Death of a Charming Man hm-10

by M C Beaton

  “But no one saw him go. Did you?”

  She shook her head and then said, “If he left in the middle of the night, no one would see him, would they? Everyone in this village sleeps like the dead.”

  “What about the brick that was thrown through Peter’s window?”

  “Oh, I can tell you about that. That was the men of the village led by that great big idiot, Jock Kennedy. They were trying to scare him out of the village and I suppose they succeeded, although it surprised me. Peter seemed to delight in getting people’s backs up.”

  Hamish gave her a shrewd look. “You got wise to him?”

  “Oh, yes. At first I was charmed like everyone else. But one had only to look at the way he tied these poor women up in knots. And yet he brought some life here. At least when everyone was at the exercise classes, there was a feeling off community. I have been speaking to Callum about that I want to put on a Christmas show in the community hall. Some of the women do have good singing voices. A pantomime would be a good idea. I have already written off for a script. One can buy one of the traditional scripts and then just add in a few local jokes. You are staving with Edie? Yes, I have sent her a note inviting her and some of the other women to the manse tonight to discuss the project. It will give them an interest.”

  “I’ll tell her. Now what about Betty Baxter? What do you think?”

  “I think it probably was an accident,” she said cautiously. “Betty was even heavier than she looked, I think. She slipped on the ice last winter and came down so heavily that she broke her hip.”

  “But why do you think after receiving a phone call would she get so excited, get her high heels on, get her hair bleached, and go out to walk on the beach?”

  Annie shook her head. “It is strange. Yet have you thought all the same that there might not be a mystery?”

  “I’ll believe that when I see Peter Hynd in the flesh again.”

  “You could ask the new owner of his cottage. He’s turned up with his wife and a squad of Geordie builders. Surely he saw Peter at some time during the negotiations.”

  “Good idea,” said Hamish.

  He left the manse and made his way to the cottage, hearing before it came in sight the unaccustomed sounds of busy activity. It was then that it struck him that Drim was normally a very quiet village. In Lochdubh, people stood chatting on the waterfront and calling to each other over garden fences. The air was always full of the sound of the boats chugging along the loch and the lap of waves on the shore.

  As he approached the cottage, he saw that there was a mobile home parked at the side and two caravans in the garden in front. The corrugated-iron roof was being taken off. A Stocky man came out of the mobile home and stopped when he saw Hamish approach.

  Hamish held out his hand. “Welcome to the Highlands.” The man shook the offered hand, a look of surprise on his face. “A welcome makes a nice change,” he said. He had thinning hair, very black eyes, and a flat face and thin mouth. “My name’s Apple,” he said. “Fred Apple.”

  “I am a police sergeant from Lochdubh,” said Hamish, “but I am here on holiday.”

  “I should have known you weren’t from this neck of the woods,” said Mr. Apple. “But I suppose once people here get to know us, they‘ll be friendly enough.” The perpetual hopeful cry of the incomer, thought Hamish.

  “I am interested in the whereabouts of the previous owner,” said Hamish, “Did you meet him?”

  Mr. Apple shook his head. “All done through my lawyers and his and the estate agent.”

  “May I see the deeds to the house?”

  “They are down in Newcastle. I’ll bring them up next week.”

  “I just wanted to check Mr. Hynd’s signature. What do you to do here?”

  Mr. Apple twisted round and waved an expansive arm. “Getting a decent roof on. He left a stack of good tiles. Then that field out back is a bit of a swamp. I want the men to drain it so that I can extend the house. I’ve always wanted the simple life. Get this place ready for retirement. The first thing they’re going to do after the roof is to get the drains finished and put in a toilet and get that kitchen extension finished. Oh, and they’ll raise the roof so we’ll be able to have two bedrooms up there that you can stand up in.”

  “It’ll be grand,” said Hamish.

  Mr. Apple looked at him curiously. “Is there more to your stay in Drim man just a holiday? I mean, I hear a woman was found dead on the beach.”

  “Well, there is,” said Hamish. “Look, as an incomer, you could be of help to me. This Peter Hyad was philandering. See if you can hear any little snippets of gossip that might be of use and pass them on.”

