Hamish MacBeth 01 (1985) - Death of a Gossip

by M C Beaton

  The manager had left the keys in the door. Hamish carefully locked the room and deposited the keys in the manager’s office.

  He decided to go back to the Marag to see if the field was clear. But as he was making his way out of the hotel, he heard voices from the interviewing room and noticed Alice sitting nervously in the lounge outside.

  “He’s got Jeremy in there,” said Alice. “Will this never end? He’s going to see me next and then call in the others one by one. I told Jeremy about that court thing and he didn’t mind, so you were wrong.”

  “Is that a fact?” said Hamish, looking down at her curiously.

  Alice jerked her head to one side to avoid the policeman’s gaze. Jeremy had been offhand all day, to say the least.

  Hamish left quickly, deciding to try to find out a bit about the background of the others. He had in his tunic a list of the names and addresses of the members of the school. Perhaps he should start by trying to find out something about the Roths. But he could not use the telephone at the police station because Blair had set up headquarters there, and although he was busy interviewing Jeremy, no doubt his team of officers would be in the office.

  Hamish’s car was parked outside his house. He decided to take a run up to the Halburton-Smythes. The rain had stopped falling and a light breeze had sprung up. But everything was wet and sodden and grey. Mist shrouded the mountains, and wet, long-haired sheep scampered across the road in front of the car on their spindly black legs like startled fur-coated schoolmarms.

  He swung off the main road and up the narrower one which led through acres of grouse moor to the Halburton-Smythes’ home. Home was a mock castle, built by a beer baron in the nineteenth century when Queen Victoria made the Highlands fashionable. It had pinnacles, turrets and battlements and a multitude of small, cold, dark rooms.

  Hamish pushed open the massive, brass-studded front door and walked into the stone-flagged gloom of the hall. He made his way through to the estate office, expecting to find Mr Halburton-Smythe’s secretary, Lucy Hanson, there, but the room was deserted and the bright red telephone sitting on the polished mahogany desk seemed to beg Hamish to reach out and use it.

  He sat down beside the desk and after some thought phoned Rory Grant at the Daily Recorder in Fleet Street. Rory sounded exasperated when he came on the line. “What’s the use of having a bobby for a relative if I can’t get an exclusive on a nice juicy murder? I had my bags packed and was going to set out on the road north when the Libyans decided to put a bomb in Selfridges and some Jack the Ripper started cutting up brass nails in Brixton, so I’m kept here. No one cares about your bloody murder now, but you might have given me a buzz. I called the police station several times, and some copper told me each time to piss off.”

  “It would still be news if I found the murderer, Rory,” cajoled Hamish. “You know the people who are at the fishing school. The names have been in all the papers. See if you can find out a bit more about them than has appeared. Oh, and while I’m on the phone, if I wanted to find out about someone from New York who might have been in trouble, or someone from Augusta, Georgia, what would I do?”

  “You phone the FBI, don’t you, you great Highland berk.”

  “I think Detective Chief Inspector Blair will have done that and I would not want to go treading on any toes.”

  “You can phone the newspapers, then, but you’ll need to wait until I go and get names from the foreign desk. You are a pest, Hamish.”

  Hamish held the line patiently until Rory returned with the information.

  He thanked the reporter and, after listening to the silence of the castle for a few moments, dialled New York. He was in luck. The reporter Rory had recommended said cheerfully it was a slack day and did Hamish want him to call back. “No, I will chust wait,” said Hamish, comfortably aware that he was not paying for the call.

  After some time the reporter came back with the information on Marvin Roth. “All old history,” he said cheerfully. “Seems that back around 1970, he was in trouble over running sweatshops in the garment district. Employing illegal aliens and paying them peanuts. Big stink. Never got to trial. Bribed his way out of it. Wants to go into politics. Big man in town now. Donates to charities, fashionable pinko, ban the bomb and clean up the environment. No one’s going to rake up his past. Got a nasty way of hitting back. Knows all the big names and he’s a buddy of my editor’s, so don’t say where you got the information from, for Chrissake.”

