by M C Beaton
“Steel Ironside, nee Victor Plummer, comes from village in the Cotswolds, must have adopted that accent. Sprang to fame in the late sixties during the drug culture and anti-establishment years. Was quite good-looking in a pretty, unisex sort of way, you’d never think it now to look at all that grey hair. Back in prominence in the seventies with protest songs. His hit, “We’ll Change the World,” is still sung at demonstrations but hardly by the type of people who’ll pay any royalties. He wrote it. Married to some noisy slag in Liverpool. Two kids. Never sends them any money. Into drugs but who wasn’t in that sort of world, nothing serious. Done a few times for carrying hash through London airport but always for himself. Never pushed or supplied. What a right lot of lulus our Maggie Baird picked.”
“Who else would fall in love with a prostitute?” said Hamish primly.
Donati looked at Hamish in surprise, and then bent his head quickly to hide a smile. “Aye, maybe you’re right,” he said. “But the only one with a motive is Alison Kerr.”
Hamish clasped his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. “I believe they all were in love with her at one time. She wasnae, I gather from Alison who was typing those memoirs which have mysteriously disappeared, the kind to just demand money for services rendered. It was all done under the guise of love. You know, clothes, jewels, payment disguised as presents. They’re all weak men with king-sized egos. Maybe one of them nursed a lifelong grudge and wanted to get back at her. She’d developed a real bitchy manner. Could have tipped one of them over the edge. One of them could have known about the will, the new one Brady told us about. Och, but he would have to get rid of Alison.”
“Exactly. I think we’d better warn her, don’t you?”
Alison was getting ready for bed when Mrs. Todd knocked at the bedroom door to say ‘thae polis’ were back again. Alison opened the door. “Do I have to see them?” she asked weakly. She was wearing one of Maggie’s white satin nightdresses with a white satin negligee trimmed with maribou. Mrs. Todd looked shocked. “I’m surprised at you, lassie. Wearing a dead woman’s clothes.”
“These were new,” said Alison defiantly. “She’d never even taken them out of the box.”
“Well, you are not seeing the polis until you make yourself look decent,” said Mrs. Todd, folding her arms across her aproned bosom.
Alison wanted to scream that she was mistress of the house and would wear what she liked, but she sulkily went back into the bedroom and soon reappeared in one of her old skirts and a sweater.
“Now, that looks like my wee lassie again,” said Mrs. Todd. “Come along and I’ll stay with ye. It’s that Macbeth that gets my back up. Too young for the National Service. He should hae been drafted as a young man. A stint in the army would hae knocked some o’ the laziness oot o’ him. I remember during the war when I was in the army…” But Alison closed her ears. She was tired of Mrs. Todd’s lectures. I’m fed up with her, thought Alison mutinously as she followed Mrs. Todd down the stairs, but how can I get rid of her? I know. I’ll sell this place and get away from her that way.
The new millionairess walked into the sitting room and both policemen rose at her entrance.
“You may leave us,” said Donati to the housekeeper.
“No, I’ll stay right here,” said Mrs. Todd.
“Do as you are told, woman!” snapped Donati.
“I’ll be in the kitchen, Alison, if you want me,” said Mrs. Todd, and Alison thought, She’ll need to start calling me “Miss Kerr.”
Donati said, “We have established that Mrs. Baird died because someone deliberately tampered with her car. It was manslaughter!”
Alison let out a whimpering sound. Her eyes sought those of Hamish Macbeth. Hamish stood like the epitome of the bone-headed police officer, hands behind his back, eyes on the middle distance.
“If you did not have any hand in this attempt, then we fear your life may be in danger,” said Donati in that emotionless voice of his.
“Me! Why?”
“Because the four men here stand to benefit from your death. Unless, of course, the criminal is lucky enough to get you to marry him.”
Alison began to cry. Hamish reflected he had never known anyone in his life before who could cry as much as Alison Kerr.
Donati remained unmoved. “A policeman will be on constant guard at the house. Tell him if you notice anything suspicious.”
