by M C Beaton
“You’ve come about the murder. Sit down,” said Mrs. Samson.
“How did you hear about it?”
“It was on the telly a quarter of an hour ago. The telly’s in the kitchen. I don’t often watch it, mind, but I keep it on for the sound.” The faint noises of laughter and cheering filtered through from the kitchen. A game show, guessed Hamish.
“I have been interviewing Mrs. Fleming,” said Hamish. “I have to establish alibis for this morning for everyone Mrs. Gillespie cleaned for. Did you see Mrs. Fleming go out this morning?”
“Aye, she took her lads to school, then herself came back. Poke the fire, laddie. It’s right cold in here.”
Hamish picked up a brass poker by the hearth and poked the fire and then backed off as smoke poured up into his face.
“Och,” he said crossly, “you need your chimney swept.”
“Sit down and mind your own business.”
“Did she go out again?” asked Hamish.
Mrs. Samson’s face seemed to swim through the layers of smoke. “She might ha’ done. I had to go to the you know what. It’s up the stairs and man, at my age, it’s like climbing Everest. It’s the arthuritis. Takes me ages.”
“We feel that Mrs. Gillespie might have been a blackmailer,” said Hamish.
Mrs. Samson’s eyes gleamed with malice. A spurt of flame rose from the smoking fire and shone red on the thick lenses of her glasses. “So she might have killed him, after all.”
“Who?”
“Her man, Bernie Fleming. Why would a fit man like that fall down the stairs? He wasn’t fond of a dram, either.”
Hamish was beginning to hate her, but gossip was invaluable.
“Were they a happy couple?”
“Not a bit of it. I could hear them fighting.”
“What? From a villa next door?”
“In their garden in the summer when I was taking the air, I heard them. She screamed that she was sick of cleaning and polishing and that he never took her anywhere. Soon as he was dead, she sold all his stuff, all the furniture, and got all modern put in.”
“I noticed the stairs,” said Hamish. “They’re steep and of polished wood. A man could easily slip.”
Mrs. Samson snorted. “In his day they were thick carpet, top to bottom.”
“How do you know? Had you been in their house?”
“No, but Mrs. Gillespie told me.”
“Did she now? Friendly with her, were you?”
“Herself would drop in now and then for a wee bittie o’ a chat. Not many’ll spend time with an auld woman.”
“Did she say anything to lead you to believe that Mrs. Fleming might have murdered her husband?”
“No, but I have my suspicions.”
“Did she talk about her other clients?” Hamish consulted his list. “Professor Sander, Mrs. Styles, Mrs. Wellington, and Mrs. Barret-Wilkinson?”
“Och, just a few wee remarks, like Mrs. Wellington was a slave-driver and Mrs. Styles wasn’t as saintly as she liked to make out. Never said anything about the other two.”
Hamish suddenly longed to get out of the smoky room. He got to his feet. “I’ll be off, then. I may want another word with you. I think Mrs. Gillespie may have been blackmailing her employers.” He turned in the doorway. “Did Mrs. Gillespie have any friends?”
“I think she sometimes talked to Mrs. Queenie Hendry, her what has the bakery in the main street.”
♦
Hamish’s mobile phone rang as he was leaving the house. It was Jimmy. “Blair says you’re to get over to the daughter’s. No one’s broken the news to her yet.”
“What’s up with her father? Surely he’ll have phoned her by now.”
“We’ve just left Mr. Gillespie. He says it would sound better coming from the police, don’t ask me why. Here’s her address. The Nest, Shore Road, one of those bungalows. You’d think people like that lived in mansions the way they won’t give a street number. How’re you doing?”
“Got a lot, but I’ll tell you in private this evening. I don’t want Blair crashing around at this point.”
As Hamish drove along the shore road, the wind screamed and buffeted at his vehicle, and ahead he could see the first waves crashing onto the road. The Nest had a sign in pokerwork outside the gate, which swung and creaked in the wind on two thin iron chains. He wondered whether Heather Gillespie would be out at work, if she did work, but as he opened the gate, he saw a slim figure heaving sandbags in front of the door.
