Hamish Macbeth 14 (1999) - Death of a Scriptwriter

by M C Beaton

  “Broken heart.”

  “Havers!” shouted Hamish, exasperated. “I thank you kindly for the lettuce, but I am chust about to prepare dinner.”

  “We’re going, going,” said Jessie huffily.

  Hamish ushered them out.

  “Sorry about that,” he said.

  Sheila grinned. “Who is this Miss Halburton-Smythe? Anything to do with the Tommel Castle Hotel?”

  “Her father owns it, we were engaged once, didn’t work, end of story. I’ll get the food.”

  When they were seated in the kitchen with the stove now damped down and the door and window open to the evening air, Sheila said, “It amazes me that it hardly ever gets dark up here.”

  “The nights are beginning to draw in all the same,” said Hamish. “In June it’s light all night.”

  “At least we’ll be finished and out of here by the winter,” said Sheila with a reminiscent shiver.

  “It wass unusual, all that snow,” said Hamish, but thinking uneasily instead of that plastic bag at the bottom of his wardrobe. His accent, as usual, increased in sibilancy when he was upset. “To get back to Penelope Gates, she’s employed by the television company. Why doesn’t the director or whateffer chust tell her to do her job and cut the histrionics?”

  “She’s the star of the show, and stars, however small they might be, can rule the roost.”

  “Is she on anything?” asked Hamish, remembering the pot-smoking Fiona. “Uppers or anything?”

  “No, I think she was kept down by Josh, and now he’s gone, she’s bursting out all over the place.”

  “In every sense of the word, I suppose,” said Hamish. “Unless the naughty scenes have been cut.”

  “No, they’re still in. She seduces the chief inspector tomorrow. They’ve built a bedroom set in the castle, four-poster and all that. But it’ll be away from the eyes of the villagers.”

  “A good thing, too,” said Hamish. “The minister would have something to say about it.”

  “I gather the minister’s wife, Eileen, is making a film of her own.”

  “That crushed wee woman! I don’t believe it.”

  “Fact. One of the village women told me. Eileen wrote a play when she was at university. They’re performing that, and Eileen’s filming it with her camcorder.”

  “And what does the minister have to say?”

  “He seems pleased. He doesn’t like us TV people being back, but Fiona gave him a generous donation to the church. This chicken is very good. Just as a matter of interest, what’s Patricia doing?”

  “She’s writing again.”

  “Where was she on the day Jamie got killed?”

  “Out walking, she says.”

  “I had her down as the murderess,” said Sheila. “She was so outraged. She’s got a medieval kind efface. I could imagine her being quite ruthless.”

  “If she was ruthless,” said Hamish, “she would have found some hot-shot lawyer to try to break the terms of her contract.”

  “You may be right.”

  Hamish surveyed her. “You definitely don’t think Josh murdered Jamie.”

  “I’m fantasising,” said Sheila. “Read too many detective stories. I suppose the police know what they’re doing.”

  Hamish said nothing, but he wondered whether Strathbane police, because of pressure from the media, had not jumped too thankfully to the easiest conclusion.

  “I’m sorry I havenae any wine to go with the meal,” he said.

  “That’s why I’m here,” said Sheila. “The dinners at the hotel get a bit boozy.”

  “So tell me about yourself. How did you get into the television business?”

  “I went to college in New York, in Washington Square in the Village, to learn all about filming. I did a short film and won the Helena Rubinstein prize. I was homesick, so as soon as I finished the course, I returned to Glasgow and applied for a job on Strathclyde Television. They said I should start at the bottom and learn the ropes. I’ve been there two years and I’m still at the bottom, fetching and carrying and making coffee, fixing hotels, driving that minibus around.”

  “So why don’t you try the BBC or ITV or maybe one of the cable channels?”

  “Because I’m suddenly sick of the whole business. I think I might take a computing course. I’m interested in computer graphics.”

  “All the beautiful girls end up studying computers,” said Hamish.

  “Is that what took Miss Halburton-Smythe away?”

  “Yes,” he said curtly. “More coffee?”

