by M C Beaton
“I’ll see myself out,” said Hamish, getting to his feet. “But I may need to question you again.”
Hamish went straight to police headquarters and typed out his report. When he had finished, Jimmy Anderson said, “I’ll take that up to Carson. You wait here.”
Carson read the report and then read it again. He raised his eyes. “Have you seen this?”
“No, I haven’t read it. I brought it straight up.”
“Macbeth says that Felicity Pearson, in his opinion, had been possibly having an affair with Rory MacBain, and that would be another reason for her hating Crystal. There’s something else. That crofter, Johnny Liddesdale, who was on one of the shows, phoned up and threatened to kill Crystal. I don’t know how Macbeth does it, but couldn’t any of my detectives have found this out before? Is all detection to be left to a village policeman? I shall see Rory MacBain myself. Tell Macbeth he’s to go and talk to this crofter.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jimmy rattled back down the stairs. “Hamish, you’re to go and talk to the crofter.”
“I might have a word with Carson before I go,” said Hamish. “I mean, I think Felicity Pearson’s flat should be searched.”
“We already searched it for the hat and glasses, along with everyone else’s home.”
“You see, we weren’t looking for hairpins,” said Hamish. “Crystal French had her hair up, so she would use blonde hairpins. Felicity Pearson would have dark ones.”
“Carson’s just gone out,” lied Jimmy. He felt Hamish had gained kudos enough.
“All right. I’ll maybe see him later,” said Hamish.
As Hamish left police headquarters, he glanced up at the windows and then stiffened. He could see Carson, his back to the room, looking as if he were dictating letters. Now why did Jimmy…?
His hazel eyes narrowed. He went back into the building, not to the detectives’ room but to the general operations room, and said to the policewoman who had been there at the television interviews, “Can I borrow your computer, just for a few moments?”
She nodded. Hamish typed busily and printed it out and then ran up the stairs to Carson’s office. Jimmy was waiting outside. “What are you doing here?”
“Just putting in a further report about these hairpins.”
“You’d better get off and see that crofter. I’ll take it in to him.” Blue eyes met hazel for a long moment. Then Hamish suddenly jerked open the door to Carson’s office. “Hey!” shouted Jimmy. “You can’t just walk in there!”
“Don’t you knock?” demanded Carson wrathfully.
“I’ve got a further report, sir,” said Hamish meekly. “Awfy sorry to bother you.”
He laid it on Carson’s desk and walked out, closing the door quietly behind him. Jimmy was no longer waiting. Hamish grinned and walked down the stairs, whistling.
Johnny Liddesdale, he thought, as he parked the car outside the croft house. Couldn’t be him. But then the seemingly meek, he had discovered in the past, could be frightening when roused.
The crofter answered the door to him. He was a small, neat man with thick grey hair carefully parted and brushed, grey clothes, greyish skin. “It iss yourself, Hamish,” he said. “Come ben.”
Hamish walked into the kitchen, admiring, as he had done before, the beauty of the ladder-backed chairs that Johnny had made himself. “Will you be taking a dram?”
“No, I’m driving.” Hamish put his cap on the kitchen table and sat down. “Tea would be nice, though.”
“I wass chust making a pot.” Hamish waited until Johnny placed teapot and cups on the table.
“Now, Johnny,” said Hamish gently. “I’ve heard a report that you phoned Strathbane Television and threatened to kill Crystal French.”
“Yes, I did indeed, Hamish. I wass that upset. Oh, man, she made such a fool o’ me and worse. Times are hard, Hamish. I’ve got cousins and nephews all over the place. I neffer married, as you know, but I’ve got four sisters and lots of aunties. They’ve been phoning me up asking for money, saying they saw the programme and I wass the millionaire and not letting them know. And me worried sick about money.”
“I’ll have to ask you, Johnny, what were you doing on Monday? Don’t panic. I’m asking everybody.”
“I wass doing the usual jobs, mending fences, moving the sheep to the upper field, cutting logs, stacking peats.”
“Anyone see you?”
