Death of a Maid hm-23

by M C Beaton

And petrifies the feeling!

  —Robert Burns

  Hamish suddenly realised that he had not seen Matthew Campbell, the local reporter who was married to Lochdubh’s schoolteacher. “Where’s Matthew?” he called over to Elspeth.

  “On vacation,” she called back. “He’ll be furious at missing all this.”

  “But we’re not, are we, darling?” said Luke, and kissed her on the cheek.

  Hamish turned back to Terry, his accent suddenly more marked. “Chust let us get on with this. Whit about Professor Sander?”

  But apart from a short paragraph two years ago saying that the professor had given a lecture on Byron at the Braikie high school, there was nothing else. Mrs. Styles was mentioned various times in connection with church works, and there was nothing at all on Mrs. Barret-Wilkinson.

  Hamish thanked Terry. He stopped beside Elspeth. “A wee word wi’ you in private.”

  “Okay, we’ve just finished.”

  They walked together outside. “Is that your fellow?” shouted Hamish, but the screaming gale whipped his words away.

  By unspoken consent, they hurried along to the local bar. “What?” demanded Elspeth when they were inside. “No, I haven’t time for a drink. What is it?”

  “Is that your fellow?”

  “What’s it got to do with you?”

  Hamish suddenly felt silly. “Chust wondered.”

  “Then go on wondering,” said Elspeth, and shot out of the door.

  Hamish saw Archie Maclean, the fisherman, sitting at a table beside the peat fire.

  He bought himself a tonic water and went to join him.

  “Wimmin trouble?” asked Archie.

  “No, it iss chust this case I’m working on.”

  “You know,” said Archie, “I haff been thinking. It iss all around the village that the auld woman, Gillespie, might ha’ been a blackmailer, but I haff the ither idea.”

  “That being?” The high colour caused by Elspeth’s last remark was slowly subsiding in Hamish’s face.

  “It iss this. It wass not the blackmailing at all, at all. It wass the cleaning.”

  “Cleaning?”

  “Aye. Now, look at my missus. She cleans and cleans and scrubs and polishes from sunup to sundown and, man, I tell you, Hamish Macbeth, there haff been the times when I haff had the evil thoughts.”

  Hamish looked sympathetically at Archie in his tight suit. The locals said his wife even boiled his suits in the wash, and Archie always carried around with him an aroma of old·fashioned carbolic soap and disinfectant.

  “Archie, there are times when we all feel like murdering someone, but we don’t do it.”

  “Aye, but there is nothing like soap and water and scrubbing for tipping a man over the edge.”

  ♦

  Hamish suddenly decided to go back and see Mr. Gillespie. But when he arrived at the housing estate, he could see police tape across the front of the garden. Jimmy was standing outside, smoking.

  “What’s going on?” asked Hamish.

  “We’re digging up the garden in case she might have buried a box of stuff there.”

  “I’m beginning to think Mrs. Gillespie knew her life was in danger and the packet given to Mrs. Samson contained the genuine articles.” Hamish told Jimmy about what might have been two attempts on Mrs. Gillespie’s life. “All the bankbooks and stuff were in that box I gave you.”

  Hamish then went to Heather Gillespie’s bungalow, but she wasn’t at home. He decided to go to the hospital and talk to Dr. Renfrew. Perhaps Mrs. Gillespie had been blackmailing him over his alleged affair with Mrs. Fleming.

  He had to wait an hour before Dr. Renfrew appeared. Hamish looked at him in surprise. He had expected someone handsome. But Dr. Renfrew was small and tubby with thinning hair, gold-rimmed spectacles, podgy hands, and an arrogant manner.

  “I hope you have a very good reason for disturbing me, Officer,” he said.

  “Are you having an affair with Mrs. Fiona Fleming?” asked Hamish bluntly.

  “This is outrageous. You come in here and – ”

  Hamish interrupted. “Just answer the question.”

  “Of course not. I have a good mind to sue you for slander.”

  “Then you’d better sue most of Braikie as well,” said Hamish. “The reason I am asking is because the late Mrs. Gillespie appears to have been a blackmailer. Did she come after you?”