  Sheila wished she hadn’t made that remark. There was a certain chill in the air which had nothing to do with the weather.

  When she had finished her coffee, Hamish said, “Now if you don’t mind, I’d better get on with that report.”

  “Thanks for dinner. You must let me take you out.”

  “Aye, that would be grand.”

  “What about tomorrow?”

  Hamish hesitated. “Give me the number of your mobile and I’ll phone you.”

  Which you won’t, thought Sheila sadly as’ she walked to her car.

  When she had gone, Hamish went through to the bedroom, hauled out the backpack and took out the plastic bag and emptied the contents on the floor. Nothing much here, he thought with relief: old Coke cans, cigarette ends, a book of matches, but with no advertising on it, no sinister nightclub or sleazy bar such as they were always finding in detective novels. Then there was the little envelope with the two threads of cloth. Bluish tweed. What had Josh been wearing?

  He should throw this lot away and forget about it.

  Case closed.

  Patricia Martyn-Broyd received a letter from her publishers. She weighed the large buff envelope in her hand and then slit it open. She pulled out book jackets and a letter from her editor, Sue Percival.

  “Dear Patricia,” Sue had written. “As you will see, we have changed the book jackets, feeling the original ones might not have been too tasteful in view of the murder. We hope you like them.”

  The new cover showed Penelope Gates dressed in tweed hacking jacket, knee breeches, lovat stockings and brogues, standing on a heathery hillside, looking down at the village of Drim. Patricia’s name was larger and more prominent this time.

  She heaved a sigh of relief. Everything was working out quite well. Harry Frame had called to tell her they had cut out the commune scenes. She smiled.

  It was time she visited the location and saw what they were doing. She was pleased with the new covers, very pleased.

  “This coffee tastes like filth,” said Penelope Gates, throwing the contents against the wall of her caravan. “Get me a decent one.”

  > “Get it yourself,” said Sheila. “Who the hell do you think you are? You’ve started to behave like a maniac.”

  Penelope looked at her with narrowed eyes. “You have just got yourself out of a job, Sheila. I’ll speak to Harry Frame today.”

  Sheila opened the door of the caravan and walked out. Then she shouted through the open door, “I hope you break your bloody neck!”

  “Here, what’s all this about?” demanded the director, Giles Brown, coming up to her.

  “It’s that bitch,” said Sheila. “I can’t take any more of her prima donna tantrums.”

  “You’ll just have to put up with it,” said Giles. “We have to keep her in a good mood. We can’t get anyone else at this late date. We’ve already lost a lot of money over Jamie’s death. Think of all the publicity we’ve put out about Penelope. I know, I know, we’re all beginning to realise why her husband beat her. I’ll have a word with her.”

  He went into the caravan. Penelope surveyed him with baleful blue eyes. “I want that bitch fired,” she said.

  “I’ll see about it,” said Giles wearily. “Look, luv, it’s all been going well. Don’t we all run around and look after you?”

  “Let me know when you’ve fired her,” said Penelope coldly. “You want this sex scene to work, don’t you? Well, just se
e that no one else upsets me and get me a decent cup of coffee.”

  “Sure, Penelope. Anything you say.”

  Penelope smiled to herself. She took out a packet of amphetamines and swallowed two. They would give her the necessary buzz she needed for the filming. It had been wonderful since Josh died. She had been bullied by her parents, bullied by schoolteachers and bullied by Josh. She hardly ever saw her parents now and Josh was dead and she was her own woman and free to take revenge on every bastard who tried to push her around. She had been feeling very exhausted since Josh’s death, what with the shock of it all, and a friend had introduced her to ‘uppers.’ Penelope felt strong and in command of every situation for the first time in her life.

  “No funny business now,” said Giles Brown to Gervase Hart, the leading man, or rather the anti-leading man, in that he was playing the part of the brutish chief inspector. “You’re only playing a sex scene, not performing it. I’m having trouble enough with Penelope as it is. I don’t want her screaming rape.”

  “I couldn’t get it up for that nasty creature who thinks she’s God’s gift,” sneered Gervase.

