Hamish Macbeth 20 (2004) - Death of a Poison Pen

by M C Beaton

  Hamish looked at the draining board beside the sink. Two cups and saucers were on the draining board. Two beads of water were on the draining board under them. He conjured up a picture of Miss Amy Beattie as he remembered her. A bustling, cheerful woman.

  He went back in and said to the pathologist, “I can’t believe it was suicide.”

  The pathologist, Mr. Sinclair, looked up at Hamish. “Poor woman. Clear case of suicide.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Hamish slowly.

  Jimmy Anderson swung round and glared at him. “Come on, Hamish,” he said. “What else could it be?”

  “Murder.”

  “Whit?”

  Hamish said to Mr. Sinclair, “You might find she was drugged afore she was strung up.”

  “And what makes you think that?”

  “Okay, she stood on a chair or something, put the rope over that hook, and kicked the chair or whatever away. So where is what she was standing on?”

  He went to the landing where Mrs. Harris was standing with a policewoman. “Mrs. Harris, are you sure you didn’t touch anything, move any of the furniture?”

  “Me? Och, no. I telt ye, I was too feart.”

  Hamish went back into the flat.

  “What makes you think she was drugged?” asked the pathologist.

  “Chust a hunch,” said Hamish, his Highland accent becoming stronger, a sign of his distress. “There are two cups on the draining board that have recently been washed. I knew Miss Beattie. She wasnae the sort o’ body to take her own life over a letter like that.”

  “The forensic team’ll be here in the morning,” said Jimmy. “I wish you wouldn’t complicate things, Hamish.”

  “I may be wrong,” said Hamish, “but it’s as well to make sure.”

  The police waited until the body was removed and the letter taken off to Strathbane by Jimmy. Then they sealed off the flat and left.

  “I’m going to Strathbane in the morning,” said Hamish. “I’ve got to get to a handwriting expert.”

  He drove back through the buffeting storm to Lochdubh. He realised he had not had any dinner but felt too tired to make anything other than a sandwich. He fried some liver for. Lugs, not seeing the irony that he would cook for his dog, no matter how tired he was, but not for himself.

  Jenny tossed and turned and the wind screamed and shook the boarding house. She felt she had come to some remote, pitiless, savage land. Waves on the sea loch outside were pounding the pebbly shore, adding to the tumult. Before she finally went off to sleep, she had decided to leave Lochdubh the following morning and get back to civilisation.

  But when she awoke, sunlight was streaming in through a crack in the curtains and the wind had dropped. She struggled out of bed and drew back the curtains. Waves still chased each other down the long sea loch all the way from the Atlantic, but apart from that, there was no sign of the storm of the night before. She pulled up the window and leant out. The air was sweet and warm, as if the winds had blown away the earlier autumnal chill.

  She decided to put off the idea of leaving. She went down to the dining room. Mrs. Dunne supplied enough breakfast to keep anyone from needing more food for the rest of the day. Jenny found that this morning her appetite was sharp, and she demolished a plate of eggs, bacon, sausage, and fried haggis with enjoyment. The tea, as usual, was delicious, not at all like tea in London. Must be the water, thought Jenny.

  “I’m right sorry about that catapult of yours,” said Mrs. Dunne, coming in to take her empty plate away. “But it shows what a good-hearted girl you are to be thinking of your nephew.”

  Jenny blushed and Mrs. Dunne smiled on her with approval. It showed modesty when a pretty girl like Miss Ogilvie could blush at a compliment.

  “Sad, sad business over at Braikie,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Poor Miss Beattie, her what ran the post office, hanged herself last night. They say it was because she got one o’ thae poison-pen letters.”

  “I suppose Hamish Macbeth is dealing with it.”

  “Aye, himself’s gone off to Strathbane to plead for one o’ thae handwriting experts.”

  Mrs. Dunne bustled out and Jenny sat back in her chair and lit a cigarette. What a relief to see ashtrays everywhere. As the smoke curled upwards in the shafts of sunlight, she remembered how proud Priscilla had been about sharing investigations with Hamish. Wouldn’t it be marvellous to put Priscilla’s elegant nose out of joint by joining in one of these investigations herself?