  “Will do. But I’ll be surprised if any of this lot talks to me.”

  He went back to Edie’s and asked if there was any hope of a cup of tea. “I’ll put the kettle on right away,” said Edie. “It’s nice to have a man to look after again.”

  “I’ve not been quite straight with you,” said Hamish, sitting down at the kitchen table. “I am not really here on holiday. I cannot get Betty’s death out of my mind or the way Peter Hynd left just like that. And why would Peter leave a note and his key with Jock Kennedy, of all people? I gather it was Jock who was the leader of the men who threw a brick through Peter’s window.”

  “Oh, don’t stir it all up again.” Edie looked flushed and distressed. “We’ve been all settling down again. The atmosphere in Drim just before he left was dreadful, the men angry and the women at each other’s throats.”

  “But if there has been a crime, then justice should be done,” said Hamish quietly. “Now, a delicate question. Was it just flirting with Peter, or did any of the women go further than that? I found a blonde hairpin in Peter’s bedroom, and that would point to Betty Baxter.”

  “Her!” Old jealousy flashed behind Edie’s glasses. “A gentleman like Peter and that coarse quean! It doesn’t bear thinking of. I…I don’t think any of them went too far. Look at us all,” said Edie sadly. “Oh, we all thought we looked like Sophia Loren while he was here, but once he went we were all reduced, diminished to a group of silly women who had temporarily lost their heads. Please just leave it alone. We’re all going to the manse tonight to discuss the idea of putting on a pantomime. It’s a good idea of Annie Duncan’s. It’ll draw us together.”

  Hamish accepted a cup of tea and looked at her sympathetically. “I’ll be as discreet as I can. And if I’ve found out nothing by the end of my holiday, I’ll leave it alone.”

  “I would have thought,” said Edie, sitting down opposite him, “that you would have wanted to spend some time with Miss Halburton-Smythe.”

  “Priscilla understands my interest in this case,” said Hamish curtly.

  He quickly changed the subject and asked her about the pantomime and Edie prattled away happily. Hamish finished his tea and strolled down to the store, where Ailsa stood behind the counter. “Jock about?” asked Hamish.

  Ailsa shook her fiery head. “Gone fishing.”

  “Then I might take out the rod and join him. Up on the Drim, is he?”

  “Probably,” said Ailsa.

  “What do you think happened to Peter Hynd?” asked Hamish.

  “I think he left because of the people in this village.”

  “You mean the men?”

  “No, those silly bitches of women, slavering around him every step he took. He used to say to me, “Ailsa,” he’d say, if it weren’t for you, I would go mad.”

  Hamish looked at her, startled. “You’re a good mimic, Ailsa,” he said. “Just now, I could have sworn it was Peter himself talking.”

  “I was always good at the voices,” she said.

  “Do you think he’ll come back?”

  “Peter?” She leaned her elbows on the counter and her blue eyes looked past him and through the glass doors of the shop to the black loch. “I sometimes think he will.” In that moment, Hamish was sure she had forgotten he was there. “Sometimes, I think I’ll look up and he’ll
just stroll into the shop and say, “Hullo, Ailsa,” and he’ll smile at me in that way he had.” There was a short silence and then her eyes focused once more on Hamish Macbeth and her face hardened.

  “Are you going to buy anything or not?” she demanded.

  Hamish bought a bottle of lemonade and a Cornish pasty and took them outside to drink and eat. He was beginning to wish he had appreciated Priscilla’s sensible cooking more than he had done. Junk food was all very well for a treat, but it was getting to be a constant diet. He had a longing to run over to Lochdubh and discuss the case with Priscilla, but he knocked that idea out of his head. He must concentrate his whole mind on this case. Priscilla was no longer his Watson.

  He looked up and saw the slight figure of Heather moving homewards. He threw the remains of his lunch in the litterbin outside the shop and hurried to catch up with her.

  An official voice nagged in his brain that he should not be interviewing a minor without her parent being present but he shrugged it away. He was on holiday and having a friendly chat.

  “How are you doing, Heather?” he asked.

  “Verra well, considering the circumstances.”

  “Those being?”

