Hamish Macbeth 06; Death of a Snob hm-6

by M C Beaton

  The boy scampered ahead. The clouds parted and a fitful gleam of sunlight shone on the crags of rocks ahead, sticking up like broken teeth. The boy scrambled up them like a young deer, crouching before the wind. Then he shouted something that was torn away by the gale and pointed down.

  Hamish scrambled up after him and lay on his stomach on a small triangle of mossy grass. The crag overlooked the sea. Huge waves were racing in, black and green and dashing themselves on a small pebbly beach. The thunder of the waves was deafening. The whole world seemed to be in motion.

  Waves reared up to tremendous heights before tumbling down with a powerful roar.

  Hamish put his lips to the boy’s ear.

  “Where?”

  Again the boy pointed down.

  Hamish craned over the crag. And there down below, just beyond the fanning spread of the crashing waves, he saw a woman’s foot.

  Balancing against the ferocity of the wind, he turned and signalled to the driver, a small figure in the distance, and waited impatiently until the man crawled up to him. “She’s here,” bawled Hamish. “Get the doctor and get help, but take this lad away first.”

  When the boy had gone, Hamish slowly began to ease his way down to the small beach.

  Heather Todd lay under a curve of overhanging rock. He stooped down and felt her pulse. Nothing. He examined her head and then gently lifted it. Her neck was broken and there was an ugly bruise on the side of it. He drew his knees up to his chin and waited, shivering, beside the dead body, for help to arrive.

  ∨ Death of a Snob ∧

  5

  I hope I shall never be deterred from detecting what I think a cheat, by the menace of a ruffian.

  —SAMUEL JOHNSON

  Hamish supposed there would be a doctor on the island. There must be. He stood up and stretched and looked up at the crag above him and then at Heather’s body. The only heights on the island were the crags at various parts of the coast. How could she have broken her neck? The crag was only about fifteen feet above the beach. It was no enormous cliff with a fall onto jagged rocks. Admittedly, if she had bounced against one of the sharp projecting edges, that might have done the trick.

  The wind was less savage now and he could clearly hear the sound of voices above him. Occasionally a torch beam searched him out as more islanders began to gather. And then he heard Sandy Ferguson’s voice. “Is that you, Hamish? I’ll send a couple of men down to collect her so that Dr. Queen can have a look at the body.”

  “No, you won’t,” shouted Hamish. “Nothing has to be touched. Get him down here and bring a tent to cover the body until the pathologist arrives.”

  There was the sound of swearing and then a scuffle followed by the clatter of falling debris as Sandy and a thin elderly man made their way down.

  “This is Dr. Queen,” said Sandy.

  The doctor was a thin, spare man with a face set in lines of permanent arrogance. “I gather you’re some sort of local bobby from the west coast,” he said. “Well, stand aside, man, and let’s have a look at her.”

  “Gently, now,” warned Hamish. “Don’t disturb anything.”

  The doctor ignored him. “Bring that lantern closer, Sandy,” he said. “Mmm, yes. As I thought. She was blown off the top of the crag and broke her neck. Sad but straightforward. Get some men to take her up, Sandy, and get her put in my surgery while I prepare a report for the procurator fiscal.”

  “You are not to touch her.” Hamish Macbeth stood foursquare beside the body.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I think it might be murder. I think someone struck her a savage blow on the neck wi’ a rock.”

  “Dear me, don’t be a fool, there’s a good fellow,” said the doctor.

  “I repeat: no one touches this body until a team from Strathbane arrives,” said Hamish stubbornly.

  “You have not the authority. This is my island,” protested Sandy.

  “Aye, and you’ll find yourself off it soon enough if I have my way,” snapped Hamish. “I’m telling you to leave it where it is or, by God, I’ll make trouble for both o’ ye.”

  The doctor glared at him, but snobbery came to Hamish’s rescue. Had Hamish been a holidaying policeman who was bird-watching or hiking, then Dr. Queen would have ignored him. But this Macbeth was a guest at The Happy Wanderer where, the doctor had learned, there was a barrister in residence. He and the other guests might back Hamish.

