Death of a Maid hm-23

by M C Beaton

  Shona Fraser arrived. Jimmy was amused to see that Hamish’s features became almost moronic as she approached.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “You will need to be asking Mr. Blair,” said Hamish. “A verra clever man. He’ll fill you in on all the details. Jimmy?”

  Hamish walked a little away and then whispered, “I’d better get around the suspects again and find out where they were. I’ll start with the professor.”

  “You do that,” said Jimmy. “I’ll wait here and then get some men to go around the rest of them.”

  ♦

  Professor Sander answered the door of his home and scowled at Hamish. “I have told the police over and over again about my movements. If this continues, I will need to put in a complaint to the Police Commission.”

  “There’s been a new development,” said Hamish. “Mrs. Samson, who was a friend of Mrs. Gillespie’s, has been found dead and her room ransacked. So you see, sir, we have to go around everyone again and ask them where they were during the last twenty-four hours.”

  “I was here,” said the professor petulantly, “working on my book. Wait a minute, not all the time. I went to Inverness last evening to see an old friend, Mr. Beresford. We had dinner and I came back late, about midnight.”

  Hamish took out his notebook. “I will need Mr. Beresford’s phone number and address.”

  “Wait there.”

  So Hamish waited, feeling the first nip of cold in the air. The long Scottish winter would soon arrive. A flock of rooks swirled up to the sky above, cawing harshly. Somewhere down the road a dog barked shrilly and then was silent.

  The professor returned and handed him a slip of paper. “There! Now, if that is all…?”

  “Not quite. Where were you this morning?”

  “Here!”

  Hamish fished out the photograph of Sean Abercrombie. “Do you recognise this young man?”

  The professor glanced at it. “No.”

  “You should. Some time ago when you were at Strathbane University, he paid you a visit and accused you of having plagiarised his work.”

  Professor Sander’s face turned red. “Oh, that young idiot. Mad as a hatter. I had to get the university security to get rid of him.”

  “And was that the last you heard from him? Did he try to contact you afterwards, write to you?”

  “No. And if you produce him, you will see that his brain is fried with drugs.”

  “He’s dead.”

  Hamish could have sworn he saw a flicker of relief in the professor’s eyes.

  “That’s all for now,” said Hamish.

  “That’s all forever as far as you’re concerned,” said the professor, and slammed the door.

  ♦

  Hamish realised he was tired and hungry. Police and detectives would be going round all the suspects. He phoned Jimmy. “Any news of how she died?”

  “Dr. Forsythe says it looks like a heart attack. Blair’s putting that out to the press and not saying anything about the ransacked room. Should keep things a bit quiet for now.”

  Not for long, thought Hamish. He was sure Elspeth would be already trying to pick up gossip from relatives and friends of the staff.

  “Jimmy, I think the professor is a good suspect. I found out a student was claiming that Sander stole his book. The boy’s dead now, drug overdose. I told the professor that, and I could swear he was relieved. Now, if the boy, Sean Abercrombie, had written to the professor with his accusations and Mrs. Gillespie found that letter, he might have paid her to keep quiet. Are you checking the bank accounts of the suspects for cash withdrawals?”

  “Working on it.”

  “Let me know. I need some time off to think. Tell Blair I’m following leads.”

  ∨ Death of a Maid ∧

  6

  Marriage is a step, so grave and decisive that it attracts light-headed, variable men by its very awfulness.

  —Robert Louis Stevenson

  Hamish returned to Lochdubh and went straight to the newspaper office in search of Terry the Geek.

  Terry was sitting with his feet on his desk, drinking apple juice and eating a whole-wheat salad sandwich.

  He grinned when he saw Hamish. “Looking for Elspeth?”

  “No, I need your help. It’s not very legal. But I’d rather you came with me to the police station and did it there.”

  “Sounds like fun.” Terry finished his sandwich and followed Hamish along to the police station. In the office, Hamish switched on the computer. “Here’s what I want you to do, Terry. First of all, I would like you to try to access the forensic report and autopsy report on Mrs. Gillespie’s death.”

