by M C Beaton
The bungalow had gone suddenly quiet. In her misery, she vaguely wondered where everyone was.
She sat down at the desk and forced herself to begin typing, trying to divorce her mind from the words. She heard a noisy chattering and clattering as they all met for lunch but could not bring herself to join them. She typed steadily on.
And then in the afternoon, Maggie came in. She sat down in a chair beside the desk.
"Look here, Alison," she said in her new husky voice. "You mustn't take me too seriously these days. Fact is, my nerves are screaming and I take it out on you."
Alison sat very still, her fingers resting on the keys.
"I don't know what's up with me," Maggie went on. "Half the time I seem to hate the world and I think if I see another bowl of salad, I'll puke."
"You weren't very nice to me when you were fat either," said Alison in a low voice.
"It's your own fault. There's something kickable about that cringing air of yours, sweetie. You can stay. I wish I'd never invited this lot. But I want to get married again and all men are much the same."
"But why these four?" asked Alison, curious despite her distrust of Maggie's sudden friendliness.
"They are the ones who were actually in love with me ... once," said Maggie. "I got a private detective on to them and found out they all need money. I don't rate my charms that high. Stuff Women's Lib. It's still rotten trying to get the maitre d' in a restaurant if you're a single woman. And when it comes to business, men only want to deal with men. Other women pity you if you're on your own. I like a man about the place, God knows why. Anyway, it's no use looking for romance. In a marriage it all comes down to the same thing in the end: "Why do you keep losing my socks?" But I've never settled down long enough with any man to find out what it's all about. The minute one of them got difficult, I'd give him his marching orders. Cheer up, sweetie, you're still in my will."
"I'm not interested in your money," said Alison untruthfully.
Maggie studied her for a moment and her face softened. "I think you mean that. God! I'm a bitch. Try not to take any of my moods personally. So you'll stay?"
Alison looked up into Maggie's blue eyes and received the full force of that lady's considerable personality.
"Yes," she said weakly.
"Good girl." Maggie gave her a hug, the Maggie of old, the Maggie who had swept into the hospital, the warm, maternal Maggie.
For the rest of that day, Alison felt happier than she had since Maggie's return. Maggie's change of mood permeated the house. Tomorrow, thought Alison, I'll ask her about the car.
Peter Jenkins went out of his way to he particularly nice to Alison, and Maggie did not seem to mind.
Alison slept late and awoke to the sound of the garage doors being opened.
The car!
Maggie must be about to drive it.
All at once Alison felt she just had to ask her about that car.
She threw on a dressing gown and ran downstairs and out on to the drive. The engine was coughing and choking. Maggie did not seem to be able to start it. She walked forward and stood in front of the car just as Maggie wrenched the key once more in the ignition.
One minute Alison saw Maggie's beautiful face quite clearly through the windscreen. The next, it had vanished behind a sheet of flame.
5
O Death, where is thy sting-a-ling-a-ling
O Grave, thy victoree?
The bells of Hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling,
For you but not for me.
—BRITISH ARMY SONG
Alison had often had that very common nightmare where one opens one's mouth to scream and no sound comes out. But the scream that was wrenched from her filled the air with dreadful sound, rushing away to the high hills, sending a taunting far-off mockery of a scream echoing back.
Peter Jenkins came running out in his dressing gown and slippers to where Alison stood with scream after scream pouring from her contorted face. He ran to the blazing car, flapping his hands ineffectually.
Steel Ironside erupted on to the scene with the kitchen fire extinguisher which he directed at the blazing car. "Help me, you faggot!" he shouted at Peter Jenkins. He ran to the car door and wrenched it open, cursing as he did so.
He grabbed Maggie and dragged her out on to the garage floor, beating at the flames on her clothes, panting and sobbing.
Mrs. Todd drove up. Her face was as white as paper as she ran for the house. She seized the phone in the kitchen and dialled 999 and demanded the fire brigade, the ambulance, and the police.
Then she went out and struck the still-screaming Alison across the face. Alison hiccupped and then ran to Peter Jenkins who gathered her into his arms.
