by M C Beaton
Hamish sat down next to Clarry. “You’ve heard about the death of Mr. Addenfest?”
“Yes, first thing I heard when I came on duty.”
“Did you speak to him yesterday?”
“I had words with him.”
“What about?”
“He’d ordered a packed lunch earlier. He came into the kitchen in the early evening to complain that what he was being charged for the packed lunches was much more than the contents were worth. I told him we supplied the best packed lunches in Scodand and if he had any complaints, he could take them to the manager. He asked me my name and wrote it down in that notebook he was always carrying around. He said, “I’m wise to the lot of you. What’s more,” he said, “that artist was murdered and I can prove it. I have insights that your local village idiot of a copper doesn’t have.””
“Did you tell anyone what he had said?”
“I was that furious, I told a lot of people. Bessie came in for a coffee, and I told her.”
“Bessie! Man, you might as well have put up a neon sign in the village.”
“How was I to know he’d go and get himself kilt? I mean, everyone was saying thon artist committed suicide.”
“Weren’t the police up here during the night asking everyone about Hal?”
“Aye, but I was off duty, so they didn’t ask me. I suppose they only interviewed the staff who live in.”
Hamish went out into the main area of the hotel and into the manager’s office.
“This is a bad business,” said Mr. Johnson.
“Have the guests been checking out?”
“Not yet. But most of them won’t have heard anything. It’s too early.”
“Clarry said Mr. Addenfest was in the kitchen in the early evening complaining about his packed lunch. Did he come to see you?”
“I didn’t know he had even returned to the hotel. He may have left by the kitchen door.”
Hamish went back to Clarry. “Did Addenfest leave by the kitchen door?”
“Aye, he slammed out. Nearly took the door off its hinges.”
Hamish dianked him and then went back and asked Mr. Johnson which room Jock was in.
“He’s not paying, so we put him up in one of the attic rooms. It’s number sixty-two. We only put guests in there if we’re fully booked and they insist on staying. Hardly room to swing a cat.”
Hamish went up to the top of the castle, located Jock’s attic room, and knocked on the door. He waited. There was no reply. Suddenly anxious, he tried the handle. The door was unlocked. He opened it and went in.
There were two figures wrapped around each other on a single bed. One was Jock, and the other was the maid, Bessie.
Seven
To see her is to love her,
And love but her forever,
For Nature made her what she is,
And ne’er made anither!
—Robert Burns
Hamish was about to retreat when Bessie woke up suddenly, saw him, and let out a scream. Jock awoke at the sound and struggled up against the pillows.
“I’ll see you downstairs in the lounge, Jock,” said Hamish.
Hamish sat in the lounge and began to wonder if he had been gravely wrong in his assessment of Jock’s character. Jock had seemed to him like an easy-going man, only interested in his work.
Betty Barnard entered the lounge. “Hamish! What brings you here?”
“I want a word with Jock. He’ll be down any minute.”
“Mind if I stay?”
“I would like a word with him in private.”
“I am his agent.”
“But not his lawyer,” said Hamish. “Please, Betty.”
“I heard that American had been found dead.”
“Yes.”
“So what’s that got to do with Jock?”
“I’ve got to check where anyone connected with Effie was last night.”
“What’s the death of this American got to do widi Effie?”
“Here’s Jock,” said Hamish. “I’ll talk to you later.”
Betty went off, and Jock sat down opposite Hamish. “I know it looks bad,” he said. “But it gets a bit lonely up here.”
Hamish raised his eyebrows. “I would have thought with your agent being here and your ex-wife in Lochdubh, not to mention painting Priscilla, that you’d have enough company.”
“Come on, Hamish. I felt like a wee bit of sex, and the lassie was willing.”
“Where were you the night before last?”
“Let me see. I had dinner in the hotel with Betty. We stayed up late, and then we went to our rooms. She’ll confirm it.”
“I’m surprised Effie knew where Geordie’s Cleft was.”
“She probably asked someone.”