  “Can’t you just ask for them?”

  “It would take too much time, and even if I finally got them, Blair would be shouting at me to keep to my part of the job.”

  “All right. Anything else?”

  “There was, I believe, probably a request put into the procurator fiscal for permission to view the suspects’ bank accounts. See if there’s anything on results.”

  “Leave me to it.”

  ♦

  Hamish did not feel like asking Jimmy for any more information because Jimmy would demand whisky and Hamish felt guilty about the idea of the detective driving back to Strathbane when he was over the limit.

  He decided to visit Angela Brodie. He let the dog and cat out for a run, telling them not to follow him. He felt Angela had had enough of their company.

  The doctor’s wife was, as usual, sitting at the end of a cluttered kitchen table, scowling at her computer.

  “Can’t you get a desk somewhere?” exclaimed Hamish. “How can you concentrate among the cats and the dirty dishes?”

  “Sit down, Hamish. I can work better in the kitchen than anywhere else. Coffee?”

  “No, thank you,” said Hamish. He wasn’t over-fussy about germs, but the sight of Angela’s cats lying on the table amongst the breakfast debris put him off.

  “Am I interrupting you?” asked Hamish.

  Angela switched off the computer with a sigh. “No, I’m glad of a break. How’s the case going?”

  “Too many suspects and not enough clues.”

  “Have you seen Mrs. Gillespie’s bank statements?”

  “Yes.”

  “So was she a blackmailer?”

  “She certainly had more money than she could have possibly earned. It came in a few hundred from time to time. No large amount.”

  “I’ve heard she was a ferocious bingo player,” said Angela. “Are you sure she wasn’t just lucky?”

  Hamish stared at her, his mouth open. Then he said, “Where did she play bingo?”

  “At the Catholic church hall in Braikie on Thursday nights.”

  Hamish groaned. “I’d better get over there. Who runs it?”

  “Ask the priest, Father McNulty.”

  “I’m off. Damn! If it turns out the woman was chust lucky at the bingo, that blows the whole motive and a raft o’ suspects clear out o’ the water.”

  Hamish went back to the police station. Terry was still working busily. “It’ll take a wee bit of time,” he called.

  “Stick with it,” said Hamish. “I’ve got to go to Braikie.”

  He whistled for his dog and cat and put them in the Land Rover and set off for Braikie.

  ♦

  The Catholic church, St. Mary’s, was situated up a side street off the main street. It was a modest, unassuming building, flanked on one side by the church hall and by the priest’s home on the other.

  He went up to the priest’s house and knocked on the door. Father McNulty himself answered. He was a small, bespectacled man with a perpetually worried look.

  “It’s about the bingo,” said Hamish.

  “Oh, not again,” groaned the priest. “The Free Presbyterians are aye whining about gambling.”

  “No, it’s something else.”

  “Come in. I was just about to have a cup of tea.”

 
Hamish followed him into a gloomy living-room-cum study. A large desk was heaped with papers, and the walls were lined with bookshelves. A card table was set up in front of the fire with a squat teapot and one cup and saucer.

  “I’ll get another cup,” said Father McNulty.

  Hamish waited impatiently until he returned. “Pull a chair over to the table,” said the priest, “and help yourself. Now, what do you want to know about the bingo?”

  “Did the late Mrs. Gillespie win much at bingo?”

  “The poor woman that was murdered? Yes, she did from time to time. She was lucky.”

  “How much are the prizes?”

  “We have a good attendance. Not big prizes, but often three or four hundred pounds.”

  “Was she a member of your congregation?”

  “No, not many of them who come to the bingo are.”

  Hamish sipped his tea and winced. It was very strong. “The thing is,” he said, “she had more in the bank account than she should have. I assumed she had been blackmailing people. So if the money came from lucky wins on bingo, that puts paid to that idea. Did you pay cash?”

  “Yes. But if that were the case, why was her friend Mrs. Samson killed?”

