by M C Beaton
By quarter past one, she was beginning to feel like a fool. Of course the murderer would not come. But he might be waiting outside to follow her and accost her on a quiet stretch of the road home.
With a sinking heart, Philomena realised that, for her own safety, she would need to go straight to Inverness police. What could she say that would not make her look like the dangerous idiot she now felt?
A woman sat down opposite her. “Do you mind?” she asked. “All the other seats seem to be full.”
“I’m waiting for someone,” said Philomena harshly. But the woman was middle-aged and respectable, plump and motherly and wearing a large hat. “Oh, well, just until my companion turns up.” Philomena decided to give it another fifteen minutes. She could not bear to fail.
“Aren’t the shops busy,” said the woman. “I remember when Inverness was just a quiet country town.”
The woman ordered a vodka and Red Bull when the waiter came up. “You haven’t touched yours, dear,” she said to Philomena.
“Oh, I don’t feel like drinking.”
Philomena’s bag was open on the seat beside her. “Look at that man!” said her companion suddenly. “What is he doing?”
Looking out the window, all Philomena could see were innocent-looking passersby. She did not see the woman reach over and deftly extract the letter from her handbag. Nor did she see her slipping something into her drink.
“Cheers!” said the woman when her drink arrived.
Philomena took a sip. “I couldn’t see anything odd,” she said.
“I could swear there was a man exposing himself. Disgusting, I call it. No morals these days.”
Philomena made up her mind. He was not going to come. She took a strong gulp of her gin and tonic to give herself courage to move. But she began to feel dizzy and faint.
“Are you all right?” she heard her companion ask. “Someone help me get her outside into the fresh air.”
“No,” said Philomena weakly. “No.”
The bar tilted and swung before her eyes. Outside she faintly heard her companion say, “Help me into her husband’s car. That’s right. She’ll be right as rain once he gets her home.”
Philomena’s last conscious memory was of a deep voice saying, “Mistake, Philomena. Bad, bad mistake.”
Chapter Three
Swans sing before they die: t’were no bad thing
Should certain persons die before they sing
—Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Philomena slowly recovered consciousness. She tried to move, but her wrists were chained and padlocked to a bed. Her voice was dry. “Help,” she croaked.
“I will let you go,” said a man’s voice from the corner of the room, “if you swear to me you did not show that letter to the police.”
“I swear… I promise you on my life.”
“If you’ve lied to me, then your life is what you’ll be losing. Do you understand?”
“Yes, yes.”
“Shut your eyes.”
Philomena heard two clicks as the handcuffs were released. “You will find your car a bit away from this bothie on the Struie Pass. You will stay here for ten minutes and then go. If you so much as utter a word about this to anyone, I know where to find you.”
“Yes, please,” begged Philomena.
She heard the door of the bothie close. After a few minutes, she tried to sit up. She felt dizzy and weak. She could barely remember anything except sitting in that bar in Inverness and the woman opposite urging her to look out the window.
She finally swung her legs down onto the floor. The place was filthy and looked as if it had not been used, except maybe by schoolboys or vagrants, for years. There was a strong smell of excrement and urine. The mattress she had been lying on was soiled, with broken springs curling through the torn covering in places.
A rickety table held a bottle of mineral water and the remains of a bottle of whisky. She felt so parched, she opened the bottle and drank the water.
She did not care whether ten minutes had passed or not. Philomena staggered out into the spring sunlight. Over the heather, she recognised her car parked up on the road.
She hurried towards it, sometimes tripping and falling, but always rising and forging on to safety.
A watcher lowered his powerful binoculars. “Think she’ll keep her mouth shut?” asked the woman beside him.
“No.”
“Think she drank the water?”
“Probably. That drug you slipped into her drink causes a tremendous thirst. Let her set off and then we’ll follow her to make sure. We can always take her out before she reaches Drim. Did you put all the flammable stuff in the back?”
