Hamish Macbeth 01; Death of a Gossip hm-1

by M C Beaton

  “What the hell is the meaning of this?” screamed the colonel. Mrs Halburton-Smythe, who was younger than the colonel and had rather pretty, if faded, blonde good looks, shouted, “Come here this minute, Priscilla.”

  Priscilla thought wildly of the crazy explanations about Daphne’s salmon and said hurriedly, “I’ll tell you about it later. Get in the car, Mr Macbeth.”

  The colonel started his wrathful advance.

  Hamish leapt into the car, still half in and half out of his trousers. Priscilla jumped in the other side and they fled off before the colonel could reach them.

  “Now I’m for it,” said Priscilla gloomily. “He will never listen, you know, which is why no one ever really tells him anything.”

  Hamish wriggled into his trousers. “And what will you tell your young man? Your father told me – warned me off in fact – that you were about to become engaged.”

  “I suppose I’d better get engaged to someone,” said Priscilla, concentrating on her driving and therefore missing the look of pain on her companion’s face. “After all, they did take me to London to do the Season and a fat lot of good that was. It cost them a lot of money. All the other girls seemed content to marry someone suitable. My friend, Sarah, was wild about this chap, but she married someone else. She said as she walked up to the altar, she thought, “I wish it could have been so-and-so,” but she’s got a baby now and seems pretty happy.”

  “I should think it would be hell to be married to someone you didn’t love,” said Hamish, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

  “Really? One never thinks of bobbies as being romantic somehow,” said Priscilla carelessly, and the drive back continued in silence.

  “Tell your father I caught his poacher,” said Hamish, “or rather he left Lochdubh before I could arrest him, but Colonel Halburton-Smythe will not be troubled by that poacher again.”

  “That might calm him down. I suppose you really have to get those messages. Look, you’d better sneak around about midnight and I’ll let you in. I’ll try to get them out of the desk for you.”

  Hamish nodded and raised his hand in a sort of salute as she drove away. He turned his attention to the fishing party. Alice was sitting by the shore of the loch, plaiting a wreath of wild flowers, like some modern-day Ophelia, while Jeremy and Daphne could be seen out in the boat, talking eagerly. There was no sign of the Roths or the Cartwrights. Hamish took off his tunic and, using it as a pillow, stretched his long, lanky length out on the grass. He ran the whole fishing party through his brain, remembering incidents, remembering expressions, remembering what Lady Jane had said. After a time, they all became jumbled together in his head as he fell asleep.

  The noise of the fishing party packing up for the day awoke him. The major had caught a salmon, not quite as big as Daphne’s, but big enough to make him look as if he had just found the Holy Grail.

  Charlie came rushing up. “What did you say to my mother, Mr Macbeth?”

  “There’s no use me telling you now, laddie, in case things don’t work out. Just say your prayers. Hop in and I’ll take you home.”

  So Alice travelled back with the Cartwrights, worried and lost. If only Jeremy would sleep with her that evening, then she would be sure.

  Hamish found Blair waiting for him on his return. The detective was setting out for the hotel for another round of interrogation. Blair was in a fury because he had been so sure at first of the major. He took that fury out on Hamish, calling him lazy, half-witted, and useless, while Hamish stood stolidly to attention, his mind obviously elsewhere.

  Blair was also at his worst with the members of the fishing party that evening. They huddled together at dinner, all now wishing they could go home. Blair had said that they might leave on the Sunday morning but that they could expect further calls from the police when they got home.

  No one even had the heart to raise a smile at Marvin Roth’s appearance. The American had arrived at dinner in full Highland dress, from plaid and kilt to skean-dhu in his stocking top.

  Hamish decided to pass the evening hours by going for a long walk. There was no hope of using the phone in his office, since Blair had announced his intention of staying there himself most of the night to sift through the evidence again and make phone calls.

  Alice waited in her room after dinner. And waited.

  Jeremy was drinking with Daphne in the bar. At last, he escorted Daphne to her room and leaned against the door post and smiled at her. “Are you inviting me in?” he asked.