  “We don’t know yet if she was killed. It looked like a heart attack. But you’re right! Her room was ransacked, and she had retrieved a package of something from Mrs. Gillespie on the morning after Mrs. Gillespie was murdered. Someone obviously wanted what was in that package very badly.”

  The priest had a mild, gentle look. “Perhaps what she wanted was power.”

  “Explain.”

  “Perhaps money wasn’t the main motive. Mrs. Gillespie had been a cleaner for a long time. Then she starts to snoop around. Imagine what it would mean to her to suddenly have her employers – her rich employers – dancing to her tune. Maybe a bit of money here and there, yes, but irritating other things. Maybe she wants a run down to Inverness, and one of them has to drop everything and take her. Maybe she sees an ornament and knows it’s a prized possession and demands it. Things like that. Mrs. Gillespie, you see, was not liked.”

  Hamish suddenly remembered Queenie Hendry. All Mrs. Gillespie had demanded was cream cakes. He realised it should have struck him as surprising at the time that she had not demanded more.

  “Do you know anyone she worked for who might have moved out of the area?”

  “There was a Mrs. Forest. She left to live in Cnothan.”

  Hamish had a sudden idea. “Who runs the bingo? You?”

  “No, one of my parishioners, Miss Greedy.”

  “I would like a word with her.”

  “She works in the gift shop in the main street. Why do you want to see her?”

  “Is there any way the bingo could be rigged?”

  “My dear man! Miss Creedy is a decent woman.”

  “It’s amazing what decent women will do if they’re being blackmailed.”

  ♦

  The gift shop was called the Treasure Box. The window held a display of tartan dishcloths, tartan tea cosies, paperweights, and a jumble of other touristy items. Hamish wondered how the shop survived. Braikie had few tourists. The postcards in the rack beside the door were bleached by the weather.

  Hamish opened the door and went in. There were no customers. “Miss Creedy?” he asked the woman behind the counter.

  “Yes. What is it, Officer?”

  Miss Creedy was very thin. She was wearing two sweaters and a tweed skirt. The shop was cold. She had a long, indeterminate sort of face and anxious brown eyes. Her hair was dyed an improbable shade of gold.

  Hamish plunged right in. “The late Mrs. Gillespie was very lucky at the bingo.”

  “Yes, very lucky.”

  “Did it not strike you as unusual that someone should win so often?”

  “Not at all. Some people are just lucky.”

  “Was she blackmailing you?”

  Miss Creedy took a step back behind the counter. “That’s ridiculous,” she said shrilly.

  Hamish sighed. “We believe Mrs. Gillespie was a blackmailer. If she had anything on you, I will find it out. It would be better to tell me now.”

  “I have led a blameless life,” she shrieked. “How dare you even suggest such a thing?”

  “Calm down. Now, tell me how the numbers are drawn. Is there a spinning ball with wee balls with numbers inside it?”

  “No, the numbers are folded up in slips of paper by Father McNulty and then put into a large box. I just pull out the slips of paper and read the numbers.”

  “How many games a night?”

  “Six. We break for refreshments in the middle of the evening.”

  “So six boxes of numbers.”

  “No, just the one. After each game, I give the box a good shake.”

  “I’ll be talking to you again,” said Hamish.

  ♦

  It could be done, he thought as he drove back. Miss Creedy could give Mrs. Gillespie a bingo card before the game. She could have two boxes. In the first might be just the numbers on Mrs. Gillespie’s card. After that, the box with all the numbers would be produced.

  His stomach gave a rumble, and he had a sudden longing for decent food. He called at the police station. “Won’t be long,” said Terry. “Nearly there.”

  “I’m going to the Italian place for some food. Want to come?”

  “I’d rather keep on with this. You go yourself, and I’ll be finished by the time you get back.”

  When Hamish walked into the restaurant followed by his dog and cat, the first thing he saw was Elspeth and Luke, sitting at the table at the window.

  Sonsie and Lugs slouched off to the kitchen, where they knew, from previous visits, that the Italian chef would spoil them.