  “Do you mean to tell me that you cannot print the facts?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “It is all very strange,” said Hamish, shaking his head. “I have never been to New York. What is the weather like at the moment?”

  They chatted amiably for five more minutes at Mr Halburton-Smythe’s expense before Hamish remembered the BUY BRIT—on the section of photograph. It seemed that it must be Buy British, but could it perhaps be an American advertisement?

  “Never heard of anything like it,” said the American reporter cheerfully, “but I’ll ask around.” Hamish gave him the Halburton-Smythes’ phone number and told the reporter to give any information to Priscilla.

  Then he phoned Augusta, Georgia. Here he was unlucky. The reporter sounded cross and harried. No, he didn’t know anything about Amy Roth, nee Blanchard, off the top of his head. Yes, he would phone back, but he couldn’t promise.

  Hamish put down the telephone and sighed.

  He heard the sound of heavy footsteps in the corridor and jumped to his feet. Colonel Halburton-Smythe erupted into the room. He was a small, thin, choleric man in his late fifties. Hamish marvelled anew that the fair Priscilla could have such an awful father.

  “What are you doing here, Officer?” barked the colonel, looking suspiciously at the phone.

  “I was waiting for your good self,” said Hamish. “Miss Halburton-Smythe told me you were still having trouble with the poachers.”

  “I’ve just been down to your wretched station. Fat chappie told me he was in the middle of a murder investigation. Told him one of my deer had been shot in the leg last night. Gave me a wall-eyed stare. Useless, the lot of you. What are you going to do about it?”

  “I will look into the matter,” said Hamish soothingly.

  “See that you do, and while we’re on the subject of poaching, I believe you’ve been squiring my daughter to the local flea pit. It’s got to stop.”

  “It was not a den of vice,” said Hamish patiently. “And I would say Miss Halburton-Smythe is old enough to know her own mind.”

  “If I find you sniffing around my daughter again,” said the colonel rudely, “I’ll report you to your superiors.”

  “You should not let yourself be getting in the bad temper,” said Hamish soothingly. “Why, I can see the wee red veins breaking out all over your eyeballs. A terrible thing is the high blood pressure. Why, I mind…”

  “Get out!”

  “Very well.” Hamish sauntered off with maddening slowness.

  Once out in the drive, however, he could not resist loitering and looking around for a glimpse of Priscilla.

  “If you think you’re going to see my daughter,” barked the colonel behind him, “have another think. She’s gone out for the day with John Harrington, Lord Harrington’s son, and for your further information, she is shortly going to become engaged to him.”

  Hamish realized with some amazement that hearts actually did ache. Without replying, he walked to his car, climbed in and, without once looking at the colonel again, he drove off.

  When he arrived at the police station, it was to find Blair and MacNab were still at the hotel and the suspicious-eyed detective, Jimmy Anderson, was sitting behind the desk in the office.

  Hamish noticed a woman’s handbag on the desk. “Would that be Lady Jane’s?” he asked.

  “Yes,” grunted the detective without looking up.

  “And would she maybe have a diary or anything with notes?”

  “No, she did not,” said Jimmy An
derson. “Deil a piece o’ paper or a note. Her money’s there and her credit cards and cheque-book.”

  “And it was in her room?”

  “Aye, and Mr Blair still thinks someone killed her to stop her publishing something.”

  “What have you got on them, just by way of a wee gossip?” Hamish reached a hand into a vase and produced a bottle of Scotch. “You’ll be having a dram, of course.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” said Anderson, visibly thawing. “Don’t see any harm in telling you, only don’t tell Blair. Cheers. Right, now. We’re waiting to hear about the Roths. Blair’s keen on them all of a sudden despite that Buy British thing. He thinks there’s a chance Roth might have Mafia connections and Lady Jane might have been on to it. Would damage his career.”

  “Would it now,” said Hamish, pouring himself a whisky. “Mind you, it doesn’t seem to have got in the way of an American politician’s career before. What about Amy Roth?”

  “We’re trying to find a bit on her too.”

  “But Lady Jane would not have had the time to find out about the Roths. I mean, if it’s that difficult.”

