by M C Beaton
Hamish nodded. He went to the office and brought a large one back. Mary put the address book and notebook in the handbag, and Hamish sealed it up.
“Mrs. Gillespie is being buried at eleven o’clock today,” said Mary, getting to her feet. “I suggest you attend the funeral. It’s at St. Mary’s. See who turns up, and then I would like you to get into plain clothes and something to cover that red hair of yours and keep a watch on the professor. See what he does and where he goes. Leave it to the afternoon because he’ll be interviewed in the morning. Police and detectives will interview the other suspects. We’ll get onto this Creedy woman you mentioned in your notes and see if we can get her to confess she rigged the bingo. I managed to pick up a copy of your notes tonight before I left headquarters and read them on the road over. Get some sleep. I’ll tell Blair I sent you off somewhere.”
Hamish let her out and locked the door again behind her. If only someone like that had Blair’s job, he thought before taking himself off to bed.
∨ Death of a Maid ∧
7
If you want to win her hand,
Let the maiden understand
That she’s not the only pebble on the beach.
—Harry Braisted
Hamish thought that the day of the funeral for such as Mavis Gillespie should be black and ominous. But the sun shone and the birds twittered in the trees surrounding St. Mary’s. Heather, her daughter, was there with her father. That was the sum total of the mourners. There was not even one elderly soul of the kind who loved to attend funerals in the church.
Father McNulty did his best. Hamish, Heather, and Mr. Gillespie sang the hymns and listened dry-eyed to the service. Then they followed the coffin to the public cemetery, where the body was interred.
“That’s that,” said Heather. “Now we can get on with our lives. Come along, Dad.”
“A moment of your time,” said Hamish. “Are you sure neither of you have any idea who might have killed Mrs. Gillespie?”
“I can’t think of anyone,” said Heather. “I’ll need to get Dad home. He’s not well.”
Hamish went back to the police station, in front of which a mobile police unit had been set up. Television crews and reporters were everywhere. Avoiding questions, he went into the station and changed into a sweater and jeans and pulled a black wool cap over his hair.
Then, running the barrage of press questions again, he got into his Land Rover and headed to Angela Brodie’s home.
“What is it, Hamish?” she asked.
“I’ve two favours to ask. May I borrow your car? I’ve got to follow someone, and I can’t do it in a police vehicle.”
“All right. I’m not going anywhere today. That poor little girl! What an awful thing to happen. I’ve been interviewed five times since last night. The whole thing is so badly coordinated. What’s the other favour? Oh, I know. That dog and cat of yours.”
“You don’t need to take them in,” wheedled Hamish. “I’ve left food for them on the kitchen table, and all you need to do is feed them and let them out for a walk.”
“Hamish!”
“I know, I know. But when this case is over, you’ll never need to see them.”
“This is the last time.”
“Okay, Angela. I’m off.”
“Wait! You forgot my car keys.”
♦
Hamish parked Angela’s small Ford Escort at the end of the cul-de-sac where the professor had his house, and waited. He wondered whether the inspector really hoped he would find something out or whether she was smarter than Blair at getting him out of the case. And did she realise how hard it was to tail someone on usually empty highland roads?
The morning wore on. Hamish had packed a flask of coffee and a packet of chicken sandwiches and was just thinking about getting out an early lunch when the professor’s car backed out of his driveway.
Hamish waited until he had driven past, then eased out and followed him as far back as he could without losing sight of the professor.
Professor Sander parked in the main street and got out. Hamish parked between two other cars and watched. The professor went into the butchers and emerged holding a carrier bag. Then he went into the greengrocers. Hamish waited glumly while the professor did his shopping, going from shop to shop. When he stowed his groceries in his car and moved off, Hamish followed. Back to his home went the professor.
Hamish parked again at the edge of the cul-de-sac. He moodily drank coffee and munched sandwiches and waited.
It was a rare fine day with little wisps of cloud drifting across a pale blue sky. He began to feel sleepy. He hadn’t had much sleep the night before. His eyelids drooped. He let out a gentle snore. He drifted into a dream of chasing a black figure up and over the heather. He was just gaining on the anonymous figure when it turned around, revealing the face of Detective Chief Inspector Blair.
Hamish awoke with a jerk. Had he missed the professor? He climbed stiffly out of Angela’s small car and walked along the cul-de-sac. The professor’s car was not in the drive.
Hamish raced back to the car and drove into Braikie, scanning the parked cars as he went along. He drove out of Braikie. The professor’s car was a black BMW. He came to the crossroads where one road led to Strathbane and the other to Lochdubh. He took the Strathbane road.
He drove quickly, the twisting road in front of him so far empty of any other vehicle.
He topped the rise where a long, straight stretch of road led down from the hills and into Strathbane, and in the distance he saw a black car. He raced the car up to ninety, hoping it would stand the strain.
He put on the brakes just as the thirty-mile-an-hour speed restriction loomed up. He now recognised the BMW ahead.
He followed carefully, glad of the town’s increased traffic. The professor drove to the multi-storey car park in the centre. Hamish followed. The professor parked. Hamish parked a little way away and then, getting out, followed at a discreet distance.