  “One dead mother.”

  “Oh.”

  “Now if you don’t mind, Mr. Macbeth, I have to get Da’s tea ready.”

  “Stay a bit, Heather. Do you still think Peter Hynd was murdered?”

  Those odd grey eyes looked up into Hamish’s hazel ones and then dropped. “I think I made a mistake,” said Heather. “I think I saw my own mother’s death.”

  “Which was an accident?”

  “Which was an accident,” said Heather firmly.

  She turned and scampered away from him. Hamish watched her go. Everything seemed to lead to a brick wall. Once again he wondered what Priscilla would make of Heather. He had a sudden longing to see her. He needed her mind, or so he persuaded himself.

  He west back to Edie’s and got in the police Land Rover. Now that he was actually going to see her, now that he was soaring up and out of Drim, he felt excited and impatient. He longed to put on the police siren, not to clear the way, for there was nothing else on the road, but for the sheer exhilaration of the sound.

  When he drove up to the hotel, Priscilla was standing outside, saying farewell to a party of guests. She was wearing a black business suit with a white blouse. He was suddenly conscious of his baggy trousers and the frayed collar of his shirt. She seemed to belong to another world.

  She saw him and half raised a hand in acknowledgement of his presence. He waited patiently until the guests had gone and then she turned towards him. “Hamish?”

  “This is silly,” he said. “No!” he added quickly, holding up his hand. “You’re about to say that yes, it’s silly of me to be spending my holidays in Drim and we’ll get into a pointless, hurting argument, and I need help.”

  Her face softened. “I gather from Mrs. Daviot that you’re not the flavour of the month. Come inside and tell me all about it.”

  He followed her into the office. “Where’s Johnston?”

  “Day off,” said Priscilla. She shut the door. “Now tell me what’s been going on.”

  He sat, down in a chair by the window and stretched out his long legs. He outlined the few facts he had, about how he could not understand Heather, about how the atmosphere of Drim distorted everything, about how, on the face of it, seemed as if Peter Hynd were indeed alive and had sold his house. He ended up by asking, “What did you think of him?”

  “Do you know,” said Priscilla, “if you had told me that Peter Hynd was a murderer, I would not have been surprised. He had great charm, but there was something ruthless and manipulative about him. I think if his vanity was wounded, he could turn vicious.”

  “But a man like that could be a murderee,” Hamish pointed out. “Cruelty and viciousness create cruelty and viciousness. I feel like chucking the whole thing and returning to Lochdubh, but there’s something there, I know there is.”

  A silence hung between them. Then Hamish said, “If only it were possible for you to have a wee word with Heather.”

  “Wee Heather appears to regard you as her property,” said Priscilla. “If you remember, she did not want me to come with you that evening.” She flushed slightly and again there was an awkward silence as both remembered the evening of love that never was.

  “I could, though,” said Priscilla after a few moments, “go back with you, if you would like. Things are quiet here.”

  “You could stay at Edie’s with me, chust for a few days.”

  Hamish brightened. He kept seeing that large double bed in Edie’s spare room.

  But that hope was dashed when Priscilla said, “I suppose Edie has another spare room.”

  “I suppose she has,” said Hamish sulkily. “Why?”

  “This is the Highlands of Scotland. We are not married.”

  “Oh.” He realized the truth of what she said and reminded himself firmly that he had only come to get her help on the case.

  The truth of what Priscilla had said was borne out when later that day they both arrived at Edie’s. “To be sure, I am honoured you want to stay here,” fluttered Edie, “but I’ve only got the little room at the end of the corridor. It’s not as if you can share the same room.”

  “Then Priscilla can have my room and I’ll take the wee one,” said Hamish. “Don’t worry, I’m used to roughing it.”

  Edie bridled. “There will be no need for that, no need for that at all. Never let it be said that I cannot make a room comfortable.”

  Edie was brightening visibly by the minute. Not only had she the bonus of two paying guests out of season but she was flattered that Priscilla was staying. Certainly she did experience a certain pang of regret, for she had been looking forward to cosy evenings alone with Hamish Macbeth, but on the other hand, Priscilla’s presence would give her a certain cachet.