  “All these bookings were made at least eight months ago and that’s when Lady Jane got the list. She’s been in the States since then.”

  “She certainly worked hard for her living,” said Hamish. “A little more to warm you, Mr Anderson?”

  “Thank you. Call me Jimmy. As to the rest, Jeremy Blythe’s got an interest in politics as well. He was supposed to be sent down from Oxford for having an affair with the wife of one of the dons, but there’s more to it than that. While he was having an affair with her, he also found time to get one of the local barmaids pregnant, and her husband raised a stink at the college. That way the don’s wife found out and made a stink. Then he owed money all over the place although Daddy’s rich. Wasn’t studying. Sent down and finished his degree at London University. Became respectable but is still paying for the upkeep of the barmaid’s kid. Her husband settled for that out of court. Daddy bought him a partnership, but he’s been making rumblings of becoming the next Conservative candidate. At a party last year, old friend from Oxford started ribbing him about the barmaid and this Jeremy punched him rotten. Police called in but no charges. Filthy temper, he has.

  “Alice Wilson chucked a brick through a neighbour’s window when she was a kid and ended up in court. Not much there.

  “Daphne Gore comes from a rich family. Caused a scandal by running off with a Spanish waiter who, it turned out, had no intention of marrying her but had to be bought off by Daphne’s parents. Girl went into a depression and was in a psychiatric clinic for a few months. Could be a bit of insanity still around.

  “Heather and John Cartwright. Very suspicious. Owned up they knew Lady Jane was out to get the school and they’re both fishing mad. Not a sport with them, more a religion.

  “Charlie Baxter. You can never tell with kids of that age, but I’m sure he’s out of it. The mother, On the other hand, is an hysterical type.”

  “And the major?” prompted Hamish. “He was more humiliated by Lady Jane than any of them.”

  “Oh, the fishing and all that. We heard about how he’d threatened to kill her. Don’t think there’s anything to worry about there. Fine old soldier. Blair likes him. But we’re waiting for a full report.”

  There was the crunch of wheels on the gravel outside. One minute Hamish was lounging in the chair opposite Anderson. The next he was gone—and the bottle of whisky.

  Hamish ambled along the front. A pale sun was beginning to turn the mist to gold, and there was a long patch of greenish-blue sky out on the horizon where the tiny white dot of a yacht bucketed about to show the approaching wind beyond the shelter of the harbour. The tide was out, leaving an expanse of oily pebbled beach scattered with the debris of storms and flotsam and jetsam from boats.

  He tried to focus his whole mind on the problem of the murder to banish the haunting picture of Priscilla languishing away the afternoon in this man Harrington’s arms.

  Then he saw the Roths approaching. They were an odd pair, he thought. Amy was a big, soft woman, but Marvin’s six feet topped her by a few inches. Although her movements were usually slow and calm, there seemed an underlying restlessness about her. She was wearing a trouser suit of faded denim with a scarf knotted about her throat. Marvin had changed into his usual sombre black business suit, and his bald head shone in the yellow light from the sea.

  “When is all this going to end?” demanded Marvin as the couple came abreast of Hamish. “Amy isn’t used to being treated the way she’s been by your coppers. That Blair thinks he’s hot shit.”

  “I’m used to being treated like a lady,” said Amy. “I thought all you Britishers were supposed to be gentlemen.”

  “We’re just like other folk,” said Hamish soothingly. “Like sweeties. We come in all shapes and sizes and some of us are horrible.”

  “Sweeties?” queried Amy, momentarily diverted.

  “Candy,” translated Marvin. “See here, Amy’s like aristocracy back home. This Blair wouldn’t treat your Queen like this.”

  “It’s to my way of thinking that he might,” said Hamish.

  “Well, it’s a pity Amy’s folks have all passed away or they would have something to say about this.”

  Hamish looked at Amy as Marvin spoke and noticed the tightening of the skin at the corners of her eyelids and the way she was obviously ferreting around in her mind for a change of subject. He had a sudden intuition that Amy had been lying about her background. Well, a lot of people did, but they didn’t go around committing murder when they were found out. Or did they?