He had a sinking feeling that Professor Sander had come to Strathbane for no other reason than more shopping.
They were on the fourth floor of the car park. The professor walked to the lift. Hamish took the stairs and waited outside the car park.
The professor emerged and Hamish followed. First the professor went to a large bookshop and spent a considerable amount of time inside. When he finally emerged carrying a plastic bag full of books, he headed straight back for the car park.
No, thought Hamish, I am not going to follow him all the way back to Braikie. What a waste of time! He suddenly wanted food, and good food at that.
He saw a small French restaurant and decided to eat there. Occasionally good restaurants would spring up in Strathbane, only to close down after a few months, defeated by the local population’s desire for nothing other than junk food.
He glanced at his watch. Seven in the evening. He pushed open the door and went in. The restaurant was divided into booths, separated from each other by wooden partitions topped with curtained brass rails.
The prices made him blink, but there was a set menu for twenty pounds. He chose lobster bisque, followed by sea bream and salad, and although he would have liked some wine, he decided to settle for mineral water instead.
“I can’t go on like this,” said a woman’s voice in the booth behind him. “People are talking. Why don’t you get a divorce?”
Hamish, who had been about to remove his wool hat, pulled it further down about his ears instead. He recognised that voice. It was Fiona Fleming.
“I can’t.” Male voice: Dr. Renfrew. “I have my position in the community to consider. Look, it’s been fun, but let’s just leave it now. People are beginning to talk.”
“I’ll tell your wife, you bastard. You can’t dump me just like that. You said you wanted to spend the rest of your life with me!”
“Men say a lot of things in the…er…heat of the moment that they don’t mean. Look, Fiona, darling, we can still be friends.”
Ouch, thought Hamish. He’s for it now.
There came a splashing sound, and then the top of Fiona’s head appeared above the partition. Must have thrown her drink over him, Hamish guessed.
“I’ll make you sorry. I’ll make you wish you’d never been born,” howled Fiona.
No one ever says anything original when they’re hurt, thought Hamish.
Then came the sound of rapidly retreating high heels.
He heard the doctor calling for the bill.
If she did kill her husband, thought Hamish, that man’s life will be in danger. Even if she didn’t, I think she’ll turn really vicious.
He concentrated on eating his meal, wondering what to do next. Would Inspector Cannon really expect him to go on following the professor, day in and day out?
Hamish finished his meal and returned to Lochdubh. Television vans were drawn up along the waterfront. He prayed some other big story would break and take them all away.
Jimmy Anderson had seen him arrive and hurried over to the police station to join him.
“So what’s the latest?” asked Hamish.
“Shona was struck down with a tyre iron. Dumped in the boat. Pushed out to sea.”
“And no one saw anything?”
“Oh, they all saw something or heard something, but that was because of the bloody television cameras. Even those Currie sisters were wearing make-up and inventing things like mad.”
“How do you know they were inventing things?”
“I’m apt to discount reports of a tall black man with a scar.”
“Oh, dear. Still, I’d like to go through them just in case. There might be something there. Any report on the bank balances?”
“Nothing important, fifty pounds here, a couple of hundred there.”
They were standing together outside the police station. Hamish saw Mary Cannon approaching them from the police mobile unit.
“Well, Macbeth, anything to report?”
“No, ma’am. He shopped in Braikie, and then he went to Strathbane and bought books and went back home. But I was in a restaurant in Strathbane and I overheard Dr. Renfrew, who has been having an affair, telling Fiona Fleming that it was all over, and she threatened to make him sorry.”
“Write a report of that and let me have it. Was the professor in this restaurant?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then what were you doing in the restaurant?”
“It was obvious the professor was going back home, and I was hungry.”
“You were told to follow him, not disobey orders because you were hungry. Get back on it tomorrow. He’s our strongest lead.”
She turned on her heel and walked away. Mary had received a stern warning from Daviot not to get too friendly with Hamish, due to a spiteful report from Blair.
“Michty me!” said Hamish. “Didn’t anyone ask the professor what he was doing when Shona was getting bashed on the head?”
“I did. Got him up at dawn. Was he furious! Said he was in his bed fast asleep. No alibi, as he lives alone. Same with the rest of them.”
“It’s getting late and I’m tired,” said Hamish. “I am not going to hang around here, or she’ll find something to keep me up all night.”
♦
“Now what?” asked the manager of the Tommel Castle Hotel when Hamish arrived carrying an overnight bag and followed by his cat and dog.
“I really need a quiet night,” pleaded Hamish, “and I’m not going to get it if I stay at the police station.”
“Oh, all right. I can let you have a spare room, but that’s all you get. Leave the minibar alone, and breakfast is not included in this non-paying visit.”
♦
Elspeth was sitting in the bar with Luke when she saw Hamish arrive and then follow Mr. Johnson up the stairs.
“Back in a minute,” she said to Luke. He barely heard her. He was surrounded by other reporters, and all were busy making up legends about each other. Luke had not repeated his proposal of marriage, and Elspeth assumed he had proffered it because he wanted to tease Hamish. He made a few desultory tries to make love to her which she always rebuffed.