“Yes.”
“She’s off. Let’s go.”
The Struie Pass, the old road into Sutherland, is full of hairpin bends, but at the top it commands the most beautiful view as Sutherland lies in front and below: ranges of blue mountains and lochs stretching into the distance.
Philomena kept blinking. Lights were flashing before her eyes. At the viewpoint, she suddenly saw a smooth dual carriageway stretching out in front of her. People seemed to be dancing on it, which was odd but all she thought of was escape. She pressed her foot down hard on the accelerator and plunged right off the edge of the Struie Pass. The car rolled and tumbled and finally hit a rock where it burst into flames, a fireball from hell.
“She drank the water,” said the man with satisfaction.
“Aren’t you being a bit overelaborate? All that LSD?” asked his companion. “She probably told someone.”
“No, she didn’t. I know Philomena. She had a tape recorder in her bag. She was going to play detective. If she’d told her sister or the police, they’d have been after me by now. Now, let’s go. I’ve got to cover my tracks. We’ll throw her phone along with that tape recorder in the nearest peat bog.”
“Look, she may have said something to her sister.”
“Not her, pompous cow.”
Milly enjoyed a relatively peaceful day. But as evening approached and there was no sign of her sister-in-law, she began to fret. She went up to Philomena’s room. All her clothes were still hanging in the wardrobe.
She phoned Hamish Macbeth. “It’s not like her. For days, she hasn’t left me alone for a minute, and now she hasn’t even phoned. She said she was going to Inverness to do some shopping.”
“Have you a photograph of her?”
“I might have an old one somewhere.”
“Look for it. What was she wearing?”
“A heather-mixture tweed suit with brogues.”
“Hat?”
“No hat.”
“What was she driving?”
“A Ford Escort.” Milly gave Hamish the registration number.
“Phone me as soon as she gets back,” he said, “but I’ll let you know if we find her.”
Milly said goodbye, put down the receiver, and sat staring at it. Then she phoned Tam Tamworth. He was not in the office, but he had left her his mobile phone number.
“Now then,” said Tam when she told him about her missing sister-in-law, “I wouldnae put it past thon wumman to stay away jist to frighten you. But I’ll go look.”
The next morning, a family stopped at the viewpoint on the Struie Pass to admire the view: father, mother, and two small children, the Renfrew family up from Glasgow.
“Aren’t the Highlands just grand,” said Ian Renfrew, taking his binoculars and getting out of the car. “Come and see the view.”
“You go,” said his wife, huddled in the front seat. “It’s as cold as hell out there.”
A wind was screaming across the heather. The children in the backseat, Zak, age ten, and Gypsy, age nine, were listening on their iPods and ignored their father.
He swept the horizon with his binoculars, first towards Western Fearn Point on the Kyle of Sutherland and across the kyle to Creich Mains and then focussed them on the burnt-out wreck of a car far down one of the braes below, just before he w
as preparing to put the binoculars away.
His eyes sharpened as he adjusted the focus. He could see a black mass inside the wreckage which looked like a body; a little way away on the heather was one shoe.
He felt a bit sick. He got into the car and took out his phone. He called the police and reported that there was a burnt-out wreck of a car below the viewpoint on the Struie Pass and he was sure there was a body in it. His wife stared at him in alarm.
“We’ve tae stay right here,” he said.
The children finally unplugged their iPods and whined, “Why are we stopped?”
“Your father’s seen a dead body in a car down the brae and we’re to wait for the police,” said Mrs. Renfrew.
“Cool!” chorused the delighted children.
Hamish arrived on the scene. A forensic team was having difficulty erecting a tent over the car and body because of the strength of the wind. “What do you think, Hamish?” asked Jimmy. “Lost concentration and went off the road?”
