Death of a Nag hm-11

by M C Beaton

  “Have the police here asked for press silence on our murder?” asked Dermott.

  Hamish switched off the radio and sat down again. “A man being hit on the head and pushed into the water is as nothing compared to these Perth murders. The only reason there were so many press around last night was because there was nothing much else going on. At least it means we’ll get peace and quiet today.”

  “Whit?” Cheryl and Tracey looked at Hamish in comic dismay. “Whit about us? We want our photos in the papers.” Cheryl went to the window and looked out. “Not a soul,” she said in disgust. “And we got up at dawn tae get ready.”

  “I think we are forgetting our manners,” said Miss Gunnery severely. “Doris, I am sure you know you have our deepest sympathy.” This statement was followed by rather shamefaced murmurs all round. And yet it was hard to feel sorry for Doris. She was now free of a dreadful husband.

  “A police car’s jist arrived,” said Cheryl, still looking out.

  After a few moments the door of the dining room opened and Deacon came in. “Tracey Fink and Cheryl Gamble,” he said, “I must ask you to accompany us to the police station.”

  “It’s a fit-up. You cannae pin this one on us,” said Cheryl, whose home in Glasgow had satellite television.

  “You were heard by some of the lads at the dance saying as how ye would like tae bump someone off tae see whit it felt like,” said Deacon. “Come along. Ye’ve a lot of explaining to do.” He turned to Hamish. “And I haven’t finished with you by a long chalk. None of the rest of you leave Skag without permission.”

  Protesting their innocence, Cheryl and Tracey were led out.

  “I think we’d all feel more at ease with each other,” said Hamish into the following silence, “if we all got together and said where we were yesterday afternoon. Bob Harris was seen at two o’clock on the jetty by that fisherman and he says when he looked out half an hour later, there was no sign of Harris. So if we move through to the lounge, we could explain to each other where we all were at that time.”

  “And I think Doris has just as much as she can take at the moment,” protested Andrew.

  But Doris said in a small voice, “Don’t you see, we’ve got to know? I don’t mind.”

  And so they all went through to the lounge and sat round in a circle.

  “Maybe we’ll start with Doris and let her get it over with,” said Hamish.

  In a flat voice, Doris described her day. “I knew Bob was livid with me over protecting Hamish. I was terrified. I had never really stood up to him before. So I simply ran away. I did not go into Skag. I went the other way, along the empty beach. I walked miles. I didn’t have any lunch and I turned back and began to think that even this boarding-house tea might be bearable. I knew I had to face Bob sometime or other and suddenly I wanted to get it over with. There’s no point asking for witnesses. There weren’t any. I didn’t come across anyone.”

  “I’ll go next,” said Andrew. “I went after Doris. But I thought she might have gone to Skag. I went into a shop around lunch-time and bought a sausage roll and a carton of orange juice and sat on the bench outside and ate them. I didn’t want to come back here. I wanted some time to myself. The shopkeeper should remember me, but the murder happened later. I didn’t go near the jetty. I was beginning to hate this place. The only reason I came here was because it was cheap. I lost a lot of money on a stupid business venture after I was made redundant from the army. I began to wonder what I was doing in the wilds of Scotland in a seedy boarding-house. I hated Harris. I’m glad he’s dead, but I didn’t kill him. Someone must have seen me, apart from that shopkeeper. In the afternoon, I walked a little way out of Skag in the direction of the town. Cars passed me on the road, but as I didn’t know a murder was taking place, I didn’t take note of licence plates or anything like that. Then, because most of Skag is on the dole, I think the residents who were not at the fair were indoors watching soaps on television. That’s all I have to say.”

  Hamish looked at Dermott. “Were you all together yesterday?” he asked.

  “Yes, we went into Skag and bought stuff for a picnic and took the kids to the beach,” said Dermott, “just along from the boarding-house. We were there all day.”

  Hamish’s sharp eyes noticed the way the children sat very still and quiet and how June looked steadily at the floor. He’s lying, he thought suddenly. Instead he said aloud, “Did anyone see you?”

