Death of a Poison Pen

∨ Death of a Poison Pen ∧

CHAPTER ELEVEN

In winter, when the dismal rain

Came down in slanting lines,

And Wind, that grand old harper, smote

His thunder-harp of pines.

—Alexander Smith

The following day, Hamish received a phone call from Priscilla. “What’s all this?” asked Priscilla. “Jenny’s over the front page of every newspaper saying she solved the murders.”

“She was listening at the kitchen door when I was discussing the case with Elspeth. That’s how she found out.”

“Elspeth? Oh, that little reporter. That your latest squeeze?”

“Elspeth Grant is a friend of mine and has been a great help to me.”

There was a silence and then Priscilla said, “So can’t Elspeth put the papers right?”

“The papers have got their heroine and they are not going to change their story and say it was some boring Highland copper. Are you coming up soon?”

“I thought of flying up to see Jenny, but I am too cross with her to bother now. She shouldn’t have snatched the glory from you.”

“Well, the lassie’s probably done me a favour. Anytime I have even a wee bit of success, Peter Daviot starts mumbling about moving me to Strathbane.”

“But he surely knows it was you who solved the murders?”

“Aye, but he’s driven by the press. What gets in the press is only what interests Daviot. Another thing: I am perfectly sure Blair backed up Jenny’s story so that I would get as little credit as possible.”

“Jenny’s parents phoned me today,” said Priscilla. “They are now speeding north to take their daughter home, so she’ll soon be out of your hair.”

Hamish wanted to ask her how her love life was getting on and whether she was about to get married soon, but he dreaded what the answer might be. So instead, he talked about the locals, about how he had to woo back his dog’s affections because Lugs had spent so much time with Angela that he seemed to prefer going there, and how pleasant it was to settle back down to a less demanding life.

“Why did the Robertses do it?” asked Priscilla.

“Because their child wasn’t their own.”

“I know that. But to commit two murders!”

“I’ll find out and let you know,” said Hamish. “Jimmy Anderson is going to call and let me see a transcript of the interview.”

When she rang off, Hamish went out to feed his hens and check on his sheep. The air was cold and damp and the wind had shifted round to the northeast. The long Highland winter was howling on the threshold.

♦

By faking references, Pat Mallone had managed to get a job on the Dublin Mercury as a junior reporter. On his way to work, he stopped by a shop to buy cigarettes, a habit he had taken up after his flight from the Highlands. Although he was perfectly sure the Scottish police would not go to the trouble to extradite anyone on such a minor charge, he still felt uneasy. The shop sold the British newspapers, and there was Jenny’s face smiling up at him from the front pages. He bought several and then, after buying his cigarettes as well, stood on Grafton Street and read the stories.

If only he had stayed, he thought bitterly, he could have basked in some reflected glory. Of course, none of what had happened to him was really his fault. It had all been just bad luck.

♦

After another two days, Hamish was just beginning to think that Jimmy had forgotten about him when the man himself appeared in the evening, carrying a bottle of whisky.

“Come ben,” said Hamish. “It is not like you to be providing the whisky.”

“I feel you deserve it, laddie. I was getting damn sick o’ Braikie. How you can bear living up here fair beats me.” As if in answer to him, the wind howled around the police station like an Irish banshee.

“Sit yourself down,” said Hamish, putting two glasses on the kitchen table. “Did Cyril Roberts confess?”

“Aye,” said Jimmy, pouring a large whisky for himself and a small one for Hamish. He tugged several pieces of paper out of his jacket pocket. “Read that.”

Hamish spread the papers on the table and began to read.

“Amy Beattie,” Cyril Roberts had written, “came to us as a cleaner sixteen years ago. My wife, Mary, found her crying in the kitchen one day and asked her what was troubling her. Amy said she was pregnant. She said she would have to have the child and then give it up for adoption. Now, Mary and I couldn’t have children. We’d always longed for one. We’d thought of adoption, but the adoption societies are so difficult. So when Mary told me, we hit upon a plan. We’ve got a holiday cottage over in Caithness, just north of Helmsdale. Amy would go and live there when her time was near. Meanwhile, Mary would tell everyone she was pregnant. Then when Amy was due, we’d go over there. Mary used to be a nurse so she would deliver the baby. She would come back with it as our own.

“We doted on Penny as she grew up. Have you seen her? Have you ever seen anything more beautiful? Amy seemed to have started a new life for herself. We’d given her a large sum of money and she bought the post office. We’d inherited a lot of money after Mary pushed her own mother down the stairs.”

