by M C Beaton
“I wonder why Stefan didn’t tell me he had stood in for Prosser that evening at the restaurant. Did they never check where they all were the day afterwards?” asked Hamish. “If Prosser hadn’t been seen on the Sunday, we might have guessed he was still up north.”
“They originally thought they were dealing with four very respectable businessmen, members of the Rotary and the Freemasons.”
“Poor Stefan. I wonder what Prosser did with the body.”
“Maybe he just paid him to leave the country by some other route.”
“I’d like to think so,” said Hamish, “but I doubt it.”
The next morning, Blair phoned Hamish. “We’ve found Prosser doon a gully up frae Drim.”
“How long had he been there?” asked Hamish innocently.
“Months, they think. The highland beasties have made such a meal o’ the corpse that there’s little left to tell the pathologist how he died. He probably tripped and fell in the dark. A lot of the bones the foxes hadn’t gnawed were broken. Anyway, his dentist has been quick off the mark. It’s him, all right, so get ower tae Drim and tell the woman she’s safe.”
Hamish drove to Drim. He was glad for Milly’s sake. Now she would be able to marry Tam.
“I’m so glad,” said Milly when he gave her the news. “I’ve been living in fear.”
“Where’s Tam?”
“He’s down at police headquarters following up the story. Then he’s writing up all the background on my husband. He’ll be away all day.”
“Are you all right here on your own? Do you want me to call Ailsa or Edie?”
“No, I’d like to sit here for a bit and be quiet.”
“Well, send me an invitation to the wedding.”
“What wed…? Oh, that. I’ll let you know.”
Castle and Sanders and their wives were brought to Scotland to the High Court in Edinburgh for trial. It went on for three months. They were charged with being accessories to the murder of Henry Davenport. But here, the prosecution came up against difficulties. They all swore they did not know that Prosser had meant to kill Davenport. They said he had been furious because Davenport had told them about a gold mine in Perthshire and had geological proofs to persuade them to put money into it. But there was no actual forensic proof that Prosser had killed Davenport, or, for that matter, the sweep. John Dean, the man who lived in the flat in the Canongate, was taken out of prison where he was serving time for running brothels in Edinburgh but he said he did not know Prosser had killed the prostitute, nor about any other murders.
The jury—or panel as it is called in Scotland—of fifteen was out for three weeks. They eventually came back with a verdict of not proven, a particularly Scottish verdict which means, we think you did it, we can’t prove it, don’t do it again.
But the jubilant four on leaving the court were arrested again and taken south to await trial for using forged passports, aiding and abetting a murderer, and every other charge the police could think to throw at them.
Hamish had attended the trial but he was not called to give evidence. He had lunch before he left at the Merlin Club with his friend David Harrison. “I’m right glad he’s dead,” said David. “After you said he might come after me, I’ve barely slept.”
Hamish thought guiltily of the people he had kept waiting in fear, and all to protect his cat.
Epilogue
Everything has an end.
—Proverbs
Lochdubh returned to its usual torpor. It was as if nothing terrible had ever happened. It had taken Hamish a long time to relax. Sometimes he watched real-life television forensic programmes and in one, the killer was identified by one of his own cat’s hairs. He had nightmares of them finding one of Sonsie’s hairs on the clothes of the dead man and identifying it as belonging to a wild cat; Blair would then make sure the police station was under scrutiny.
He had scrubbed the floor and the walls with bleach but he knew that luminol would betray the scrubbing and might even find a spot of blood he had missed.
But as ordinary lazy day followed another ordinary day, he began to relax. He called on Milly one day and found her weeding in the garden. “I’m going to have a bed of roses here,” she said.
“Aye, well you’d better get a hedge to protect them because the wind could destroy them. Where’s Tam?”
“Working.”
“When’s the wedding?”
Milly stabbed the trowel into the earth. “We haven’t decided yet.”
A car drove up in front of the house and a tall woman got out. “Oh, that’s my therapist,” said Milly.
“I didn’t know they made house calls.”
“We’ve become friends and she likes getting out of Strathbane. I met her through Victim Support.”
“I’ll be off, then. Let me know when the happy day’s going to be.”
That evening, Tam appeared and said, “I thought it would be nice if we went to that new restaurant down in Strathbane.”
“Must we?” said Milly. “I’ve got a nice lamb casserole in the oven.”
“Put it in the fridge. We’ll have it tomorrow.”
“All right. I’ll just get my coat.”
“Hey, where’s that pretty blue dress I bought you? Put it on.”
Milly went up to her bedroom and pulled the dress out of the wardrobe. She hated it. She felt the neck was too low and the skirt was too short. She sat down on the bed and stared bleakly into space. She had been married in her late teens. She had never really lived alone. Recently, Tam had been away a lot on stories. Milly had loved the peace of having days to herself. She glared at the dress. Henry had always told her what to wear. She had given all her clothes away to the Salvation Army and had bought herself comfortable clothes that she wanted.
Her therapist, Christina Balfour, had told her to start being her own woman, but, reflected Milly, after a lifetime of taking orders, it was hard to know where to start.