  “I have nothing to hide. I lead a blameless life. Good day, Officer!”

  ♦

  Hamish drove out of Braikie and up into the hills. He parked the Land Rover and let the dog and cat out into the heather for a run. He found a flat rock jutting out of the heather and sat down on it and stared out over Braikie. So many suspects. His thoughts were being hampered by a reluctant appreciation of the murderer. Mrs. Gillespie had been a vile woman. Still, murder was murder. He wondered whether Mrs. Samson was still at risk. He phoned Jimmy and asked if anyone was checking on her.

  “There’s a police guard on her,” said Jimmy. “What are you doing now?”

  “I think I’ll go to Strathbane University and see if I can dig up anything on the professor’s past. See if there’s anyone there old enough to remember him. Don’t tell Blair.”

  ♦

  Strathbane University was a dismal Stalinist sort of building, put up in the fifties when most architects seem to have been in love with concrete. White-faced, unhealthy-looking students roamed its corridors. Hamish found his way to the bursar’s office. The bursar, Mrs. Pilkington, was an efficient-looking grey-haired woman. “I’ll check the records,” she said in answer to Hamish’s request. She switched on a computer on her desk.

  At last, she said, “Professor Sander came here from Glasgow University in 1992. He retired from here five years ago.”

  “Why did he leave a big university like Glasgow to come here?”

  “That I do not know.”

  “Is there anyone who might remember him? Someone he might have been friendly with?”

  “I’m new to the job here. You could ask my predecessor, Mrs. Black. I’ll give you her address.”

  ♦

  Mrs. Black lived in a croft house outside Strathbane on the Ullapool road.

  When Hamish explained the reason for his visit, she invited him in. Like most croft houses, hers was very small, with a stone-flagged living room. Mrs. Black was an energetic, white-haired woman with a shrewd, intelligent face.

  “I’ll make us some tea,” she said. “Sit down by the fire.”

  Hamish looked around as she hurried off to the kitchen counter at the opposite side of the room. There was one good landscape painting over the fireplace and bookshelves crammed into every available space.

  “Do you have sheep?” he asked.

  “Yes, I do have sheep, and I’m going to sell the lot at the next sheep sales in Lairg. I’d only played at it before, helping out crofter friends. It’s more bother than it’s all worth.”

  She brought over two mugs of tea and set them on a coffee table in front of the fire and then sat down opposite Hamish.

  “So what do you want to know about Professor Sander?”

  “Could anyone have been blackmailing him?”

  “I shouldn’t think so. Fussy little man. Always complaining about something or another. How things were better at Glasgow University and so on until one day I shouted at him, “Why don’t you go back there?” He didn’t bother me much after that.”

  “Not attracted to any of the students?”

  “Nothing like that. I don’t think he liked them. Oh, wait a bit. There was something. I’d nearly forgotten. A chap turned up one day, and I could hear him shouting that Sander had stolen his work. That book on Byron. But he was shabby and dirty, and I think he was a junkie with delusions. Nobody paid any heed to his allegations, and we never saw him again.”

  “If Sander had stolen someone’s work, that would be a motive for blackmail,” said Hamish. “I mean, that was really the only work he produced.�
��

  “It’ll be hard to prove unless you find the young man. I know, he came to me first and I took a note of his name before directing him to Sander’s office.”

  “Where did you take a note?”

  “Just on a pad on my desk.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to have kept the notebook?”

  “If I did, it’s up in the loft with all the other papers. When I cleared my desk, I just threw everything into two large boxes.”

  “May I look?”

  “You’ll need to go up there yourself. My legs aren’t what they used to be.”

  She led Hamish into the small hall and pulled down a folding ladder. Hamish climbed up and raised the trapdoor. He heaved himself into the loft and crawled towards two boxes standing among a jumble of discarded furniture and odds and ends. He propelled them to the loft opening, stood on the ladder, and lifted out one carton, carried it down, and then went back for the other.

  “You’d better let me look,” said Mrs. Black. “I might recognise that notebook unless I threw it away. Lift the boxes through to the table at the window. I don’t want to have to be bending over the things.”

