by M C Beaton
She gulped in air and then said, “I’m all right now. Honest. When I saw you, the first thing I thought was that there had been another murder.”
“Now, why should you think that?”
“It’s silly. But there’s such an atmosphere of suspicion and threat around. I’m sorry. How can I help?”
“I would like a quiet word with Penny Roberts.”
“Mr. Arkle won’t like that.”
“Where is Mr. Arkle?”
“He’s away today. He’s at a board of education meeting.”
“So we don’t need to bother about him,” said Hamish bracingly. “And what he doesn’t know can’t upset him.”
“Won’t her parents need to be present?”
“No, it’s not as if she’s being charged with anything. You’ll do.”
Freda rose and went to the wall where class schedules were pinned up. “Penny’s in the art class at the moment and art is not her best subject. I’ll go and get her.”
Hamish waited patiently. Footsteps came and went in the corridor outside.
After he had interviewed Penny, he decided, he would get the home addresses of the teachers and call on them after school. He remembered his own school report: “brilliant but lazy.” His teachers had never really forgiven him for coming out on top in all the exams while apparently doing very little work. He wondered if Penny would turn out to be an egghead. Teachers felt comfortable with swots.
The door opened and Freda ushered in a teenager. She was a quite remarkable beauty. She had thick black hair and a perfect complexion and huge blue eyes. She was wearing the school uniform of grey sweater and grey pleated skirt with a blue shirt and striped tie. Hamish noticed that the skirt was very short and she was wearing sheer black tights and those clumpy shoes with thick soles like diving boots.
Freda produced two chairs for them and then sat down nervously behind her desk.
“I am PC Hamish Macbeth,” said Hamish.
“I know.” Penny smiled at him out of those incredible eyes and flicked a lock of glossy black hair over one shoulder. “Word gets around.”
“Now, Penny, I’ll get straight to the point. I’m trying to find out as much as I can about the character of your late headmistress.”
“Head teacher,” corrected Penny.
“Whatever. You see, sometimes the character of the deceased can give the police a clue as to why she was murdered. I believe you were something of a favourite with her.”
“Aye. She was all over me like a rash,” said Penny with an almost adult insouciance.
“So tell me about her.”
Penny shrugged. “She was always finding excuses to invite me round to her house. Said I had a brilliant future. Always making excuses that I need extra coaching in this and that. She said I didn’t want to rot the rest of my life in a place like Braikie. Oh, I ‘member. She got mad at me once. I told her I wasn’t going to the university. I mean, university in Strathbane! Spotty students. Dead-alive hole.” Another flick of the hair, a crossing of long legs, a sideways glance. “I told her I was going to be a television presenter and she went apeshit.”
“Penny!” admonished Freda.
“Sorry. But she went into full rant. Said television was full of men who would prey on me.
“I said, ‘What’s up with that?’ and she told me to get out of her house. But she sent me flowers the next day and an apology.”
“Didn’t your parents find her behaviour…weird?”
“Oh, Ma and Da think teachers are God. They could see nothing wrong with her.”
“Did it ever cross your mind that she might be a lesbian?”
Penny’s beautiful brow furrowed in thought. “No. I mean, she didn’t look Greek.”
So there was some innocence left in that beautiful brain, thought Hamish.
“You’re bound to know sooner or later,” he said. “Miss McAndrew appears to have been the author of those poison-pen letters. Did you have any idea she was writing them?”
For once, Penny looked shocked out of her normal composure. “I’d never have guessed,” she said. “I mean, who would think a head teacher would do something like that? Mind you, she always seemed to have taken a spite to someone, always complaining.”
“Did she ever complain about Miss Beattie?”
“Well, she did. Let me think. Said something about the way she was going on was disgraceful. Oh, there’s something else weird.”
“What?”
“I’ll tell you if you don’t let on.”
“Penny, I promise to let anything you say to me stay between these four walls—unless, of course, it relates directly to the murder.”
“It’s like this. Geordie Cromarty…”
“The ironmonger’s son.”