  “You won’t be shot too explicitly,” said Giles. “Bit like Four Weddings and a Funeral. Bits of flesh and a shoulder strap sort of thing.”

  Gervase was a heavyset man whose once good-looking face had become a trifle spongy with drink, the features blurred as if someone had passed a sponge over them. Despite his bouts of drinking, he was a competent actor and never late on the set.

  “What happened to Penelope?” he asked. “I mean, when we started up here, she was a delight to work with. Now she bitches and complains about everything.”

  “I think her husband’s murder shook her more than we can know,” said Giles, ever placating.

  “Maybe she did it.”

  “No, he choked to death on his own vomit. No doubt about that.”

  “Look, Giles, take her out to dinner and have a long talk with her. Soothe her down. We’re all getting on so well. She’s been all right, but her bad behaviour seems to have accelerated in the last few days.”

  “I’ll try,” sighed Giles. “You didn’t let slip to any of the villagers about this sex scene?”

  “Close as a clam, that’s me,” said Gervase shiftily, because he could not quite remember anything he had said the evening before.

  On her way to Drim, Patricia stopped her car in Lochdubh and went into Patel’s general store to buy some groceries. Patel had a better selection than the shop in Cnothan. There were various other customers, and Patricia was, as usual, a bit disappointed that no one came up and asked for her autograph or said, “I saw you on television.” The fact was that most of Lochdubh had seen her being interviewed on television and had not liked what they had seen at all and were damned if they were going to give her any recognition.

  Patricia was, however, particularly gracious to Mr. Patel because he was an Indian. Patricia, who still mourned the loss of the British Empire, thought that all those poor Indians had been thrown into a sort of outer darkness by getting their independence and it was no wonder that Mr. Patel had fled to Scotland.

  She meant to be gracious but came across as patronising, and Mr. Patel was quite curt.

  She went out into the hazy sunlight. She looked up at the sky. Long streamers of clouds were trailing across the blue, heralding a change of weather. The midges, those irritating Scottish mosquitoes, had reappeared, and she fished a stick of repellent out of her capacious handbag and rubbed her face.

  “Mrs. Martyn-Broyd?” A large tweedy woman was hailing her, hand outstretched.

  “I am Mrs. Wellington, wife of the minister here,” she said.

  Patricia murmured something and held out her own hand and found it being pumped energetically.

  “We have not been introduced,” said Mrs. Wellington, “but I had to speak to you. I am surprised that you should condone such behaviour.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Patricia, stepping back because Mrs. Wellington had a way of thrusting her bosom forward to the person she was addressing and standing very close up.

  “This television thing is based on your books, is it not?”

  “Yes.”

  “I cannot understand why a lady like yourself can condone sexual intercourse appearing on television.”

  “What?”

  “Sexual intercourse.” Several fishermen stopped their promenade along the waterfront to listen in amusement to the minister’s wife.

  Two spots of colour burned on Patricia’s white cheeks. “Explain yourself,” she snapped.

  “Some actor was drinking in the hotel bar last night and he was heard to say, “I’ll be screwing Penelope Gates tomorrow.” He was asked about it, and he said he and Penelope were to be filmed in bed together in a set in Drim Castle and without a stitch on.”

  “This shall be stopped,” panted Patricia. “I won’t allow it.”

  “Good,” said Mrs. Wellington approvingly. “I myself will phone the minister in Drim.”

  Patricia strode off to her car, her brain in a turmoil of rage and anxiety.

  “Where are you going?” barked Mr. Jessop as Eileen was heading out the door, her camcorder in one hand.

  Eileen stopped and blinked at him myopically. “I am going to see one of those TV cameramen. He said he could give me a few pointers.”

  “You are to go nowhere near any of them.”

  “Why?”

  “Do as you’re told, woman. I’m off to the castle to deal with something.”

  “Now, Gervase,” Giles Brown was saying, “you come into the bedroom, you see her naked on the bed, smiling at you, and you start to tear off your uniform. Your eyes gleam with lust.”

