by M C Beaton
"What contacts can he have that we don't?"
"I don't know. All I know is that his methods, Watson, seem to hae worked for him in the past."
When Maggie went back out to the car, Hamish said, "Now, if you're to help me, do one thing for me."
"What's that?"
"Go back in there and get the home addresses of all the suspects."
"Easily done."
Hamish sat and waited. He glanced at his watch. It hadn't taken long. He'd better get back and see if Miss Gunnery had eaten, and if not, take her out for dinner.
As if his mind had conjured her up, a car drew alongside Maggie's and Miss Gunnery stepped out. Hamish got out as well.
"I came to see if you were all right," said Miss Gunnery. "I didn't want to find out you had been arrested again."
Maggie came out. "That's all set, Hamish," she said. "I've got the addresses you wanted. I'll pick you up at seven in the morning. Now what about that dinner you owe me?"
"I've a date wi' Miss Gunnery," said Hamish. Both women stared at each other. I am a regular Don Juan, though Hamish cynically. I get the pick o' the crop fighting ower me—one retired schoolteacher and one WPC so hard you could strike matches on her.
"Where are you going?" asked Maggie brightly.
"Hamish is taking me to some curry house in Dungarton," said Miss Gunnery. "He says it's good."
"Oh, I can vouch for it," said Maggie sweetly. "I took him there myself."
"Let's be off, then." Hamish got into Miss Gunnery's car, fed up with both of them and with the whole of Skag and the murder case.
"Where are you off to tomorrow?" asked Miss Gunnery as they drove off.
"Back to Lochdubh. I have things to see to."
"Are you coming back?"
"Of course. In a way, I suppose I'm still a suspect."
"Nonsense."
"I'd still have that in the back of my mind if I were Deacon. In a murder case, everyone is a suspect."
"Even me."
"Even you."
"I loathed that man, Harris, and yes, I could have done it," said Miss Gunnery, "but I didn't. I would say good luck to whoever did, but the repercussions are so awful. Poor Doris. Why can't she go off with her Andrew and be happy?"
"I don't think either of them can be happy until the murderer is found. They may even suspect each other."
"But that's ridiculous!"
"Not entirely. Don't you often look round at the rest of them and wonder which one of them it was?"
Miss Gunnery gave a little shiver. "I keep hoping it will turn out to be some wandering maniac who just biffed Harris on the head to brighten up the day."
"If it's a madman, then we're sunk. There's nothing worse than a motiveless crime."
When they reached the restaurant and were seated, Hamish said, "Can we talk about something else? I'm tired o' murder. Why did you retire so early? You don't look old enough to be at retirement age."
"Flatterer. Near enough. I just got tired of schoolteaching. I ended up teaching at a boy's school outside Cheltenham. I taught geography to a bunch of spoilt little brats who couldn't care less where anything in the world was situated. It's one of those public schools, not like Eton or Westminster or Winchester, but with very high fees. The boys who are sent there are usually ones who failed the Common Entrance exam, but their parents want them to go somewhere posh with expensive facilities. The pay was good, but training morons is always a strain. I thought of transferring to a girl's school and then decided to retire and enjoy myself."
"And are you enjoying yourself?"
"I was, until this murder happened. It all seemed so gentle and safe, the idea of a cheap holiday in Scotland."
"Back to the murder," said Hamish ruefully.
"Then why don't you tell me some stories about your life, any that don't involve mayhem and murder."
Hamish settled down to tell tales of Lochdubh, all his old affection for the place and the people coming back in force. How kind they had all been over Towser's death. He talked on and Miss Gunnery settled back to listen, her intelligent eyes twinkling with pleasure behind her glasses.
As they drove back to the boarding-house, Hamish realized with surprise that he had enjoyed his evening out with Miss Gunnery immensely.
But when the Victorian bulk of the boarding-house seemed to rear into view in the twilight, over sand dunes shaggy with spiked razor-grass, he felt his heart sink and wondered whether he should really be going away to Lochdubh, leaving a dangerous murderer on the loose in Skag.