  “Why doesn’t Blair just arrest that major? He’s the only one who had it in for Lady Jane,” said Amy. “You heard about his trick with the salmon?”

  “Oh, aye, the gossip went two times around the village and back again. It is very hard to keep anything quiet in the Highlands.”

  Amy muttered something like, “Just like red hook,” and Hamish wondered whether it was something to do with fishing.

  “Except murder,” said Marvin. “This place is the asshole of the world. I don’t like the country, I don’t like the hick servants at the hotel. What’s a FEB?”

  “Nothing that would apply to you, Mr Roth. It is just an expression the barman uses.”

  “Him!” said Marvin with great contempt. “He can’t even make a dry martini. One part gin to three parts warm French is his idea. Jeez, the fuckers in this dump piss me off.”

  “Honey,” pleaded Amy, “watch your language.”

  Hamish’s red eyebrows had vanished up under his cap with shock.

  “Sorry,” said Marvin wearily. “I guess I’m frightened. I feel trapped here. If we’re going for this goddam constitutional, then we’d better get on with it.”

  “Catch any fish?” asked Hamish.

  “Jeremy and Heather caught a trout each,” said Marvin, “but those salmon just can’t be caught, in my opinion. They just jump about the place and keep well away from the hooks.”

  “I could lend you one of my flies,” volunteered Hamish. “I have had a bit of luck with it.”

  “Say, why don’t you join us for dinner tonight and bring it with you,” said Marvin. “Everyone knows you’re not on the case and we’re getting a bit sick of each other. After all, one of us did it and we all sit around wondering who’s going to be next.”

  Hamish accepted the invitation and went on his way.

  As he approached the hotel, he saw Jeremy coming down towards it from the direction of the Marag, still wearing his fishing gear.

  “Got one!” he shouted as Hamish approached. He held up a fair-sized trout.

  “Let’s get into the hotel,” said Hamish, noticing a reporter and photographer heading in their direction.

  They walked together into the little room where Jeremy placed his catch on the scales and logged the weight in the book. “I was hearing that you were seen in the corridor outside Lady Jane�
��s room the night she was murdered,” said Hamish.

  “Nonsense,” said Jeremy, carefully lifting his fish off the scales. “Aren’t you supposed to be out of this investigation? I don’t think Blair would like to hear you had been asking questions.”

  “Maybe not. But he would like to hear what you’d been up to,” said Hamish.

  “Then tell him and much good it may do you,” yelled Jeremy. He rushed off, nearly bumping into Alice, who was watching them anxiously. Alice ran after Jeremy and, undeterred by the fact that he had slammed his room door in her face, she opened it and went in. He was sitting hunched on the edge of the bed. “That blasted, nosy copper,” he said without looking up.

  Alice sat down beside him and took his hand in hers. “What’s the matter, Jeremy?” she pleaded. “You’ve been awful to me all day.”

  “Christ, I’ve got enough on my mind without worrying about you,” snapped Jeremy. “I was seen outside Lady Jane’s room on the night of the murder.”

  “Oh, Jeremy. What happened?”

  “My father phoned me and told me about her. I got into a silly mess when I was at Oxford and I wanted to make sure she kept her mouth shut. She said if I spent the night with her, she would think about it. Can you imagine? That awful old cow.”

  Alice tried to withdraw her hand. What if Jeremy had murdered Lady Jane? He looked so odd, older, grimmer, and there was a muscle jumping in his left cheek.

  Jeremy turned and looked at her. “It wouldn’t have mattered so much if she had written about you,” said Alice timidly. “I mean, it wasn’t so very bad.”

  “You don’t know anything about it,” snapped Jeremy. In a flat voice, he told Alice of his Oxford scandals, although he omitted the fact he was still paying for the support of the barmaid’s child.

  “I could never have gone in for politics,” he said. He felt shaken with nerves and anger. How stupid he’d been not to have told Hamish the whole thing. He needed a drink…or something.

  He seized Alice suddenly and pulled her down on the bed. “Oh, Jeremy,” whispered Alice, forgetting that she had thought him a murderer a moment ago, “do you love me?”