Hamish Macbeth 05; Death of a Hussy hm-5

by M C Beaton

  “I was shocked, but not particularly upset,” he said. “She’d changed. Used to be all fun and games. God! The amount of money that harpy took from me, now I think of it. At least you could say she did something for it. It’s just fallen into your lap and all you do is screw around with Jenkins.”

  “That’s not true,” said Alison, her face flaming.

  “Aw come on, you could hear the pair of you all over the house.”

  Alison rounded on him. “You can’t have any money, not ever,” she shouted.

  As she ran down the hill, his jeering voice followed her, “Just mind how you go, sweetie. With you out of the way, there wouldn’t be any trouble in us getting our hands on it.”

  Alison walked into the house. Donati was in the kitchen, telling off P.C. Graham. He had just been reminding her it was her duty to keep a watch on Alison and not to sit drinking coffee.

  He subjected Alison to another long interview before taking his leave.

  Alison went into the sitting room and James Frame rose at her approach. “Where’s Peter?” asked Alison.

  “Gone down to the village for cigarettes, I think,” said James. “I’ve been wanting to have a talk with you.”

  “What about?” asked Alison, although she was sure she knew what was coming.

  “Fact is, I need a bit of financial help and wondered if you could let me have a few thou’.”

  “No,” said Alison. “Why should I?”

  “Because I think you should pay me back some of the money Maggie got out of me in the past. She was insatiable. The things I had to do to find money to keep her.” His voice took on a faintly cockney whine. “Come on, darling, you wouldn’t miss it.”

  “I don’t know,” said Alison desperately. “Leave me alone for just now. In fact, now I think of it, I think you should all leave after the funeral. It’s my house and I can turn you all out when I want to.”

  “Well, that’s downright inconsiderate. I took leave and I need a holiday.”

  “I shouldn’t think you would want to stay under the circumstances.”

  “I’ve got a strong stomach.”

  “I’m telling you now,” said Alison as Crispin Witherington walked in. “You’ve all got to leave right after the funeral and that’s that.”

  She walked back to the dining room and stood there, feeling strangely exhilarated. She couldn’t remember standing up for herself before.

  Then she sensed someone standing behind her and swung round. Crispin Witherington was there, a little smile curving his mouth though his eyes were hard.

  “So the chips are down, are they?” he said. “No money for any of us, except perhaps what Jenkins gets for laying you. Do you know why we all rushed up here? Money. Maggie’s money. Do you really think one of us gave a damn for that tart after all those years? She cheated us and conned us rotten and we all wanted some of our money back. It makes me sick to think of a wimp like you with your prissy ways walking off with that old tart’s fortune. If I were you, I wouldn’t walk along any dark roads for some time to come.”

  “Mrs. Todd!” screamed Alison.

  Both Mrs. Todd and Mary Graham erupted into the room as if they had been listening outside the door.

  “He threatened me,” said Alison shakily. “Oh, Mrs. Todd, you’ve got to tell them all to go home after the funeral.” And with that, Alison burst into tears, while P.C. Graham took out her notebook to question Crispin, and Mrs. Todd moved quickly forward, saying, “Come along, now. You’d best go up to your room and leave us to sort matters out here.”

  Alison stumbled out.

  But she did not go to her room. She went out to the garage and wrenched open the doors. Driving, that was it, her only solace, her only comfort.

  She roared off down the precipitous cliff road, her eyes blurred with tears. The road ran along the edge of the cliff and as Alison raced along, she realised dimly that she was going too fast to take the hairpin bends and pressed on the footbrake. Nothing happened. A corner hurtled towards her and she screeched round it and down the next stretch, her hands sweating on the wheel. Another corner was looming up. She screamed, wrenched into a low gear, and seized the handbrake and pulled with all her might. The car skidded off the road and slithered to a stop, the little front wheels of the mini hanging over the cliff edge.

