Death of a Chimney Sweep

by M C Beaton

  In the kitchen, Hamish took off his hat and placed it on the table. His thick flaming-red hair had grown back to its old length.

  “It’s like this, Milly,” began Hamish. “Tam here really does love you. You need protection. I have a feeling that Prosser believes the money the captain took from him is still in this house. You didn’t find any sign of anything?”

  “No,” said Milly, standing with her back to him at the kitchen counter and plugging in the kettle.

  Hamish eyed her suspiciously. If ever a back could lie, he thought, it was Milly’s.

  “If you do find the money,” he said, “you must turn it over to the authorities and get Tam here to write up the story. Prosser will see it and he will no longer have any reason to come after you.”

  “I’ll let you know if I find anything” said Milly. “Coffee?”

  “Grand. Now, I think you should let Tam move in here. He’s got holiday owing and he’s prepared to spend it looking after you. What do you say?”

  Milly placed a jug of coffee on the table and then three cups. “Yes,” she said in a low voice. “That would be fine. Is there no news at all of Giles?”

  “Not a thing. It’s my belief Prosser waylaid him, wanting him out of the way. I’ve asked again and again for the tarns and bogs to be searched but every time, they turn me down. Hasn’t he any family? I think the police asked you that and you said you didn’t know but no one has come forward asking for him. He hadn’t been married and his parents are dead. We can find no record of brothers or sisters.”

  “I had begun to get the feeling he wasn’t very popular,” said Milly. “He was always running down people in his old regiment.”

  “I’ll get my suitcase,” said Tam cheerfully.

  When he had gone, Hamish said severely, “I’m warning you, Milly. If you find that money, you must tell me immediately. That way you will be safe.”

  They heard Tam come back in and dump his suitcase in the hall.

  “I’m off,” said Hamish. “Any sight or sound of anyone, call the police immediately.”

  Tam came in as Hamish left.

  “Oh, Tam!” cried Milly, tears running down her face. “I’ve been so miserable. There’s something I’ve got to tell you.”

  He came and sat beside her and took her hands in his. “What’s that?”

  Milly dried her tears. She was about to tell him about the money but something stopped her. Tam would no doubt tell her to give it to the police, and he would write a story about it. One thing she knew about Tam: he lived for the next good story.

  “I’m a bit shy about… well… sex. Do you mind waiting? I’m so afraid of Prosser coming back that I feel all cold and frightened.”

  “I’ll wait, pet, don’t worry about it. But you could do with more security. You could do with security lights, front and back. I’ll fix it.”

  Milly took off Giles’s engagement ring and placed it on the table. “I should throw this away.”

  “Sell it,” said the ever-practical Tam.

  A week later, on a rare beautiful sunny day, two schoolboys from Drim, Wayne and Dexter Mackay, were playing truant. They had got onto the school bus that morning and waved goodbye to their parents. It was still dark when the bus stopped at an outlying croft to pick up another boy. While the boy’s mother was talking to the driver, who had got down from the bus, Wayne and Dexter had crept quietly away, hiding behind a wall until the bus drove off.

  In Wayne’s bag was half a bottle of sweet sherry he had stolen from his parents’ sideboard. As the sun came up, it turned into an unusually mild and still day. Dexter had a collapsible fishing rod in his bag. “We’ll gang up tae that tarn. There’s said to be a muckle great fish in the water.”

  As the sun rose higher in the sky and the air smelled of wild thyme, they scampered up to the tarn. They lay down by the lip, swigged the sherry, and ate the contents of their lunch boxes. Then Dexter assembled his fishing rod.

  “Let’s lean over and see if we can see thon fish.”

  They lay on their stomachs and peered down into the glassy waters of the tarn.

  Then they straightened up and looked at each other in alarm. “There’s a car down there,” whispered Dexter, “and I think there’s someone in it. What’ll we do?”

  “We’ll say we got off the bus and went to stretch our legs and he drove off without us,” said Wayne. “Chuck that sherry bottle. No, dinnae chuck it in the tarn. Pit it in the heather on the road back.”

