Death of a Chimney Sweep hm-1

by M C Beaton

  But on the following morning, Hamish received a call summoning him to police headquarters. On his arrival in Daviot’s office, he was told he was suspended pending enquiries into his unorthodox behaviour by investigating a crime scene when he did not have the necessary forensic skills.

  “You are so anxious to close the case, sir,” said Hamish angrily, “that nothing would have been properly inspected.”

  “Don’t be insolent and get out of here before I fire you,” said Daviot.

  Hamish met Jimmy Anderson on his way out. “I hope I didn’t get you into trouble, Jimmy.”

  “Not me. I know when to grovel and crawl when necessary.”

  “Do you think they won’t bother with the DNA?”

  “Oh, they’ll bother all right. Blair’s rubbing his fat hands and demanding a rush on it. He’s so confident of proving you wrong. Anyway, you’re in deep doo and I’d suggest you think about packing up your sheep. And you’re not to speak to the press. They’re all over the place.”

  Jimmy watched as Hamish walked sadly away. He felt in sudden need of a drink. He went to the local pub near headquarters and ordered a double whisky. He turned and surveyed the bar; his eyes lighted on Tam Tamworth, nicknamed “the pig,” because with his large ears and beefy face, short nose and pursed lips, he did look piggy.

  Jimmy strolled over to him. “I’m not supposed to speak to the press,” he said in a low voice, “but see if you can use this. Mention my name and I’ll have to kill you.”

  “So is it about thon murder?” asked Tam.

  “Aye, thanks to our Hamish Macbeth, it may turn out to be two murders. Say you happened to have been passing the garage at the side o’ headquarters last night, this is what you heard.” He rapidly described Hamish’s suspicions, saying that if Macbeth turned out to be right, he should be getting a commendation rather than suspension.

  “Man, what a story,” said Tam. “I’m off. I can get it into the morning paper.”

  Thanks to an excellent sports section, the Strathbane Journal had a good circulation. Daviot read it next morning with a sinking heart. Blair went out and got drunk, praying between drinks that the DNA would prove Hamish wrong. Headquarters was besieged by press and television demanding a statement. Hamish Macbeth was nowhere to be found. He had packed up his camping equipment, taken his pets, and set off to hide out in the moors.

  The previous forensic team had all been sacked because of too many reports of drunkenness. A new laboratory had been built and an expert from Glasgow coaxed up to head the new team. They worked long hours and at last had a full report. The blood in the sidecar belonged to Pete Ray. The fingerprints on the wallet and candlesticks had obviously been put there after the man was dead because it looked as if fingers had been simply pressed down on the items. Pete would have grasped the candlesticks, not put a neat set of fingerprints on them. His neck had not been broken by a fall; someone had broken it by twisting his head back. There were signs that Pete’s body had then been stuffed into the sidecar.

  And there was worse. Angus Forrest had said there was no use bothering forensics with the motorcycle and sidecar. It was an open-and-shut case, in his opinion, and his superiors had told him to wrap it up fast.

  Jimmy was told to get hold of Hamish Macbeth, return him to his duties, and keep away from the press. Phoning Hamish on his mobile, Jimmy gave him the good news. “But you’re to keep away for another week,” he said, “until Daviot thinks the press have stopped looking for you.”

  “Suits me,” said Hamish laconically, turning sausages on a frying pan balanced on a camp stove outside his tent.

  “Aye, but there’s something else. You’d better clear out that spare room at the station. You’re to get a constable. His name is Torlich McBain and he’s a wee sneak. I think he’s supposed to keep an eye on you and report to Blair. He’s a bit o’ a Bible basher. He’ll preach you the word.”

  Milly Davenport had enjoyed a few days of what she guiltily thought of as freedom. The women from the village were kind. She loved the gossip over cups of tea, and she loved the company.

  They worked like a pack of guard dogs to keep the press away from her and give Blair a hard time. Blair had worked out a scenario in his fat brain where Milly had a jealous lover and would have browbeaten her had not the women sent a letter of complaint to Daviot.