She slowly put the dress back in the wardrobe and took out one in simple black wool that she had chosen for herself. She put it on along with low-heeled patent-leather pumps and a thin string of pearls. Then she picked up a bottle of pink nail varnish from the dressing table, opened it, and dribbled some of it down the front of the dress Tam had chosen for her before going downstairs.
“Where’s my dress?” asked Tam. “You look as if you’re going to a funeral.”
“I’m so sorry. I spilled nail varnish on it.”
“Never mind. I’ll get you something else. Time you smartened yourself up.”
Journalists of Tam’s breed talk shop… endlessly. It had happened shortly after they became re-engaged. When they were out for an evening, he drank far too much and told endless reporting stories, unaware that it was a monologue and that Milly was sitting quietly on the other side of the table.
He also had begun to expect Milly to only drink one glass of wine so that she could drive him back.
She looked at him sadly. What had happened to the diffident, affectionate Tam? He had never drunk this much before in her company. Towards the end of the meal, his mobile phone rang. He answered it and then said, “I’m sorry, Milly. Big story. A raid down at the docks. Can you drop me back at the office and I’ll get a photographer to drive me.”
Milly paid the bill. That was another thing that had gone wrong. Tam had begun to leave the paying of bills in restaurants to her.
The raid turned out to be a false alarm, so Tam and the photographer dropped in at a pub that was open twenty-four hours for a drinking session.
Tam had been elevated to chief reporter because of his coverage of the Prosser case.
“When’s the wedding?” asked the photographer.
“Don’t know,” said Tam. “You know, I’m wondering if I’m daein’ the right thing.”
“Och, everyone knows you’re daft about the woman.”
“She doesnae seem to ’preciate that I’m a hot-shot reporter. She pretends to listen but she aye looks as if sh
e’s thinking o’ something else. What dae ye think o’ Kylie Ross?”
“The newsroom secretary? Come on, laddie. She’s in her twenties and a knockout. She wouldnae look at you.”
“Thash where you’re wrong, buddy. She gave me that look the ither day.”
“What look?”
“Sort of come hisher.”
“Come hither? Tam, you’ve had enough. I’ll take you home.”
“Take me to ma flat.”
Milly had phoned Christina Balfour as soon as she had got back to Drim. “I can’t go through with this marriage,” she wailed.
“Then you must tell him,” said Christina. “You can’t go on being a rabbit.”
“What did you just say?”
“I should not have said that,” said Christina hurriedly. “But if you are going to have your freedom, you must take a stand. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Milly took a deep breath. “I don’t think I need any more therapy. Thank you and good night.” She hung up. The phone rang a few moments later but she pulled the connection out of the wall.
She opened the front door and looked down towards the village. It was a Saturday night, and a ceilidh was on in the village hall. Ailsa and the others would be there. She put on her coat. She had not seen much of the village women of late, because they always asked her excitedly about the wedding.
The music had fallen silent and one of the villagers was reciting a long poem. Ailsa saw Milly standing in the doorway and hurried to meet her.
“Come and join the fun,” she said. “Where’s Tam?”
“Step outside,” said Milly. “I need your advice.”
The next day, Tam awoke with a blinding hangover. He took two Alka-Seltzer, struggled into his clothes, swallowed a glass of whisky, and then made his way to the office.
Kylie the secretary smiled at him. She was a pretty highland beauty with dark hair and creamy skin. Fuelled by that glass of whisky which had topped up his intake from the night before, Tam said, “How’s about you and me stepping out one evening?”
Kylie smiled patiently. “I have a boyfriend, Tam.”
Tam stumped off. The photographer from the night before had watched his approach to Kylie. “How did you get on?” he asked.
Tam shrugged and gave the time immemorial reply of the rejected reporter. “Ach, I think thon one’s a lesbian.”
Ailsa and Milly were at that moment in the police station in Lochdubh facing a bewildered Hamish Macbeth.
“You want me to tell Tam the wedding’s off?” exclaimed Hamish.
“Well, haven’t you heard o’ community policing?” demanded Ailsa. “It’s your duty.”
Hamish stared at them. Then he took out his notebook and wrote down, “Tam, it’s Milly. I don’t want to marry you and I’m going to pack up your stuff and leave it outside the door. We’re not suited. I am very sorry but I don’t want to see you again.”
Hamish handed Milly his mobile phone and the piece of paper. “Phone Tam and tell him that,” he ordered.
“I can’t!” wailed Milly.
“I’ll do it,” said Ailsa.
“Nobody’s going to do anything except Milly. Go on, Milly. Soften it down a bit if you must. Here!” He poured her a large glass of whisky. “Get that down ye.”
“What about me?” demanded Ailsa.
“You’ll get your dram if your friend here stiffens her spine and makes that call.”
Milly gulped down the whisky.
She slowly took the phone from Hamish. “Do you mind leaving me?”
“Leave yourself,” said Hamish callously. “It’s my home. Step outside the door.”
The cat, sensing Milly’s fear, gave a low warning hiss. “You shouldnae have a wild cat,” said Ailsa. “That beast’ll attack someone someday.”