  Milly had gone for a walk down to the village with Tam. When they returned, they saw police cars outside the house. The press were just arriving.

  “Maybe Prosser has been caught,” said Tam.

  Blair was waiting for them. He glared at Tam. “You, get lost. No reporters.”

  Milly took Tam’s arm. “Mr. Tamworth is my fiancé and he’s not going anywhere.”

  Blair’s piggy eyes gleamed. Here was a woman who had lost one husband and one fiancé and now she was engaged to “the pig.” Hamish Macbeth had Prosser on the brain. Blair was out to prove that Milly had something to do with both murders.

  Hamish arrived but was told by a policeman on guard that Blair had given instructions that he was to wait outside the house. Tam came out and drew him aside.

  “Hamish, he’s making Milly cry. He’s all but accusing her of the murders.”

  Hamish phoned the Tommel Castle Hotel and asked if Priscilla was by any chance making one of her rare visits. When her cool voice came on the phone, he told her what was happening and then asked, “Could you get on to Daviot and complain? He’s such a snob, he’ll jump if you say ‘how high?’ ”

  “All right,” said Priscilla. “After I phone, I’ll come over and claim Milly as a friend. Let’s hope she plays along.”

  Hamish waited. He wondered why Priscilla had not been in touch with him. Maybe she had only just arrived.

  Milly was in the depths of despair. The car had been lifted out of the tarn and the decomposing body of Giles Brandon had been found. Blair was bullying and threatening and the questions went on and on. Then the door opened and a beautiful vision walked in. “Mr. Blair,” said Priscilla, “I have a message from Superintendent Daviot. You’re to phone him right away.”

  Blair glared at her but stomped out of the room. Priscilla bent over Milly. “We’re dear friends, right?”

  Milly gave a startled nod.

  “We’ll just wait until he goes away and then I’ll make you some tea.”

  Milly awaited anxiously. Then they heard cars driving off. Jimmy Anderson came in with a grin on his foxy face. “We’re off, Mrs. Davenport. Hamish is to take over the questioning.”

  “Let’s get that tea,” said Priscilla.

  In the kitchen, Hamish carefully took Milly over the events of the day when Giles had disappeared. There was nothing new. He’d gone off to Lochdubh and had never returned.

  Priscilla had been introduced to Milly. She covertly studied her, remembering from village gossip that she had once been engaged to Hamish.

  When Hamish put away his notebook, Milly asked plaintively, “But why Giles? Prosser never knew him, I’ll swear.”

  “Prosser wants you on your own so he can search for the money. I warn you again that if you find it, you must phone me right away and get Tam here to write a story about it.”

  There was a knock at the door. “That’ll be my photographer,” said Tam.

  “You mean you’re going to write a story?” asked Milly.

  “Look, dear, I’m a reporter and I can’t sit on this when all the press’ll be around soon. Just a picture of you and then I’ll write it up. I’ll keep the rest o’ the press away from you.”

  “Good idea,” said Hamish. “I hope you’ve got enough groceries in because you’ll be under siege for the rest of the day.”

  Hamish and Priscilla went outside. “Thanks,” said Hamish. “The least I can do is buy you dinner tonight.”

  “The Italian’s? Eight o’clock?”

&nb
sp; “Grand.”

  Ignoring the reporters, they climbed into their respective vehicles and drove off.

  Back at the police station, Hamish began to worry again about his dog and cat. He had a feeling that Prosser was still going to come after him. Sonsie and Lugs were greedy, and if anyone left out poisoned meat for them, he was sure they would gobble it down. But he couldn’t keep moving them out, as some time had passed and he didn’t know when any attack might come.

  He put them in the Land Rover and then drove up round the outlying crofts, asking if any stranger had been seen, but no one had spotted anything. Every guest at the hotel had been thoroughly checked through the police computer.

  He returned in the evening, changed into his best suit, and brushed his red hair until it shone. Leaving the dog and cat behind, he walked along to the restaurant, wondering why he should feel so excited at the prospect of dinner with Priscilla. Again, he decided it was like the cigarettes he often craved. Addictions never quite went entirely away.