  She remembered that she was supposed to go to the Highland Times to pick up maps and tourist brochures. May as well. She would study a map and find the road to Strathbane and maybe bump into Hamish ‘by accident.’

  Also, she needed some sensible clothes: flat walking shoes, trousers, and a warm weatherproof coat, all the essential items of clothing she had not brought. There was no point in wearing a siren’s wardrobe in the Highlands.

  Ten minutes later she walked into the offices of the Highland Times. Elspeth and a very attractive young man were studying pull sheets of the paper.

  “Oh, there you are,” said Elspeth. “Jenny, this is Pat Mallone. Pat, Jenny Ogilvie.” Pat had dark curly hair like Jenny’s, but his eyes were bright blue. “I’ve got the stuff on my desk,” said Elspeth. Jenny smiled bewitchingly at Pat Mallone, but he was watching Elspeth with a dopey smile on his face.

  Amazing, thought Jenny sourly. Elspeth’s clothes were a disgrace.

  Elspeth handed her some maps and tourist brochures. “I thought I might go to Strathbane first and buy some warm clothes and some walking shoes,” said Jenny.

  “Good idea. You won’t get very far in those,” said Elspeth, looking down at Jenny’s flimsy high heels. “I thought all you London ladies had taken to wearing sensible shoes.”

  Not if we’re trying to seduce someone, thought Jenny. “I forgot to pack any,” she said. “I left in such a rush. How do I get to Strathbane?”

  “That’s easy. Go out of the village over the bridge and up past the Tommel Castle Hotel. A mile along the road you’ll come to a crossroads. One way leads along the coast to Lochinver, but take the one on the right that leads inland to Strathbane.”

  “Isn’t it signposted?”

  “Can’t remember.”

  Jenny thanked her and walked along to Iain Chisholm’s garage. Iain was bent over the engine of an old Rover. She tapped him on the shoulder and he jumped and straightened up and banged his head on the underside of the bonnet.

  “You fair gave me a start,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

  “I wondered whether you had a car I could rent.”

  “You’ve come to the right place. I’ve got the very thing.”

  “How much will it cost?”

  “Twenty-five pounds a week.”

  Jenny brightened. Amazingly cheap. “I’ll take it,” she said.

  “Just you wait outside and I’ll be bringing her round the front.”

  Jenny felt that she could actually get to like this place after all. The sun was glittering on the surface of the calming loch, and only the faintest of breezes now lifted her dark curls.

  She heard the sound of an engine. Down from a lane at the side of the garage came Iain, driving a Robin Reliant, those three-wheeler cars, beloved by some and treated as a joke by many.

  It was painted bright pink, not car paint, but with what looked like a flat emulsion.

  “Haven’t you anything else?” asked Jenny as Iain stopped the car and got out.

  “You can’t do better than this. Of course, you could be taking the bus to Strathbane to one o’ the big companies. They might charge you twenty-five pounds a day.”

  Jenny looked at the car doubtfully. “Does it go all right?”

  “Like a bomb.”

  May as well take it, thought Jenny. It does look ridiculous, but no one up here knows me.

  “All right,” she said. She took out her cheque book.

  “Haven’t you got cas
h?” asked Iain.

  Jenny fished out her wallet and extracted two twenties and a ten. Iain gave her a crumpled five-pound note as change.

  She smoothed it out. “What sort of money is this?”

  “It’s a Scottish five-pound note,” said Iain.

  “I didn’t know you people had your own money,” said Jenny, as if talking to the member of some strange aboriginal tribe.

  Iain shook his head as if in disbelief at her ignorance and handed her the car keys. “This one’s for the ignition and that little one’s for the petrol. You need leaded petrol.”

  Jenny thanked him and got in the car. The seats, like the seats in the minibus, had been covered in loose chintz. “I feel like a travelling circus,” she muttered as she put the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life, but the needle on the dashboard showed that the car was nearly out of petrol. She switched off the engine and got out again. Iain came out of the garage. “What’s up?”