  “Mr Rogers might have seen us. He came out just after lunch-time and got in his car and drove off in the direction of Skag. I saw him through my binoculars.”

  “Miss Gunnery?”

  “I seem to have had the same uneventful day as the rest of you,” said the schoolteacher. “I went for a walk into Skag after lunch-time. I was getting bored. I thought I would see some of you in the village. I took a look around and then came back here and sat in my room and read a book. When you didn’t come back, Hamish, I took the key to your room and then took Towser out for a walk.”

  Obviously, thought Hamish, the police had not told the others of Miss Gunnery’s tale of sleeping with him. He had a sudden longing for his own police station and his own phone. If one of these people had murdered Bob Harris and that someone was not his wife, then there might be a clue in their backgrounds.

  He stood up abruptly. He wanted to get away by himself. There were Mr and Mrs Rogers still to question, but they could wait.

  “It looks as if not one of us has a decent alibi,” he said, standing up. “I’m going for a walk.”

  “I’ll come with you.” Miss Gunnery got up as well.

  “Not this time,” said Hamish. “I want to think.”

  “Sit down, Hamish,” said Andrew sharply. “We haven’t heard your story.”

  “Sorry,” said Hamish, feeling sheepish. “I forgot I wasn’t on duty. I went into Skag. I bought a couple of books and spent the day reading them on a bank of the river on the far side of Skag. I don’t know if anyone saw me. You see, people in Skag don’t know who we are and they wouldn’t have bothered to take any particular notice of any of us, them not knowing there was going to be a murder. Then around tea-time, I went and bought a fish supper and took it to the jetty to eat. I finished it and went to look over the edge of the water. That’s when I saw Harris. I tried to revive him even though I was pretty sure he was stone-dead. Sorry, Doris.”

  “But why should the police think you a suspect when you’re a policeman yourself?” asked Dermott. “And considering you were trying to save the man?”

  “During the questioning, Deacon told me that they thought I had dragged the body clear to cover any clues and then had tried to revive Harris to throw them off the scent. I’ll go for a walk and see if I can think of something.”

  Hamish collected Towser and went outside. “Where are you going?” demanded Crick, who had replaced Emett to take over guarding the boarding-house. “We havenae finished with you.”

  “I’ll be back,” said Hamish. “I’m chust taking my dog along the beach for a bit.”

  “Well, see you don’t go far,” said Crick sourly.

  Hamish walked sadly away. Not only had the local police found out that he had been demoted from sergeant but that he was the type of man who seduced otherwise respectable spinsters, for Miss Gunnery, even with a layer of make-up, always succeeded in looking just what she was, a retired unmarried schoolteacher.

  With Towser loping at his heels, he walked away along the beach. Pink shells sparkled in the blowing white sand and the wind had risen again. The waves were choppy, blown blue and black with fretting white caps. A sun-blackened piece of seaweed blew against his legs.

  He sat down and considered the case. As it stood at the moment, the only one with a motive was Doris. It was a crime which could have been committed on the spur of the moment. There was Bob looking down into the water. A piece of wood lying handy. One quick blow to the head in a fit of rage and murder was done. But Doris did not look the impulsive type. He was sure that she
would think too much about the action to perform it. She would think that before she struck him he might turn round. She would think about the consequences. Still, he did not know Doris very well. What if she had fallen in love for the first time and with Andrew Biggar? What if they had planned the murder between them? And what was he to do about Miss Gunnery’s alibi?

  He had allowed her to lie to the police. But if he told them she had been lying, they might well charge her with obstructing the police in their inquiries. And while he was on the subject of lying, Dermott had most certainly been lying. The children had been told not to say anything. But why on earth would Dermott want to murder a double-glazing salesman? Wait a bit. They had met before. Dermott had been at the boarding-house before when Bob Harris had been there. It had been owned by a couple of women, the Misses Blane, that was it. They had retired to a house in Skag. He would take Towser back and tell Crick he was going into town for lunch. And he might as well call round at the police station and see if he could find out what they were doing with Cheryl and Tracey. He could not believe for a minute that the couple had done murder for kicks. Still, it might be a good idea to find out if either of them had a criminal record.