  Halfway to the restaurant, he had an uneasy feeling of being watched. He swung round several times but the waterfront was empty.

  In the ruins of the hotel which stood by the harbour, Prosser watched him go. He had disguised himself with a moustache and beard and had false identity papers showing that he was an ornithologist.

  The moment of reckoning had come at last, he thought. He would pick the lock on the police station, shoot those damn animals, and then wait for Macbeth.

  Priscilla was as cool and elegant as ever. She was wearing a smoky blue cashmere twin set over fitted dark blue corduroy trousers and high-heeled black leather boots.

  Hamish’s pleasure at seeing her was dimmed slightly. He had that old longing to say or do something which would break through that calm veneer. Wasn’t it her very lack of any passion whatsoever that had made him break off the engagement?

  But she was always interested in his work and it helped him to go over the cases and to speculate if and when Prosser would arrive.

  “Surely he’s out of the country by now,” said Priscilla. “It would be madness to come back here.”

  “He is mad. Only a psychopath goes around killing people the way he does, and he has all the extreme vanity of the psychopath. Oh, well, I’ve got a more immediate worry: they’ve decided to billet another constable on me and I’ve got to put the stuff back in to the spare room.”

  Prosser picked the lock on the police station front door, not knowing it was hardly ever used; Hamish and the villagers used the kitchen door. He pushed and strained and finally got it open. He looked up and down. No one around. He entered the room and fell over several piles of junk on the floor. Hamish had dumped some of the stuff from the spare room onto the living room floor. Where were these damn animals?

  He went into the kitchen and risked switching on the light. Lugs stood glaring at him out of his blue eyes.

  “Goodbye, doggy,” said Prosser with a grin and raised his revolver.

  Where the cat came from, he did not know. Sonsie flew straight at him. She was a big wild cat and the onslaught knocked him off-balance and he fell backwards onto the floor. He screamed as the cat bit into his neck, right into the carotid artery. He tried to seize the cat but she leapt back. Blood was pumping out of the wound on his neck. He staggered to his feet, looking for his gun, but the dog sank his teeth into his leg. The cat jumped on his back and began clawing at his head.

  His eyes grew dim and he fell to the floor, blood pumping from his neck.

  Hamish and Priscilla were just finishing their meal when Willie Lamont, the waiter, approached the table, looking worried.

  “Sonsie and Lugs are outside and Sonsie’s covered in blood.”

  Hamish, followed by Priscilla, rushed out of the restaurant. Hamish knelt down by his cat. Sonsie gave a deep throaty purr. “Get me a sponge and water,” he shouted over his shoulder to Willie, who had followed them out.

  When Willie reappeared with a sponge and a bowl of water, Hamish gently sponged the cat’s fur and heaved a sigh of relief. “She’s not injured. I’d better get back to the station.”

  “Maybe you’ve got rats,” suggested Willie.

  “I’ll see,” said Hamish, thinking, Not with that amount of blood.

  He and Priscilla quickly walked to the police station. Hamish unlocked the door, noticing that the kitchen light was on. “Stay back,” he said to Priscilla. “It might be Prosser.”

  He went to the henhouse where he had hidden a rifle and brought it out, following by the startled clucking of his hens.

  “Wait here,” said Hamish. He swung open the kitchen door.

  A man was lying there in a large pool of blood. Hamish felt for a pulse and found none. He bent down and ripped off the beard and moustache. Prosser.

  He went out to Priscilla. “It’s Prosser. He’s dead.”

  She walked into the kitchen and turned white at the sight that met her eyes.

  “Better phone Strathbane,” she said.

  “No!” shouted Hamish. “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they’ll soon find out my cat killed him and they’ll have Sonsie put down.”

  “What? For getting rid of a serial murderer?”

  “Blair will see to it. Damn. I’ve got to move this body. He’s bound to have a stolen car. I’ve got to get rid of it as well. I don’t want it found near the police station. You guard the body and don’t let anyone in.” Hamish went into the office and came back wearing a pair of latex gloves. He gingerly searched in Prosser’s pockets until he found a set of car keys.