“Mind your own business!” shouted Hamish, and Ailsa stared at the normally mild police sergeant in amazement.
They could hear Milly’s quiet voice as she stood outside the kitchen door, but they could not hear what she was saying.
At last she came in. “It’s finished.”
“How did he take it?” asked Ailsa.
“Very well. He said he was made for a better woman. He said he had been going to break it off anyway. I won’t leave his stuff outside the door. That’s rude. I’ll need to face him.”
“Good for you,” said Hamish. “You’ve got your independence at last.”
“How’s Angela Brodie?” asked Ailsa.
“Just fine,” said Hamish. “She had a taste o’ fame and didn’t like it one bit.”
But Angela at that moment had just arrived in Inverness for the Highland Literary Festival to be held in the Dancing Scotsman Hotel. She felt this was one opportunity she could not let go by because she was to be interviewed by Malvin Clegg, the literary critic of the BBC. She’d had her wispy hair permed, but it had turned out frizzy. Her new dress was bright red which, when she had tried it on, had seemed to drain colour from her face, so she had applied make-up with an inexpert hand.
But wishful thinking and her bedroom mirror, which was in a dark corner, had persuaded her that she looked sophisticated and much younger.
A platform had been set up in a conference room of the hotel along with seating for a hundred people. As the television cameras were going to film the event, all the seats were taken. There was a green room set aside for authors. Angela had hoped to meet Malvin there and get an idea of what questions he was going to ask but was told she would meet him for the first time on the platform.
She walked onto the platform to a spattering of applause. Malvin appeared from the other end of the platform to enthusiastic applause and sat down facing her. He was a small thickset man with a fake-bake tan and dyed black hair.
The master of ceremonies was the hotel manager, dressed in kilt and full regalia. He made a long speech, boasting about the beauty of the hotel and how the literary festival had been his inspiration. He had a high reedy voice and a thin body. A kilt is a very heavy item of dress and his began to slide south, showing a glimpse of white underpants decorated with naked ladies. The audience began to giggle and he hoisted the kilt up again and then decided to leave the stage after a hurried introduction of Malvin and Angela.
Malvin was in a bad mood. Why had he agreed to attend this hick festival? He had read Angela’s book and found it very sexy and had hopes of a fling with the author but his hopes had died the minute he set eyes on Angela.
He began with his first question. “Do you think you are writing literature?”
“I just write what I can,” said Angela.
“I’ll just read out this scene from your book where the heroine is in bed with the local bobby.” He made it sound salacious, and Angela squirmed.
“Now, what we all want to know,” said Malvin, leering at the audience, “is how you did your research.”
“It is all a product of my imagination.”
“But all fiction is autobiographical in some way.”
“Not in this case,” said Angela.
“Let me read another extract.”
Angela cracked. She had seen her appearance in a mirror in the green room but it had been too late to do anything about it. She got to her feet.
“It is my opinion that you are nothing more than a dirty old man,” announced Angela, and she walked from the stage.
She ran out of the hotel to the car park and drove off. Never again, she thought, will I have anything to do with publicity. But on the road home her mobile rang. She stopped in a lay-by and answered it. Her husband’s frantic voice sounded down the line. “What have you been up to? The press are hammering at the door saying you called Malvin Clegg a dirty old man.”
“I’ll hide out somewhere,” said Angela.
“What about me? And they won’t go away unless you give them something, even if it’s no comment.”
“I’ll come home,” said Angela wearily.
The aborted interview was shown on all the TV news stations
. Malvin could not sue Angela because she had said that it was her opinion. In Edinburgh, her publisher rubbed his hands in glee and went off to order a large reprint.
Angela, with a scarf tied over her frizzy hair and her make-up scrubbed off, faced the press on her doorstep. “I am sorry,” she said. “I have nothing to say.”
Hamish Macbeth cleared a path for her through the shouting reporters, and she thankfully escaped inside her house.
Afterwards, Hamish wished he had let her fight her own way into her house as his photo appeared in some newspapers along with descriptions of Angela’s heroine having an affair with the village policeman.
When Tam arrived that evening to pick up his belongings, Ailsa was there with Jock Kennedy and several other men from the village. He asked to speak to Milly but was told she was resting and to take his stuff and leave. As he drove away, Tam began to wonder if he’d not gone a little mad. He and Milly had enjoyed something special and he had ruined it. He wondered if he had subconsciously destroyed it because he had always avoided commitment. And why had he started to drink so much when he took her out for an evening?
He shook his head sadly. At least there was always work to take his mind off her.
By dint of thieving passports, Sandra Prosser had made her way to Jensen Beach in Florida. She rented a small flat in a condominium full of old people. After a week, she was bored. The money would not last forever. She did not have the courage to try to open a bank account and get money transferred from the Cayman Islands and also because she had a shrewd suspicion that her husband would have cleared out that account. She hired a car and drove down into the pretty town of Stuart, looking at the shops, and wondering for the first time if it would not be easier to just give herself up.
She missed her husband. She had not cried when she had learned of his death, but now she remembered the good times they had enjoyed, the expensive trips abroad, and the generous allowance he had given her.