Her mobile phone, thought Hamish suddenly. I can’t remember anyone ever finding her phone. He stood up. “That’ll be all for now, Jock, but don’t leave Lochdubh.”
“It was a suicide. Can’t you leave it alone?”
“Hal Addenfest, the American who was staying here, was murdered. I think the two deaths are connected.”
Hamish left the lounge, leaving Jock staring after him.
To Hamish’s dismay, Jimmy Anderson, followed by police and detectives, entered the hotel. Jimmy was brandishing a search warrant.
“Do you have to do this?” asked Hamish, thinking uneasily of the effect on the hotel guests and subsequently on Priscilla. The guests may not have bothered to check out when they heard the news of the murder, but he was afraid a lot of them would do so after getting their rooms searched.
“Fraid so,” said Jimmy, knocking at the manager’s door. “He was hit with some sort of blunt weapon. He stayed here. We’ve got to look.”
“There was no blood around his head,” said Hamish. “Was he killed elsewhere? Did forensic find anything?”
“Yes, their little bloodshot eyes found a patch of blood further up the beach. Nothing else. That shingle won’t hold footprints. They had to work fast before the tide covered everything up as far as the seawall. Want to join in the search?”
“I think I’ll go back down to the village. The locals might tell me things they wouldnae tell you.”
Elspeth Grant, who worked for the Bugle in Glasgow, was summoned by her news editor as soon as she got into the office.
“There’s a murder in Lochdubh,” he said. “Some American tourist. I want you to get up there right away.”
“But Matthew Campbell, who’s now the local reporter, covers that area. You know he’s good. He used to work for you.”
“He’s been getting sloppy since he was married. You know the area, you know the local copper, get home and pack a bag and get off as fast as possible.”
“I’ll take a plane to Inverness and hire a car once I get there.” Elspeth hoped the news editor would argue about the expense and maybe decide that, after all, the coverage should be left to Matthew. But he said, “Well, what are you waiting for?”
Elspeth did not want to see Hamish Macbeth again. She had been in love with him, and he had rejected her. The hurt had been deep, and so she had refused to accept any phone calls from him.
She was able to pack a bag, drive to the airport, and book herself on the eleven o’clock plane to Inverness. At the airport, having left her own car at Glasgow airport, she hired a car and set out for Sutherland.
She drove steadily up towards Lochdubh, her anger at the job dissipating as she found herself once more back over the highland line.
Elspeth decided to book in at the Tommel Casde Hotel. She hoped any story she might get would be worth all this expense.
Hamish started off by going again to see the two boys who had found the body. He guessed, righdy as it turned out, that they would be kept out of school to recover from their shock.
They were evidently beginning to feel excited and important, but they had nothing further to add. Scan said he thought he had heard the plop of a seal diving out on the lake, but that was all either of
them had to add.
Hamish then went from house to house, questioning one after the other, only breaking off to go back to the police station to feed the dog and cat and take them for a walk. No one had seen anything, and most were cross at being questioned by Hamish when they had already been questioned by police.
Jimmy called in at the police station in the early evening. “I’m knackered—and that police cell bed last night was as hard as hell,” he said. “I’m off home. We’ll all start first thing tomorrow and go over everything again. There was nothing sinister in any of the rooms. We’ve got the police in Glasgow checking up on those three—Jock, his ex-wife, and his agent. Brighton police are looking into the sister’s background. I may have some results tomorrow. From what I gather from the guests, this Hal Addenfest was a right pill. Maybe someone ran into him by moonlight on the beach and picked up a rock and hit him with it.”
“He must have walked down there to meet someone,” said Hamish. “His car’s still at the hotel. He wouldnae go down there in the middle o’ the night for no reason at all.”
“Well, we’ll see. I’m off.”
Hamish changed out of his police uniform and showered, then dressed in a pair of old corduroy trousers and faded tartan shirt.
He went out to the deep freeze in the shed and was rooting around to see if there was something for his dinner when he heard a car arriving. He walked out of the shed and found to his delight that it was Betty.