7
I fled, and cried out, Death;
Hell trembled at the hideous name, and sigh'd
From all her caves, and back resounded, Death.
—John Milton
Lochdubh, again. Shafts of sun slanting down from the stormy heavens on the black waters of the loch. Fishing boats swinging at anchor. Clothes flapping and flying on clothes-lines like the loose sails of a distressed squarerigger.
Maggie, climbing out of the car at the police station, bent against the force of the warm Atlantic gale and followed Hamish into the kitchen. She had to sit and wait while Hamish lit the stove and checked on his livestock. He popped his head around the kitchen door and said, "Why don't you run along to the manse and find out if you can get a bed in case we have to stay overnight?"
She hesitated. She was supposed to listen in to whoever it was he meant to phone. As if reading her thoughts, Hamish said amiably, "I've got my chores to do. I won't be settling down to police work for about an hour."
Maggie went off. Hamish grinned and went through to the police office. He took the list of names and addresses Maggie had given him. He phoned up his cousin, Rory Grant, a newspaper reporter in London, and after the pleasantries were over, he said, "I'm in another murder case, Rory. The one in Skag. Heard about it?"
"Where the man got biffed on the head and pushed into the sea?"
"That one. Not the sea, though, the river. Anyway, if I give you the names and addresses of the suspects, can you see if there's anything on the files about them?"
"It's a dreary, parochial murder, Hamish. I mean, what's in it for me?"
"First crack at it if I find the murderer."
"Not interested."
"I was thinking of going down to Glasgow as part o' my research. Might call on your mother and tell her how you're getting on."
"You wouldn't!" Rory knew Hamish was referring to his dissipated life of night-clubbing and womanizing.
"She'll be that anxious for news of you."
"All right, you blackmailing pillock. Let's have them."
Hamish read out the list of names and addresses. Having finished with Rory, he stared at the phone and at the addresses, phoned the police station in Cheltenham and asked them for the name of an expensive boys' school on the outskirts where the fees were high and the academic qualifications of its pupils low. They came up with the name and phone number of St. Charles.
He telephoned the school and asked to speak to the headmaster, a Mr. Partridge, who said testily he had already been interviewed by the police and had nothing more to add. Miss Gunnery had worked for them for several years as a quiet and efficient teacher. Her decision to take early retirement had certainly come as a surprise. Yes, she had lived in the school and had now, he believed, a flat in Montpelier Street.
That unsatisfactory call being over, Hamish then phoned a fourth cousin who worked at a garden centre in the Cotswolds and despatched him into Evesham to find out what he could about the Harrises. Hamish could have phoned the Evesham police, but Deacon would already have done that, and he knew his Highland relatives were better at digging up useful gossip than any policeman. The Bretts, or rather June and Dermott, lived in Hammersmith. With any luck, Rory might find something out about them. His pen hovered over the name of Dermott's real wife, Alice.
He sat back, his brow furrowed in thought. Now there was an unknown quantity. Would it be too far-fetched to assume that Harris had actually writte
n to the wife, that she knew about her husband's double life before the murder? Had she come up before the murder, found Harris and knocked him on the head in a fit of rage? Married people could well turn savagely against the bearer of bad news. There was an address in Grays, Essex.
Rory had once introduced him to a newspaper stringer from Chelmsford in Essex. He fished in his desk and took out a large notebook. Hamish logged every name and address and phone number of anyone who might be useful that he met on his travels. Here it was. Harry Dixon. He phoned up and having got Dixon on the phone, outlined the case and asked if it would be possible to find out anything about the recent movements of Alice Brett. Dixon at first protested that he was getting old and didn't like working for nothing, and the inside story of a murder in the north of Scotland would hardly earn him anything. But Hamish said that he would see Rory's newspaper sent some work his way and so Dixon said he would do it.
Andrew Biggar had an address in Worcester. Hamish got out a road atlas and traced the road from Evesham to Worcester. Sixteen miles. Not far. Could Andrew and Doris possibly have met before? How irritating to be so far away. He telephoned the editor of a newspaper in Worcester and asked him to check up on the files and see if Andrew's name came up.