Alison scrubbed her eyes. “Can I have Hamish?” she pleaded.
“No, I need Macbeth on this case and he has his village duties as well. A policeman from Strathbane will be assigned to you. Now, I am sorry to keep you further but you must tell me more about that book you were typing. Did she mention any of the four men in it?”
Alison shook her head. Hamish, glancing at her, noticed a sudden flash of alarm in Alison’s eyes and wondered what she had just remembered.
“Well, I must ask you for the names of some of the men in the book Also, did Mrs. Baird have any special friend in her heyday, I mean around about the time these four men here would have been on the scene?”
While Alison talked, Hamish found himself beginning to feel useless. Donati was asking all the questions that he, Hamish, would normally have asked behind Blair’s fat back. It was very hard to feel clever and superior with Donati around. And Blair’s hatred and jealousy of him, Hamish reflected, was a compliment in a way. Donati treated him as an intelligent policeman on the beat should be treated, nothing more. I’m jealous, thought Hamish ruefully.
When they had left, Alison threw herself into Mrs. Todd’s sturdy arms and sobbed her heart out. “Now, then,” said Mrs. Todd, “you come upstairs and I’ll tuck you into bed. There, there. You poor thing. Men!”
All Alison’s thoughts of asserting herself and getting rid of Mrs. Todd disappeared. It was lovely to be mothered.
But as soon as Mrs. Todd had switched out the light and left, Alison began to tremble. Which one of them would kill her for the money? Money was so important. She couldn’t sleep. The wind sighed through the trees outside, a mourning sound. She shivered despite the centrally heated warmth of the room.
And then she heard a soft sound outside her door. She switched on the bedside light. The door handle began to turn. Alison opened her mouth to scream but the door opened quickly and revealed Peter Jenkins. “What do you want?” asked Alison harshly.
He came and sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at her. “I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “That detective made me feel like a criminal.” Peter was wearing a paisley silk dressing gown over his pyjamas and his hair was tousled. Alison found she could not feel afraid of him.
“I’m awfully scared,” she said. “I can’t sleep either.”
He took her hand in his. “I’ll sit with you for a bit.”
“Thank you,” said Alison shyly.
They fell silent, looking at each other. Then Peter slowly bent his head and kissed Alison gently on the mouth. She wrapped her arms around him and the next thing he was lying on the bed and a few kisses later, in the bed, and a few more and they had both managed to divest themselves of their nightwear with that strange agility of people who are determined to make love.
Their lovemaking was brief but satisfactory to both. Heaven, thought Alison just before she drifted off to sleep in Peter’s arms, almost as good as driving.
∨ Death of a Hussy ∧
7
Madam, I may not call you; mistress, I am ashamed to call you; and so I know not what to call you; but howsoever, I thank you.
—QUEEN ELIZABETH
HAMISH REALISED ON THE FOLLOWING DAY THAT HE WAS letting his admiration for Donati stop him from thinking clearly about the case. In the past, he had relied on gossip and his own intuition. He decided to follow his nose and go out to the bungalow and see what he could see.
He parked his police Land Rover out on the road. The air was clammy and still and the sea was silent. The midges, those stinging Scottish mosquitoes, were out in force, and he automatica
lly felt in his pocket for the stick of repellent he always kept handy.
He walked quietly up to the kitchen door and then paused as he heard the animated sounds of conversation from within. He walked to the window and cautiously peered in. Mrs. Todd and P.C. Mary Graham were seated at the kitchen table, talking nineteen to the dozen.
He swore under his breath. He should have guessed that Strathbane would send a policewoman rather than a policeman to guard Alison.
He returned to his car and drove back down the road a little to one of those red telephone boxes you find in the isolated parts of the Highlands. This one was perched precariously on the edge of a cliff. He phoned the bungalow and, disguising his voice, asked for Alison. “Who is speaking?” demanded Mrs. Todd sharply.
“Ian Chisholm,” said Hamish, and then waited.