  But on the morning that Hamish Macbeth returned to his police station, Captain Henry Davenport’s sister, Miss Philomena Davenport, arrived at Milly’s house. “I’m come to stay with you, Milly,” she said. “It’s what my dear brother would have wanted.”

  Philomena was a tall woman with big hands and feet. She had cropped grey hair and slightly prominent pale green eyes. She was dressed in gear she considered suitable for the Highlands: knee breeches, lovat wool socks, a green army sweater, and a leather fleece.

  She disapproved of Milly “consorting with the local peasantry” and so banned them from the house.

  Milly felt she had lost one bully only to find another.

  Hamish watched sadly as a scrap dealer from Alness drove off with the contents of his spare room: an old fridge, bits of a plough, rusting screwdrivers, two old televisions, and myriad iron bits and pieces. Although he had previously cleaned it out, when the female constable who had nearly tricked him into marriage was supposed to take the room and was billeted at the manse instead, he had just put everything back in again. Mrs. Wellington, the minister’s wife, arrived with a cleaning squad. A bed, wardrobe, and side table were delivered from a Strathbane shop, the bill to be footed by the police.

  Torlich, nicknamed Tolly, arrived to take up residence. He had never risen in the ranks due to failing all the necessary exams. He was small for a policeman, with a wrinkled, sagging grey face and weak watery eyes.

  “I’ll let you get settled in,” said Hamish. “I’m off to Drim to have a word with Mrs. Davenport.”

  “That should be left to your superiors,” said Tolly.

  He had been told Hamish Macbeth was an easy-going layabout. But the hazel eyes that looked down into his own were as hard as stone. “You will do what you are told, Constable,” said Hamish. “In future, you address me as ‘sir.’ You have the day to get your things unpacked.”

  He turned on his heel and marched out, followed by Sonsie and Lugs. Tolly decided to spend the time going through Hamish’s papers and belongings. If he was a spy, then he would be a good spy. God had given him this chance to prove his mettle.

  Hamish drove to the captain’s house in Drim and rang the doorbell. A tall tweedy woman answered it. “I am Miss Davenport, my poor brother’s sister,” she announced, “and Mrs. Davenport has had enough of the police. Good day to you.”

  The door began to close. Hamish put his boot in it.

  “Neffer let it be said that a lady like yourself is impeding the police in a murder enquiry,” remarked Hamish, the sudden sibilance of his highland accent showing he was annoyed.

  “Who is it?” Milly appeared behind her sister-in-law. “Oh, I remember you. Please come in.”

  “Milly, I do not think you are up to any more questioning,” said Philomena.

  “As long as it isn’t that man called Blair, I don’t mind. Come in. Please leave us, Philomena.”

  She led the way into the kitchen. “My name is Hamish Macbeth from Lochdubh,” said Hamish.

  “Yes, I remember. I phoned you.”

  “You’re probably tired of questions…”

  “I don’t mind,” said Milly, “so long as you don’t shout at me.”

  “I am not the shouting kind.”

  “Tea?”

  “That would be grand.”

  Milly plugged in the kettle. Hamish moved quickly to the kitchen door and jerked it open. Philomena, who had been leaning against it on the other side, nearly fell into the kitchen. “A bit o’ privacy, please,” said Hamish and shut the door in her face.

  “I wish I could do that,” said Milly mournfully. “She is so like her brother.”r />
  “Well, it’ll take you a good bit of time to get over your husband’s death.”

  “Milk?”

  “No, chust plain. Thank you. Now, Mrs. Davenport, there is one odd thing. Why would your husband leave his wallet behind, or do you think it was taken from his body?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think he planned to be away for long, but it was odd that he said if anyone called looking for him, I should say he had gone abroad.”

  “That does sound as if he was frightened of someone.”

  “Well, he did take against people. He had a phone call the evening before. When we lived in Surrey, he did annoy people.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, he often had get-rich-quick ideas and would try to rope in some of his old army friends. I remember one of them wanted money back and shouted a lot.”