“I remember,” said Hamish, “that Mary said her mother had Alzheimer’s and died a week before she married Cyril.” He went back to reading.

“And then one day Amy Beattie turned up. She said she wanted Penny to know the identity of her real mother. We couldn’t be having that. We threatened her and we thought that would keep her quiet. But she went to Miss McAndrew. Miss McAndrew was hot for Penny to go to university and Penny wanted a career in television. Miss McAndrew told us that if we did not make sure Penny went to the university, then she would tell everyone in Braikie that Penny was not our child. Then the anonymous letter arrived, addressed to Penny. The post was late that morning and it arrived after Penny had left for school. We opened and read it and we were pretty sure it was from Miss McAndrew.

“Mary said no one was going to take our precious child away. We told Amy that we had decided to let her tell Penny but we would like to discuss it with her first. We went round to her flat. Mary put a strong sleeping draught in her tea and when she was unconscious, we hanged her and left that anonymous letter, knowing that Miss McAndrew would read about it in the papers and take it as a warning. Just to be sure, we took a bit of video film and sent it to her as a further warning. No, I don’t know who sent it to the community centre. We thought that was an end to it. Then Miss McAndrew phoned up soon afterwards and said she had been wrestling with her conscience. She said she would have to go to the police and tell them everything. It was late at night and Mary said she wouldn’t go to the police that night and had to be silenced. I said that one killing was enough and Mary said she would kill me if I didn’t help her. She said she would do it. Now, Penny had keys to Miss McAndrew’s house. I begged Mary not to do it, just to frighten Miss McAndrew, and Mary said all right. We let ourselves in and crept up to the bedroom and then Mary produced this knife and began to stab and stab and stab.

“And we thought for a while we’d got clean away with both murders. We were even able to go on as normal. We adore Penny. And then that girl Jenny called. Mary hit her on the head. I wish we had just bluffed our way out of it because she didn’t really know anything. But once it was done, we shut her up in a cupboard bound and gagged. I got rid of the car. If only I had put Jenny in it. That was a big mistake. So it had to be the quarry.”

Hamish looked up from his reading. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“What doesn’t make sense?” asked Jimmy.

“That a perfectly respectable Highland couple should resort to such mad violence.”

“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong,” said Jimmy. “You don’t know everything, Sherlock.”

“What?”

“Mary Roberts was at one time in her early life sectioned for psychopathy. Cyril Roberts used to be in the Royal Marines and spent a long time in the glasshouse and then got a dishonourable discharge for nearly beating an officer to death.”

“We never thought to dig up their backgrounds,” mourned Hamish. “What about Penny? How’s she taking it?”

“Last heard, she’s selling her story to the Sun. She may end up on television after all.”

“That video turning up at the film show at the community centre: That bothers me. Roberts didn’t mention anyone else being in on it?”

“No. He said he was frightened and puzzled because it couldn’t have been Miss McAndrew. She was already dead.”

“It’s a loose end, and I don’t like loose ends. Go easy on the whisky, Jimmy. I shouldnae even let you drive.”

“I’ll be just fine.”

Hamish studied the statement again. “I see Cyril Roberts says nothing about fairies.”

“You mean he was gay?”

“No. Look, I’ll tell you if you promise to keep it to yourself.”

“Go ahead. You know me. I never pass on anything you say because it always means, somehow, that Blair’ll get to hear of it and rant and rave and I feel I’ve had enough of that scunner’s temper to last a lifetime.”

“How’s his drinking?”

“Doing great, as far as I know. Swills down doubles like water.”

“That man’s liver must be cast iron by now. Do you know why more people don’t sober up?”

“Why?”

“Because they don’t wear their livers on the outside. If everyone wore their liver on their forehead, say, it would be on full view and people would say, “Heffens, Jock, that liver of yours is looking fair hobnailed,” and they would get shamed into doing something about it.”

“I’m glad, then, mine’s safely tucked away inside, hobnailed boots and all. What were you going to tell me?”

“Elspeth scared Mary Roberts into jumping into the quarry. She put on this weird voice and haunted them. Mary Roberts thought it was the fairies and lost her mind wi’ terror. But if Elspeth hadn’t done it, I wouldn’t maybe have had a chance to get Roberts. He had that shotgun and he would have used it.”

“Pretty lassie, thon Elspeth. Got your leg over yet?”