  “Have it your way,” he said haughtily. “But you’re going to look a right idiot, wasting the taxpayers’ money like this.”

  Hamish turned to Sandy. “Are you going to phone headquarters, or am I?”

  “Oh, you do it, laddie,” jeered Sandy.

  “Then get a tent over the body and set two men to guard it. I’ll be back.”

  One of the islanders ran Hamish to The Happy Wanderer. When he went into the lounge, the guests started up. There were also five of the island women there who, it turned out, worked as servants at the hotel during the season. Hatred for Jane seemed to have disappeared with the tragedy, and they were all exclaiming and commiserating in their soft island voices, changed from sinister threatening figures to a group of ordinary women.

  “This is terrible,” said Jane.

  “Where is Diarmuid?”

  “In his room. He’s phoned his secretary, Jessie Maclean, and told her to get up here as fast as possible. I’ve heard of Jessie. Seems she does everything for him, including thinking, or that’s the way Heather put it once.”

  “I’ve got calls to make,” said Hamish, and Jane led him into the office and left him.

  Hamish decided to phone the bane of his life, Detective Chief Inspector Blair, and make his report to him direct. If he did not, it was ten to one that it would be Blair who would arrive anyway, and a Blair sulky that Hamish had not told him about it firsthand.

  Blair gave Hamish his customary greeting in his heavy Glasgow accent. “How are ye, pillock?”

  “Listen,” said Hamish. “I’m staying at a place called The Happy Wanderer on Eileencraig. One of the guests appears to have fallen off a crag and broken her neck, but I’m convinced it’s murder.”

  There was a silence, and then Blair said sharply, “Are ye sure? Working in the holidays is a pain in the arse as it is, and ah’m no’ that keen tae get the police helicopter oot on a wild-goose chase.”

  “I promised if there wass ever another murder, I’d let ye in on it,”said Hamish. “I think you ought to come and bring the works.”

  “Oh, well, ah never cared much for Christmas anyways. As long as I’m back for Hogmanay, it’ll suit me. I could be daein’ wi’ the overtime.”

  Hamish briefly gave a description of where the body was to be found, what the local doctor had said, why he, Hamish, thought it might be murder, and a brief summary of the little he knew of the Todds. Blair recorded it all and told Hamish to watch the body and that he and the forensic team should be with him in a couple of hours.

  Hamish rang off and then rested his elbows on the desk and wondered if he was making a fool of himself. The wind had been savage. She could easily have been blown off flat crag.

  The office door opened and Harriet came in and stood looking at him quietly. “Surely an accident,” she said.

  “It could be murder, Harriet.”

  “But we were all here!”

  Not when we were searching for her, thought Hamish. Someone could have found her when they were out searching and struck her down.

  “It’s got to be investigated anyway,” said Hamish wearily. “I’ve got to get back and make sure they don’t move the body.”

  “Give me a few minutes and I’ll come with you. I can make a thermos of coffee and some sandwiches and take blankets along. No, don’t protest. It’s better than waiting here. There are more islanders arriving, men this time. They’re all being terribly nice to Jane. It’s a great pity it had to be Heather’s death that brought this about. I won’t be very long.”

  Hamish went
back to the lounge. Jane had found a long black dress and put it on. She was dispensing large whiskies to the islanders. Perhaps it was genuine sympathy, or perhaps because the news that free whisky being served acted on the Highland and Island brain wonderfully, but more islanders kept arriving every minute.

  Hamish went to Diarmuid’s room and quietly opened the door. Diarmuid was sitting in an armchair, staring into space.

  “I’ll get matters cleared up as soon as possible,” said Hamish quietly. “Are you all right?”

  “My God,” said Diarmuid in a low voice, “I don’t feel a damn thing.”

  “Shock,” said Hamish. “Do you want someone to sit with you?”

  Diarmuid shuddered. “I ‘d rather be alone, Hamish.”

  “I’ll send someone to fetch the doctor. You need a sedative to settle you for the night.”

  Hamish went back to the lounge. John Wetherby came up to him. “Can’t you get rid of these people?” he asked. “This is hardly the occasion for a party.”

  “I think it’s better for Jane that they stay,” said Hamish. “It’s high time they found out she’s just an ordinary person like themselves.”