  “Who was it?”

  “I can’t rightly remember.”

  “So he could have tricked someone else out of money?”

  “It’s possible. Oh, dear. Maybe they’ll come looking for me.”

  “I shouldnae think so. Would you like me to put a guard on the house?”

  “It would certainly make me feel better.”

  “I’ll send someone over. It doesn’t matter what the weather’s like. Keep him outside the house. We’ll put him on night duty. Why did you come up here?”

  “Henry started going through house advertisements for property in the north of Scotland. I didn’t want to go. I liked Guildford. We had a nice little bungalow and I had a few friends.”

  “I want you to think hard and make me out a list of his old army friends. Which regiment?”

  “The Surrey Infantry.”

  “I won’t be bothering you any more just now. I’ll call tomorrow. You look as if you could do with some fresh air. Why don’t you walk down to the village with me?”

  “Philomena doesn’t like me associating with the locals.”

  “Then she’ll chust need to lump it. Get your coat.”

  Chapter Two

  The Bustle in a House

  The Morning after Death

  Is solemnest of industries

  Enacted upon Earth—

  The Sweeping up the Heart

  And putting Love away

  We shall not want to use again

  Until Eternity

  —Emily Dickinson

  “You’d get a rare view of the loch if it weren’t for these bushes and trees,” commented Hamish as they walked down the short drive.

  “I wouldn’t know how to begin to get rid of them,” said Milly.

  “I know a couple o’ forestry workers who would be glad of a bit of extra work. They can keep the wood as payment.”

  “I don’t know what Philomena would think…”

  “It’s your house now. Not hers,” said Hamish sharply. “I assume you inherit it?”

  “Yes, the police left me the will. Philomena phoned the solicitor in Inverness. She was quite angry about that. We had a joint account so money won’t be a problem, says the bank.”

  “And did he leave a lot of money?”

  “Enough to keep me for a few years, but after that I’ll need to try to sell this place. I will get his army pension, of course.”

  “Has your sister-in-law any money of her own?”

  “Yes, she is quite rich, I believe. You see, poor Henry’s parents had a falling-out with him and left everything to Philomena.”

  “It seems to me, Mrs. Davenport, that she should leave quite soon.”

  “I daren’t ask her.”

  “You can’t have her staying on unless of course she’s helping with the household expenses.”

  “Well, she isn’t,” said Milly in a faltering voice. “The trouble is, Mr. Macbeth, I am just like Henry always said I was—no backbone. What a depressing loch that is! Like a long black finger pointing out to the Atlantic.”

  Although a pale sun was shining down on the huddle of village houses which lay on a little plateau above the sea, the light did not penetrate the dark waters of the loch where the steep mountains on either side plunged straight down, their scree-covered flanks only holding a few stunted bushes.

  In the general store, Hamish stood patiently whilst Milly talked shyly to Ailsa Kennedy, the red-haired wife of the owner, and to two of the villagers, Edie Aubrey and Alice MacQueen.

  Ailsa asked, “What do you do about the cleaning? That’s a rare big house to dust.”

  Milly blushed. “We only used a few of the rooms. I do what I can.”

  “You puir wee lassie,” said Ailsa. “You need help. We’ll be along this afternoon.”

  “I d-don’t know what my sister-in-law…”

  “Nonsense. She’ll be glad o’ the help. Will you be having a wake after the funeral?”

  “I don’t know when the procurator fiscal is going to release the body. Besides, Henry did not believe in anything.”

  “We’ll get the Church of Scotland minister,” said Edie. “He would rather send a body to the next world with a Christian burial than have the poor soul put in the ground with nothing at all. I’ll ask him.”

  Milly began to cry, tears running down her face. A chair was found for her. Ailsa rushed off to the kitchen at the back and returned with a mug of tea into which she had put a generous slug of whisky. “Put that down ye,” she ordered.