  “No,” laughed Daphne. “Not tonight, Napoleon. I’ve got a headache.”

  Jeremy stood frowning after she had shut the door. Anxiety gnawed at him despite the amount of gin he had drunk. He went slowly along to a room further along the corridor and rapped on the door.

  “Open up, Alice,” he said. “It’s me.”

  ♦

  Hamish found his steps leading back to the scene of the murder. He shone his torch here and there among the bushes, not much hoping to find anything, since the police had already been over the ground very thoroughly.

  He suddenly switched off his torch and stood very still. Up above the pool, in the little glade where the fishing party had sat after the discovery of the murder, a twig snapped. He began to move very silently in the direction of the glade, walking in the long grass beside the path so that his feet would make no sound. There was something ancient and eerie about the Highland silence. The night was very still. He stopped at the edge of the glade. A small moon shone down through the trees. Bars of light cut across the scene.

  Moving through the flickering bars of light, crouched low like some jungle animal, was Amy Roth. Her restless hands searched the grass.

  “Good evening, Mrs Roth,” said Hamish.

  Amy stood up slowly and turned to face him, her face a white disc in the shadow.

  “Who is it?” she whispered.

  “Constable Macbeth.”

  “Oh.” She gave a little laugh and brushed nervously at her clothes. “I lost my lighter. It’s gold. I thought I might have left it here.”

  “A funny time and a scary place to come looking for a lighter,” said Hamish. “Why are you really here?”

  “It’s late,” she said, moving towards him. “I’m going back to the hotel.”

  “How long is it since you have suspected your husband of the murder?” asked Hamish.

  Amy put her hands to her face. “Marvin can be so violent,” she whispered. “But he couldn’t…surely…” With a gasp, she thrust past him and fled down the path. Hamish watched her go and shook his head. He had only been guessing, but his remark seemed to have struck gold. He shone his torch around the glade and then decided to examine the ground about the pool before finishing his search. He searched and searched about the ground and the bushes when something caught his eye. He forced his way into the undergrowth and shone his torch. A strand of blue material was caught on a thorn. Strange that the forensic men had missed it.

  He carefully took it off the thorn and examined it. It was of a powder blue colour and made of acrylic. He remembered Alice had been wearing a blue trouser suit on the first day of the fishing class.

  He sat down thoughtfully by the pool and turned the scrap of material over between finger and thumb. But someone very recently had been wearing just such a colour. His hand suddenly clenched, and he was seized with a feeling of fear and dread.

  “Oh no,” he whispered.

  ∨ Death of a Gossip ∧

  Day Seven

  The test of an experienced angler is his ability to play a good sized fish on average or light equipment.

  —Gilmer G. Robinson, Fly Casting

  At three minutes after midnight, Hamish parked his car well away from the Halburton-Smythe castle and finished his journey on foot. He was wondering whether to risk trying the door and finding his own way about when it opened and Priscilla whispered, “Hurry up, before we wake the whole house.”

  She led the way up flights of stairs to her b
edroom. She was wearing a white cotton nightgown and negligee, very unrevealing, but Constable Macbeth felt he had never seen such a seductive-looking outfit in his life.

  “Now,” said Priscilla, sitting down on the bed and patting the space beside her, “I managed to get into the estates office when they were all jawing about your inquiries at dinner. Mummy believed my story. She said it was just the sort of hare-brained thing you would do. There are the messages, but they’re in Miss Dimwit’s shorthand.”

  Hamish took the notes. “I do shorthand myself, Miss Halburton-Smythe. But whether I could read this. Yes, I think…”

  “Are you asleep, Prissie? I want to talk to you.”

  “Daddy,” squeaked Priscilla. “Into bed, quick, and under the blankets. As far over by the wall as you can get.”

  Hamish was fortunately not in uniform. The night was warm so he was wearing a checked cotton shirt and an old pair of flannels.

  He leapt into bed, under the blankets, and crouched down. Priscilla got in beside him and leaned against the pillows. “Come in!” she called.