The last rays of sun were glinting on the blonde streaks in her hair. She was wearing a dark blue silk trouser suit and high heels.
“Hullo, copper,” she said. “I thought you might like a meal out, so I’ll take you to the Italians if you’re free.”
“That would be grand,” said Hamish. “Come in, and I’ll dress in something better. I’ve still got a report to send over, but I can do it later.”
He was in the bedroom changing into his one good suit when he heard someone else arrive. He finished dressing quickly and went into the kitchen. Priscilla was sitting at the table with Betty.
“I thought you might like some dinner, Hamish,” said Priscilla, indicating a casserole on the table. “But Betty tells me you are going out for dinner, so you can put it in the fridge and have it tomorrow.”
Because of the warm evening, the kitchen door was open. Elspeth Grant walked in.
Hamish stared at her. Her hair, which had been straightened the last time he had seen her, was now back to its usual frizzy style. Her silver eyes—Gypsy eyes—surveyed him and then the two women at the table.
“I’m up covering the murder,” said Elspeth. “I was going to take you for a meal, but I see you have company.”
“This is Betty Barnard,” said Priscilla in a cool voice.
“Betty is a guest at the hotel. We are both too late. Betty is taking Hamish for dinner. Go ahead, Hamish. We’ll let ourselves out.”
“See you,” said Betty cheerfully. “Come along, Hamish.”
There was a long silence after Hamish had left. Then Priscilla said, “I brought him this casserole. Shame if it goes to waste. Why don’t we both have dinner?”
“All right,” said Elspeth. “Is that woman going to be Mrs. Macbeth?”
“Betty? No, I shouldn’t think so. She’s an artists’ agent. Her client is Jock Fleming.”
“Who is Jock Fleming?”
“I’ll pop this in the oven, and I’ve got a bottle of wine here,” said Priscilla. “We’ll have a drink, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Elspeth felt intimidated by Priscilla, watching her as she moved about the kitchen with quiet efficiency. Priscilla was wearing tailored white linen trousers with a white linen blouse. Elspeth reflected that when she wore anything made of linen, it seemed to crease as soon as she got it on, but Priscilla’s ensemble showed not a wrinkle, and her hair was smooth and golden. Elspeth nervously dragged her fingers through her own hair trying to flatten it and only succeeded in making it look messier dian ever.
Priscilla opened the wine and poured two glasses. “The casserole will only take a few minutes. Right, I’ll begin at the beginning…”
Hamish did not enjoy his dinner. He kept wondering what Priscilla and Elspeth were talking about. Seeing Elspeth again had been a shock.
“I keep asking you how the investigation is going on,” said Betty, “and you mumble something but don’t seem to be listening. I know about Priscilla. The whole of Lochdubh knows about Priscilla, but who’s the other one?”
“A reporter, Elspeth Grant. She used to work on the paper here.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Were you romantically involved with her?”
Hamish stiffened. Betty, amused, thought if Hamish were a cat, his fur would stand on end. “I haff neffer asked you about your private life, Betty,” he said, “and I don’t wish to discuss mine.”
“Okay, Sherlock. Now we’ve got that out of the way, have you any suspects?”
“I’m waiting until all the background on everyone comes in,” said Hamish.
“Me included?”
“I should think so. You and everyone else staying at the hotel.”
“I’m a clean-living girl. They can dig away. I’m surprised you’re free for dinner. I thought your bosses would be hounding you.”
“No. That scunner, Detective Chief Inspector Blair, is laid up in hospital with a broken leg and a broken collarbone, and Detective Jimmy Anderson is in charge of the case. He knows it’s pointless now to go over old ground until we know more about the people involved. Nice not to be harassed.”
“Macbeth,” said a voice behind him.
Hamish swung round and looked up at the figure of Superintendent Peter Daviot looming over him. Hamish got to his feet.
“Why aren’t you out on the case?” asked Daviot.