“Wash your mouth out with soap, Jimmy.”

“Whisky’ll do,” said Jimmy, and poured himself another glass. “Roberts is trying to put all the blame on his wife. But I’ll tell ye one thing that came out at the interview…”

“What?”

“Cyril Roberts was in love with Penny. Now, the wife, she was just obsessed with the idea of having such a beautiful child. But Roberts, it was mad obsession. He was fair crazy about her. I think he was the one who stabbed Miss McAndrew. And I think he’d sooner or later have got rid of his wife to have Penny to himself. I went to see her. She’s a right little minx. You’d think she’d have been shattered, but she seemed to be glorying in the notoriety of it all.”

“Well, Roberts will be put away for a long time. He won’t be seeing her again.”

“He doesnae know that. The crazed wee man thinks she’ll visit him in prison. God help the lassie. He’ll get out when she’s still alive. She’d better change her name and disappear.”

“It’s sad,” said Hamish. “Amy Beattie deserved better from her daughter.”

♦

A few weeks later Hamish returned to the police station after driving round his beat. He saw Elspeth going into the newspaper office and averted his head. He knew he had been avoiding her and felt guilty about it. He owed her a lot, but the memory of that kiss and the emotions it had stirred in him had frightened him. He didn’t want another romantic involvement, particularly one right in the village of Lochdubh.

He parked the police Land Rover and got out. The rain was being driven horizontally across the loch on the screaming wind. There was a slim figure huddled in the shelter of the kitchen door.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“I’ve come to confess,” said a female voice.

“Come in.” He opened the kitchen door and switched on the light and turned to look at his visitor. At first he did not recognise her, and then with a start he realised his visitor was Jessie Briggs.

Her hair was cut in a short crop and was a natural glossy brown. She was dressed in a smart tweed suit under a cream raincoat.

“Take your coat off and sit down,” said Hamish. “Confess what? First, do you want some tea?”

“Yes, please.”

“I’ll put the kettle on. It’s cold in here. I’ll just light the stove.”

He took the lid off the stove and raked down the ashes. He threw in firelighter and sticks and, when they were blazing, added several slices of peat. He put the kettle on the stove and sat down at the kitchen table opposite her.

“All right. I’m ready. What’s up?”

“Thon video,” said Jessie in a shaky voice. “That was me.”

“Och, Jessie. Neffer tell me you had a part in those dreadful murders.”

“No, only that Miss McAndrew called on me right after Miss Beattie was murdered. She seemed upset. She gave me the video and said it was to be delivered to the community centre. I asked her why she didn’t take it there herself and she said something about she didn’t like Blakey but wanted people to help the elderly. When she’d gone, I left it lying. I was drunk pretty much the whole time. I remembered it after she was found murdered and that prompted me into doing what she’d asked. I took it round and put it through the letter box. Then when I learned what had been in the tape, I decided to say nothing about it in case the police thought I had anything to do with the murders.”

“She must have been frightened,” said Hamish. “She must have hoped that the video would have given us some clue, or maybe she did it to warn the Robertses that she was not to be intimidated. So what prompted you to come to me now?”

“I’ve been going to the AA meetings and at last I told them about the tape. They said I’d better tell you and I’d feel better. Are you going to charge me?”

“No. My boss would probably curse and shout and charge you with obstructing the police in their enquiries, and it’s such a delight to see you off the booze, I wouldnae want to do anything that would put you back on it. How are you doing?”

“I’m fine. I’ve got a part-time job.”

“Where?”

“At the gift shop in Braikie. Someone at the meeting’s got three little children and she said she would look after my baby in the afternoons.”

The kettle boiled and Hamish rose and made a pot of tea. “How’s Penny?” asked Jessie, sipping at her tea and refusing Hamish’s offer of shortbread.

“Last heard, she’s staying with her aunt over in Lochinver.”

“She must be an emotional wreck.”

“I wouldnae say that. Did you read her story in the Sun?”

“No, I missed that.”

“She fairly trashed the Robertses and said she’d always been scared of them, which is a lie because, murderers they may be, but they doted on her with a passion.”

♦

After Jessie had left, Hamish felt he should really phone Elspeth and tell her that the mystery of the video had been solved. He had behaved childishly by avoiding her. He picked up the phone. It was only five in the evening although it was as black as pitch outside. She would probably still be at the office. Her line was engaged. He felt relieved and then damned himself for being a coward and dialled again.