Tracey and Cheryl, he would leave to the police. Their criminal young lives were well-documented on police files and probation reports.
Maggie did not go to the manse. She decided she would rather pay for bed and breakfast than be beholden to the rather terrifying minister's wife. She saw a white board advertising bed and breakfast outside a cottage near the harbour and went and knocked at the door. It was opened by Mrs. Maclean, Archie the fisherman's wife.
"Have you a room for a night?" asked Maggie. "I'm—"
"I know fine who you are," said Mrs. Maclean. "You're thon policewoman. I'm right glad to see Hamish is showing some sign o' decency at last. Come in. I'll show it to you."
Maggie walked in through a kitchen filled with steam which came from a large copper pan full of boiling sheets on a stove in the corner. The air was full of the smell of bleach and washing soda. She was led upstairs and Mrs. Maclean pushed open a low bedroom door. Maggie was small for a policewoman, but she instinctively ducked her head as she entered the room. It contained a narrow bed with glittering white sheets and a fluffy white coverlet. There was a wash-hand basin and a basket chair and a narrow wardrobe.
"How much?" asked Maggie.
"Ten pounds."
"Very well. I'll take it. Of course, we may finish our work today."
Mrs. Maclean folded her red arms across her pinafore. "It must be a firm arrangement," she said.
Maggie wanted to say she would look elsewhere, but had a feeling that in this close-knit village, word of her refusal to stay at Mrs. Maclean's would spread like lightning and no one would want to put her up. And she was billing the police for her accommodation anyway.
"Very well," she said, "I'll go and get my overnight bag."
"If ye have anything ye need washed, jist give it tae me. I aye wash the folks' clothes that stay here."
The few clothes in Maggie's bag were clean but she was impressed by this offer of village laundry. It would be nice to have everything thoroughly cleaned and pressed. She had put in one pretty dress in the hope that she and Hamish could go out for dinner somewhere. She was not particularly attracted to Hamish Macbeth, but he was a man and the only way she knew how to deal with the opposite sex was to try to get them sexually interested in her.
She got her bag from the car and returned to Mrs. Maclean's with it and then returned to the police station. There was no sign of Hamish. She walked up the back of the police station and saw Hamish silhouetted against the windy sky. He was standing looking down on Towser's grave.
Maggie retreated back to the police station, feeling as if she had been conned. This was a useless journey. Deacon had overestimated Hamish's abilities. He was just one mad copper who had dragged her all the way here so that he could stand by his dog's graveside and mourn. She looked in the kitchen cupboards and the fridge. No food.
Then she remembered seeing an Italian restaurant as she had driven along the waterfront. She made her way there. It was quite full but a slim man with neat features showed her to a corner table and then spent an inordinate time washing and scrubbing the checked plastic tablecloth before handing her a menu. She ordered lasagna and a green salad and a glass of wine. To her surprise, the waiter stared down at her accusingly. "You'll just be having the one glass of wine, I hope."
"I'll drink a whole bottle if I feel like it," retorted Maggie.
"My name is Willie Lamont."
"So?" Another inbred local, thought Maggie.
"I was in the force myself afore I entered the restaurant trade," said Willie severely, "and there is one thing I cannae stand and that's a policeman who drinks, and a policewoman is even worse."
Maggie bridled. "One glass of wine is hardly over the limit. Now can you forget you ever were a policeman? Because I am hungry. Hop to it."
Willie gave a last polish to the table and left. When Maggie's meal arrived, it was served not by Willie but a stunning-looking woman who could have doubled for Lollobrigida in her hey-day. "My husband has been telling me that you are with the force," she said.
"Yes," said Maggie curtly. Lucia, Willie's Italian wife, leaned a curved hip against the table. "I am pregnant," she said.
Maggie blinked. "Congratulations."
"I know it will be a boy," said Lucia dreamily, "and we will name it Hamish."
"After Macbeth, I suppose?"
