Death of a Maid

by Beaton, M. C.

  In the police station, Hamish made coffee, and they both went through to the police office.

  ‘Right,’ said Elspeth. ‘The first. Professor Sander.’

  ‘There’s a good chance he pinched one of his students’ book on Byron,’ said Hamish. ‘But the student is dead. The prof has no real alibi, and he was the nearest person to Mrs Gillespie. From the post-mortem, it seems she had only been dead for a short time before I found her. So he could have followed her down the drive and struck her in a fit of rage.’

  ‘I’ll dig a bit more into his background for you. Next?’

  ‘Mrs Fiona Fleming. Mrs Samson seemed to think that Mrs Gillespie believed her to have killed her husband by pushing him down the stairs. I’ve a feeling in my bones that the man’s death was an accident, pure and simple. Maybe Mrs Fleming was in the early stages of her affair with Dr Renfrew, and Mrs Gillespie was blackmailing her over that. I don’t like the woman, and I feel she could be quite vicious. But no. I think it was someone cold, calculating and ruthless. Maybe someone who met Mrs Gillespie at the foot of the drive and said, “Let me help you put your stuff in your car”, and then swung the bucket hard.’

  ‘Now comes Mrs Styles.’

  ‘The saint of Braikie. I don’t think so. I think if Mrs Gillespie had tried to blackmail her, she would have gone straight to the police. The same with Mrs Wellington.’

  ‘Mrs Barret-Wilkinson?’

  ‘I can’t get the hang o’ that woman. She’s playing at being the country lady. But she’s got a good alibi for the time of Shona’s death.’

  ‘What alibi?’

  ‘On the night of Shona’s murder, she was staying with a friend in Glasgow. Then she had a hotel receipt from the Palace in Inverness. Says she stopped there on the way back.’

  ‘What about Dr Renfrew?’

  ‘He must have been terrified that she’d gossip about his malpractice suit. Could be. Then there’s Miss Creedy, who admits to having rigged the bingo so that Mrs Gillespie would win. I want that kept quiet. I don’t believe for a moment she murdered anyone.’

  ‘What about Mrs Gillespie’s stepdaughter?’

  ‘Damn! I’d completely forgotten about the lassie. I suppose she’ll have been asked for an alibi for the time Shona was murdered, but I’d better have a talk with her again.’

  ‘Let’s go back to Mrs Barret-Wilkinson,’ said Elspeth. ‘I wonder if a friend would lie for her?’

  ‘Strathclyde police will have checked out her alibi.’

  ‘It’s not their case. It would be interesting to get down there and suss out whether she might be lying.’

  ‘I can’t take the time off to go down there. They’d be down on me like a ton o’ bricks.’

  Elspeth looked at him mischievously. ‘And you don’t want to lose your job?’

  Hamish gave her a reluctant smile. ‘You’re right. That was a real daft moment I had. Thanks. You scare me sometimes, Elspeth. Do you always know what people are thinking?’

  ‘No, hardly ever, and when I’m down in the city, not at all. Put it down to a lucky guess. Tell you what, if you see the daughter, I’ll nip back to Glasgow and interview Mrs Barret-Wilkinson’s alibi. What’s her name and address?’

  Hamish consulted his notes. ‘Bella Robinson, The Croft, Mylie Road, Bearsden.’

  ‘I’ll have a go.’

  They both stood up. Hamish looked down at Elspeth. He had a sudden longing to take her in his arms. As if she sensed his feelings, Elspeth gave an awkward little duck of her head and muttered, ‘Goodbye. Talk to you later.’

  Elspeth wondered whether to tell Luke where she was going, but finally decided against it. Luke had said he didn’t come north to work. He was on holiday, and Elspeth’s wanting to be a reporter night and day was interfering with good drinking time. And Luke drank a lot. Reporters were hard-drinking people, but Elspeth felt uneasily that Luke’s drinking was getting out of hand. Usually the most boozed-up reporter would chase any story, whether on holiday or not.

  As she drove south over the Grampian mountains, she put Luke from her mind and, with an even greater effort, stopped thinking about one village policeman.