  Alison sat there, numb with shock. Below her the sea heaved and sucked at the base of the cliffs. She gave a whimpering sound and released her seat belt. Although she moved only slightly, the car gave a creak and seemed to dip. She twisted her neck. It was a two-door car and so she could not climb into the back seat and escape that way. It was out of the question to try to struggle through one of the back windows for they were too small and any effort to escape that way might overset the car.

  She sat there for what seemed like ages while the screaming seagulls wheeled overhead. The wind was rising, she realised numbly. If she sat there much longer, one good gust would tip the little car into the sea.

  Praying loudly, she grasped the door handle and pressed it down. The door swung open. Immediately below her was the sea and just behind, springy turf.

  With a yell, she flung herself out of the car, twisting sideways, her fingers scrabbling at the springy turf. She lay face down, her legs dangling over the edge of the cliff. Beside her, with a sad little creak, the mini slowly slid over the edge of the cliff and plunged down into the sea.

  Sobbing and grasping grass roots, Alison pulled herself forward on her belly. She heard a car drive up and a car door slam, but still she continued to ease forward until she was well clear of the cliff edge. Then she looked up.

  Peter Jenkins was standing there, his hands on his hips, looking down at her.

  “Whatever are you doing?” he asked. “Playing games?”

  ♦

  Hamish Macbeth could never understand why mews cottages, those old converted carriage houses, should be considered chic. They had been built for carriages and coachmen out of the poorest of brick and usually faced north. The cobbled way outside mews cottages always seemed to be a magnet for dog owners who allowed their pets to use it as a lavatory.

  The cottage owned by Glenys Evans was painted white and bedecked on the outside with honeysuckle and roses in tubs. Inside it was decorated in neo-Georgian with hunting prints on the walls, fake Chippendale furniture, and a ‘Persian’ rug made in Belgium on the floor.

  Hamish Macbeth was not a sentimental man and did not believe in the fiction of the tart with a heart and Glenys was not of the breed to prove him wrong. She was a thin, stringy woman dressed in tweed skirt, twinset, and pearls. The tarts who squandered their money went down to the gutter and the ones who invested became middle class, thought Hamish, if Glenys and Maggie were anything to go by.

  Charm was not going to work with this one and so he did not waste any time in conversation but got down to the interview, asking her respectful questions and calling her ma’am.

  Glenys visibly thawed before all this correct courtesy and began to talk about the old days. It was rather like listening to an opera star reminiscing about her heyday, thought Hamish. She talked of the casinos, the private planes, the best hotels, the best restaurants, her eyes filled with happy dreams. Hamish gently steered the conversation round to the four men he was interested in.

  “It’s all so long ago,” sighed Glenys. “Let me see, Crispin Witherington.” Her face darkened. “I remember him. Maggie and I were sharing a flat at the time. He had the nerve to say it was his flat and tried to turn us out. There was ever such a scene. But the deeds to the flat were in Maggie’s name whether he paid for it or not. He was only sore because she’d ditched him for that little pipsqueak, James Frame. Now what she ever saw in him, I don’t know. Anyway, I remember, she was just getting tired of him when he disappeared from the country. He wrote to say he was bankrupt, I remember. What a laugh we had about that. As Maggie said, it was nothing to do with her. He would have gone bankrupt anyway. Then Steel Ironside. I don’t know tha
t much about him. I was living in Cannes with Lord Berringsford at that time, but she was always in the papers. Said they were going to get married. Not her type. But I suppose she enjoyed all the fuss. Peter Jenkins was soppy about her. Wrote her poetry and turned white when she came into the room. She liked that. We used to have such a giggle. ‘Here comes love’s young dream, rsquo; I used to say. But this Arab sheik came on the scene and Maggie flipped off with him. She said he was a beast, the sheik, I mean, and she didn’t get as much out of him as she had hoped.”

  “Wait a minute. I might have some photographs.”

  Hamish waited patiently while she disappeared upstairs. So much for the fallen woman of Victorian novels, he thought. Glenys showed no signs of being racked with guilt about her past. In fact, she seemed proud of it and obviously thought she had had a successful life which, indeed, in material terms, she had obviously achieved.