  Hamish felt he was being childish in not stopping at Elspeth’s table to say hullo. He sat down at a table near the kitchen and as far away from them as possible. Elspeth waved to him, but he pretended not to notice.

  “Your boyfriend’s snubbing you,” remarked Luke.

  “He’s not my boyfriend!”

  Luke took her hand. “Then he’s a silly man. What about marrying me, Elspeth?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “I mean it. Why not? We’re both reporters. We both get on well. What about it?”

  Elspeth looked amused. “How old·fashioned of you. I thought these days couples had affairs lasting, say, ten years and then decided to get married.”

  Elspeth glanced across at Hamish. Some imp prompted her to say, “Maybe. I’ll think about it.”

  “‘Maybe’ demands a celebration. Willie!”

  Willie Lamont, the waiter who had once been a police constable, came rushing up. “Champagne,” said Luke.

  “What’s the celebration?” asked Willie.

  “Miss Grant is ‘maybe’ going to marry me.”

  Hamish felt just as if a heavy wet stone had settled in his stomach.

  Lucia, Willie’s beautiful Italian wife, came out of the kitchen to offer her congratulations.

  “It’s a joke,” said Elspeth desperately, but Willie arrived with the champagne.

  To Luke’s horror, Willie, who had given the bottle a good shake in the kitchen, opened it with a flourish and champagne sprayed all over the place.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” shouted Luke.

  “This is what they do at Le Mans,” said Willie.

  “Well, this isn’t Le Mans!” howled Luke, picking up a napkin and dabbing at champagne stains on his suit.

  Lucia hurried off and came back with an unshaken bottle. “On the house,” she said, “and I hope you will both be very happy together.”

  “Give the copper a glass,” said Luke.

  But when they looked across the restaurant, Hamish Macbeth was gone.

  ♦

  Hamish drove steadily towards Cnothan under a darkening sky which matched his mood. Black clouds were streaming in from the west.

  It was nothing to him, nothing at all, he told himself sava
gely. If Elspeth wished to marry that dissipated reporter, it was her problem. His stomach gave another dismal rumble.

  His cat and dog, full of food from the kitchen, slept peacefully in the back.

  Cnothan was the least favourite place on his beat. He always thought of it as a sour, unwelcoming village. After a few enquiries, he found that Mrs. Forest lived in a cottage facing the dark loch, man-made by the Hydro Electric Board.

  The cottage, like the others strung out along the loch, were relics of the old village, most of which had been drowned in the loch.

  Hamish wondered what the previous inhabitants had been like. Maybe they had been warm-hearted and cheerful. Had many of them stayed on in the new village? How odd to think that down in the depth of the black waters were the remains of homes.

  He knocked on the door of Mrs. Forest’s cottage and waited. He was about to turn away when the door opened and a bent, elderly woman stared up at the tall constable. She put a liver-spotted hand to her chest, her old eyes widening with alarm.

  “It’s nothing serious,” said Hamish soothingly. “I’ve just got a few wee questions to ask about Mrs. Gillespie.”

  “You’d best come ben.”

  She stood aside. Hamish walked past her. She shut the door. “To your left,” she said.

  Hamish walked into a low-ceilinged room. She settled herself in a chair by the fire and pointed to a chair opposite her. Hamish sat down and held his cap between his knees.

  “I believe Mrs. Gillespie used to work for you.”

  “Only for a short time. I moved here mainly to get away from her.”

  “Why?”

  She clasped her hands together tightly. “Do I have to tell you?”

  “I will try to keep anything you tell me in confidence. She was blackmailing you, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes. I suppose she was.”

  “Please tell me what it was about.”

  “I was in Glasgow during the war. I got pregnant by an American serviceman. Lovely man, but he got killed in action. It was considered a sin in those days. My parents had me locked up in a hostel for unmarried mothers. My baby, a boy, was taken away for adoption, but, at that time, I was kept on in the home, doing laundry, scrubbing, things like that. It was inhumane. I escaped one day with two of the other women, and we went straight to a newspaper office and told them everything that was going on. They splashed the story, and the place was closed down.