“Hamish,” said Elspeth in a cool voice. “What a surprise. How can I help you?”

“I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch with you lately,” said Hamish, “but I’ve been awfully busy.”

“Oh, really? Your beat abounding in crimes I don’t know about?”

“Nothing newsworthy, but a lot of irritating little things.”

“Like avoiding me?”

“Come on, Elspeth. Let’s be friends.”

There was a long silence and then Elspeth said, “Take me for dinner at the Italian’s. I’ll be there at eight.”

“See you then,” said Hamish, and rang off.

♦

As he dressed that evening, Hamish found he was nervous and excited. He realised he had missed Elspeth’s visits and company.

At ten minutes to eight, he shrugged himself into his oilskin. Lugs let out a low whine. Hamish eyed his dog. “Oh, all right,” he said. “You can come as well.” Taking Lugs with him, he felt, would make sure it stayed a friendly evening rather than a romantic one.

The evening got off to a bad start. Elspeth was wearing a blue silk blouse, a white jacket, and dark blue skirt. Lugs, who had got drenched during the walk to the restaurant, shook water over Elspeth and then placed his muddy paws on her skirt and gazed accusingly up into her face.

Fortunately, the cleaning-mad Willie Lament was on hand to sponge out the stains with a new stain remover and to remove the dog to the kitchen and towel him down.

Willie reappeared to hand them menus. “Where’s my dog?” asked Hamish.

“We’re just giving the wee chap some pasta. Lugs likes pasta.”

“Not too much, Willie,” admonished Hamish. “He’s overweight already.”

Hamish told Elspeth about how the video had got to the community centre – “but don’t put anything in that paper of yours.”

“I’m just glad Jessie’s getting herself straightened out. Have you heard from Jenny?”

“Not a word. But I got a call from Priscilla yesterday. She said she was seeing Jenny that evening. She said she had kept clear of her for a bit because she didn’t like the way Jenny took all the praise for solving the case.”

“Jenny’ll be back up for the trial and she’ll make the most of the publicity again. Sam says Pat is working on a paper in Dublin. He must have forged a reference.”

“Knowing that one, he probably forged several references.”

Hamish ordered a bottle of wine and told Elspeth all about Cyril Roberts’s confession, and then, somehow, found himself ordering another. He felt relaxed and happy.

“Did anything come from your appeal in the paper for the old folks’ club?” Hamish asked.

“Oh, that will be appearing in the next issue. Mr. Blakey is getting lottery money to buy proper cinematography equipment.”

“That’s grand.” Hamish studied her. “There seems to be a bit o’ worry at the back of your eyes, Elspeth. Anything bothering you?”

Yes, thought Elspeth. An offer from the Daily Bugle. But I haven’t made up my mind. It depends…

♦

The evening before, Jenny once more found herself in Priscilla’s elegant flat. “I thought you would never speak to me again,” said Jenny.

“I was angry with you for taking the credit away from Hamish.”

“But I didn’t!” protested Jenny. “I guessed it all by myself.”

“Hamish says you were listening at the police station door when he was discussing the case with Elspeth.”

Jenny blushed but said hotly, “That’s not true!”

“Have it your way. Is Hamish keen on this Elspeth?”

“Not really. They just seem to be friends. As a matter of fact,” said Jenny with a toss of her dark curls, “Hamish rather fancied me.”

“Didn’t sound like it when I spoke to him this morning.”

“Oh,” faltered Jenny, “you spoke to him.” She rallied. “Well, he wouldn’t want to say anything about it to you in case he hurt you.”

“How on earth could it hurt me? Hamish is old history.”

“You wouldn’t think so the way you go on about him. In fact, you talk more about him than that fiancé of yours.”

“You’re being silly, Jenny. Shall we eat?”

♦

Early the following day, Priscilla sat at her computer in the City, not really seeing the figures on the screen. She was suddenly homesick for Lochdubh. She was having doubts about getting married. Just nerves, she told herself. But she could not let go of the thought of going home. She rose and went in to see her boss and said she had just received a phone call that her mother was ill. The excuse worked and she was free to go.

I can drive up and be there before midnight, thought Priscilla.

♦

Hamish and Elspeth finished their meal with two large brandies. When they left the restaurant, with a pasta-filled dog rolling along behind them like a drunken sailor, they found themselves walking together in the direction of the police station. Elspeth stumbled on her high heels and Hamish put an arm about her shoulders. All Hamish had drunk sang in his brain and he hugged Elspeth closer.