“Yes, him. He phoned me one night and said if I slipped out, he would buy me fish and chips. I’d been on this diet, see. If you’re going to be on television, you have to be thin. I was fair starving so I said I’d meet him. I slipped out by the bedroom window and met him in the main street.”
“About what time of night would that have been?”
“It was just before eleven. He said to hurry up because the chippy closed at eleven. So we were going to the chippy and you know what Braikie’s like at that time of night—dead as a doornail. Then I saw on the other side of the lights from the chippy’s window this cloaked figure. “Someone’s coming,” I said. So we hid in a doorway. She passed us. She had this long black cloak with a hood right down over her face. A gust of wind blew the hood back and it was her and she looked real weird.”
“Miss McAndrew?”
“Herself. She was muttering something under her breath. I tell you, it gave us both a scare. We stayed in the doorway until we were sure she had gone, and by the time we got to the chippy, it had closed.”
“Didn’t you think it odd that your former head teacher should be behaving so strangely?”
“Grown-ups are all weird, if you ask me,” said Penny with all the brutality of youth. “I’m never going to get like that.”
“What night did you see her?”
“A few nights back. Can’t remember which one.”
Hamish asked her a few more questions and then dismissed her.
He turned to Freda. “Did you think Miss McAndrew was weird?”
“No. Like I said, I thought she was a bully. I did think she was overfond of Penny, but teachers sometimes get harmless crushes on pupils. Sometimes it’s the other way round.” A smile lifted her pale lips. “Mind you, there’s no one in this school to get a crush on.”
Hamish thanked her and left. He sat on a wall outside the school and made rapid notes.
Miss McAndrew had taught many pupils in her career, seen them grow up, maybe knew their secrets. She had hit on one that meant ruin for someone. He closed his notebook with a sigh. He had better go back in again and ask to see Geordie.
Freda had regained a little bit of colour when she ushered Geordie in to speak to Hamish. If only the lassie could get another job, thought Hamish. On the other hand, maybe she would attract bullies wherever she went.
Geordie Cromarty was small and swarthy. He had hair as black as Penny’s and it grew low on his forehead. His eyes were the same peculiarly silvery light grey as Elspeth’s. People with such eyes were often credited with having the second sight, the ability to see the future. Hamish thought of the seer of Lochdubh, Angus Macdonald. Perhaps it might be an idea to call on him later and see if he’d heard anything. Hamish was sure most of Angus’s predictions were based on gossip.
“Now, Geordie,” began Hamish, “Penny tells me you were both out in Braikie one night and saw Miss McAndrew behaving strangely.”
“Aye, her looked like something out o’ a horror movie, big cloak and all.”
“Now, Penny can’t remember which night it was. Can you?”
“Sure. It was the night afore that auld biddy in the post office topped herself.”
“May I remind you that Miss Beattie was murdered?�
��
“Was she? Cool!”
“And did Miss McAndrew go straight on down the street?”
“We didnae stop tae look, man,” said Geordie, whose speech was an odd mixture of Highland dialect and Americanisms culled from movies.
“Did you experience any trouble with Miss McAndrew?”
“All the time. She told me to stay away from Penny. She said Penny was meant for better things.”
“What did you reply to that?”
Geordie looked at him with scorn. “Lissen, copper, when the auldies are getting at ye, ye say, ‘Right, miss, no, miss, sure, miss.’”
“Did Penny not find the attentions of Miss McAndrew embarrassing?”
“She got the best marks in her exams. I think Miss McAndrew fixed a lot of her papers.”
“Did Penny tell you that?”
“Naw, just a guess.”
“Your father was angry with Miss McAndrew, wasn’t he?”
“Aye, herself gave me a bad mark in an exam. History, it was. I’m good at history. He demanded to see the exam paper and she wouldn’t let him see it, so he said he’d write to the education board. My dad said she was taking her spite out on me because of Penny.”
“If you hear anything at all, Geordie, that might be relevant, let me know.”