When Alison answered the phone, he said quickly, “It’s Hamish. I’m at the phone box down the road. Can you come down and meet me?”
“I can’t, Hamish,” said Alison airily. “I’m busy right now.”
“It’s very important,” said Hamish. “It won’t take long. And don’t tell anyone where you’re going.”
“All right,” said Alison and put down the receiver.
About ten minutes later, Hamish saw the little red mini, Alison’s new pride and joy, nosing its way down the cliff road.
He waited until she had parked and then climbed into the passenger seat beside her.
“What’s P.C. Graham doing inside the house?” asked Hamish. “She’s supposed to be on guard outside.”
“Well, she did ask for a cup of tea when she arrived but Mrs. Todd told her she was supposed to be on duty at the gate. The policewoman went off and started marching up and down like a sentry on duty. Mrs. Todd was fussing about the kitchen. She seemed edgy. She kept looking out of the window at…Mary, is it? Then she said, “Come to think of it, I’d feel safer with her in here,” and called her in and in about a few minutes time, they seemed to be the best of friends.”
“And why was that, do you think?”
“If you must know, Mrs. Todd opened the conversation by saying she was glad it was a sensible policewoman and not that idiot, Macbeth, and Mary said you were a layabout and they fell to tearing you to bits. What did you want to see me about?”
“It’s about that book. When Donati asked you if there was anything about the four men in that book, you said no, but you looked startled.”
“I’d just remembered something,” said Alison. “I didn’t want to tell Donati, because I felt like a spiteful fool. You see, I let them all think they were in it.”
“Oh, my! Now about the people you remembered in the book, you said Maggie had had one friend but you couldn’t quite remember the name. You said it was Glenys something.”
“It’s funny. I remembered during the night.” Alison blushed furiously. Hamish’s eyes sharpened. Alison was wearing a soft green silk blouse tucked into one of her old skirts but with a broad green leather belt with a gold clasp at her waist. She was also wearing sheer tights and high heels. She had put on eye make-up and lipstick and Hamish couldn’t flatter himself all this effort was for him. So Peter Jenkins managed to score, he thought privately.
“I just remembered all at once,” said Alison. “It was Glenys Evans.”
“And where did she live?”
Alison shook her head.
“Anyway, I might be able to find her. Now the sooner this murderer, or would-be murderer, is caught, the better for you, Alison. I am sure all these men are rushing around you hoping to marry your fortune.”
“Some of them may just like me,” said Alison sharply.
“Aye, but you could talk to them and find out if any of them bore a grudge against Maggie.” For the first time Hamish turned the full force of his charm on Alison. “It would be our secret.”
“Oh, yes,” said Alison, forgetting Peter for one glorious moment.
Hamish phoned Donati and gave him Glenys’s name. But later on, his Highland curiosity got the better of him: He had an urge to talk to this woman himself. He went straight down to the post office and demanded the London telephone books. There seemed to be a great number of Evanses. He slid his thumb down the list and then stopped in surprise. For there it was in clear type, Glenys Evans, Harold Mews, London W.I.
He went back to the police station and put through a call. An autocratic voice answered the telephone and identified itself as Glenys Evans.
“It is Hamish Macbeth from Lochdubh police in Sutherland,” began Hamish.
“Then you can stop right there,” said Glenys. “I’ve already had some pig of a detective around here this morning with a most offensive manner.”
Of course, thought Hamish quickly, Donati would telephone the Yard and they would have a man on the job first thing.
“I’m very sorry a lady like yourself had such a nasty experience,” said Hamish. “But you see, I hae a personal interest in the matter. I wass very fond o’ Mrs. Baird and I would like to get my hands on the villain who tried to murder her.”
“What! That clodhopper said she’d died of a heart attack.”
“A heart attack induced by someone rigging up her car so that it burst into flames when she turned the key in the ignition. She had four guests at the house, Crispin Witherington, James Frame, Peter Jenkins, and Steel Ironside at the time, and her niece, Alison.”