  When she finally got to the respectable town of Bearsden and found that The Croft was in fact a neat bungalow, she was tired and hungry and wished she had stopped for food on the way.

  Her heart sank as she walked up the garden path. Houses with nobody at home always, to Elspeth, radiated an empty feeling. She had debated telephoning first but knew that if by any remote chance Bella had been covering for her friend, she would be forewarned. She rang the bell and waited and waited.

  Depressed, she turned away. She went to the bungalow next door and rang the bell.

  The woman who answered the door was a large matron with a well-upholstered bosom and thick flowing hair. She looked like the figurehead on an old sailing ship.

  ‘Ye-es?’ she asked.

  ‘I was looking for Mrs Robinson next door,’ said Elspeth.

  ‘Mrs Robinson hes goan to hir wee house in Spain.’ She had the strangled, genteel accents of what is damned as Kelvinside.

  ‘When did she leave?’

  ‘Thet would be yesterday.’

  Nothing more to do, thought Elspeth wearily. She drove to her Glasgow flat, planning to spend the night before starting on the long journey north. She phoned Hamish. His mobile was switched off. She tried the police station and got his answering service and left a message.

  Hamish was in the local pub on the harbour, trying to comfort Archie Maclean. A crumpled letter lay on the scarred table between them.

  ‘Buggering government,’ said Archie, tears running down his face. ‘To decommission my boat! To order me to take her to Denmark where she is to be scrapped! The Sally Jane’s my life. I’ll die without her. What am I goin’ tae do?’

  ‘Leave it to me,’ said Hamish. ‘I’ll get up a petition.’

  Archie scrubbed his eyes with his sleeve. ‘Good o’ ye, Hamish, but that’s been tried afore.’

  The British government had massacred more than half the Scottish fishing fleet to prevent the waters being overfished.

  ‘Are they offering compensation?’

  ‘Only a wee bit. I didn’t go in for the voluntary decommissioning.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  Hamish went out and along to the church, which was never locked. He seized the bell rope and began to ring the bell. It clamoured out over the village of Lochdubh, bringing people hurrying out of their houses and the minister and his wife from the manse. They knew it was only rung in times of peril. The old folk said it had been rung during World War II when a fishing boat sighted a German destroyer.

  ‘What is going on?’ panted Mrs Wellington.

  The villagers began to stream in as Hamish went up to the pulpit. ‘The government has ordered Archie Maclean’s boat to be decommissioned. He’s to take her to a scrapyard in Denmark. I want someone to start a petition.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ shouted Mrs Wellington.

  ‘That’ll be a start,’ said Hamish. ‘But we’ll need more than that. I’ll see if there are any press left up at the hotel and try to get them interested.’

  Mr Patel ran to his shop and came back with reams of typing paper. A table was set up, and people crowded around to sign.

  Hamish came down from the pulpit and, after adding his name to the list, headed up to the Tommel Castle Hotel. ‘Are any of the national press still here?’ he asked Mr Johnson.

  ‘The television people have gone, but there’s two nationals, a French newspaper and some of the Scottish ones. You’ll find them in the bar.’

  Hamish walked into the bar, a sudden bold idea striking him.

  Luke was there, his eyes blurred with drink.

  ‘Gentlemen of the press!’ shouted Hamish. ‘I have a story that will interest you.’

  Silence fell.

  ‘Archie Maclean, a local fisherman, is having his boat forcibly decommissioned, and he has been o
rdered to take her to a scrapyard in Denmark.’

  Bored eyes stared at him. Just another poor fisherman out of work. They’d heard it all before.

  ‘And so,’ said Hamish, raising his voice, ‘the villagers are that mad wi’ the government that they are declaring independence for Lochdubh.’

  Now he had their attention. Several were already wondering if a headline ‘The Mouse That Roared’ might be too old hat.

  ‘If you will follow me down to the church hall, you’ll see what I mean.’

  Hamish sprinted out and drove fast back to the hall, where the whole village was now crowded around the petition table.

  ‘I’ve declared Lochdubh independent,’ he shouted. ‘The press are coming. Stick to the story.’

  A big forester asked, ‘Can we put up roadblocks into the village and ask them for their passports?’

