by M C Beaton
“Do what you like, but how are you going to tell them if you’re not supposed to be in Strathbane?”
Hamish looked at her in dismay.
“Look, tell them you met the professor by chance and phoned me. That should cover it.”
Hamish thanked her and drove back to Lochdubh. Lugs was still lying asleep beside his untouched food bowl.
That’s it, he thought. The report can wait. Lugs is going to the vet. He loaded the sleepy, grumbling dog into the Land Rover and drove to the vet’s house.
“I’m finished for the day,” said the vet crossly.
“Please,” said Hamish. “I’m right busy with a case just now. I’m worried about Lugs. He sleeps the whole time and won’t touch his food.”
“I’ll tell you what the problem is,” said the vet with a smile. “That there dog is stuffed.”
“Stuffed?”
“A severe case of pasta, ham, and mozzarella cheese.”
“What?”
“It’s the talk of the village. He’s spent all day strolling along to the back door of the Italian restaurant where your friend Willie feeds him large plates of food. You’d better stop the animal or he’ll die of obesity.”
“Thanks,” said Hamish, feeling foolish. He carried Lugs back to the Land Rover. “I’ll deal with Willie later,” he said. “But first, I’d better do that report.”
NINE
I will make you brooches and toys for your delight
Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night.
I will make a palace fit for you and me
Of green days in forests and blue days at sea.
I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room,
Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom.
—R. L. Stevenson
Carson read Hamish’s report with great irritation. He had put Hamish down as some fool whose previous exploits in police work had been much exaggerated. But once again the village constable had come up with something important that they had missed.
He decided it was time he had a face-to-face talk with Hamish.
Unfortunately for Hamish, he was strolling back to the station in an old shirt and stained trousers, swinging an empty feed pail, when Carson arrived.
“Not in uniform, Officer?” demanded Carson.
“Well, no,” said Hamish with a blinding smile, a sure sign he was about to lie. “It is my day off.”
“In the middle of an investigation of two murders, all leave has been cancelled.”
“Is that a fact?” Hamish put the pail down. “And here’s me thinking I had orders to stay off the case.”
Carson looked at him with irritation. Hamish was tall with a friendly face and hazel eyes fringed with thick eyelashes. His red hair gleamed like a beacon. Carson thought, illogically, that no decent policeman should have hair that fiery colour.
“I got your report, Macbeth,” said Carson. “I would like to discuss it with you.”
“I’ve got some coffee keeping warm on the stove, sir,” said Hamish. “We’ll go in.”
Carson followed him into the kitchen. He sat down and looked about him. There was a smell of damp dog and woodsmoke. The table was covered with a red and white checked cloth. White painted shelves held glasses and crockery. There was a wood-burning stove sending out a pleasant heat. An old round clock tick-tocked on the wall near the door. Through the window, he could see sheep cropping the grass on a field at the back.
“Your sheep?” he asked.
“Aye,” said Hamish.
“Won’t be bringing you anything these days.”
“That’s the pity o’ it.” Hamish filled two mugs with coffee and placed them on the table. Then he took a bottle of milk out of the fridge, emptied some of it into a jug, and then placed the jug along with a bowl of sugar on the table.
“The longer I keep those sheep,” said Hamish, “the more they take on individual personalities. I am afraid they will stay out there until they die of old age.”
“You do not strike me as a sentimental man.”
“I’m a practical one, sir. No use slaughtering the beasts for a few pennies.”
Hamish sat down opposite Carson. Carson frowned. He should have asked permission to sit down, but then it was the man’s own house, and Carson had come for a friendly chat.
“Can you tell me,” he began, “why Grace Witherington, with a mobile police van outside her house, should choose to phone you with this information?”
“I had been chatting to Professor Tully. He was on that Gaelic programme with her. She said she felt more comfortable talking to me about it, because the police hadn’t asked her, and she felt a bit uncomfortable relating gossip.”
“MacBain should have told us if he was having an affair with the girl.”