Geordie looked as if someone had just pinned a deputy sheriff’s badge on him. His face beamed. “Sure, guv,” he said. “You can count on me.”
After Geordie had left, Freda said, “I thought Miss McAndrew was a bully, but I never thought she’d cheat.”
“It looks as if she might have done.” Hamish thanked her again and left. He made his way out of the school and along the quiet tree-lined street which led to the main thoroughfare. At the corner stood the community hall. He peered in the window. It was full of old people, watching television, playing cards, reading, or just chatting. He pushed open the door and went in. “Who’s in charge here?” he asked an elderly lady in a wheelchair.
“Mr. Blakey, ower there.”
Mr. Blakey was a thin man whose face was covered in a film of sweat. The room was not particularly warm. Hamish noticed he had a slight tic at the corner of his mouth and that his nails were bitten to the quick. The sweating, he judged, must be a nervous condition. Mr. Blakey, as he was to discover, walked about in a sort of tropical rain forest.
“Mr. Blakey?”
“That’s me.” Mr. Blakey took a damp handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow.
“How often do you meet here?”
“It’s open every morning. Then twice a week, Mondays and Fridays, we show videos in the evening.”
“There’s a Mrs. Harris. She seems quite lonely. I would like to bring her along.”
“What about this Friday?” suggested Mr. Blakey. “We’re showing Green Card at seven o’clock. I can’t afford the new videos.”
“And you probably pay for them yourself,” said Hamish, recognising one of the world’s few genuine do-gooders in this thin, nervous man.
“Well, funds are not that great.”
“Is this your full-time job? You’re what? In your fifties? Not old these days.”
“I worked at the bank for years. Had a bit of a nervous breakdown. This keeps me occupied.”
“I’ll come on Friday,” said Hamish. “I’ve got a lot of videos at home I’ll never look at again. I’ll bring them with me.”
Mr. Blakey thanked him and Hamish made his way to Mrs. Harris’s flat, where he told her about the old folks’ club. “Amy—Miss Beattie—was always on at me to go, but I didn’t want to be with a lot of old folk.”
“It’d be company for you. They’re showing a movie on Friday night. I’ll take you along.”
“I don’t know…”
“Give it a try. I’ll pick you up at a quarter to seven on Friday. That way you’ll not need to go yourself.”
She reluctantly agreed. Hamish’s motives were not entirely altruistic. He was sure an old folks’ club would be a good source of gossip.
Pat Mallone enjoyed his day with Jenny. They toured round a few beauty spots, ate lunch, and wandered around Braikie, where he asked questions of passersby in a not very interested way. It was only when he had dropped Jenny off and returned to his office that he realised he hadn’t enough for a feature piece. Sam, his boss, looked at him in irritation. Pat had started off well, but Sam had noticed he was beginning to slope off on jobs. “You go over to Lairg and find out how sheep prices are doing,” he said. “Get off early in the morning.”
“But what about Braikie?”
“I’ll send Elspeth.”
“But I can do it!”
“You had your chance.”
Hamish collected a reluctant Lugs at the end of a weary day when he felt he had got nowhere at all. He decided to put on his best suit and invite Jenny for dinner in the hope—although he would not admit it to himself—that Priscilla might get to hear of it.
He brushed his red hair until it shone and put on his one Savile Row suit, courtesy of a thrift shop in Strathbane, knotted a silk tie over his white shirt, and was heading for the kitchen door when it opened and Elspeth stood there.
“Don’t you ever knock?” asked Hamish.
“I heard you coming to the door. Goodness, you do look grand. Just as well I dressed up.”
“Why?” Elspeth was wearing a long fake fur over a filmy grey dress. Instead of her usual clumpy boots, she had on a pair of black high-heeled sandals.
Elspeth smiled. “Because I’m taking you for dinner.”
“I was going to take Jenny.”
“Tough. She’s eaten and is going to have an early night.”
“How do you know?”