  “Practically no petrol,” said Jenny.

  “Och, well, wait there. I’ll get you a gallon. That’ll get you to the nearest garage. These Robins don’t use much.”

  He went into the garage and came back with a gallon can, took the keys from her, and poured the petrol into the tank. He handed her the keys and said, “That’ll be five pounds.”

  “What! That’s a disgraceful price!”

  “Did nobody tell you that petrol was expensive up here?”

  “Oh, very well.” Jenny took out the Scottish five-pound note he had given her and handed it to him.

  He gave her a cheery wave as she drove off. The dogged pink car chugged along nicely, up and over the braes. She passed the Tommel Castle Hotel entrance and drove on to the crossroads and turned off for Strathbane. She had to admit that the scenery was worth the visit. What mountains! What majestic scenery!

  But when she crested the top of the hill to give her a view of Strathbane, like Hamish Macbeth, she experienced a sinking of the spirits. How awful that such a rundown industrial slagheap of a place should be dumped among the finest scenery in Britain. She saw a small garage by the side of the road and checked the petrol prices. Iain had overcharged her, but not by much. Why did the Scots put up with it? The prices were higher than in England. She filled up the tank and went into the garage shop to pay.

  A giant of a man loomed behind the counter. She handed him her credit card and felt relief when it was accepted. She had begun to think that maybe in these primitive parts they didn’t use credit cards. “English?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Jenny brightly. “I’m visiting.”

  “You should stay in your own damn country.” Before Jenny could think of an angry retort, a little woman shot out of the back shop. “You behave yourself, Angus. I haff neffer heard the like. Go along with you, lassie, and welcome to the Highlands.”

  She rounded on her giant of a husband. “And as for you, you great scunner, you get off tae yir bed and stop insulting the customers.”

  Jenny fled. No, it had been a mistake. One more night and back to civilisation tomorrow morning.

  Hamish Macbeth kicked his heels in Strathbane police headquarters all day. He had left Lugs with Angela Brodie, the doctor’s wife, and hoped she wasn’t overfeeding the animal. Angela was apt to be absent-minded, so that every time Lugs rattled his food bowl, she thought she hadn’t fed him and would feed him again.

  At last he was summoned up to Daviot’s office. “We have a handwriting expert who will see you this evening at seven. You will find him over in the forensic laboratory on the Scotsdale Road. You did bring the file of letters with you?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Hamish. “What’s the man’s name?”

  “Mr. Glass. Ask for Mr. Roger Glass.”

  “Any news of the autopsy?”

  “Sinclair is still working on it. We should have a result by tomorrow. You’re going to look very silly if it turns out to be plain suicide.”

  “I’ll take that chance, sir.”

  Hamish went back to the police canteen to pass the time. He collected a tray containing egg and chips and tea and made for a table by the window.

  He looked down into the street outside before he sat down. Across the road stood a shocking-pink Robin Reliant. I wonder what Iain is doing in Strathbane, thought Hamish, and then put it out of his mind.

  Outside, Jenny decided to give up waiting for Hamish Macbeth. Robin Reliant enthusiasts were constantly knocking on her window to get her attention so that they could reminisce about the glories of their youth when they had owned such a car.

  She glanced at her watch. If she was going to buy clothes, she’d better get a move on. She parked the car in a multi-storey in the centre which was built over a shopping arcade. In the arcade were several shops selling sporting goods, but they all seemed dreadfully expensive and she had no desire to buy clothes she would not be likely to wear again. Somehow the nonappearance of Hamish Macbeth had made her decide to stay on a bit.

  At the end of the arcade, she found a store called Murphy’s, full of cheap clothes and surprisingly cheap woollens. She bought two sweaters and a warm pair of wool trousers and an anorak. Then she moved to the shoe department and tried on shoes until she found a serviceable walking pair. On to the underwear department to purchase several pairs of white cotton briefs. I may look like a frump, she thought, but I’ll be a comfortable frump.