He opened the kitchen door and switched on the light. They stood close together, looking at each other while Lugs yawned and slumped down onto the floor by the stove.

Then Elspeth held out her arms. One sharp little alarm bell went off in Hamish’s brain, but he ignored it. He took her in his arms and kissed her rain-wet lips and then somehow they were staggering towards the bedroom, shedding clothes as they went.

At one point, Hamish dimly heard the phone ringing from the office, but he ignored it.

♦

Priscilla tucked away her mobile phone. She had called the police station from the Tommel Castle Hotel. Why didn’t Hamish answer? Then she grinned, as she remembered all the times the lazy constable had ignored its ringing. He always said if it was anything urgent, he could hear it on his answering machine. She thought of leaving a message and then suddenly, tired though she was, decided to surprise him.

She carefully washed and made up her face again. She went out and got into her car and drove down into Lochdubh. It was a filthy night. Funny, she thought, how easily she had forgotten how vile the winter could be in the northern Highlands. Horizontal rain slashed against the windscreen and the car rocked in buffets of wind.

Priscilla was just driving along the waterfront when the stout figure of Mrs. Wellington, the minister’s wife, leapt in front of the car, waving her arms. Priscilla braked and rolled down the window. “Mrs. Wellington!” she shouted. “What on earth are you doing? I could have killed you.”

“I recognised the car,” gabbled Mrs. Wellington, rain cascading off a golf umbrella which she held over her head, “and I was so pleased to see you, dear. Come up to the manse and we’ll have a chat.”

“It’s too late,” said Priscilla. “I’ll call on you tomorrow. I’m just going to drop in on Hamish.”

“Oh, you won’t find him. He was called out to Drim. A burglary over there.”

Priscilla looked down the waterfront. Through the driving rain, she could see that the police Land Rover was parked outside the police station and the kitchen light was on.

She let in the clutch. “I can see that he’s back now. See you tomorrow.”

Priscilla moved off but only got a few yards before she had to slam on the brakes again. The Currie sisters were standing in the middle of the road.

Priscilla hooted angrily.

The twin sisters came round to the driver’s side of the car and rapped on the window.

“What is it?” asked Priscilla, rolling down the window again. Rain was dripping from the plastic covering on their heads and onto their thick glasses.

“We were so delighted to hear you were back,” said Jessie. “I said to Nessie, we must ask her in for tea, for tea.”

“I’m on my way to see Hamish.”

“Oh, I wouldnae be disturbing him this time of night.”

“The kitchen light is still on,” said Priscilla patiently, “which means he’s awake.”

“I wouldn’t be going by that, by that,” said Jessie. “He aye forgets to put it out, put it out.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, ladies,” said Priscilla firmly.

She drove to the police station and parked her car and got out. She was just about to walk up to the kitchen door when a voice hailed her. “Miss Halburton-Smythe!”

Priscilla turned round. Archie Macleod, the fisherman, was standing there. “I haff had a fine catch o’ the fish. If you would be stepping over to my cottage, I’ll let you have some.”

“What is up with everyone this evening?” asked Priscilla, bewildered. “I’m just going to say hullo to Hamish and then I’m going to bed.”

“I wouldnae be doing that.”

“Why?”

“I chust wouldnae,” muttered Archie, backing away.

Priscilla shrugged and went up to the kitchen door. It was unlocked. She pushed it open and went in. Lugs waddled towards her, his ridiculous plume of a tail waving a welcome.

She bent down to pat him and that’s when she saw a shirt lying on the floor, and next to it a blouse and jacket.

Priscilla straightened up slowly and stared. A line of discarded clothing was leading to the bedroom.

She suddenly felt sad and silly. The phone in the police office was ringing and then the answering machine clicked on. “Hamish Macbeth,” boomed Mrs. Wellington’s voice, “if you’re up to what I think you’re up to, you’d best lock your doors. Miss Halburton-Smythe is on your doorstep.” The phone rang again. Priscilla waited, frozen. The answering machine clicked on again. “Och, Hamish,” came Archie’s voice. “I’m probably too late but your Priscilla’s at the police station.”

Priscilla turned on her heel and left the police station, closing the door quietly behind her.

Feeling stiff, almost as if she had rheumatism, she got into her car. She drove slowly back along the waterfront while the hidden eyes of the villagers sadly watched her from behind their curtains.