  She came back downstairs, carrying a box of photographs which she proceeded to rummage through. “There we both are with Crispin,” she said at last.

  Hamish looked at the photograph. Crispin had been a fairly good-looking young man. He was standing with Maggie and Glenys beside a white Rolls Royce. Maggie was slim and blonde and Glenys a sultry brunette. They must have been a formidable pair, thought Hamish. There was a press photograph of Maggie leaving a pop concert with Steel Ironside, a thinner, younger Steel without the beard.

  “What happened to her husbands?” asked Hamish suddenly.

  “Baird died not long after she married him. He was a stockbroker. Taught her all about the market.”

  “What did he die of?”

  “Heart attack. He was a lot older than her. The other one, let me see, Balfour, was a bit of a crook. Got done for doing a bank and went inside. Maggie divorced him.”

  “What is Balfour’s first name and where did he live?”,

  “His name was Jimmy and he lived in Elvaston Place in Kensington, but I can’t remember the number. It wouldn’t help you anyway, because he rented the flat and that was years ago.”

  “And when did you last see Mrs. Baird?’”

  “The last time I saw her was about a year ago. We didn’t part friends. In fact, I gave her a lecture. Letting herself go like that and all over some two-bit waiter. ‘Get on a diet,’ I said. ‘You look a fright, you do.’” Glenys patted her bony hips complacently. “‘You should be like me,’ I said. ‘You’ve forgotten that men are only good for one thing.’”

  “Sex?”

  Glenys looked amused. “No, darling, money.”

  “What about this waiter?” asked Hamish.

  Glenys sighed impatiently and told Hamish as much as she knew about the waiter but said she could not remember either his name or where he had worked but that Maggie had allowed herself to be cheated “just like a beginner!”

  Hamish asked more questions and looked at more photographs, and then finally took his leave. He felt he had learned nothing much to help towards solving the case.

  He seemed to have spent hours and hours with Glenys, but he found to his surprise that it was only eleven in the morning and that he had only been with her for an hour. He decided to catch the midday train to Inverness.

  During the long journey back north, he kept turning the case over and over in his head. If only Priscilla would call on him, he might be able to see things more clearly. He always did after talking to Priscilla.

  But there was no one waiting for him at the police station.

  Only a note from Alison to say she was staying the night at Mrs. Todd’s cottage in the village and would he call on her, no matter how late.

  Hamish sighed. He hoped it wouldn’t turn out to be a waste of time.

  There was a constable on duty outside Mrs. Todd’s cottage, relieving P.C. Graham. He told Hamish that Alison claimed the brakes of her car had been tampered with and that the mini had ended up in the sea after she had managed to get clear, but that a storm was blowing hard and there was no way they could get the car up until the wind died down.

  Hamish knocked on the cottage door and Mrs. Todd let him in. “I told her she was safer here with me rather than staying up there with a houseful of murderers,” she said, “although I don’t know why she wants to see you. She’s told that Italian all she knows.”

  Mrs. Todd led the way into her parlour. It was scrubbed and clean with comfortable old–fashioned furniture. There were several photographs of Mrs. Todd in army uniform. She must have been a holy terror, thought Hamish. Alison came down in dressing gown and slippers and Mrs. Todd went off into the kitchen to make tea.

  Alison looked crushed and subdued. In a little girl voice, she told Hamish about her escape from death, and how Steel, Crispin, and James had all tried to get money out of her. All the while, Hamish was remembering what Glenys had said. He was sure all four men had been genuinely infatuated with Maggie at one time but equally sure that they had never forgiven her for getting their money and then ditching them.

  “It couldn’t have been Peter, could it?” asked Alison tremulously. “I mean, he was down in the village getting cigarettes.”

  “It’s my belief the car’s brakes could have been tampered with any time. When did you last use it – I mean before you drove along the cliff?”

  “The day before.”

  “And it was therefore just lying in the garage where anyone could get to it.”

  “I wish Peter were here with me,” said Alison miserably.

  “There’s nothing to stop you from going back to your own house.”