  John made a contemptuous noise which sounded like “garrr,” and strode off. The Carpenters were talking to some of the islanders. They did not look shocked, rather they looked happy and excited. Ian was talking about sheep, a subject close to any islander’s heart, and he had a rapt audience.

  Harriet came back carrying a large bag. “Blankets and food,” she said briskly.

  “Right,” said Hamish. “Now let’s see if someone can lend me a car.”

  One islander, clutching a large tumbler of whisky, cheerfully parted with his car keys and Hamish with Harriet made his way back over to the west.

  The men put on guard were happy to be relieved. “We will chust be going over to that hotel to offer our condolences,” said one eagerly.

  “That’s nice of them,” said Harriet when the men had left after Hamish had instructed them to find Dr. Queen and send him to The Happy Wanderer to attend to Diarmuid.

  “You’d be amazed if you knew how news travels up here,” said Hamish. “They’ve got the wind of whisky. In another hour, an awfy lot o’ islanders will have found their way to The Happy Wanderer.”

  A small tent had been erected over Heather’s body, much to Harriet’s relief. The wind had dropped and the tide had started to go out. They sat down on the beach a little way away from the tent, wrapped in blankets, sipping hot coffee and eating turkey sandwiches.

  “If it is murder,” said Harriet suddenly, “have you taken into account that Heather was wearing Jane’s oilskin?”

  “Yes, I’ve thought of that. But we all knew Heather was wearing it.”

  “But listen! The islanders didn’t know, and Jane was wearing another of her yellow oilskins, an older one, when we went out searching. In the dark, someone with a torch bent on murder might only see the gleam of yellow.”

  “Could be. But I’ve a feeling, if it is murder, that the intended victim was Heather.”

  “Wait a bit. Diarmuid could have staged that row. Instead of going back to the hotel, he could have followed Heather. It’s always the husband, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, quite often,” said Hamish slowly. “But keep this to yourself. I thought Diarmuid had maybe staged that row so as to go back and be alone with Jane.”

  “I don’t think that can be right.” Harriet shivered and Hamish put an arm about her shoulders. “Jane actually thought Diarmuid was a bit of a silly ass. She said he had only married Heather for her money because his real estate business was going down the tubes. She rather liked Heather’s adulation for her. I can’t really see Jane pinching anyone else’s husband.”

  “But I saw her slip him a note on Christmas Eve.”

  “Oh, well, you’ll have to ask him about that. Let’s talk about something else. Tell me about your other cases.”

  Hamish talked on and they sat huddled together while the receding sea grew quieter.

  Harriet was never to forget that night, sitting on a lonely Hebridean beach with a constable’s arm around her shoulders aad a dead body only a few feet away.

  And then after a long time had passed and both were getting sleepy, they heard the roar of helicopters. Hamish jumped to his feet and picked up the lantern and began to wave it. The forces of law and order from Strathbane had arrived.

  ≡≡≡

  Harriet watched, fascinated, for the next hour as photographs were taken and samples of pebbles and grit put into envelopes as a forensic team got to work. Detective Chief Inspector Blair and his sidekicks, Detectives Jimmy Anderson and Harry McNab, stood silent. Blair made a sour remark that Macbeth always seemed to have some female hanging about and retreated to the shelter of the helicopter which had brought him to the island and waited for the pathologist’s report.

  The pathologist eventually emerged from the tent. “Well?” demanded Hamish.

  “Could be,” he said laconically. “On the other hand, ten to one she broke her neck in the fall. The forensic boys are crawling over those rocks on the way down to see if they can find anything.”

  Blair’s bulk appeared on the crag above their heads. “Is it murder?”, he asked.

  “Maybe,” said the pathologist. “You can get the body photographed now. The forensic team’ll probably be here the rest of the night and then I’ll get the body flown over to the procurator fiscal in Strathbane.”

  Blair heaved a great sigh. “Come on up, Macbeth,” he said. Blair was feeling thoroughly fed up. He wished he had not come. But Hamish had a gift for nosing out murders and Blair was frightened that, had he not come, the case might have been given to some young up-and-coming rival. Hamish and Harriet scrambled up after Harriet had neatly stowed blankets, thermos, and sandwich paper wrapping into the bag.