  ‘Great idea,’ said Hamish. ‘But quick. I can hear them coming. Some of you drag me along to the police station and lock me in the cell.’

  The press arrived just in time to see Hamish being frogmarched along the waterfront. Thank goodness for all those mobile phones with cameras in them, thought Hamish. This’ll be on television tomorrow.

  He was locked in the one cell in the police station with his dog and cat. They handed the key through the bars to him ‘chust in case you feel hungry during the night’, and headed off.

  Hamish then phoned Elspeth and told her the story. ‘Oh, Hamish, I’m so tired, but I can’t miss out on a story like this. I’ll drive through the night.’

  Although not much visited by tourists, Lochdubh was a very scenic highland village. By next morning, the story was round the world. Film of a crumpled and sobbing Archie Maclean was beamed into homes from the north of Scotland to Japan.

  Police contingents, roaring over from Strathbane, found their way barred by roadblocks manned by locals with deer hunting rifles and shotguns.

  Blair tried to land in the police helicopter but was driven off by rockets fired up at him – not army rockets, but ones left over from the last fireworks display.

  Some wag had found a skull and crossbones used in an amateur production of The Pirates of Penzance and had run it up the flagpole on the waterfront. Only the press were allowed past the barriers.

  Hamish was photographed in his cell. ‘This is an outrage,’ he was quoted as saying, ‘but on the other hand, I can’t say I blame them.’

  He hoped desperately that the London reaction he was counting on could have its effect before the police decided to use force.

  In Number 10 Downing Street, the prime minister, Simon Turl, paced up and down. His popularity had been fading fast. He was addicted to photo opportunities and grabbing headlines and therefore shoved through unpopular acts of Parliament without even considering the consequences.

  ‘How am I to handle this?’ he asked his adviser, Sandy McGowan.

  ‘Oh, stop dithering, man. It’s simple,’ growled Sandy. ‘Say that wee fisherman got the wrong papers by mistake and there’s to be an inquiry. Do it fast. Take the wind out of those villagers’ sails. No prosecutions.’

  ‘But other fishermen will try the same trick.’

  ‘It won’t be newsworthy if they do. Copycat stories never are. Get on with it.’

  ‘Perhaps I should fly up there myself. I can see myself standing on the harbour . . .’

  ‘And getting stoned by the locals. I’ll handle it. You’re due at the House.’

  Superintendent Daviot gave orders for police to be fitted out in riot gear and armed with stun guns and tear gas.

  They arrived in force at the barricade on the Strathbane road.

  The villagers on guard raised their guns, their faces grim.

  Daviot opened his mouth to give the order to charge when his phone rang. It was his secretary, Helen. ‘The prime minister’s office phoned. You’re to stand down. The papers sent to Archie Maclean were a mistake. No one is to be charged with anything. It’s to be calmed down and out of the newspapers as quickly as possible.’

  The villagers manning the barricade watched uneasily. Then Daviot approached the barrier.

  ‘The decommissioning papers were sent to Mr Maclean by mistake. So take down this ridiculous roadblock. I would arrest the lot of you, but I have orders from Number 10 that there are to be no prosecutions.’

  Hamish, in his cell, heard the cheering. He unlocked his cell and walked outside the police station.

  Villagers were surging along to meet the cheering men returning from the roadblock.

  Archie Maclean saw Hamish and cried, ‘There he is! There’s my hero!’

  The crowd gathered around Hamish and lifted him up and carried him in triumphal procession from one end of the waterfront to the other.

  Up on the Strathbane road on a crest of the hill looking down on the village stood Inspector Mary Gannon.

  ‘Give me a pair of binoculars, someone,’ she shouted.

  A policeman handed her a pair. She lifted them to her eyes, focussed them, and glared down at the magnified sight of Hamish Macbeth being carried round the village.

  ‘So that rogue policeman is responsible for this fiasco,’ she muttered. ‘What a waste of police time. I’ll have that man.’

  She turned to the woman police sergeant beside her. ‘Keep your handcuffs ready,’ she said, ‘and follow me.’

  The triumphal procession carrying Hamish was heading for the pub when they found themselves confronted by one very angry police inspector.