“Miss Gillespie?” Hamish suddenly wondered whether Heather Gillespie was married.
She turned around. Her eyes sharpened in alarm when she saw his uniform.
“May we go inside?” asked Hamish, holding on to his cap against the screeching wind. She silently led the way.
Another living room, this one sparsely furnished in assemble-it-yourself table and chairs. Hamish recognised them, having seen them offered in a DIY shop in Inverness. The room was very cold. The fireplace had been sealed off. An unlit two-bar electric heater stood in front of it.
Heather Gillespie was very thin but with a large heavy head covered in a shock of ginger hair. Her eyes were her finest feature, being large and silvery grey. The colour of Elspeth’s eyes, thought Hamish, and suddenly wondered whether she had arrived yet.
“I have bad news,” said Hamish. “I am afraid Mrs. Gillespie is dead.”
“A stroke?” demanded Heather.
“No, I am afraid herself was murdered.”
She turned very pale. “Can I get you something?” asked Hamish.
“No, no. It’s the shock. How? When? Where is my father?”
“Mrs. Gillespie was murdered this morning outside the home of Professor Sander. Someone struck her down. Your father has been told the sad news. For some reason, he thought the news would sound better coming from the police.”
“Dad’s not a well man. I can understand that. I’d better go to him.”
“Do you know of anyone who would wish your mother harm?”
“Just about everyone.”
“Miss Gillespie…it is Miss Gillespie?”
“It is now. I was married, but after the divorce, I reverted to my maiden name.”
“May I sit down for a minute?”
She indicated the table at the window, and both of them sat down. Beyond the window, the sea tumbled and roared with increasing frequency.
Hamish took out his notebook. “What was the name of your ex?”
“Tom Morrison.”
“Where can I find him?”
“In Braikie. He runs the local garage.”
“Any children?”
“No. Look, what’s this got to do with my mother’s murder?”
“I wass chust wondering,” said Hamish, the sibilance of his accent showing he was becoming nervous, “whether your mother had anything to do with the break-up of your marriage.”
A fat tear ran down Heather’s cheek, followed by another and another until she was sobbing helplessly. Hamish saw a box of tissues on the coffee table. He fetched it and put it down beside her.
She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Then she said in a low voice, “Ma told me that Tom was having an affair with Bertha Maclean, the local tart. I challenged him, and he said Ma was a nasty auld liar. I followed him one night and saw him go up the stairs to her flat. That was enough for me, and I filed for divorce. After the divorce, I met Bertha in the street and had a go at her. She said she had breast cancer and a few of the villagers had been helping her out. Tom had called round to fix a few things in the flat for her.
“I asked Tom about it, and he said Bertha at first didn’t want anyone to know she had cancer and had sworn the few people helping her to secrecy. I shouted at him that he could have told me. He said he was sick of living with a woman who was so much under her nasty mother’s thumb and he could kill the old bitch. He said Ma had told him that I was sick of being married to him. Of course, I denied it, but the damage had been done. I’ve barely
spoken to my mother since.”
“But she isn’t really your mother, is she?”
“No, but my own mother died when I was three years old, and I got in the way of calling her Ma.”
Hamish reflected that Mrs. Gillespie must have been an evil influence, although Tom and Heather certainly did not seem to have trusted each other very much.
“I’d better go and see Dad,” said Heather.
“I’ll help you with the sandbags first,” said Hamish.
She looked at her watch. “It’ll be all right now. The tide’s on the turn.”
♦
Elspeth Grant had unpacked her suitcase and was looking out of the window of the Tommel Castle Hotel down to where the little whitewashed houses of Lochdubh fronted the sea loch. She opened the window and breathed in a great gulp of pine-scented air.
It was great to be back. There was a knock at her door. She opened it. Bessie, one of the maids, stood there, holding clean towels. “Welcome back, Miss Grant,” she said. “You’ll be up here reporting the murder?”
“Murder? What murder?”