  ♦

  Priscilla Halburton-Smythe was staying with an old school friend at her family mansion outside Chipping Norton in Gloucestershire. She was enjoying a late leisurely breakfast. She had read The Times and the Daily Telegraph. She now picked up a copy of the Daily Bugle and idly turned over the pages, stopping suddenly as the face of Hamish Macbeth stared up at her under a headline of MAN MURDERED AND THROWN INTO SEA, the gentlemen of the press considering a body in the sea more exciting than one in a river. She read it carefully. The caption under the photograph merely stated: “Mr Hamish Macbeth and Miss Felicity Gunnery leaving the police station in Skag by car after helping police with their inquiries,” In the story, it listed the residents at the boarding-house, and among them were the names of Hamish Macbeth and Miss Gunnery. The flash photograph had been kind to Miss Gunnery’s heavily made-up face. To Priscilla it was all too clear. Hamish had taken a holiday in Skag with this Felicity Gunnery. And to think she had occasionally thought about him and wondered what he was doing!

  ∨ Death of a Nag ∧

  4

  Oh, thou demon Drink, thou fell destroyer;

  Thou curse of society, and its greatest annoyer.

  What hast thou done to society, let me think?

  I answer thou hast caused the most of ills, thou demon Drink.

  —William McGonagall

  After having left Towser at the boarding-house, with the plea to Miss Gunnery to take the dog out for a walk if he was not back until late, Hamish set out for the village. He had to find the Misses Blane and he also had to find someone friendly to him in the police inquiry. He wondered whether he would find anyone at all. No doubt it was all round those involved in the murder inquiry that he was a womanizer, a failed policeman and a suspect. He went to the post office, or rather sub-post office, a hatch at the back of the Asian store, and asked for the voters’ roll. He slid his finger rapidly down the names until he located Blane. The address was Glebe Street, near the Church of Scotland.

  He made his way there and ended up outside one of the thatched cottages which crouched at the end of Glebe Street like old shaggy animals. Seagulls screamed and wheeled mournfully overhead. He rapped at the polished brass knocker and waited. After some moments, he heard shuffling footsteps. Then the door opened and an elderly woman with a toad-like face peered up at him. “What do you want? I’m not buying anything.”

  “I’m not selling anything,” said Hamish amiably. He smiled at her. “It is one of the Misses Blane, is it not?”

  “I’m Elizabeth Blane. Only one of us. Nancy died last month.”

  “I wanted to ask you about The Friendly House.”

  Her eyes gleamed behind her thick spectacles. “Making a mess of it, are they? Good. Come in.”

  He followed her into a dark parlour. A squat woman with sparse grey hair and a yellowish skin, she walked leaning heavily on a stick. She kept running her tongue over her pale, thick lips, looking more than ever like a toad in search of a juicy fly.

  “Murder,” she said with satisfaction. “I knew they’d make a mess of it. But this is better than I hoped.”

  Hamish sat down opposite her, wondering why she had not asked who he was or why he had come to see her.

  “Why did you think the Rogerses would make a mess of it?”

  “Me and Nancy ran a good house, good food, nice rooms. We tried to train Rogers in our ways. But he said he could make a fortune by cutting prices and cutting costs, more fool him. Cocky idiot.”

  “So why did you sell to him?”

  “Nobody else wanted it. We were getting too old to cope. So Harris is dead. Well, that’s hardly a surprise. I suppose Brett did him in.”

  “Dermott Brett? Why on earth him?”

  “Oh, because of that scene last year. Yes, we ran that place like clockwork, me and Nancy. My scones are still a legend in Skag. Did you hear about my scones?”

  “Not yet. What was the scene about?”