  ‘Put him down!’ shouted Mary. ‘Hamish Macbeth, I am arresting you for inciting riot. Anything you –’

  ‘No, no,’ said Archie, glaring up at her. ‘This is by way of an apology. We locked the poor man up in his cell. He had nothing to do with it at all.’

  Mary faced the crowd. ‘Is this the truth?’

  There came a chorus of agreement.

  Mary suddenly knew she had made a terrible mistake. She saw she was being filmed and recorded for television. She knew Number 10 wanted the story killed. She did not believe for a moment that Archie had been sent the wrong papers. She would be blamed for keeping the story running.

  Mary turned on her heel and marched away.

  Hamish fled to his police station and locked himself in to keep away from the press.

  Then a note was shoved through the letter box. It read, ‘Let me in. Elspeth.’

  Chapter Nine

  My barmie noddle’s working prime.

  – Robert Burns

  Hamish opened the door. ‘Come in, quick,’ he said.

  Elspeth slid in. She looked tired. ‘Great story, Hamish. I’ve been filing stories since I got back from Glasgow, and I haven’t had any sleep.’

  ‘I think I’ll have a whisky,’ said Hamish. ‘Feel like joining me? I felt at one moment I’d made an awful mistake. I could see the poor Currie sisters with their eyes streaming with tear gas and some of the locals being shot with stun guns.’

  ‘I’m surprised our divine leader didn’t fly up. He and his wife breathe photo opportunities.’

  ‘Maybe he was frightened he’d be massacred. Whisky?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll join you, and then I’m going to bed.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘What sort of question is that?’ demanded Elspeth angrily. ‘And what right have you to ask it?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Hamish. ‘I don’t know why I asked that. Stop bristling at me and sit down. You look like Sonsie when the cat’s fur is up.’

  ‘Where are the beasts?’

  ‘Out for a walk. I lifted them out through the kitchen window.’

  ‘How will you know when they want back in?’

  ‘Sonsie leaps up and raps on the glass.’

  ‘What came over that police inspector? Daviot said there were to be no arrests. Made a good story, though.’

  ‘You didn’t, did you?’

  ‘We all did. Why did she do it? She struck me as a career police officer.’

  ‘I think she likes the auth
ority her position gives her. I think someone like me really annoys her. Where’s Luke?’

  ‘Up at the hotel with the other press. Mr Johnson will be glad when the story dies down because he can’t give any tourists a booking. The press have taken up most of the rooms.’

  ‘Isn’t that good for business?’

  ‘Not really. The hotel relies on regulars to come back year after year. Most of the press will be gone by tomorrow.’

  Hamish poured two shots of whisky and put a jug of water on the table.

  ‘Aren’t you going to open your mail?’ asked Elspeth looking at a few unopened letters on the kitchen table.

  ‘Probably bills. I’ll look at them tomorrow.’

  Elspeth flipped through them. ‘Here’s one that looks personal, and the postmark’s Inverness.’

  ‘Let me see.’ Hamish opened the envelope and scanned the letter inside.

  ‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ he said.

  ‘Probably,’ said Elspeth. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s from Mr Abercrombie, that student’s father, you know the one who claimed that Sander had stolen his book. He says a woman came to visit him the other day and said she was a friend of his son’s and that they’d been at university at the same time. She was shocked to learn Sean was dead. She said she remembered Professor Sander had given him a job typing out his manuscript, a book on Byron. She said Sean went a bit mad after that and started claiming the book was his own. He kept swearing to come off the drugs.’

  ‘So that’s one blackmailing theory out the window,’ said Elspeth.

  ‘No, on the contrary. There must be something else. Someone as pompous as the professor wouldn’t put up with a bossy charwoman unless she had something on him. Inspector Gannon wanted me to follow him. Maybe she was on to something. I think I’ll get back on it tomorrow. I’ll have a talk to the stepdaughter first. She may have remembered something.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ volunteered Elspeth.

  ‘You’ll get me in trouble. I’m not supposed to have civilians in a police vehicle unless I’m arresting them.’

  ‘But, idiot, we’ll take my car. You don’t want to be seen tailing him in a cop car.’