“What is Mrs. MacBain like?” asked Hamish curiously.
“I went to see her myself. Hard, blonde, thin, forty-ish. I didn’t mention his affair with Crystal, or rather his one·night stand. She said she had phoned him at the television station on the day of Crystal’s murder and they had a chat. There certainly is a record of that call on their phone bill, but then she could just have spoken to the switchboard. The girl who was on duty can’t remember anything.”
“I thought all these television people had direct lines these days,” said Hamish.
“Not in Strathbane, they don’t. Now, I would like to go over the first case with you from the beginning. I was angry with you for fixing your mind, it appeared, solely on Felicity Pearson. I was inclined to dismiss you as a fool. What made you so sure it was her?”
“It seemed so likely,” said Hamish. He stood up and opened the lid of the stove, shoveled in some peat, and sat down again. The clock ticked lazily, the coffee was delicious, and from outside the window came the faint bleating of sheep and cackle of hens. Carson began to have an idea why this odd policeman had either shunned promotion or sabotaged promotion. “She had lost so much that was dear to her,” said Hamish. “Rory would be running after Crystal. If he was having an affair with Felicity then that must have made her even more bitter.”
“But you did not know he was having an affair with her when you put in your initial reports.”
“True. Then it was because I sensed she was furious over losing her show. I was in her flat. All those photographs. A sort of shrine to Felicity Pearson. People always assume it’s the beautiful who are vain.”
Suddenly in Hamish’s head, he heard Professor Tully mourning the loss of his television job because it would mean no more free shirts.
Carson looked in sudden irritation at Hamish. The man was sitting as if he had been struck by lightning. His eyes were glazed and his mouth was open. Inbreeding, thought Carson sourly. Must be a lot of it in these villages.
“Wardrobe,” said Hamish faintly.
“What?” Carson half-rose to leave. Hamish Macbeth was obviously subject to mental seizures of some kind. Better humour him.
“I’m sure you do have a wardrobe. We all have a wardrobe.”
“No, no.” Hamish’s eyes were sharp and clear again. “The television station wardrobe.”
“What about it?”
“The hat and glasses that the person driving the BMW was wearing. Did anyone check the station’s wardrobe department?”
“No,” said Carson. He looked at him in amazement. Then he said, “Let’s go. Now!”
“Aye,” said Hamish, heading for the door.
“Put on your uniform first. You look a disgrace.”
Hamish meekly went off to the bedroom to put on his uniform. Carson helped himself to another mug of coffee. How was it that this village policeman could hit on things that the whole force had missed? A blinding flash of the obvious, he thought sourly. He should have thought of it himself.
A small, neat man called Derry Hunt was in charge of the wardrobe department. “Yes,” he said. “We’ve always got stuff on hand, even suits. Now Professor Tully, he turned up in a suit that strobed dreadfully, so
we had to supply him with one. He wanted to keep it, but I said an odd shirt or two was all right, but a suit, no.”
“What we’re looking for,” said Carson, “is a floppy brown hat and dark glasses.”
“I might have those among the odds and ends.”
“Do you do all the wardrobe work yourself?” asked Hamish.
“No, I’ve got a wee girl who works for me. Does the ironing and mending, things like that.”
“Do you just hand over the stuff?” asked Hamish. “Or is it logged somewhere?”
“Of course it’s logged.”
“Can we see the records?” asked Carson.
Derry produced a large ledger. “No computer for me,” he said. “I wouldn’t know how to operate one. Let me see, what day are you looking for?”
“The day Crystal French was murdered. Monday, twenty-eighth August.”
“Or the day before,” put in Hamish.
He ran a long forefinger down the page. “Here we are. Brown hat, black glasses.”
“Who took them out?” asked Carson.
Hamish found he was holding his breath.
“Felicity Pearson.”
“You’re sure?” snapped Carson.
“Yes.”
“And did she return them?” asked Hamish.
“Yes, took them out on the twenty-seventh, back on the twenty-eighth.”