“Not a hope wi’ a fire like that,” said Hamish. “It’s only in the movies that they burst into flames like that. Some accelerant was in that car. It’s her, all right. They cleaned the number plate and it matches with hers. Damn! I’ll tell you what probably happened. She found one letter in that secret drawer and decided to play detective herself. Now she said she was going to Inverness. If she thought she was so clever, she’d arrange to meet whoever in a public place. Where?”
“Shopping mall?”
“Probably some hotel bar,” said Hamish. “And let’s hope it’s some hotel bar with CCTV.”
A shocked and weeping Milly had found a photograph of Philomena addressing a Women’s Institute meeting. It was a good clear shot, and it was circulated to the police and to the newspapers.
A waitress from the Dancing Scotsman came forward to say she recognised Philomena. She had been talking to a woman. Then she seemed to take faint and the woman had helped her outside. Another witness turned up. He had seen a woman answering Philomena’s description being helped into a four-wheel drive with tinted windows. No, he could not see who was driving.
The police were excited. They felt it was only a matter of time before they caught the killer. There was no CCTV inside the hotel bar, but they had a full description of the woman with Philomena.
“Fix yourself a drink, darling,” called the woman who had helped to kidnap Philomena. “I must get this stuff off.” She went into the bathroom. She removed pads from her cheeks and layers of foam rubber which had given her a plump figure. She would have removed them immediately after Philomena had gone to her death but he had said to wait until they were back in Edinburgh. It had made her uneasy, because they must have some sort of description of her by now. She was revealed as a slim woman in her forties.
Her flat was in the Royal Mile, in a tall tenement in the Canongate. She reappeared from the bathroom, wrapped in a dressing gown. “It’s hot in here,” she said. “You didn’t need to light a fire.”
She flung up the sash window and took a great gulp of fresh air. He seized her by the ankles and thrust her through the window. With a long wailing scream, she fell to her death below. He raked red-hot coals out from the fire and piled newspapers on top then fled the flat, easing into the crowds going up and down the Royal Mile, forcing himself to walk at a leisurely pace. At the North Bridge, he hailed a taxi to where he had parked the four-wheel drive. He had already removed the false number plates. He drove out to a small, old cottage he had rented, miles out into the countryside, and there he started to work to restore his appearance to normal, tearing off a false moustache and beard. He would let things all go quiet for a few months and then see about getting back that money Captain Henry Davenport had conned him out of.
At first, with so many clues, it seemed only a matter of time until the killer was found. But the police came up against dead end after dead end. No one connected the death of a high-class prostitute and a fire in an apartment in the Royal Mile with the Sutherland murders.
Surrey police had interviewed the four lawyers’ clients: Ferdinand Castle, Thomas Bromley, John Sanders, and Charles Prosser. The captain had fired them up with a get-rich-quick idea. He said that mining for gold was about to start over at Ben Nevis. He produced geological surveys. He said he needed more money to invest to get them all in on the ground floor, but to secure the deal it would need to be in cash. The four had loaned him close to 750,000 pounds. After some time, they began to become suspicious and demanded the money back. The captain had blustered and said they would be paid in full. The lawyers’ letters had been sent to his home in Guildford. Shortly after that, he had sold his house, quietly—no estate agent’s board outside—and disappeared.
The four men all had cast-iron alibis. Not one of them had been out of Guildford for months. They swore they thought that Captain Davenport was a sound man and had been a brave soldier.
Hamish Macbeth felt like tearing his red hair out in frustration. Captain Davenport and Philomena Davenport were buried on the same day, in a little cemetery above Drim where seagulls screamed overhead. The sweep, poor Peter Ray, had already been buried in the churchyard at Lochdubh, his funeral being paid for by the locals.
Hamish attended the funeral, his eyes searching the small crowd of press and villagers for strangers, but he could see no one who looked suspicious or out of place. Strathbane police had vetted every member of the press. Milly was being supported by Ailsa. She seemed on the point of collapse.