Mrs. Todd then crouched down by Maggie.
"She's dead," said Steel in a flat voice. "Her clothes had just started to catch fire when I pulled her out. She must have had a heart attack. She killed herself. I've never known anyone to mangle a car the way she did."
Crispin and James arrived on the scene, both in pyjamas.
While Peter Jenkins, still holding Alison, explained in a hushed voice what had happened, Steel said, half to himself, "It'll take hours for anything to reach us in this wilderness." The wind of Sutherland howled across the sudden hush but far away came the sound of a siren.
It came nearer, ever nearer, until the Lochdubh Volunteer Fire Brigade rolled into the drive. Close behind came Hamish Macbeth.
"Nothing for us to do now," said the fire chief, taking off his helmet and revealing himself to be Mr. Johnson, the hotel manager. He looked at the car. Smoke was still rising from the bonnet. The front of the car was burnt black.
"Don't touch anything," said Hamish Macbeth sharply. "A forensic team will have to look at that car."
"No need for that," said Crispin, marching up in all the glory of primrose-yellow silk pyjamas. "We all know Maggie wrecked that car. Something's gone in the engine and it burst into flames and gave her a heart attack. She could have got clear if she hadn't had an attack. The doors weren't locked. You policemen always complicate matters."
"Indeed? Then I'm going to complicate them further," said Hamish quietly. "The minute the ambulance has been and gone, I'll start taking statements."
Hostile eyes looked at him. Even Alison, despite her distress, thought he was being overofficious.
Hamish went back to the Land-Rover. He did not believe the car had just burst into flames through some fault. Dr. Brodie had arrived and was examining the body. Hamish called Strathbane and reported a suspected murder.
When the ambulance rolled up, Hamish said in a flat voice, "Leave the body where it is." Everyone looked at him: Alison, Mrs. Todd, the four guests, the fire brigade, the doctor, and the ambulance men.
"What's up with you, Hamish?" snapped Dr. Brodie. "It's a clear case of a heart attack. I know you've solved murders in the past, but don't let it go to your head, laddie."
"I've reported a suspected murder attempt," said Hamish. The silence that followed that statement almost hummed in the ears. Then Hamish said sharply, "Who raised the bonnet of the car?"
"Och, we only lifted it up to make sure there was no flames left underneath," said Mr Johnson crossly.
"You shouldnae hae touched anything," said Hamish. "Mrs. Todd, I think if you take Miss Kerr and the guests into the house, I'll come with you and start taking statements. We'll need to wait until the team arrives from Strathbane."
"I'll hae a word to say to your superiors," raged Mrs. Todd. "You cannae see a straightforward death when you come across it. When my man died, you was ferreting around my cupboards looking for poison."
"Had you told me your husband drank to excess, I wouldnae have had to bother," pointed out Hamish. "I was acting under orders from the procurator fiscal." The late Mr. Todd had choked to death on his vomit and poisoning had been suspected. It had indeed turned out to be poisoning, but alcohol poisoning. Mrs. Todd always maintained her husband had died of a heart attack.
Mrs. Tod
d went grimly into the house and began to make preparations for a breakfast-cum-lunch while the others shuffled silently into the sitting room.
"Is there a room I can use?" Hamish asked Alison.
"What? Oh, yes. The study. Through there."
"Perhaps you would like to come through first, Miss Kerr. No, there is no need for you," he said to Peter, who rose at the same time as Alison and showed every sign of accompanying her.
Hamish sat down at the desk in the study. Alison had stopped crying. She looked ill.
"Just tell me what you were doing this morning," said Hamish.
"I heard the car start, or rather I heard the garage doors being opened," said Alison in a shaky voice. "She ... Maggie ... had been kind to me the day before, so I thought I would ask her if I could drive the car. I ran down and out and just as I got to her, the car burst into flames."
"Was there any sort of bang? Any sort of explosion?"