“Have you got them?” asked Hamish.
“I’ll go and look, but since they’ve been returned, they should be here somewhere.”
Carson drew a thin pair of gloves out of his pocket. “Put these on,” he ordered. “Lift them very carefully and bring them to us.”
They stood there impatiently, waiting.
Then Derry came back, carefully carrying a large floppy hat with a wide brim and a pair of dark glasses.
“Put them on the desk. Turn the hat up,” said Hamish. “I want to look inside.”
Derry’s gloved hands gently lifted the hat over. To his amusement, Hamish pulled a magnifying glass out of his pocket and studied the inside of the brim.
“You look like Sherlock Holmes,” said Derry, but Hamish was letting out his breath in a long hiss of excitement. He handed the glass to Carson. “Look there, sir. A hair. A brown hair. How soon can we get it compared to Felicity Pearson’s hair?”
“As fast as I can arrange it. Got one of those envelopes?”
Hamish produced a cellophane envelope.
“Tweezers?”
“Forceps, scalpel?” said Derry cheekily, and Carson gave him a withering look.
Hamish found a pair of tweezers. Carson gently lifted the hair and put it in an envelope.
“How soon can we find out if that hair is Felicity’s?” asked Hamish.
“I’ll make them rush it,” said Carson. He turned to Derry. “Is there some sort of plastic bag we can put the hat and glasses in?”
Derry went off and came back with a plastic shopping bag. “Come with me,” said Carson to Hamish. “We’re going back to police headquarters.”
When they arrived and walked up to Carson’s office, Jimmy Anderson was coming down the stairs, and he stared in surprise at Hamish.
“Do you know what this means?” demanded Carson. “If that hair should prove to have belonged to Felicity Pearson, then it’s ten to one she murdered Crystal. So that will leave us with the unsolved murder of Felicity herself.”
“With your permission, sir,” said Hamish, “I’d like to have a word with that researcher, Amy Cornwall.”
“Later. Wait until I get this stuff over to the lab.”
When he had finished making the arrangements, Carson called his secretary and asked her to send Jimmy Anderson in.
When Jimmy entered his eyes darted suspiciously to Hamish. With Blair around, there had been little chance of Hamish rising in the ranks, but with Carson, it was another matter.
“I want you to take a uniformed officer,” said Carson, “and go over to Strathbane Television and bring Rory MacBain back here for questioning, and I don’t care how busy he is.”
“Something new come up?” asked Jimmy eagerly.
“I’ll fill you in later. Now get MacBain. We’ll be using interview room number three.”
When Jimmy had gone, Carson said to Hamish, “I’ll be interviewing MacBain myself. Like to sit in on it?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Carson sighed. “How many times do I have to tell you?”
“Yes, thank you, sir.”
Half an hour later, Rory MacBain, looking flustered and anxious, faced Carson and Hamish in the interviewing room. Policewoman Maggie was manning the tape recorder. She gave Hamish a chilly little smile.
Asked if he wanted a lawyer, Rory said, “Why on earth should I want a lawyer? I haven’t done anything. Just get on with it. It’s a busy day.”
“We believe you were having an affair with Felicity Pearson,” said Carson.
Rory had not been expecting that, thought Hamish.
“Who says?” Rory tugged at his tie to loosen it.
“You were seen visiting her regularly at her flat.”
“Of course I did. And of course the neighbours saw me. I’m her boss. Television never stops. I called on her some evenings to discuss shows.”
“And yet you made her a researcher?”
Hamish gave an apologetic little cough.
“What is it, Macbeth?” demanded Carson.
“It can easily be cleared up,” said Hamish. “All Mr. MacBain has to do is give us a DNA sample.”
Rory hung his head. Then he raised it and gave a man·to·man beam. “I may as well come clean. We had a bit of a fling.”
“For how long?” demanded Carson.
“Oh, can’t remember. It was off and on. For a few years.”
“A few years!” explained Carson. “And yet you didn’t tell us?”
“I didn’t want the wife to know.”