Was she really so innocent? wondered Hamish. Did her sister-in-law simply leave saying she was going to Inverness and that was all? But Milly had been seen in the village all day when her sister had gone over the Struie Pass. The autopsy on what was left of Philomena’s charred body had found traces of LSD, and so her death had been classed as murder.
He had a feeling that the murderer had not come all the way up from the south but was in Scotland somewhere. And he was sure it was someone who knew the Highlands well. Whoever had attacked the captain had somehow managed to get him to walk out and meet him and to go back with him to the house.
He longed to be able to go down to Surrey himself but knew he would never get permission.
Hamish decided to wait until things grew a little quieter and then maybe take a holiday.
When the funerals were over and the villagers, all men—the women having decided to honour the old tradition and not attend the graveside—began to walk towards Milly’s house where refreshments were to be served, Hamish caught up with Tam Tamworth.
“You seem to be getting close to Mrs. Davenport,” he said.
“Aye, she’s a grand lady. She’s promised me a lot o’ background exclusive after the murderer is found. But, to tell you, Hamish, I’ve a bad feel about all this. Anyway, there’s to be no big highland wake. It would be too much for the poor woman. It’s just going to be about an hour of eats and drinks.”
“The locals won’t like that. They’ll be looking forward to their usual all-night fling.”
“Funny enough, they’ve got fond o’ Milly and knew a full highland wake would upset her so they’re going along with it. Hey! Who’s this?”
A four-wheel drive had just drawn up outside the house as they approached it. Four men got out dressed in sober black. “If I’m not mistaken,” said Hamish, “that’ll be the four old friends who he tricked out of money.”
“What! All the way from Surrey?”
“Maybe they’re hoping to claw back some of the money from the widow.”
“At sich a time!” Tam strode forward. “We’ll see about that.”
Hamish hurried forward to catch Tam saying loudly, “If you’re that lot up from Surrey, I warn ye, now’s not the time to be hassling the poor woman for money.”
Hamish pushed in front of Tam. “I am investigating these murders,” he said, “so I must ask each of you to identify yourselves.”
Ferdinand Castle introduced himself and then the others. Hamish studied them closely. Ferdinand wa
s a tall, slight man with thinning hair and a bulbous nose. Thomas Bromley was small and tubby with a fat cheerful face. John Sanders was thin and wiry with a thick head of black hair and a clever face. Charles Prosser was straight-backed and military looking with thick grey hair. All were expensively dressed, from their well-tailored coats and suits to their highly polished shoes.
“We are only here to pay our respects,” said Ferdinand. “For all his faults, Captain Davenport was an old army buddy. Where is Mrs. Davenport?”
“Ben the hoose,” said Tam curtly. “I suppose you’d better come in.”
Milly, wearing a simple black dress and looking very frail, was seated in an armchair at the window. She rose when the four men entered.
“How kind of you to come all this way,” she said. “Did you bring your wives?”
“No, they all thought it too long a journey,” said John Sanders.
“Where are you staying?” asked Hamish.
“Over at the Tommel Castle Hotel. We booked in last night.”
“I know you have already made statements to the Surrey police,” said Hamish, “but I’d like to call on you this evening just to get a better idea about what sort of man Captain Davenport was.”
“Why?” demanded Charles Prosser.
“The more I can find out about the deceased, the better,” said Hamish. “I am perfectly sure he went out on his last day to meet someone he knew.”
Thomas Bromley shrugged. “If you think it will help.”
“Let’s say six o’clock,” said Hamish.
The four looked at one another and then Ferdinand said curtly, “Okay, but don’t take all night over it.”
Hamish joined Jimmy, who was helping himself to a glass of whisky. “Jimmy, can you e-mail me over the background on these four men?”
“Will do. But you’re wasting your time. Solid alibis. Still, we’re going to have a policewoman sleeping here tonight just to be on the safe side.”
After half an hour, the four visitors decided to go outside for a smoke. “Well, would you just look at that,” said Ferdinand.