  She went into the toilet in the car park and changed her clothes and then surveyed herself in the mirror. The anorak, a garment she had once sworn never to be seen dead in, was cherry red. One of the new sweaters she had bought and now put on was lambswool and a dull gold colour. The trousers were dark brown and the flat shoes, brown.

  Jenny walked to her car with a new feeling of freedom. Everything felt amazingly comfortable.

  Her only regret was that her new anorak clashed violently with the colour of her car, but with an odd feeling of belonging, she headed out of Strathbane and took the road to Lochdubh.

  At seven o’clock precisely, Hamish was ushered into Mr. Glass’s office. He had expected to meet a scholarly man wearing an old tweed jacket and thick glasses. Instead, he found himself looking at a man about his own age, mid-thirties, with sandy hair and a round cherubic face, wearing an open-necked checked shirt and jeans.

  His voice, in contrast to his appearance, was dry and precise. “You have the letters? It is Hamish Macbeth, is it not?”

  “Yes, it is. I have the letters here.”

  “It will take me some time.”

  Hamish sighed. “It’s an urgent case. Can’t you at least try to give me some analysis of the type of person who wrote the letters?”

  “I’ll do my best. You’ll find coffee in the pot over there. Help yourself.”

  Mr. Glass sat down and opened the file. Hamish poured a cup of coffee, sat down in a chair in the corner of the cluttered office, and tried to be patient.

  At last he said, “How can you really tell a person’s character from their handwriting?”

  “Attitudes and feelings influence the formations of handwriting. Handwriting is a sort of mental photograph of what’s going on inside you.”

  “What if someone deliberately disguised their handwriting?”

  “Makes it a bit harder. But the real traits of character have a way of showing through.”

  Silence again while Hamish fidgeted. There was a large plain clock on the wall, like the clocks you sometimes still see in Highland school classrooms. It had a loud tick-tock which seemed to get louder as the minutes dragged by.

  “Ahum,” said Mr. Glass.

  “You’ve got something?” asked Hamish eagerly.

  “Too early.”

  Hamish’s patience gave out. “Look, man, one woman’s dead and that woman was a postmistress and it’s my guess it was murder and there’ll be others if you don’t get a move on. Give me an idea!”

  “All right.” Glass capitulated. “See this letter to a Mrs. Wellington accusing her of having an affair with you?�
�� He looked up at Hamish and a little gleam of malice darted through his eyes.

  “Aye. You would pick that one. Go on. I’m looking.” Hamish bent over him.

  “As far as I can see, she has made no effort to disguise her handwriting.”

  “She? You’re sure?”

  “Pretty sure. She suffers from a low opinion of herself and never really feels safe.”

  “I’m not surprised the biddy doesnae feel safe, writing letters like that.”

  “No, that’s not what I mean. She is always frightened of people finding out what her character really is like so that then they won’t like her. She is often depressed. See how the lines of her writing descend and how the letters turn back? Look at the low f-bars. She wears a mask the whole time.”

  “Like the Phantom of the Opera?”

  “No, no. She assumes a role, possibly that of a strong, confident woman, and has probably been playing that part all her life.”

  “She’s old?”

  “I think so. She has an overstretched personality. Because she thinks so little of herself, she tries to achieve more than she is capable of.”

  “So even though she may be retired, she may have worked at something. I mean, not married and had children and been a housewife?”

  “I can’t go as far as that. You’ll need to give me more time.”

  “Phone me at Lochdubh when you’ve got something more.”

  The following morning Hamish telephoned headquarters but was told that the results from the pathologist would not be ready until later that day.

  There was a knock at the door. He opened it and recognised Jenny. The day was crisp and clear and she was dressed in her new ‘sensible’ clothes.

  “What is it?” asked Hamish. He was anxious to get off to Braikie.

  Jenny blinked. She had forgotten to come armed with an excuse. She thought of one rapidly.

  “It’s very remote up here,” she began, batting a pair of eyelashes, heavy with waterproof mascara, at him.

  “So?”asked Hamish.

  “I wonder if it’s safe for a woman on her own to travel around?”