“Have you any idea who she was going to meet down at the docks when she was killed?”
“No, I hadn’t seen her for a week or two. I mean, I saw her in the office, of course, but I hadn’t visited her at her flat. Things had got a bit out of hand. She’d become a bit clinging and possessive.”
“She must have hated Crystal French,” said Hamish.
“She had no reason to. I mean she didn’t know about the fling I’d had with Crystal in Edinburgh.”
“I think Crystal, from what I’ve learned of her,” Hamish went on, “would be just the person to tell Felicity. She seemed to like upsetting and humiliating people. Besides, from Felicity’s point of view, Crystal had pushed her out of a job.”
“But that’s ridiculous. Crystal was brought in as a presenter of a new show. Felicity was the producer of a show with falling ratings.”
“And yet you were going to make Felicity a presenter,” said Hamish. “And when it came to looks, Felicity was not in the same league as Crystal. She had never presented a programme before, as far as I know. Did Felicity threaten to tell your wife? Did she blackmail you?”
“I want a lawyer,” said Rory sullenly.
“And that pretty much put an end to the things for the moment,” said Hamish to Elspeth Grant that evening. “The lawyer came, Rory clammed up, the lawyer said if we weren’t charging him with anything we should allow him to leave.”
Elspeth had knocked at the kitchen door half an hour after he had got home.
“Do you never use your living room?” she asked. “I would like a comfortable chair.”
“Planning on staying, are you?” asked Hamish. “I’m tired.”
“Just for a little.”
Hamish and Elspeth went into Hamish’s living room. He raked out the fire and lit it while Elspeth settled in an easy chair.
“So the hat,” said Elspeth. “If it turns out to be worn by Felicity, then that makes her the murderer, and that leaves you with another murderer. Any ideas on that?”
“I think it had to do with stuff she was digging up
for Crystal’s programme, the behind-the-lace-curtains one. The other researcher, Amy Cornwall, was working on it, but I think Felicity found something out. I’ll need to check all the alibis of those that Amy interviewed all over again.”
“Do you think it could be that someone saw Felicity, and that someone was blackmailing her? That someone asked her to meet them at the docks or he or she would tell what they saw?”
Hamish sighed. “It could be. I’ve an interview with Amy Cornwall tomorrow. I might get something out of it.”
The phone rang in the police office and then the answering machine took over. “I couldn’t make out what that said.” Elspeth looked at him, her eyes suddenly dark. “I’ve got a bad feeling, Hamish. I think you should go and listen to that.”
Hamish shook his head. “There’s a boundary dispute between two crofters going on. Probably one of them. I cannae be coping with them this evening.”
Elspeth crossed her legs. She had very long legs in seven-denier black tights. They might as well be two fence posts, she thought, for all the attention Hamish Macbeth was giving them.
“Aren’t you going to offer me anything to drink?” she asked.
“Shh!” Hamish held up a hand. “Listen!”
In the distance came the faint wail of a siren.
They looked at each other in alarm and then Hamish jumped to his feet. “Something’s wrong,” he said.
He rushed out of the police station with Elspeth following and looked up and down the waterfront. Then he saw Dr. Brodie with his black bag running towards the bank manager’s house.
“Oh, my God, no,” said Hamish.
He ran along the waterfront to intercept the doctor. “Out of my way, Hamish,” panted Dr. Brodie. “Suicide.”
Hamish followed him into the bank manager’s house. Mr. McClellan was there, his face ashen. “Upstairs,” he said. “Bedroom.”
Dr. Brodie sprinted up the stairs, followed by Hamish. Mrs. McClellan lay still and cold in the middle of a double bed. An empty bottle of paracetamol tablets lay on its side on the bedside table. Dr. Brodie felt for a pulse and found none. Hamish waited and prayed. “No life,” he said sadly, straightening up from the body. “I would say she’d been dead a few hours.”
I hate those television people, thought Hamish. The bastards murdered her just as if they’d stuck a knife in her back.