Alison tried to concentrate. "No," she said at last. "One minute I saw her face quite clearly through the windscreen, and then it had vanished and there was nothing but flame." She showed every sign of being about to cry again.
"Now," said Hamish quickly, "let's get to the house guests. The tall one who came down that night to the police station with ye, that's Peter Jenkins. What do you know about him?"
"He's an advertising executive in his own company," said Alison. "He knew Maggie about twenty years ago, I think, or did he say eighteen? Anyway, he was in love with her and then he got her letter. You see, she wanted to get married and so she had chosen four of her old lovers. You don't seem surprised?"
"I'm surprised at her odd way of courting but not that she had a lot of lovers. Go on."
"He told me she'd changed. He wasn't in love with her any more although I heard ..."
Alison bit her lip. She had been about to tell Hamish about overhearing Peter begging for money, but Peter had held Alison and comforted her and she felt she had to protect him.
"What were you about to say?" demanded Hamish sharply.
Alison looked mutinous. He sighed and said, "I'll return to that. Tell me about the others."
"The smallish man in the yellow pyjamas is Crispin Witherington. He owns a car salesroom in Finchley in North London. He took me out driving. He wanted me to put a good word in for him with Maggie."
"Now why would he suggest that? You said yourself Maggie hated you."
"He thought Maggie was fond of me to leave me everything in her will ..." Alison looked at Hamish with dilated eyes.
"Don't be in a taking," said Hamish quickly, frightened that Alison would start another scene. "The fact the woman left you her money doesn't mean you killed her for it."
"It's not that," said Alison. "How did he know? I mean, how did he know that Maggie had left me her money? And how did Steel Ironside know?"
"Maybe she told them."
"She simply wrote to them all inviting them," said Alison, "and then she told them on the first night that whoever married her would get her money and that she had a weak heart."
"But she didn't tell them she had left it to you?"
"Not that I know of. She may have said it in her letters. She told me that when she decided on one of them, she would change her will and cut me out. Maybe they overheard that. It's very easy to hear things in this house. Oh, Hamish, only yesterday she apologized for being so rude to me and she said she wouldn't cut me out of her will. Everyone will think I did it. But it can't be murder."
"Maybe it isn't. Go on about Mr Witherington."
"I don't know any more except that he was one of Maggie's old flames. She made a profession of it."
"Getting money from men?"
"Yes."
"All right. Now let's move to James Frame."
"He runs a gambling club in London. He wanted me to put in a word with Maggie as well. He seems harmless enough. I didn't have much of a chance to speak to him."
"And Steel Ironside?"
"He's a failed pop singer. He told me he needed money to get started again. He seems nice. Oh, Hamish, I've just remembered. I asked Maggie why she was sure that one of these four would want to marry her and she said she'd had a private detective to check up on them and they all need money."
"Good. I'll have a look through her papers and see if I can find the name of the detective agency. Send in your friend, Peter."
Alison was soon replaced by Peter Jenkins. Hamish looked at him curiously. But he seemed just the same as he had done when Hamish had first met him: a pleasant, if weak, man, slightly effeminate. He looked at Hamish with dislike. "You're making a fuss over nothing," said Peter, "and causing a great deal of unnecessary distress. The sooner someone higher up arrives, the better. It's a clear case of accident."
"So you say. Let's get down to business. Full name ... ?"
In his slow drawling voice, Peter outlined the bare facts. He had been in love with Maggie twenty years ago and had only really fallen out of love with her when he arrived and found her changed. She had invited him for two weeks and he had taken leave from his firm. He needed a holiday and so he had decided to stay.
And all the time he was talking, Hamish was thinking, He's been carrying the torch for years for a prostitute. He must be awfully immature. I wonder how he manages to run a company.
"How did you manage to set up this company?" he asked when Peter fell silent.
"I had been working for Sandford and Jones," said Peter, naming one of the biggest advertising agencies. "I was thirty when a rich uncle died and left me quite a bit so I decided to go into business for myself. My firm is Jenkins Associates."
"Doing well?"
"Very well. We've got the Barker Baby Food account, for example."