“Because, sir, everyone’s been pretty much interviewed and Anderson is waiting for the background checks.”
“I’m sorry to spoil your dinner, but I want you to walk along to the police station with me. There is a lot to discuss.” He smiled at Betty. “I am sorry, miss, but this is serious stuff.”
Betty gave a litde shrug. “Don’t mind me.”
At least Priscilla and Elspeth will have left, thought Hamish. But when he opened the kitchen door, it was to find the pair finishing their meal.
Daviot knew them both and murmured a greeting while a flustered Hamish explained he would have to ask them to leave.
Priscilla asked after Mrs. Daviot as she efficiently cleared the table and put the dirty dishes and glasses in the sink. Then she and Elspeth left.
Daviot sat down at the table. Sonsie jumped onto the chair opposite and fixed the superintendent with unblinking eyes.
“Good heavens, Macbeth. That’s a wild cat. You shouldn’t be keeping an animal like that!”
“She’s domesticated.” Hamish lifted his cat down onto the floor and sat down opposite Daviot.
“Now, this business of a murdered American tourist is serious,” said Daviot. “This sort of thing can damage tourism. We have contacted his ex-wife, who is flying over to make funeral arrangements. He had a card in his wallet with her mobile phone number. We could not find any close family. Have you any idea why he was murdered?”
“Yes,” said Hamish. “It all ties in with the murder of Effie Garrard.”
“The artist? But that was suicide.”
“I think not, sir.” Hamish explained about the visitors to Effie’s cottage and about the botde of wine and the note.
“I never saw any report about that note or bottle of wine.”
“Her sister, Caro, who is up here, told the police in Strathbane, but they said Effie was mad and had probably made the whole thing up.”
Daviot scowled. “I’ll see about this when I get back to headquarters. So what ties Effie to tliis American?”
“He took her out a couple of times. He had ambitions to be a writer, and he noted down everything everyone had said in
a notebook. I asked to see what she had said, and Mr. Addenfest replied that he knew the police thought it was suicide but he had proof that it was murder and would only show the contents to my superiors.”
“And why didn’t you report this?”
“Because I was told the case was closed and to leave it alone.”
“And there’s no sign of the notebook?”
“No, not on the body or in his room.”
Daviot rapped his fingers on the table, an irritating sound. Then he said, “We have a new detective constable, Robin Mackenzie.”
“What’s he like?”
“She. Keen as mustard. I want her to work closely on this case with you, and I want you to give her the benefit of all your local knowledge. Anderson will handle the broad picture, and I will be in charge.”
“When does this detective arrive?”
“I asked her to report to you first thing tomorrow morning. We must all work night and day on this. No time off for anyone.” He glanced at his watch. “I’d better go. I have a late-night party to attend at the Freemasons. Then tomorrow morning, I have to get my new suit from the tailor. I’ll be over in the afternoon to see how you’re getting on.”
“I do not want to be obstructive, sir, but would not this Detective Mackenzie be better working with Anderson? I work better alone.”
“You what? This isn’t the Wild West with a lone sheriff. Do as you’re told and give Mackenzie all the help she needs.”
After Daviot left, Hamish felt quite low. The case was difficult enough without being saddled with some pushy woman detective. He assumed first thing in the morning meant around nine o’clock. He set the alarm for eight and went to bed, feeling mildly hungry because he’d only eaten the first course before Daviot had taken him away, but felt too tired to cook anything.
Hamish was awakened at six in the morning by a banging on the front door. He struggled out of bed, went to the door, and shouted, “Come round to the kitchen.”
He put on a dressing gown and went and opened the kitchen door.
“I’m Robin Mackenzie,” said his visitor.
“Come ben. What time d’ye call this?”
“I was instructed to report early.”
Robin Mackenzie was a fairly small woman with dark brown hair worn in a French pleat. She had small dark brown eyes, a long straight nose, and a wide mouth. She was wearing a white blouse, suede jacket, and tweed skirt. Her black patent leather shoes had low heels.