“Poor auld Mrs. Gillespie. Someone brained her with her bucket.”
Elspeth suppressed a sudden mad desire to laugh. “Who was Mrs. Gillespie?”
“Herself was a cleaner, lived over Braikie way. You’ll be seeing Hamish?”
Before Elspeth could reply, Luke Teviot strolled in.
“Hullo, sweetheart,” he said cheerfully. “What does one do for entertainment around here?”
Bessie’s eyes widened. She put the towels in the bathroom and then scurried off to spread the news around that Elspeth Grant had come up to the Highlands with a boyfriend.
♦
The light was fading fast as Hamish walked into the garage run by Tom Morrison. There was a man in faded blue, oil-stained overalls bent over a car engine.
“Mr. Morrison?”
“I’m just about to close up. What do you want?”
He straightened up. He was a short man with a square, pleasant face and a shock of black curly hair.
“Have you heard about the murder?” asked Hamish.
“Aye, it’s all over the village.”
“Tell me where you were this morning.”
“You mean, you think I murdered the auld scunner? No, that I did not. I was right here. My assistant, Tolly, he was here the whole time. Folks came by for petrol from the pump. I can give you their names.”
“No, that’ll be fine,” said Hamish, not only feeling sure Tom was telling the truth but also not wanting to waste valuable time going through his list of customers. “Tell me about Mrs. Gillespie. Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to murder her?”
“My first thought,” said Tom, wiping his hands on a rag, “is that it could be anyone. She was not liked. But murder! No, I can’t think of a person who would do that. I’ve felt like it sometimes. She broke up my marriage to her stepdaughter. But it’s a lang, lang way between thinking and doing.”
“Will you be getting back with Heather now?” asked Hamish.
“I don’t think so. She didn’t trust me, and when there’s no trust in a marriage, it’s no good.”
“If there’s no jealousy in a marriage,” said Hamish, “then there’s no love.”
“I know you, Macbeth. You’re not married, so what would you know about it?”
“A lot, believe you me. Now, I want you to think hard about who she knew and who she might have been blackmailing.”
“Blackmail!”
“Perhaps. There wasn’t a scrap of business papers in her home. Do you happen to know if she owned any other property?”
Tom shook his head. “Better ask Heather or her father.”
“I will. I’ll come back tomorrow for a chat.”
♦
Hamish drove straight to Lochdubh. Jimmy was waiting for him outside the police station. “I thought you’d have let yourself in like everyone else does,” said Hamish, unlocking the door. “You know where the spare key is kept.”
“I just got here.”
Hamish let him in. Then he remembered his dog and cat. Where had they gone? The last he had seen of them was when they had headed off together.
The phone in the office rang, and he went to answer it. It was Angela Brodie, the doctor’s wife. “I saw your police car passing, and I’ve sent your animals home. They were round here mooching food. I’ve fed them both.”
“Thanks, Angela. I’ve got to rush. I’ll call on you tomorrow.”
When Hamish returned to the kitchen, it was to find Jimmy frantically rummaging in the cupboards.
“The whisky’s in the oven,” said Hamish.
“What’s it doing there?”
“Well, the locals come round and say, “What about a dram?” and if I want rid of them, I say I haven’t any. I’ve even known them to do what you were doing and start searching the cupboards, saying they’re sure I have some and I’ve just forgotten where I put it.”
Jimmy retrieved the half bottle from the oven and took down two glasses from a cupboard.
Jimmy poured a large measure for himself and a small one for Hamish. He drained his glass and filled it up again.
“That’s better.” He sighed. “What have you got?”
Hamish described everything he had found out.
“So,” said Jimmy, “the main thing is the missing papers or letters. Safe-deposit box?”
“Oh, my, I forgot about that one.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve a feeling she wouldn’t leave them there and that the manager would have told you if she had a safe-deposit box. Maybe she bought some sort of lock-up.”
“Or she might just have buried them in her garden.”
“There’s an idea. I’ll get the men onto it.”
“How did you get on with Mrs. Styles?”