"Barker was bought over by a Japanese company last year. Do they still retain your services?"
"Of course. Didn't I just say so?"
Hamish sat back and surveyed Peter in silence.
Peter stared at him and then suddenly shrugged and said boyishly, "I shouldn't lie. A vice of advertising men. Fact is, I had this friend working with me right from the beginning and he recently quit and took that account with him. I hope the Japanese dump him."
"And what were you doing last night and this morning?"
"I was asleep the whole time. I heard Alison scream and rushed out."
"And did you hear any explosion, any loud bang?"
"No, nothing, but there could have been one before Alison woke me with her screams. It was an accident."
"Very well, Mr. Jenkins. That will be all for now. Send in Mr. Witherington."
Crispin Witherington was very jovial and hearty. Then he obviously decided that jollity was out of place and became pompous.
He outlined the facts about his relationship with Maggie, where he was during the night and morning—in bed—his business, and his home address in a way that led Hamish to believe he had had dealings with the police before. Then he launched into a diatribe about the pub in Fern Bay and the attack on him.
"Why didn't you report it?" asked Hamish.
"What's the point," said Crispin rudely. "You local yokels stick together."
"Don't be cheeky," said Hamish mildly. "Did you want to marry Mrs. Baird?"
"Hadn't made my mind up. I only came up for a giggle."
"And yet you asked Miss Kerr for help?"
"That sneaky little drip would say anything. Look, if it is murder, you only have to look in that direction."
"Are you saying you didn't ask Miss Kerr for help?"
"I can't remember every blasted word I've said."
"I'll be getting back to you. I'll hae a word with Mr. Frame next."
James Frame sidled in, smoothing down his already smooth hair with a nervous hand. Without prompting and with many 'don't you knows' and 'I says,' he launched into his tale of how he had been asleep the whole time.
He had almost perfected the silly-ass manner, thought Hamish, but the man's eyes behind a glaze of helpful and innocent goodwi
ll were hard and watchful as if a smaller, meaner man were staring from behind thick glass. When he had met Maggie, he said, oh-so-long-ago, he had been doing a bit of this and a bit of that. Money in the family, don't you know. All the while, Hamish made mental notes. Lower middle class. Accent assumed. Probably was a small-time crook.
"I believe Mrs. Baird was very expensive," said Hamish.
"She wasn't a whore," said James indignantly. "We were very much in love. Of course, a chap helps out a bit with the rent and things like that, but a chap would do that for any girl."
"What is the name of the gambling club where you work?"
"The Dinosaur in Half Moon Street. That's Mayfair."
"Yes, I know where Half Moon Street is. Do you own The Dinosaur?"
"Well, not zactly. Run it for a chap."
"And the chap's name?"
"Harry Fry."
"Champagne Harry. Out of prison is he?"
James looked sulky.
Even Hamish had heard of Harry Fry. He was a con artist. His last fling had been to ingratiate himself into the graces of a colonel who was a close friend of the royal family and who lived in a grace and favour house in Windsor, that is a rent-free house given by the Crown. The colonel had gone to the Middle East to raise money for one of his favourite charities, Save the Donkeys, and had left Harry alone in his house. Harry had sold the house for a vast sum to an Arab and had been caught just as he was about to board a plane to Brazil at London airport.
His sentence had been surprisingly lenient. He had great charm and had used it to good effect in court. He had paid back all the money he had gained for the house. Harry was reputed to be worth millions. He tricked and conned only because it was the breath of life to him.
At last Hamish sent James off and Steel Ironside took his place.
"Real name?" asked Hamish.
"Victor Plummer," said the pop singer in a sulky voice. But asked about his previous relationship with Maggie, he perked up and grew almost lyrical. He might have been describing a teenage romance: Maggie's arrival on the scene, their first meeting at a party where she had shown no interest in him, the long tours, the sleazy hotels and theatrical digs, the sudden fame, the just-as-sudden falling in love and the start of the affair with Maggie, the walks in the park, the dog they had bought, the plans they had made.