Hamish was just unpacking his bag when Elspeth knocked on his door.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said bleakly. “I was just going to bed. What do you want?”
“I want to talk about the murders.”
“Look, I’ve got a dragon of a police inspector on my back, and I can’t talk to the press.”
“I wanted to talk as friends.”
Hamish looked down at the small figure of Elspeth. She was casually dressed in a white Aran sweater, jeans, and smart black leather boots. Her odd silver eyes studied his face.
“All right,” said Hamish, suddenly remembering how useful Elspeth’s intuition had been in the past. “I can’t offer you a drink because the room’s free and I’ve been told not to touch the minibar.”
“Fine. I see Lugs and Sonsie have made themselves comfortable on the bed. I hope there’s room for you.”
“I’ll just push them to one side.”
There were two easy chairs in front of the window. They both sat down.
“Go ahead,” said Elspeth. “It’s all off the record.”
“Not a word to Luke!”
“Promise.”
Hamish outlined everything he knew. When he finished, Elspeth sat very still. Then she said, “Wouldn’t it be odd if we had two murderers here?”
“How do you mean?”
“Say Professor Sander did pinch that student’s work. He’s a very vain man. I can see him following Mrs. Gillespie down his drive, and overcome with rage, braining her with her bucket. Or Fiona Fleming might really have pushed her husband down the stairs, although I doubt it, and decided to get rid of Mrs. Gillespie once and for all.”
“But what about Shona Fraser?”
“Ah, I’m coming to that. Before she came up here, Shona Fraser worked in London for Trant TV. She worked as a researcher. Now, Trant TV specialises in reality television – you know, fly-on-the wall documentaries, exposures of famous people. They did a scam with that soap actress Bernice James. One of their reporters pretended to be a drug dealer and went to her hotel room to supply her with coke. They had a hidden camera and got her snorting coke on film. What if Shona had found out something about someone during her researches and they followed her up here and killed her to keep her quiet?”
“How do you know all this about Shona?”
“From the London press in the bar. You may not like the press, Hamish, but they sometimes can find out things the police can’t.”
“How long was Shona working for Trant TV?”
“I don’t know. I can easily find out. So can you.”
“It’s hard for me to get a bit of peace from my superiors these days. Could you…?”
“Very well. How can I contact you?”
“I’ll give you my mobile phone number. Is there anything serious between you and Luke?”
Elspeth hesitated. Then she decided it would be better to leave Hamish guessing. He had hurt her badly in the past, and she had no intention of letting him hurt her again.
“Mind your own business,” she said. “Any news of darling Priscilla?”
Hamish flushed angrily. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Sonsie let out a slow hiss.
“I’d better go,” said Elspeth. “Your guard cat is getting upset.”
“Look, I’m very grateful to you for this stuff about Shona. There may well be something there. I’ve got to follow the professor again tomorrow. I feel it’s a waste of time.”
Elspeth had half risen. She sat down again. “I’ve a thought. What about Miss Creedy?”
“She may well have been fiddling the bingo results – but murder!”
“There are still people in this wicked world today who prize respectability, particularly in small towns and villages.”
“But Mrs. Gillespie couldn’t have threatened to expose her without exposing h
erself.”
“Look at it another way. She must have had something on Miss Creedy to make the woman even want to cheat.”
Hamish groaned. “I only wish I wasn’t stuck with the professor.”
“I really am off now, Hamish.” Elspeth stood up, and Hamish followed her to the door. “I tell you what, I might have a go at Miss Creedy myself.”
“Would you? That would be grand. I’ll buy you dinner tomorrow night.”
“Oh yeah, Sherlock? And like those previous times, you’ll fail to turn up.”
“I’m sorry about that. If I could just explain…”
“Forget it. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
♦
Hamish showered and got into his pyjamas, lifted his grumbling pets off the bed, and got in himself. The cat leapt back on and lay beside him, and Lugs lay at his feet. He fell into a dreamless sleep, not waking until seven in the morning.
♦
Hamish left his pets at the police station and was getting into the Land Rover again when Mary Gannon came up behind him, making him jump.
Hamish swung round. “Just off to Braikie,” he said.
“See you keep on the job. Do not speak to the press. I know you show great insight and intelligence, but it is necessary in a big case like this that we all work together, and that means following orders. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“That’s the stuff,” said Blair, coming up to join them. “That laddie needs a wumman’s firm touch.”
“Mr. Blair, if I want your advice, I’ll ask for it,” snapped Mary.
“Och, come on. It was just a wee joke. The way you females take on.”
“Any more of that, and I’ll have you up before the board for sexual discrimination. Also for alcoholism. You stink of booze and at this time in the morning!”
Hamish got into Angela’s car and sped off, leaving them to it.
It was one of those grey misty days in the Highlands where all the colour is bleached out of the landscape and sounds are muffled. The mist grew thicker as he reached Braikie and parked at the end of the cul-de-sac.