The truthful answer to that was that Elspeth had met Jenny as that young lady was on her way to the police station to see Hamish. Elspeth, with true Highland aplomb, had cheerfully lied, telling Jenny that Hamish was stuck in Braikie until late, and Jenny had said that in that case she would take Mrs. Dunne’s offer of a meal and go to bed afterwards and read.
“Because she told me,” said Elspeth cheerfully. “Come along.”
Hamish looked at her suspiciously as she tripped along beside him on the waterfront. The mist had come down and little pearls of moisture shone in Elspeth’s hair.
Willie Lament, who used to work in the police force and was now a waiter at the Italian restaurant, greeted them as they entered. “The table at the window’s clear,” he said. “I’ll just be giving it another clean.”
“It looks chust fine,” said Hamish, irritated as always by Willie’s obsession with cleanliness and by the obscure feeling that he had somehow been hijacked by Elspeth.
Willie held a can of spray cleaner over the table. “Just a wee scoosh,” he pleaded.
“Oh, go on,” said Hamish impatiently. “Stand back, Elspeth. That man’s lungs must be full of Pledge.”
Willie eagerly polished the table until it shone. Finally they sat down. “It’s got worse,” said Hamish gloomily. “When they had the checked plastic covers, he scrubbed them until they faded. Now they’ve got wooden tables, you can hardly taste the food for the smell o’ furniture polish.”
“He used to work for you, didn’t he? How was he as a policeman?”
“Awful. He couldn’t get out on a case for either hanging around the restaurant courting Lucia or turning out the whole police station and scrubbing down the walls.” Lucia was a relative of the Italian owner and now married to Willie.
“Well, Lucia seems happy with him.”
“Of course, she is. She never has to do a hand’s turn around the house. What are you having?”
“I don’t feel adventurous tonight. I’ll just have the spag bol and a salad, and some garlic bread.”
“I’ll have the same.”
“And we’ll have a decanter of the house wine.”
“Okay.”
“I’ve got to go to Braikie tomorrow,” said Elspeth after their order had been taken. “Pat was suppos
ed to do a colour piece on Braikie for one of the nationals, but he spent his day romancing Jenny, so I’ve got to do it. I’m surprised he didn’t jump at the chance. He thinks he was meant for better things. Fortunately for him, although it was meant for the daily, they’ve decided to run it on the Sunday.”
“What sort of thing will you be writing?”
“Oh, you know, Hamish—The Village That Lives in Fear.”
“I wish you wouldn’t stir things up. Behind those closed curtains at night in Braikie, people will be whispering to each other, convinced they know who did it. The whole place will soon be engulfed in malice and rumour and spite.”
“Still, I might be able to ferret something out for you.”
“Maybe you’ll have another psychic experience.”
Elspeth shuddered. She had once fainted in Patel’s grocery when a murderer was in the shop. She never wanted to go through anything like that again.
“Talking of psychic experiences,” Hamish went on, “I thought of going to see Angus in the morning.”
“Why? I’m convinced our seer is an old fraud.”
“Maybe, but he hears things. I spoke to Priscilla. Jenny’s a friend of hers.”
Aha, thought Elspeth. Up here to chase Hamish and put Priscilla’s nose out of joint.
Their food arrived at that moment. Elspeth waited until Willie had left, then asked, “How did that go?”
“Fine. She said Jenny had a way of getting people to open up and talk to her.”
“Isn’t one Holmes good enough for you?”
“I sometimes feel I need fifty Holmeses.”
“Someone will break soon and gossip.”
“Oh, they’ll gossip, and maliciously, too, as long as deep in their hearts they know their suspicions are unfounded. But what if they find out it’s one of their own, so to speak, someone they like, someone they will defend from police investigation? Then the whole of Braikie will close down as tight as a drum.”
“Not necessarily. You’re thinking of Miss McAndrew. A lot of people probably disliked her. Her recent crush on young Penny must have made a lot of parents feel that their own precious offspring was being passed over. You’re forgetting about Miss Beattie. I did manage to find out that everyone liked her.”