  “Show us where this Happy Wanderer place is,” said Blair. “We’ll take the helicopter over. It’s on the east, isn’t it?”

  Hamish nodded. He told one of the hovering islanders to take the car he had borrowed back to its owner. Harriet was tired. Everything was becoming unreal.

  The helicopter lifted them over the island and landed on the beach in front of the health farm. It took a very short time, Eileencraig being only about thirty miles long and fifteen miles across at the widest part.

  They all climbed down. Blair stood outraged.

  All the lights in The Happy Wanderer were glaring out into the night. They could hear raucous ‘hoochs’ and the sound of fiddle and accordion.

  “Jings,” said the pilot, sounding amused. “They’ve got a ceilidh on.”

  And sure enough, as Blair strode into the lounge, a full-scale party was in progress. Couples were dancing Scottish reels while the rest were clapping and shouting and cheering. Jane, face flushed, was enjoying herself, dancing a reel with a small bent man. The Carpenters were clapping in time to the music. There was no sign of either John or Diarmuid.

  “Shut that bloody row!” bellowed Blair, his piggy eyes blazing with fury.

  He stood blocking the doorway, a heavy-set figure of officialdom. The music stopped abruptly. As Blair, his detectives, Hamish, and Harriet walked into the room, the islanders slid past them and melted away silently into the night.

  “Mrs. Wetherby?” demanded Blair, approaching Jane.

  “Yes?”

  “I am Detective Chief Inspector Blair from Strathbane. I am investigating the death of Heather Todd.” With heavy sarcasm, he added, “I am right sorry to have broken up yer wee party.”

  “You mustn’t be shocked, Mr. Blair,” said Jane earnestly. “It’s like a funeral, you see. People react to death in this way. It’s shocking, but people are always jolly glad they’re alive when anyone else has died. I read an article – ”

  “I’m no’ interested in any article,” glowered Blair. “Is there a room I can use for interviews? Ah’ll need tae see the husband.”

  “I’m afraid that is not possible,” said
Jane firmly. “Dr. Queen has given him a sedative.”

  “Oh aye? Well, I’ll start wi’ the rest o’ you. Macbeth, you can go tae yer bed. I’d let ye know if ye’r’ needed.”

  “That’s not fair,” protested Harriet. “It’s his case.”

  “Neffer mind,” said Hamish, although he was furious with Blair. “I need some sleep and so do you.”

  “After I’ve interviewed her,” said Blair pompously, looking Harriet up and down.

  Jane was efficiently clearing up dirty glasses and plates and stacking them on a tray. “You can use my office,” she said, “but you had better let me know now how it is that the constable who found the body is being barred from the investigation.”

  Her upperclass accents fell unwelcomely on Blair’s ears. Blair had made up his mind it was an accident and wanted to get back to the mainland as soon as possible, and he didn’t want Hamish Macbeth around, throwing a spanner in the works. On the other hand, he didn’t want to offend anyone who might raise a dust with headquarters. “I was merely concerned for his welfare,” he growled. “All right then. You can stay, Macbeth. Show us to the office, Mrs. Wetherby, and we’ll start with you.”

  Soon he was seated behind Jane’s desk, with his detectives standing respectfully behind him. That was the way he liked it. Jane sat opposite and Hamish lounged over near the door and tried not to yawn.

  “Now, Mrs. Wetherby…oh, we’d better have a copper take doon yer statement. Got yer notebook, Macbeth?”

  “I’m on holiday,” said Hamish patiently.

  “All right, Anderson, you do it.”

  Jimmy Anderson found a hard chair in the corner and pulled out a notebook.

  “I saw three policemen in the other helicopter,” said Hamish, and Jimmy Anderson flashed him a grateful look.

  “I’m no’ going oot tae look for them,” said Blair.

  “Where is…the body?” asked Jane.

  “At the doctor’s surgery in the village,” replied Blair. “Now, Mrs. Wetherby, let us begin.”

  It was then that Jane dropped her bombshell. “The murderer meant to kill me, not Heather.”