Jimmy poured himself more whisky. “That was quite a scene,” he said. “Blair tried to bully her, and she tore into him and called him a disgrace. She said he was not a Christian. He was that furious, he was going to take her in for questioning. She phoned Daviot and said she was putting in a complaint for police harassment. Daviot pulled Blair off and suggested it would be better if the questioning was left to Hamish Macbeth. Of course, Blair agreed, hoping that Mrs. Styles would put in a complaint about you.”
“I’ll try her first thing in the morning.” A sharp bark sounded from outside the door. Hamish opened it, and Lugs and Sonsie slouched in.
“This is interesting, the bit where that old neighbour told you that Bernie Fleming might have been murdered. How would Mrs. Gillespie know? No proof.”
“She might have been cleaning at the time. Say Mrs. Fleming lost her temper and gave him an almighty push. What about the professor, now?” asked Hamish. “Silly pompous wee man that he is.”
“Blair toadied to him, so we didn’t get much. He was never married. Doesn’t seem to be gay. Blameless, boring life, if you ask me.”
“Someone as arrogant as he is wouldn’t have gone on putting up with such as Mrs. Gillespie for long.”
“Could be,” said Jimmy. “But by all accounts the woman was a bully. Blair’s a bully and look at the way he arse-licked the old boy. Maybe she treated him well. Anyway, now that our esteemed leader thinks you have the right touch, you’ll be able to have a talk with him yourself.”
The kitchen door opened, and Elspeth walked in, followed by Luke Teviot. “I’m off,” said Jimmy. “How’re things in the big city, Elspeth?”
“Not as exciting as here. You’ve got a murder.”
“Ask your boyfriend about it,” said Jimmy, and made his escape.
“Boyfriend?” asked Luke.
“He was just joking,” said Elspeth quickly.
Luke sat down at the kitchen table. “Got an ashtray in here?”
Hamish took out an ashtray from one of the cupboards and put it on the table. Luke lit a cigarette. Hamish had given up smoking a long time ago and was annoyed to find himself longing for one.
Elspeth and Hamish sat down and surveyed each other warily. Elspeth had had her frizzy hair straightened, and Hamish was not sure whether he liked it or not. She was also dressed smart-casual rather than in the usual assortment of thrift shop clothes she used to wear.
“You made it here fast,” said Hamish. “You’ve both been sent to cover the murder?”
“No, we’re here on holiday together.”
“So you’re an item?”
“No,” said Luke, and “Yes,” said Elspeth, both at the same time.
Luke noticed that Hamish now seemed amused and relaxed where a moment before he had been stiff and angry.
“The thing is,” said Elspeth, “that we could both end up having a paid holiday. The news desk is keen on this.”
“Why?” asked Hamish curiously. “You’ve got murders damn near every day in Glasgow. This is chust one auld woman who got bashed with her bucket.”
“Because we happen to be up here, and a murder in the Highlands is considered more interesting, so what can you tell us?”
“Elspeth, you know the ropes. You’ll both need to go to Strathbane and get the official statement. I cannae tell you anything other than the fact that, yes, she was murdered when she was leaving Professor Sander’s house in Braikie. I found the body.”
“Why were you there?” asked Elspeth.
“Chust happened to be passing.”
“You’re lying, Hamish.” Elspeth’s silver eyes were fixed on his face. “We’ve been to view the scene of the crime. The prof’s house is at the end of a cul-de-sac. Bessie, the maid at the hotel, told me you’d won the services of Mrs. Gillespie in a raffle. You went to see her. What about? There’s a rumour flying around that she might have been a blackmailer. Did she ferret among the police papers?”
“That’s enough,” said Hamish sharply. “Look, Elspeth, I’ll do a deal wi’ ye. Go to police headquarters. Get a statement from them. Do it by the book. But there’s one thing I’ll tell you: if she was a blackmailer, I can’t find a letter or even bills in her house – not a bit of paper. She may have hidden them somewhere. You find out where, and I’ll give you what I’ve got.”
“You’re on. Not like you not to offer us some refreshment, Hamish.”