  “Brett’s wife turned up for the day, so that June, who calls herself his wife, had to make herself scarce and take the children with her. Me and Nancy didn’t rat on Brett, but as soon as his wife had left, we told him we were having nothing of that sort here and he would have to go. Harris jeered at him and said he would tell his wife that he was spending his holidays with another woman.”

  “But Dermott Brett said he didn’t know the boarding-house was under new management, so if he thought it was still you and your sister, why did he come back?”

  “That’s havers. He knew we were selling all right because we told him we were putting the place on the market at the end of the season.”

  Hamish sat thinking. Dermott had said he and ‘his family’ had been on the beach at the time of the murder and that Rogers might have seen him. But the beach was a quarter of a mile from the boarding-house, across the dunes, and then shielded by that banks of shingle. How could Dermott even have caught a glimpse of Rogers through binoculars, and there was no way that Rogers could have seen him.

  “Who are you?” demanded Miss Blane.

  “I’m a policeman.”

  “Why aren’t you in uniform?”

  “Because I am on holiday, but I happen to be staying at the boarding-house and – ”

  “You’re the one that was helping the police with their inquiries.”

  “Well,” lied Hamish, “the press put it that way. As a matter o’ fact, I’m helping with the investigation.”

  “At least you had the courtesy to call. I thought the police would have been round here right away.”

  “Have any of the others been at the boarding-house before? There’s a Miss Gunnery, a retired schoolteacher, a Mr Andrew Biggar, ex-army man, and two lassies from Glasgow, Cheryl Fink and Tracey Gamble.”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “Did Rogers meet Harris and Brett last year?”

  “No, we didn’t negotiate with Rogers until the end of the summer.”

  “I wonder why he came back,” said Hamish, half to himself. “He’s obviously worried about being found out, and yet he came back. And it’s not really very much like living in sin when you turn up with a woman and her three children. And the children call him ‘Daddy’.”

  “Maybe he is,” said Miss Blane cynically. “I don’t know what the world is coming to. I remember when this was a nice village, with decent people, and the people who came in the summer were nice ordinary people as well. Now it’s all drink and worse. In my day the teenagers didn’t have enough money to drink. Aye, and they had to work. And they showed respect to their elders.” Her voice had a whining, grating edge. The room was small and stuffy and crowded with tables cluttered with photos and china ornaments. There were lace curtains at the windows which let in very little light.

  It all felt claustrophobic. He rose to go. “
You’ll stay for a cup of tea,” she said. Naked loneliness suddenly looked out of her eyes. Of course she was lonely, Hamish thought, nasty old bat. But he sat down again. One day he might be old and nasty, too.

  So he patiently listened to her complaints while he drank tea and agreed that her scones were the best in the world. She complained first about the village, then about the government, then about the European Community, then about the way America was being run, and when she reached the forthcoming independence of Hong Kong, Hamish felt he had had enough. He took his leave, promising to call again.

  Outside, he took a deep breath of sandy, salty air. His best plan now would be to stroll past the police station and see if any of the police looked friendly. He stopped at the church notice-board opposite the police station and pretended to read, twisting round every now and then to watch the comings and goings. And then he saw a smart little policewoman arriving in a patrol car. He waited, wondering if she might be going off duty. After half an hour, she emerged in a blouse and trousers and headed in the direction of the pub. Hamish followed. He waited until he saw her going into the pub and then went in himself.

  She was standing at the bar, sipping a gin and tonic. Hamish stood beside her and ordered a whisky. He turned and smiled down at her. “Cheers, Constable,” he said, raisttg his glass.

  “Cheers,” she said, studying him. She saw a tall, thin man with an engaging face and hazel eyes. His red hair had a natural wave and shone in the dim light of the pub.

  “I’m a copper as well,” said Hamish. She had a pert little face, small eyes, small nose, small mouth, and a quantity of shiny, curly fair hair and what Hamish thought of as an old–fashioned body: rounded bust, tiny waist and generous hips.