  “It’s not that,” said Alison. “You see, I slept with him.”

  “So?”

  Alison hung her head. “A man doesn’t respect a girl for just jumping into bed with him when she hardly knows him.”

  “That’s a pretty old–fashioned way of thinking. Last time I saw you, you looked tae me as if you’d had the experience and enjoyed every minute o’ it.”

  “Don’t!” Alison put up a hand as if to ward him off. “You men just don’t understand.”

  ♦

  Hamish sat up late that night, typing out his report for Donati. He really shouldn’t be worrying so much about this case, he chided himself. Donati was highly competent. He would get Scotland Yard to ferret into all the background.

  He decided to give his report to Donati first thing in the morning and then go about his village duties and only work on the case when asked to do so, and having come to that decision, he felt much better. Blair’s bullying and stupidity in the past was what had spurred him on to all the effort.

  He stacked the notes in a neat pile on the desk and reached over to switch off the lamp when there came a hammering at the door.

  Hamish opened it. Detective Jimmy Anderson stood there, his fair hair plastered down by the rain, his face grim.

  “Come along, Hamish,” he said. “There’s been another murder.”

  “Alison?”

  “Naw. That pop singer, Steel Ironside.”

  ∨ Death of a Hussy ∧

  8

  Assassination is the extreme form of censorship.

  —GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

  STEEL IRONSIDE LAY ACROSS THE BED. THERE WAS BLOOD everywhere. The meat cleaver which had struck a deep gash right across his neck lay discarded on the floor.

  Forensic men were dusting every inch of the room for fingerprints and combing the carpet for signs of clues.

  Donati turned and left the room, signalling to Hamish and to the two detectives, MacNab and Anderson, to follow.

  “Where are the remaining three guests?” asked Hamish. Donati paused on the stairs. “They’re in the sitting room, waiting to be questioned. Mrs. Todd is on her road here with Miss Kerr.”

  “A meat cleaver,” said MacNab. “It must hae been the Todd woman.”

  “As far as we know, she didn’t leave Lochdubh,” said Donati. “Her car engine’s cold. Jenkins discovered the body. He said he was uneasy. He said he heard thumping noises coming from Ironside’s room and wen
t to investigate. He must have discovered the body minutes after the murder. The body was still warm when we got here.”

  He went on down the stairs and the others followed him.

  The three men were grouped together in the sitting room. All looked white and strained. Crispin Witherington’s eyes were blank with shock, James Frame was hugging himself and shivering, and Peter Jenkins was drinking steadily.

  Donati started with Peter. “If you will just go over it again. You say you heard thumping noises. When was that?”

  “I looked at my alarm clock,” said Peter, “and it was just after one in the morning. I’m upstairs and Steel is…was…on the ground floor. Then I thought I heard a door slam. I decided to go down and have a look. I looked in Crispin’s bedroom first. I didn’t put on the light but I could make out his shape under the bedclothes in the light from the passage. Then I opened Steel’s door.” He gulped. “I could just make out his figure on the bed but I felt there was something wrong. I don’t know why. I switched on the light and saw…and saw…”

  “All right,” said Donati. “Take it easy. Now what made you go looking after you heard…bumps, was it? I mean, what made you think there was something up?”

  “I can answer that one,” said Crispin waspishly. “He thought Alison had returned and gone to bed with one of us and bang goes his millionairess.”

  “Is this true?” asked Donati.

  “Of course it’s not true,” said Peter in a shrill voice. “I tell you, I can’t quite explain it but there was something odd about the sounds. Then I’m sure I heard a door slam, and I wondered if Alison had changed her mind and come home.”

  Donati sighed. “It’s a good thing the victim wasn’t Miss Kerr or you all might be under suspicion. I gather from P.C. Graham that both of you, Mr. Frame and Mr. Witherington, had tried to get money out of her. If she dies, you inherit, and when we get that car of hers up, I’m sure we’ll find the brakes were tampered with, that is, if this storm ever dies down.”

  There was a silence and all listened as the wind shrieked around the house.