One point still worried me. ‘Sheila McKee must have guessed that the boy committed murder and suicide over her,’ I said. ‘She’ll be devastated. Any girl would.’
Keith looked at me pityingly. ‘That shows how little you know about women,’ he said. He picked up my late uncle’s binoculars, which stood in their usual place beside my bird-book by the window, and focused them. ‘Most of them would boast about it for the rest of their lives. But not young Sheila. She’s an honest lassie.’ Keith looked round at me again before deciding to say more. ‘She reminds me a little of Deborah at the same age. A trusting nature but a hard core of common sense. And she doesn’t have to prove that she can attract the young men.’ He handed me the binoculars and pointed. ‘I think she’ll be all right.’
I got up, refocused the binoculars and looked where he indicated. On top of the knoll I could see the small, seated figure of the girl. She was in shade but silhouetted against sunlit grass, leaning back against the trunk of a small silver birch. Leaning against the same tree was another figure. Carefully adjusting the focus, I recognized Brett.
In the distance, the girl turned her head to look at the young man. I had seen the same movement when she looked back at Young Murdo on the day of the first death. It had seemed familiar at the time and I had seen it again only a few minutes earlier. The proud carriage of the head was unmistakable.
‘Why are you going to so much trouble?’ I asked him suddenly. ‘You’re covering up a murder and you’re prepared to go before a sheriff and twist the truth on oath.’
‘I told you—’
‘You told me a load of rubbish,’ I said. ‘You may like young Brett, but Bertha Heminson is a long way from being your sort of person. It’s the girl, isn’t it?’
When he tried very hard to look both innocent and indignant, I knew that I had the whole story at last. ‘What are you suggesting?’ he demanded.
‘That she’s your daughter,’ I said.
‘You’re out of your skull,’ he said more quietly.
‘It’s strange that you should mention skulls,’ I told him. ‘Both Mr and Mrs McKee have short necks and round skulls like Christmas puddings. Sheila’s quite different. She has a longer skull, set higher, and when she turns her head to look behind her she reminds me very much of you. Does Molly know?’
He hesitated and then nodded.
‘I’ve already promised you that I wouldn’t write the story as long as the Heminsons were in the district. I’ll make the same promise in respect of the McKees.’
‘My reputation, of course, doesn’t matter a damn?’
‘Your reputation would remain unchanged,’ I pointed out.
He pulled a face but I could see that he was not wholly displeased. ‘I never meant it to happen,’ he said, ‘but I rather think that she did. She always had more than her share of feminine charm but she’d never looked at any other man but Kennie McKee. Then, one day, when I’d had a dram or two, she gave me the come-on. That’s not the sort of invitation I’ve always turned down . . . more fool me. She told me that she was on the pill, but I’ve often suspected that she knew by then that she and Ken would never have a family together.’
‘Does Ken know?’
‘I’m sure of it. And I’ll tell you something else. Every year I get a Christmas card from Sheila. What do you make of that?’
I opened the drawer and gave him the tin of oil. ‘You’ll take a dram?’ I asked him.
‘That’s the other invitation I’ve never had the strength of mind to refuse,’ he said.
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AUTHOR’S NOTE
At first I was in some doubt as to whether this book should be written. After consideration, however, I decided that I had already offered the reader too many unlikely but, I hope, ingenious methods of murder for one more to matter. Diesel action in airguns is already mentioned in airgun literature.
In researching the various subjects I was greatly helped by Geoff Boothroyd, who not only furnished me with back copies of articles but went to the trouble of testing the blank cartridge/airgun pellet combination; Messrs Accles and Shelvoke Ltd, the manufacturers of humane killers; my local vets, Messrs Williamson and Duncan MSRCVS; and Derrick J. Pounder, Professor of Forensic Medicine at the University of Dundee.
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