  Hamish lay very still with his head under the blankets. His face was pressed against Priscilla’s thigh. He tried to move it away and she slapped the top of the bed-clothes as a warning to him to lie still.

  Colonel Halburton-Smythe came into the room. He sat down on the edge of the bed, and Priscilla shifted to make room for him. She was jammed against Hamish, who felt like groaning.

  “Look, pet, the Harringtons might leave tomorrow for the simple reason that you won’t come to the point,” he heard the colonel say. “Harrington’s a fine young chap. It’s not as if you’re in love with anyone. You can’t go on turning down one fellow after another.”

  “I could get a job, Daddy.”

  “Nonsense. Marriage and children’s the only career for a woman. What will I tell the Harrington’s?”

  “Tell them anything,” yawned Priscilla, “I’m so beastly tired, Daddy. I promise I’ll be nice to John tomorrow if you’ll just go away.”

  “Very well,” said the colonel. “But don’t keep him waiting around too long.”

  At last, to Hamish’s intense relief, he heard the door close. Priscilla threw back the bedclothes and looked down at Hamish’s ruffled red hair.

  “You look quite sweet without that horrible uniform on,” said Priscilla. “You must have been nearly suffocated. Your face is all red and you’re breathing like a grampus.”

  “I’m all right,” said Hamish, sitting up with an effort. “Let me have a look at those notes.”

  Priscilla took them out from under her pillow and handed them to him. He frowned as he studied them, and then his face sharpened. “I’ve got to use the phone,” he said.

  “You look terrible,” said Priscilla. “What is it? Why can’t you use the phone at that police station of yours?”

  “Blair’s there and probably all night. Can I use the one in the estates office?”

  “Yes, so long as no one discovers you.” Priscilla felt rather sulky and wondered why. “I wouldn’t have thought you were so keen on your job.”

  “Aye,” said Hamish, climbing over her to get out of bed. “I’ll just creep down the stairs. No one will hear me.”

  “Good night,” said Priscilla crossly.

  Hamish smiled down at her as she lay against the pillows. “Thank you for all you have done, Miss Halburton-Smythe.” He bent suddenly and kissed her on the cheek, turned red as fire, and fled from the room.

  “Well, well,” thought Priscilla. She put a hand up to her cheek and stared in a bemused way at the closed door.

  Hamish sat beside the phone in the estates office and in his head turned over the names of his many relatives. There was Rory in London, Erchie in New York, Peter in Hong Kong, Jenny in Aylesbury, which was near enough to Oxford…

  At last, he picked up the phone and began to dial.

  ♦

  A pale dawn was lighting up the sky and the water as Hamish Macbeth wearily made his way along the waterfront. There was something he had to do before he went to sleep and it was something that only duty was prompting him to do. His heart felt heavy, and his lips moved in a soundless Gaelic prayer.

  He turned in at a white-painted gate and went around the back of the house to the kitchen door. He rapped loud and long on the glass until he saw a light go on upstairs. He waited, hearing footsteps descending, shuffling footsteps approaching the kitchen door.

  The door opened and Tina Baxter stood blinking at him nervously. She clutched a pink woollen dressing gown tightly at her neck. All colour drained from her face.

  “Aye, it’s me,” said Hamish heavily. “Mind if I come in?”

  She stood aside, and he walked past her into the kitchen. She followed him and sat down at the kitchen table as if her legs could no longer bear her weight.

  “I was here earlier,” said Hamish, “talking to you about young Charlie’s future. You were wearing a blue dress.” He took an envelope out of his tunic pocket and extracted the piece of material he had found on the bush beside the pool. “Is this yours?”

  “Yes,” whispered Mrs Baxter. She covered her face with her hands and began to cry.

  “I couldn’t help it,” she sobbed. “The disgrace. My Charlie’s name in the papers. I had to shut her mouth.”

  Hamish sat down opposite her. His head was beginning to clear, and his earlier fright was beginning to recede as common sense took over. The first rays of sun began to warm the kitchen.

  “Mrs Baxter,” he said gently. “Immediately after the murder all the bushes and braes and heather and trees were combed for clues by the forensic boys. It’s awfy strange they didn’t find this and I did.”