  Hamish did as he was told and waited impatiently while she slowly took out one item after the other. His stomach gave a rumble. He longed for a really filling, stodgy meal.

  At last, she said, “I think this is it.” She lifted out a yellow notepad. She took it over to her seat by the fire and began to go through it. “Yes, this is it,” she said. “Sean Abercrombie to see Professor Sander, March 10, 1996. Yes, I remember now. This Sean looked pretty awful, but he was politely spoken and said he had been a student of the professor’s at Glasgow University. I even took a note of his address. Here it is. I’ll tear this page out for you.”

  Hamish looked at the address. Forty-five John Street, Inverness.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll just put these boxes back for you.”

  “Leave them. Now they’re down here, I’d like a chance to go through them. Call back and let me know how you get on.” Mrs. Black ushered him out.

  ♦

  Hamish decided that food came first. He remembered seeing a fish-and-chip shop on the outskirts of Strathbane. He drove there and studied the menu. He decided to forgo such Scottish delicacies as Mars bar and chips, Bounty bar and chips, deep-fried pizza slice and chips, and all the other things that made Scotland the unhealthiest place in the world, and settled for a haggis and chips for himself, white pudding and chips for Lugs, and fish and chips for Sonsie.

  By the time they had all eaten, it was getting dark, but he decided he could not bear to wait until the following day before finding Sean Abercrombie and took the long road down to Inverness.

  John Street was down by the Caledonian Canal. Number 45 was one of the neat little houses with gardens that had replaced the tower blocks.

  He rang the bell. The door was answered by a middle-aged man with a shock of white hair. He was dressed in a checked shirt, stained grey trousers, and carpet slippers.

  “Paid the parking ticket,” he shouted. “Police harassment, that’s what this is!”

  “Nothing like that,” said Hamish soothingly. “Does Sean Abercrombie live here?”

  “Not any longer. My boy is dead.”

  “May I come in?”

  “No.”

  “Look, what happened to your son?”

  “Drug overdose, the silly wee mucker. I slaved to give that boy all the opportunities I never had. He was brilliant at school. Got a scholarship to Glasgow University. Then he got on the drugs.”

  “Your son seemed to think that a certain Professor Sander had stolen his work.”

  “He was always raving on about something. Before the end, he’d go out at night calling to the aliens and shouting at the sky, “Come and take me home. The experiment is over.” Fair broke my heart.”

  “Did he leave any papers, any manuscripts?”

  “That he did. I made a big pile o’ them and burnt the lot.”

  “Have you a photograph of him I could borrow? I’ll give you a receipt for it. One of the latest ones would be best.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “Maybe Sean was telling the truth and this professor did steal his work.”

  “You’ll find out it was nothing but havers. Oh, wait there. I’ll get you a photograph.”

  After a short time, he returned with a photograph.

  Hamish studied it in the light shining out from the doorway. It was a photo of Sean in front of the house. He had a head of black hair gelled so that it stuck up all over the place. He had studs in his ears and a stud in his nose. He was dressed entirely in black. His face seemed set in a perpetual sneer.

  “Thanks,” said Hamish, touching his cap.

  ♦

  Now, he thought as he drove back to Lochdubh, I’ll take this photo to Professor Sander tomorrow and study his reaction.

  Elspeth was waiting for him when he arrived at the police station. As he opened the car door, she wrinkled her nose.

  “Have you been buying up a whole fish-and-chip shop?”

  “What do you want?” asked Hamish, going round and opening the back to let the dog and cat out. He was still angry with her for the way she had stormed out of the pub.

  “Just a chat.”

  “Where’s your boyfriend?”

  Elspeth opened her mouth to say Luke wasn’t her boyfriend, but decided against it. Let Hamish Macbeth think there were other men interested in her.

  “Resting,” she said.

  Hamish filled the animals’ water bowls. “I can’t tell you anything, Elspeth. Not yet. You know what Blair is like. He’s always looking for some excuse to get me into trouble.”

  “Maybe I’ve got some bits and pieces that might help you. Or not. Mrs. Styles, like Mrs. Wellington, seems absolutely blameless. I can’t find out anything about Mrs. Barret-Wilkinson. Luke and I went to see her. The only mystery I can think of is why a divorced woman – she said she was divorced…”

  “Missed that,” said Hamish, lighting the stove. “Sometimes I forget to ask the obvious. Go on.”