“I don’t know if they did. You can ask at the next croft, that’s Bert Mackenzie. He may ha’ seen me out and about.”
“I’ll check that. Not like you to threaten to kill anyone.”
“It wass chust wan o’ those things you say when you’re overwrought. You know me, Hamish, I wouldnae hurt a fly.”
Hamish’s eyes wandered to an open copy of the Inverness Courier spread out on the table. He saw the headline, AMERICAN STAR VISITS INVERNESS. Jolene Carey, a famous country and western singer, was touring Scotland on holiday. He suddenly remembered seeing a news item about her bidding for Shaker furniture. He looked thoughtfully at Johnny’s beautifully crafted chairs.
“Would you sell your furniture if you got an awful lot of money for it, Johnny?”
“I’d sell masell if anyone would pay me a lot. Times are bad. I’m living on potatoes.”
“I’ve got an idea. Could you put one o’ your chairs in the back o’ the Land Rover?”
“I’ll do that. What are you up to?”
“Just an idea.”
As Hamish drove down to Inverness, he realized he hadn’t checked out Johnny’s alibi with Bert Mackenzie. Oh, well, he would do it later.
Once in Inverness, he parked at the Caledonian Hotel and asked to see Miss Carey. “Who is asking for her?” asked the receptionist.
“Police,” said Hamish.
She picked up the phone, dialled a number, and then Hamish heard her say, “There’s a policeman here to see Miss Carey.”
The voice at the other end squawked, and the receptionist said, “You’re to go up,” and gave him the room number.
A middle-aged secretary answered the door to him and invited him in. Jolene Carey was sitting on a sofa. She rose to meet him. He had imagined her to be almost as tall as himself, having seen her wearing stiletto heels on television, but it was a diminutive blonde in flat shoes who stood in front of him.
“So what’s up?” she demanded with a nasal twang. “Speeding?”
“Nothing like that,” said Hamish. “I have a chair outside in the police Land Rover that might interest you.”
Her eyes, which were very large and green, goggled at him. “A chair?”
Hamish shuffled his large boots. “I heard you were interested in fine furniture. There is a man up north who makes chairs like you have never seen before.”
She studied the tall policeman standing shyly in front of her, twirling his cap in his hands, from the top of his flaming red hair to his large boots. Then she began to laugh. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I may as well have a look.”
Out in the car park, Hamish opened the Land Rover and gently lifted Johnny’s chair down. “This is the finest Highland workmanship, very rare,” he said.
She studied it, her head a little on one side. “Got more like it?”
“Up at his croft. But it’s a good bit away, over on the coast. I’ll be straight with you, Miss Carey. He’s never sold anything before, but don’t be trying to get them cheap. His chairs are unique.”
“You drive and I’ll follow.” She turned to her secretary, who had followed her down. “Mary Ann, get the car.”
Johnny Liddesdale stood nervously while Jolene examined the rest of his chairs. Her eye fell on a rocker in the corner. “This is your work, too, isn’t it?”
Johnny nodded. She sat down at the table and took out a chequebook, pen, and notepad. “Here’s what I’ll do,” she said. “I’ll take the six chairs and the rocker, and I like this table. I’ll have that as well. I’ll pay you ten thousand pounds for the
lot, provided we do a deal.”
Johnny began to stammer, so Hamish stepped forward. “What’s the deal?”
“I’ll get this lot shipped back to the States. And then I want you to start making furniture exclusively for me. My manager will explain the arrangements for shipping and delivery. He will arrange for the shipping to be paid for. My lawyers will draw up a contract. You work only for me.”
Hamish suddenly remembered that Jolene owned a chain of restaurants and a theme park.
“One thing,” he said, for Johnny still seemed struck dumb. “You’re going to sell them in the States?”
“Yes, I’ll keep this lot, and sell the ones he makes next.”
“I think,” said Hamish cautiously, “that you should arrange in the contract to give him a good percentage of the sales. You see, if they catch on and you make an awful lot of money, he should benefit. Ten thousand pounds is not much for such superior craftsmanship.”