  When he had gone, Priscilla felt she could not bear the sight of the body and found a travel rug in Hamish’s bedroom and threw it over the horrible sight that was Prosser’s body.

  After what seemed an age, Hamish came back and said, “There’s a vehicle parked behind the old hotel. I’ll get rid of it later. He must have bought it, as he had the keys and hadn’t hotwired it. I’ve got to get this body somewhere and dump it. The Land Rover’s outside. I’ve got a couple of pairs of thae forensic overalls. We’ll put them on and get the body in the Land Rover.”

  Struggling and panting, because Prosser was heavy, they managed to lift the corpse into the back of the Land Rover. Hamish had found Prosser’s revolver and had tucked it into one of the dead man’s pockets. “Thanks, Priscilla,” whispered Hamish. “You can go home now.”

  “You’ll need a lookout. We may as well go together. Don’t argue. I’m trying very hard not to be sick.”

  Hamish put a wheelbarrow in on top of Prosser’s body. They both got in, and he drove off under the blazing stars of Sutherland, into the soaring mountains. The sky was clear but there was the faint metallic smell that heralded snow in the air when he finally stopped.

  “Now,” he said, “I’ll get the body into the wheelbarrow. Up there’s Fraser’s Gully. If I tip the body down there, it’s a long way down and it’ll get smashed on the rocks. With any luck, ferrets and crows and foxes will help to destroy the evidence.”

  “Will you ever tell the police?”

  “Oh, aye, when I figure the bastard’s decomposed enough. You wait here. I can manage this bit on my own.”

  He got out and opened the back of the Land Rover. First he took out the wheelbarrow, and then he pulled the body out onto it. Grunting and swearing under his breath, he pushed the wheelbarrow up the steep incline to the edge of the gully.

  At the very edge, he tipped the barrow and sent the body flying down. He heard it bouncing off the sharp rocks he knew were down there. Then there was silence.

  He dropped Priscilla by her car on the waterfront. She had taken off the forensic suit when they were up by the gully, and he collected it from her.

  “Don’t you want me to help you clear up the mess?” asked Priscilla.

  “You’ve done enough. Go home.”

  When Priscilla walked into the hotel, the night porter exclaimed, “Why, Miss Halburton-Smythe! You’re as white
as a sheet.”

  “I think I’ve a touch of flu,” mumbled Priscilla. She fled to the safety of her room, where she was violently sick. Thank God I never married him, she thought. I’m not cut out to be a policeman’s wife.

  Sutherland is near the Gulf Stream and so can enjoy some unusually warm days in winter. Hamish blessed the mild days, which would help with the decomposing of the body, and cursed the frosts. He had found Prosser’s car and driven it to Inverness airport, where he left it in the car park.

  Priscilla had left again without saying goodbye. He thought sadly that after all they had been through on that dreadful evening, she might at least have called to see how he was. He felt guilty because he could sense the ongoing tension in the village and he longed to tell them their worries were over.

  But by the end of February, two hill walkers, peering down into the gully, saw the remains of Prosser and called the police. The body had been attacked by crows, eagles, buzzards, and foxes. There was little left but a skeleton and torn clothes.

  The couple had phoned Strathbane so it was not until the evening of their discovery that Jimmy Anderson arrived at the station with the news.

  “Is it Prosser?” asked Hamish.

  “Looks like it.”

  “They won’t have had any time to check his dental records.”

  “Aye, but inside the lining of his coat, we found his real passport and a Cayman Islands bankbook. Guildford police have found his dentist and they’re sending up the records. He had a revolver as well, and we’re checking to see if it was used to kill Brandon—the sweep had his neck broken, Davenport had his head smashed, same with Betty Close. Brandon is the only one who was shot. They think Philomena was drugged and that’s why she lost control of the car. Anyway, according to our singing canaries in captivity, Castle and Sanders, they knew he was out to get Davenport. That’s why they set up the alibi for him. They said he got Stefan Loncar to put on a mask that evening so that people would think it was him. You remember, it was a Saturday and they swore they’d all been together most of the day.”