brothers.
“If it iss all right wi’ you,” said Luke cheerfully, “we’ll hae that telly now.”
Chapter Nine
Life is just one damned thing after another.
—Frank O’Malley (attributed)
John Taylor stood patiently after turning out his pockets. He had surrendered his braces, tie and shoelaces. “I’d better have those pills,” he said, pointing to a pharmacist’s bottle which lay among the other items taken from him.
The cus
tody sergeant picked it up. “What is it?” The label was worn.
“My heart medicine,” said John gently. “I am sure you would not want me to die in one of your cells.”
The custody sergeant shook out a couple of white pills from the bottle. “I’ll jist keep these and hae them examined.”
John was led to a cell in Strathbane police headquarters. He knew he would be transferred to prison in the morning. “You won’t have eaten, sir,” said the young policeman who had escorted him to his cell. “Can I get ye some mutton-pie and chips frae the canteen?”
John shuddered fastidiously. “I am not hungry. But I would like a couple of bottles of mineral water, if you would be so kind.” He gave a flickering smile. “I am very thirsty.”
The mineral water was delivered along with a tray of food and he was urged to eat. The day wore on, light faded outside his cell, and the seagulls of Strathbane screamed like lost souls as they scavenged the streets.
By late evening, John had still not eaten anything but he asked for pen and paper.
He wrote a letter to his son and daughter. In it, he said he was sure they would enjoy his money. He was only delighted they would have to suffer the publicity that their father was a murderer. All his brief love he had felt for them when he had been talking to Hamish had gone. He hated them both. He quoted from King Lear. He reminded them it was sharper than a serpent’s tooth to have a thankless child. He folded the paper neatly and put it squarely in the middle of the small table in his cell.
Then he opened the first of the bottles of mineral water and doggedly began to swallow all the small pills in the pharmacist’s bottle.
The analysis of the pills came through in the morning. They were extremely strong barbiturates. Cursing and sweating, the duty sergeant ran to John Taylor’s cell.
He was lying peacefully. There was only a faint flicker of life in his pulse. They rushed him to hospital, but he was dead on arrival.
§
Hamish Macbeth heard the news of John’s death later in the day. He thought sourly that all the inquiries that would be buzzing about Strathbane, first the wrongful arrest of Mary French, and now this, would keep everyone too busy to think about his promotion or landing some young constable in his home.