“I’ll take it, I’ll take it, Hamish,” blurted out Johnny, finding his voice.
“Well, all right, Johnny, but I want to see the contract and we’ll go over it together.”
Jolene eyed him shrewdly. “And what’s your cut?”
Hamish looked at her haughtily. “Nothing.”
Her eyes crinkled up with amusement. “I’m hungry. Why don’t we all go for dinner?”
They caused a minor sensation when they entered the dining room of the Tommel Castle Hotel. Johnny was still too shy to speak much, but Jolene entertained them with funny stories about her life, pausing only to sign autographs.
The phone in the hotel office rang. Mr. Johnston answered it. It was Priscilla. “I’ve been trying to phone Hamish at the police station, but all I get is the answering machine.”
“Oh, he’s here.”
“Can I speak to him?”
“It’s not convenient at the moment, Priscilla. He’s having a romantic dinner with Jolene Carey.”
“You’re pulling my leg. Do you mean the country and western singer, the one with the blonde hair and the big boobs?”
“That’s the one. Hamish is fair smitten with her.”
“I won’t interrupt him, then,” said Priscilla coldly. “Tell him I called.”
“No, I won’t,” muttered Mr. Johnston after he replaced the receiver.
After Hamish and Johnny had waved Jolene goodbye, Johnny stammered out his thanks. “Imagine getting paid for something I love,” he said. “I’ll neffer forget this, Hamish Macbeth. Neffer.”
Hamish clapped him on the shoulder. “Glad to be of help.”
He followed Johnny back to his croft and then travelled on to the next croft. To his relief, Bert Mackenzie said he had been out in his fields on Monday and had seen Johnny, off and on, for most of the day.
When he drove back to the police station, a reproachful Elspeth was waiting for him. “You might have told me Jolene Carey was here. By the time I got the news, she had left the hotel and she was halfway to Inverness by the time I caught up with her for an interview. You might have told me she was an old friend of yours.”
“Is that what she said?” So she doesn’t want anyone else to know about Johnny’s chairs, thought Hamish.
“Yes, and so you knew she was coming up here and didn’t say anything.”
“She landed in out of the blue,” said Hamish mildly. “There wasn’t time. I was on my way with Johnny to the hotel for a drink when she arrived. So we had dinner.”
“How did you meet her?”
With the lying ease of the true Highlander, Hamish said, “She was up here, oh, about four years ago but it wasn’t in the papers. She called at the police station for directions and we got friendly.”
Those odd eyes of Elspeth’s sharpened. “She says you wrote her a fan letter once that was so nice that she looked you up last time she was in Scotland.”
“That’s the truth,” said Hamish. “But don’t be putting that in your story. Wouldnae want people to know I wrote fan letters. A policeman,” he added virtuously, “has a certain appearance to keep up.”
SEVEN
When stars are in the quiet skies,
Then most I pine for thee;
Bend of me, then, thy tender eyes,
As stars look on the sea!
—Baron Lytton
Hamish decided the following morning to visit Mary Hendry’s craft shop. He knew she had been interviewed by police detectives, but he wanted to talk to her himself.
She had made a successful business out of the craft shop, stocking tourist items in the summer and moving on to Christmas presents in the winter: toys, scarves, and jewellery.
She was a small, plump, dark-haired woman with large dark eyes. Hamish thought that she reminded him of a bird. She was in her middle fifties but with few wrinkles on her smooth, thick skin.
She greeted Hamish with her usual friendly manner and said with twinkle in her dark eyes, “I suppose you’ll be ready for a cup of coffee.”
“That would be grand.”
It was another thing about Mary’s craft shop that had irritated the Tommel Castle Hotel. Customers to their craft shop were offered coffee, and they thought it mean of Mary to pinch the idea.
“I came to ask you about Felicity Pearson,” he began, after she had served him a mug of coffee.
“I’ve been questioned and questioned about that poor lassie.”
“Why’poor lassie’?”