  When Milly had recovered, she said, “You are all so kind, but as to the cleaning, I am sure Philomena will not allow it.”

  “We’ll see about that,” said Ailsa. “Everything fixed up wi’ the lawyer?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “That would be Byles and Cox in Strathbane?”

  “Oh, no, Tarry and Wilkins in Inverness.”

  More women came into the shop, crowding around Milly and offering support. Ailsa nipped quietly into the back shop and phoned Philomena. “This is Tarry and Wilkins, solicitors,” she said in a prim voice. “Mr. Tarry has a letter left for you by Mr. Henry Davenport with instructions it was to be handed to you personally on his death.”

  “Is it another will?” asked Philomena hopefully.

  “That we don’t know, Miss Davenport. Only you can open the letter.”

  “I’m setting off right away,” said Philomena.

  Hamish returned with Milly to her home, followed by six women carrying dusters, mops, and brushes. Milly was terrified. She felt sure that Philomena would order them all away.

  But her car was not there, and there was a note left for her on the kitchen table.

  “Dear Milly,” she read. “Called away on urgent business. Back this evening.”

  Hamish was amused. He was sure Ailsa had something to do with it.

  “Mrs. Davenport,” he said, “I will call on you tomorrow. Do try to find me a list of your husband’s friends.”

  “I promise,” said Milly, and Hamish left behind him a cheery clatter of gossiping women.

  When Hamish got back to the police station, he walked into his office and immediately sensed that everything had been searched.

  Tolly came in and stood waiting. “Who are you spying for?” demanded Hamish. “Blair?”

  “I would not stoop to do anything so low,” protested Tolly. “I am a Christian and I always do my duty.”

  “Then you can start now. Get yourself over to Drim and stand guard on that house all night. I’ll relieve you in the morning.”

  “I haven’t had any sleep, sir!”

  “Get to it or I’ll put in a report on you. Do you think I don’t know when my papers have been searched? Go to it!”

  Philomena arrived back from Inverness in a rage after having been firmly told that there was no letter for her, nor had they phoned. Milly was seated in the drawing room, watching television. She cringed when Philomena shouted, “What’s been going on here?”

  The once dingy room smelled fresh and clean. Several pieces of the Swedish-type furniture had been removed and replaced with shabby but comfortable chairs the ladies of Drim
had found in the attics. Milly switched off the television and said, “The local ladies came to help me clear the house. I never liked that modern furniture, and it never suited this room.”

  “It was my poor brother’s choice. Get it back.”

  The doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” said Philomena grimly. She opened the door and glared down at Tolly, who gave her an ingratiating smile. “I’m here to guard the house,” he said. “I wondered if I could be having a chair to sit on and maybe a cup of tea.”

  “No,” said Philomena, and slammed the door in his face.

  When she returned to the drawing room, Milly was just replacing the phone receiver. “Who was at the door?” she asked.

  “Just some policeman. He says he’s here to guard the house. Who were you phoning?”

  “Really, you go too far,” said Milly. The doorbell rang again. Milly darted past her sister-in-law. “That will be for me.”

  It was Ailsa. “Everything all right?”

  “Sort of,” said Milly.

  “Don’t let her bully you. See you tomorrow.”

  “Who was that?” demanded Philomena.

  “Just a friend,” said Milly.

  “Now, listen to me,” said Philomena, looming over her. “My brother believed in people knowing their place. He would turn in his grave if he thought you were consorting with the villagers.”

  Milly sighed. “He’s not in his grave yet.” And with a sudden spurt of courage, “If you go on nagging like that, Philomena, someone will murder you!”

  Philomena slowly backed away. “I’m going to my room,” she said. She felt suddenly nervous. What did she really know of Milly?

  Tolly had retreated to his police car and started the engine and heater running. When he felt warm again, he switched the engine off. He had hidden the police car a little way down the hill where he could still get a good view of the house. His eyes began to droop. The night was very still. Then he thought he saw a black shadow approaching the house. He straightened up and slowly got out of the police car without slamming the door behind him.