  “Why a single woman should want to shut herself away in such a remote place. She goes away occasionally – to London, the locals think – but she does not seem to have any friends in the north. But she seems a pretty strong character, and I can’t see Mrs. Gillespie threatening her in any way.

  “Now, Professor Sander. He huffed and puffed and told us to get lost. I sense something sleazy about that man.

  “Mrs. Fleming seems the obvious one. According to the local gossips, she’s having an affair with Dr. Renfrew. He’s rich. Maybe she’s planning to be the next Mrs. Renfrew. Maybe she pushed her husband down the stairs, and Mrs. Gillespie guessed or found out something. You see, to all her clients, she was just a cleaning woman. Then after she’s ingratiated herself, she starts opening drawers and reading letters. She can’t have tried to blackmail Mrs. Fleming over the affair with Dr. Renfrew because that seems to be general knowledge.”

  “Maybe Mrs. Fleming didn’t know that.” Hamish threw some slabs of peat onto the blazing kindling in the stove and put the iron lid down.

  He turned and looked at Elspeth. Her hair was beginning to frizz up in the old way, and her Gypsy eyes gleamed silver. He felt that treacherous tug of attraction.

  “Why don’t I change and take you out for dinner?” he said suddenly.

  “Can’t,” said Elspeth. “Luke’s waiting for me. And have you forgotten the time? It’s eleven o’clock.”

  “Then you’d better run along.”

  ♦

  Hamish decided the following morning to visit Mrs. Samson before tackling the professor. He would need to impress on her that if that package had not gone up in the flames, then her life was at risk.

  High Haven had once been a hotel, and five years ago it became an old folks’ home. Hamish always found such places depressing. For one thing, the walls were usually painted in pink and blue pastel colours as
if for a children’s kindergarten.

  He asked at the reception desk for Mrs. Samson and was told she was resting in her room. A nurse was summoned to show him the way.

  The first thing Hamish noticed as they walked into the corridor where Mrs. Samson’s room was located was that there was no policeman on duty.

  “Where’s the policeman?” he asked.

  “He got called back to police headquarters yesterday evening,” said the nurse. “That’s Mrs. Samson’s room.” She knocked on the door. “Visitor for you!”

  There was no reply. “Must be asleep,” said the nurse, opening the door. Then she let out a gasp and put her hand to her mouth.

  The small room had been ransacked. Even the mattress had been ripped open.

  And lying in the middle of the mess was the dead body of Mrs. Samson.

  Hamish checked for a pulse but found none. He backed out of the room and called Jimmy.

  While he waited for the whole murder circus to arrive, he wondered which one of the suspects could have been terrified enough to murder Mrs. Samson. Surely not Mrs. Fleming. The verdict on her husband’s death had been accident and would stay that way. He doubted if any evidence that she had murdered him would come to light. And the affair with Dr. Renfrew? Surely she must know by now that her affair was pretty general knowledge. Which one of them had such a momentous secret? The professor? Sheer vanity might have driven him to it. It seemed the only thing in his life of any merit was that book on Byron.

  He could hear sirens approaching. He waited until Blair, followed by the director of the home, Mr. Beesley, came hurrying along the corridor.

  Hamish explained briefly what he had found and how he suspected the duty policeman had been lured away. Cursing horribly, Blair stood aside to let the pathologist do her work.

  Hamish walked to the reception desk and asked the nurse on duty if she could check her records and see if anyone had visited Mrs. Samson in the last twenty-four hours.

  She shook her head after checking her computer.

  He walked outside and met Jimmy. “Now what?” said Jimmy. “We’ll really have the press on our backs now. You had a look at her? How did she die? Strangled? Clubbed? Poisoned?”

  “I don’t know,” said Hamish. “Her face looked peaceful. The room had been taken to bits. I’ve a feeling that whoever was looking for that package didn’t find it. I’m sure that’s the reason her room was ransacked. Maybe she wasn’t murdered. Maybe she was just threatened and got a heart attack.”