“I was right sorry for her. She was a nervous wreck. She said that Crystal woman was making her life a misery. The shop was quiet so I got her to talk about it. She was bitter at losing her programme—you know, the Gaelic-speaking one. I told her that there’s not many people around who speak the Gaelic these days. A lot of Scottish Nationalists down in the cities take courses but when it comes to television, the biggest audience is English-speaking. She said she had been trying to introduce a bit of culture. I said I didn’t think folk were interested in culture anymore. They want real-life dramas, cop shows, Oprah Winfrey, things like that. She said Crystal was treating her like a slave. She went on and on and I just listened. Then I asked her if she had eaten any breakfast and she said she hadn’t. I suggested she go to the Italian restaurant and get herself a good meal. And she said she would do that.”
“I’ll ask you this straight,” said Hamish. “Did she look like someone who had just committed murder or was about to?”
Mary laughed. “No. She’s too weak. Too frightened of her own shadow, that one. It would take more guts than she has to murder someone.”
Hamish could feel all his conviction that Felicity was the murderer slipping away.
And that conviction received a further blow when he returned to the police station. Jimmy Anderson phoned.
“You’re in deep shit, laddie,” he said. “We got a search warrant and searched Felicity Pearson’s flat. Nothing in the way of hairpins. Not one. Then Callum Bissett comes down like a ton of bricks on Daviot and says that this is police harassment and demands an apology. Daviot chews up Carson. Carson says he should never have listened to you and you’re to get on with your regular policing and leave the murder case to the experts.”
Hamish frowned at the receiver. Then he asked, “Not one hairpin?”
“Not the one.”
“Wait a minute. When I interviewed her, she had her hair in a bun and there was a dark hairpin sticking out of it. You mean no hairpins at all?”
“I told you. No.”
“So what did you say when you asked her what had happened to her own hairpins?”
Silence.
“Jimmy?”
“We didn’t ask her,” said Jimmy.
“Maybe I should drop a report to Carson suggesting it.”
“Let it alone, Hamish. You’ve got a bee in your bonnet about that girl. We’re checking out Crystal’s background in Edinburgh. She philandered around a lot, usually with married men. Could have been someone from her past. Just leave it alone.”
Hamish put down the phon
e, feeling frustrated. And yet Mary Hendry had been so sure that Felicity was innocent.
He wondered what Priscilla would make of this case, and then wished in the same moment he hadn’t thought of her. Still, he had dinner with Elspeth to look forward to. He felt suddenly weary. He would go about his usual chores, walk Lugs, talk to the villagers, and let Strathbane get on with it.
On Sunday, Hamish found he was looking forward to his dinner with Elspeth even more. He could not quite figure her out and that was intriguing, and it would take his mind off his failure to impress Carson.
He took Lugs out for a good long walk first. Any time the dog sensed Hamish was going out somewhere for food and leaving him behind, he sulked like a child and looked miserable, so Hamish wanted to leave a tired and well-fed dog behind.
The weather was still dry and chilly. The old·fashioned street lamps along the waterfront cast a greenish glow, and above them in the dark sky stretched the Milky Way.
He met Angela walking home from the church. She was wearing a checked shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots. “Line dancing?” asked Hamish.
“Yes, I thought I might as well join in. It’s all Mrs. Wellington’s idea. She’s bought herself a Stetson.”
Hamish laughed. “That must be a sight worth seeing.”
“It gets better. The Currie sisters have joined. To see them dancing to ‘All My Exes Live in Texas’ is a sight to behold. How’s the case going?”
“It’s not. Not for me that is. I got this fixed idea that Felicity Pearson was the culprit. Suggested they do a thorough search of her flat.”
“What were they supposed to find?”
“Hairpins.”
“What?”
“You see, it looks as if someone stunned Crystal when she was outside her car, combed out her hair to get bits of heather out of it, for she was wearing her hair up when she left her flat in the morning. Now, there wasn’t a hairpin in that car. So I thought it was a chance that Felicity had put them in her pocket and got rid of them at home. They didn’t find a single hairpin, which I think is odd, because Felicity used them herself. But the television station came down like the wrath of God on police headquarters, screaming harassment, so I’m off the case.”