“I didn’t know she had any relatives.” There was a long silence. “All right,” said Glenys at last. “If you come down here, I’ll see what I can do to help.”
“I don’t know if that is possible,” said Hamish cautiously.
“In that case, forget it.”
“I’ll come,” said Hamish quickly. “I’ll get the sleeper down tonight and be with you in the morning.”
She gave him directions to her address and rang off.
If Blair had been on the case, thought Hamish, then he would just have disappeared off to London without saying anything. But Donati was a different matter.
Donati was staying at the Lochdubh Hotel. Hamish made his way there.
The detective listened to him in silence and then said colourlessly, “You stepped out of line. It is certainly unfortunate the Yard sent along someone tactless who put her back up. Do not take such actions again without my permission, do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, sir.” Hamish looked down at Donati, who was sitting in an armchair in the hotel lounge, with a tinge of surprise. “Now I suppose you’d better go. We must put personalities aside and if this woman can give you anything useful, it will be worth your fare. You may go.”
And Hamish left. Blair never would have given him permission to go. Blair would have practically foamed at the mouth.
So why was it that he suddenly missed Blair?
Alison set about helping Hamish Macbeth. She felt she had everything in the world she had ever wanted except security. While the criminal remained at large, there was no peace, and every evening shadow held menace and every footstep on the stairs was that of an assailant. Unlike most bungalows, this one had most of the bedrooms on an upper floor with dormer windows. Peter Jenkins, Mrs. Todd, and James Frame slept on the same floor as Alison, with Steel Ironside and Crispin Witherington in bedrooms off one of the two corridors that ran off the large sitting room. The dining room which adjoined the sitting room was little-used since Maggie’s death, the guests preferring to eat their meals in the more cheerful kitchen. Another incentive to help was that despite her blossoming love for Peter Jenkins, Alison felt restless and wanted something to do to occupy her time. The efficient Mrs. Todd had made all the arrangements for Maggie’s funeral and Alison had weakly left it all to her.
Alison had replied to P.C. Graham’s questions about where she had been that morning by saying evasively that she had felt upset and so had gone for a little drive. Mary told her sharply not to leave the house again without saying where she was going, leaving Alis
on feeling more like the hired help than the lady of the house. Mrs. Todd added her own admonitions. Alison resented Mrs. Todd all over again and kept away from her as much as possible, unfairly blaming her for Mary’s high and mighty manner.
Alison took pencil and paper into the dining room to start making notes on what she already had gleaned about the men’s relationships with Maggie. There was a better chance of being undisturbed in the dining room than in the study.
But no sooner had she started than Steel walked in.
“Feel like getting out of this place and going somewhere?” he asked.
Alison looked at him and thought he might still be quite presentable if he shaved and wore ordinary clothes. His shirts were always open to the waist showing that repulsive that of hair.
“Where did you think of going?” she asked.
“Up the hill at the back. Get some fresh air.”
“All right,” said Alison.
To P.C. Graham’s sharp question, Alison told the policewoman where they were going.
The couple walked past the garage and through a little gate in the garden fence and up a winding path that led to the top of a heathery hill behind the house. A stiff breeze had sprung up blowing warm air in from the Gulf Stream. They paused at the top of the hill and looked at the view. Great clouds were rolling in from the Atlantic and down below, the restless sea was green with flying black shadows as the clouds passed overhead.
“Can you lend me any money?” asked Steel abruptly.
“I’ll need to consult my lawyers. I don’t have the money yet.”
“They’ll advance it to you if you ask,” said Steel crossly. “You’ve already got enough for that car of yours.”
“Well, it is my money now.”
“Look,” wheedled Steel, “I’ve got this great song. I need money to launch it. I could pay you back with interest.”
“Let me think about it,” said Alison. “Isn’t the view pretty?”
“Bugger the view,” he said morosely.
“You must still be very upset by Maggie’s death,” said Alison, seizing on what she hoped was the one subject that would divert his mind from money.