  “I did it.” Tina Baxter stared at him, her face working.

  “Aye, that you did. Not the murder. You cut a bit out of your dress and left it there, hoping someone would find it. So now we’ll have another wee chat about Charlie. He’s twelve years old. Twelve years old. Just think o’ that. He’s a strong boy but there is no way he could have overpowered a woman of Lady Jane’s size. Then there’s the lad’s character…”

  “It’s bad blood, bad blood,” said Una Baxter, her hands clutching and unclutching the material of her dressing gown. “His father was violent. He threatened to kill me if I didn’t give him a divorce.” Her voice was rising hysterically.

  “I am thinking,” said Hamish sincerely, “that you would drive a saint to violence. I feel like striking you myself. Do you know that because of your silly clue-planting you had me thinking you knew that Charlie did it and were trying to fix the blame on yourself? You’re a dangerous woman. Now, here’s what you are going to do. You are going to leave Charlie here to stay with his aunt and I suggest you go back home and see one o’ thae head doctors. You’ll drive the bairn mad with all your hysterics.”

  “If you don’t do what I say, I will let the newspapers know that you believed your own boy capable of murder and nearly got him accused of it by your clumsiness.”

  Hamish rose to his feet. “So think on that, Mrs Baxter. I’ll bring mair scandal down on your head than you ever could hae imagined.”

  ♦

  It was the last day of the fishing course. Unless the police requested otherwise, Blair would take their home and business addresses and allow them to leave on the Sunday morning. The river Artstey was still closed to them. Heather and John had suggested they fish the Marag.

  On returning to the police station, Hamish found that Blair was still asleep. He typed up his notes, studied the results, and then put them to one side. He thought long and carefully about each member of the fishing school. He decided he was being haunted by the scale of the crime. He began to read through his well-thumbed ten-volume edition of Famous Crimes. Motives tumbled one after another before his tired eyes. Murder for money, for passion, for revenge. Alcohol or drugs brought out the Hyde side of the character, but no one in the fishing school case drank daily to excess and not one of them had shown any sign of being
a drug user. He made one pot after another of strong tea. His dog, Towser, prowled about uneasily, stopping to lick his master’s hand as if wondering what was keeping him from his bed, for Towser liked to stretch out on the bed at Hamish’s feet.

  “It is all a matter of lack of conscience,” thought Hamish.

  By the time the little fishing class was setting out for their last day, Hamish was sound asleep, his dog snoring at his feet, and a sheaf of notes clutched to his chest.

  He was awakened by Blair shaking his shoulder. “It’s noon,” snarled Blair savagely. “By God, I’ll report you for sheer laziness. I’ve got a job for you. You’ll come along with me to that hotel this evening and you’ll take down the addresses of the whole lot of ‘em. I don’t just mean their home addresses, we’ve got those. I mean where they work and where they’re likely to be visiting.”

  “Get out!” said a small, shrill voice behind Blair. The large detective swung around in amazement. Charlie Baxter stood in the doorway clutching a mug of tea. “This is Constable Macbeth’s house,” he said, “and you’ve got no right to bully him.”

  Blair stared at the boy, who was white with anger.

  Hamish, who had fallen asleep in the shirt and flannels he had worn the night before, swung his legs quickly out of bed.

  “Into the kitchen with you, Charlie,” he said. “What time will you be wanting me at the hotel, sir?”

  “Six o’clock,” snapped Blair. “And tell that kid to mind his manners.” He stomped off where he could shortly be heard haranguing MacNab and Anderson in Hamish’s office.

  “I’ve prepared breakfast for you, Mr Macbeth,” said Charlie shyly. “It’s on the table.”

  “Aye, you’ve done very well,” said Hamish, tucking into charred bacon and rubbery egg. “Quite the wee housewife. Aren’t you going fishing?”

  “I thought you might run up to the Marag with me,” said Charlie. “You see, I have to thank you. Mother left in a rage. I don’t know what you said or what Auntie said to her afterwards, but I’m to stay.”