  Once the rooms had been changed and Priscilla had unpacked, Edie remembered she was due at the manse for the first meeting to arrange the pantomime. Priscilla, to Hamish’s surprise, said she would like to go too, and the gratified Edie agreed to take her along. The efficient Priscilla then said she would go out shopping and make them a meal before they went to the manse. “What are you up to?” asked Hamish as they walked down to the shop together.

  “It’s a good way for me to meet the women of the village,” said Priscilla. “No, you can’t come. They’ll talk more openly to me. We need a list of Peter Hynd’s victims. I might be able to pick up some gossip.”

  “And what am I to do with myself?”

  “You could try to have another talk with Heather. Her father will be off at the fishing.”

  “All right, but there’s something about that child that scares me.”

  ♦

  Seated in a large dim drawing-room in the manse later that evening, Priscilla took stock of the assembled women. Hamish had given her thumbnail sketches of the women who interested him most. Ailsa Kennedy was easily identified by her eyes and flaming red hair, Nancy Macleod by her black with the grey roots. Then there was the hairdresser, Alice MacQueen, sitting beside Edie. There were twelve other women there, but Hamish felt that Nancy, Alice, Edie, and Ailsa were the main characters, particularly Nancy and Ailsa. If murder had been done and done by a man, then it stood to reason it was a cuckolded man.

  The minister’s wife, Annie Duncan, had two spots of colour burning high on her cheeks. Priscilla and Edie had been the first to arrive and had heard from outside the manse, as they waited patiently for someone to answer the door, the faint sounds of what seemed to be a marital row. Priscilla, after having registered that her presence seemed to be calmly accepted, settled down to admire the tact and efficiency of Annie, who was now discussing parts. The pantomime was to be Puss in Boots. For a number of women who had reportedly been at each other’s throats only recently because of Peter Hynd, they appeared strangely docile now. There was no competition for par
ts. They passively let Annie choose who should do what. Annie herself was to be Dick Whittington, keeping to the British pantomime tradition of having a woman play Principal Boy. The choice of heroine was a surprise. Nancy Macleod was chosen, Nancy of the heavy body and greying hair. Various other parts were allotted, Annie making the suggestion that young Heather Baxter should be asked to play the cat because it might cheer her up. When the muscical numbers were discussed and Nancy was urged to sing one of them, Priscilla realized why she had been chosen for the lead. She had a beautiful soprano voice, strong and clear as a bell, and as she sang she lost years, and the beautiful young girl she had once been showed through the tired middle-aged face. The evening finished amicably over tea and cakes. Priscilla felt let down. No rivalries. No undercurrents. Nothing to report to Hamish. But as she walked away from the manse with Edie, her companion suddenly said bitterly, “Who does she think she is?”

  “Who?” asked Priscilla.

  “Herself. Lady Muck. Mrs. High and Mighty Annie Duncan. My singing voice is every bit as good as Nancy’s. Nancy playing the lead! Nancy supposed to be a young girl with that lumpy figure o’ hers. It’s a crying shame. Not even discussed. Me, in the chorus. I’ve a good mind not to take part.”

  “That would be a shame,” said Priscilla. “It’ll all be good fun, you’ll see.”

  “And did you see,” went on Edie, unheeding, “the way Annie elected herself as Principal Boy. My legs are better’n hers any day.”

  In vain did Priscilla try to soothe her down. Edie would not be comforted. When they returned, Edie announced she was going to bed. “I’ll look in Hamish’s room and see if he’s there,” said Priscilla.

  “Well, leave the bedroom door open,” snapped Edie. “I’ll have none of that in my house.”

  Priscilla pushed open the door of Hamish’s room but it was empty. She returned to the kitchen just as Hamish came in.

  “Did you see Heather?” asked Priscilla. “I’ll make us some tea.”

  “No, I decided to drop in on Jock Kennedy’s. The back shop was full of men, drinking, but as Jock swore it was jut a gathering of friends and no money changed hands, there was nothing I could do about it. It was all very boring, the men carefully talking about sheep and fish. Then Ailsa came crashing in. It must have been a stormy meeting up at the manse.”