  “Sure,” said Gervase in a bored voice.

  “Let’s just run through it first,” said Giles.

  Penelope appeared from behind a screen. She was stark naked.

  Definitely a 38D cup, thought Fiona. What a figure!

  Penelope lay down on the bed. She raised herself on one elbow and smiled seductively at Gervase, who began to tear off his clothes. When he was naked, he approached the bed.

  Penelope rolled on her back and laughed uproariously.

  “What’s up?” asked Fiona crossly.

  “Him!” said Penelope when she could. “Have you ever seen such an ugly body? Jesus wept, he’s got breasts like a woman.”

  Before anyone could say anything, the door of the room opened and Mr. Jessop, followed by Patricia, burst in.

  “What is going on here?” shouted the minister.

  “How dare you turn my work into pornography!” screamed Patricia.

  Fiona saw disaster and moved quickly. “Come outside and I’ll explain things. We were just rehearsing until their costumes arrived.”

  She shooed them out of the room and led them along to her office.

  “It’s like this,” she lied. “Actors are used to seeing each other naked. No one thinks anything of it. They’ll be dressed in the actual scene. Penelope will be wearing a nightdress and Gervase pyjamas.”

  “I do not believe you,” said Patricia.

  “Wait a minute and I’ll arrange for them to show you the actual scene.”

  Fiona sped back to the set and said to Giles, “Get them both into nightclothes, and you two, perform a decorous petting scene. Sheila, get a nightgown and pyjamas fast.”

  She then went back to the office. “You can see the scene in a few moments.”

  “This is a trick,” said Mr. Jessop. “There was some actor telling the locals last night how he was going to have intercourse with that actress.”

  “Now, Mr. Jessop,” cooed Fiona, “do you think we would show such a scene? Gervase must have been a bit drunk, and he brags a lot. This is for family viewing. Nudity may be shocking to you, but we’re used to it. I mean, have you seen some of the beaches in Spain, or even Brighton? Nobody thinks anything these days about going naked.”

  “You must think us very silly to be take
n in by such a story,” said Patricia.

  Fiona forced herself to smile calmly. All would be well just so long as this precious pair did not ask for any confirmation in writing.

  “Television is a mad world.” She spread her hands ruefully. “But just think. Would we jeopardise our chances of getting the prime family slot on Sunday viewing by showing explicit sex scenes?”

  Sheila put her head round the door. “Ready for you.”

  “Come along,” said Fiona, “and you’ll see for yourselves.”

  Penelope and Gervase, alarmed into good behaviour by the threat that the series might be sabotaged, were now dressed: Penelope in a long Laura Ashley cotton nightgown and Gervase in striped pyjamas rather like the minister’s own. Fiona thought the wretched pair were deliberately hamming it up to make it look and sound like a Victorian courting scene. Certainly they ended up in bed together, but they finished the scene with a chaste kiss.

  “And we fade there,” said Fiona brightly.

  But old·fashioned Patricia and Mr. Jessop had found it all very tasteful. They did not know that Penelope and Gervase had made up the lines as they went along.

  “But they are not married and they are in bed together,” said Mr. Jessop cautiously.

  Fiona seized a script and pretended to consult it. “A gamekeeper bursts in at that moment and says, “There’s a body on the beach.” They both hurry off to investigate. Nothing further happens between them.”

  Relieved, Patricia and the minister accepted this explanation. They could not believe that these television people would go to such lengths to deceive them. Fiona took them back to the office, served them coffee and talked soothingly and flatteringly about the genius of Patricia’s writing.

  Patricia left, feeling quite elated.

  Having seen them off the premises and having instructed two men to guard the door of the set in future, Fiona went back into the ‘bedroom.’ Giles was sitting in a corner, clutching his head.

  “What the fuck’s up now?” asked Fiona, her temper breaking.

  “That bitch,” said Gervase, pointing a shaking finger at Penelope.

  “She won’t stop laughing,” mourned Giles.

  “You cannot expect me to seriously make love to a man with a body like that,” sneered Penelope.