"Yes, it is a nice name ... Hamish. So sad about his poor dog."
"Very sad," agreed Maggie, longing to be left in peace to eat. She raised the glass of wine to her lips and lowered it when Lucia said severely, "Willie tells me you drink a lot."
Maggie put the glass down with a firm little click. "Look here, I ordered one glass of wine. One! I am also very hungry. Do you mind leaving me alone to enjoy my meal?"
Lucia looked at her sadly. "Poor Hamish," she said. "He never finds the right one. Me, I do not think that Priscilla was right for him, but she is kind, and you are not." Lucia had a soft voice, but none the less it carried around the restaurant. The locals listened avidly. Lucia swayed off and Maggie bent her flaming face over her food. She ate and drank very quickly, calculated the price of the meal, left the money on the table and walked out, glad to escape from the hard stares of the other diners.
When she returned to the police station, she could hear the murmur of Hamish's voice from the office. She tried the handle of the door and found it was locked. Baffled, she retreated to the kitchen.
After some time Hamish emerged from the office. "I thought I was to help you with this case," said Maggie. "Did you lock the door of your office so that I would not hear what you were doing?"
"Och, no," said Hamish easily. "I do it in case some of the locals chust walk in, which they have a habit of doing."
"Have you found out anything?" asked Maggie.
"I've put in a few calls," said Hamish. "Now all I have to do is wait for the replies. There is one thing I did not ask Dermott."
"Which is?"
"He told me that he did not know the boarding-house was under new management. There's something verra wrong there. I spoke to the surviving Miss Blane, one of the two that used to own the place. Now she told me that Dermott was well aware they were selling the place. That Dermott had had such an unpleasant experience with Harris the year before, and the Misses Blane had given him a lecture on 'living in sin' with June. So why come back at all? Unless it was because he knew the boarding-house was under new management and it was cheap and that he did not expect to see Harris again. But what if he knew Harris was gong to be there? I wonder if Dermott and Harris met at any time in the intervening year. They're both commercial travellers. There's another thing I've been wondering about. Tell me about Fred Allsopp."
"The barman?"
"Aye, him. Harris was in th
e pub the day he was killed and getting drunk. Did he meet anyone, quarrel with anyone?"
Maggie shook her head. "Fred said Harris was drinking whisky, quite a lot of whisky. He tried to get into conversation with some of the locals but they avoided him."
Hamish shrugged impatiently. "I have a feeling so many of the suspects are lying and probably for no reason at all. I haff found when the police are around that folks will lie almost automatically. Then there's something else. I wonder if Heather really saw Doris where she said she did, or if someone put her up to it, but that someone would be her mother or father, and why should they want to protect Doris?"
"Unless Dermott did it and didn't want Doris to be blamed," said Maggie.
"The day I meet a kind and thoughtful murderer, I'll eat my hat," said Hamish. "Have you eaten?"
"I went to that Italian restaurant and got served by a cheeky sod called Willie Lamont who lectured me on the evils of drink."
"Aye, that's Willie. He gets bossier and bossier and the portions are getting a bit small, but there's nowhere else to eat for miles unless it's the Tommel Castle Hotel, and that's pricey."
"Does Willie own the place?"
"No, it's owned by a relative of Lucia's. He's been away in Italy. He'll be back soon, which means the food will be back to normal. I might be here until tomorrow. You'd best find a place to stay. Mrs. Wellington would put you up."
"I'm staying at a Mrs. Maclean's."
Hamish's eyes glinted with amusement. "It's hygienic, I'll say that for it."
The phone shrilled from the office and he went to answer it. It was from his relative in the Cotswolds. He said that he had checked on the Harrises in Evesham and had found pretty much what Hamish had expected—Doris was well liked and respected by the neighbours and Bob Harris had been detested by all. "But," added the soft Highland voice on the end of the line, "a Mrs. Innes who lives next door and who is friendly wi' Doris, well, herself said that Doris did not want to go back to Skag, she hadn't enjoyed it; but she said as how her man was up tae something."
