Death of a Poison Pen

∨ Death of a Poison Pen ∧

3

Me thought I heard a voice cry, “Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep!” the innocent sleep,

Sleep that knits up the rovel’d sleeve of care.

—William Shakespeare

Blair was in a bad mood. He felt resentful that somehow Hamish’ Macbeth had turned what had appeared to be a simple suicide into a murder. And now that long drip of water, that glaikit Highland teuchter, had found another dead body.

He brushed past Hamish and said to Jimmy, “Let’s be having a look at the body.”

“Well, sir, the forensic team’s just coming. Might be as well to wait for them.”

Blair’s eyes bulged with fury, but he saw the wisdom of what Jimmy was saying and he rounded on Hamish. “What prompted ye to call on her?”

Hamish patiently went through what the handwriting expert had told him and how he had thought a retired schoolteacher might fit the profile. Blair listened to him, his great bull head on one side.

The police photographer arrived, then the forensic team, and then the pathologist, Mr. Sinclair. “As soon as you’re finished, I want a look inside the place,” growled Blair. “And as for you, laddie, you may as well get back to your sheep or whatever.”

He stood to attention as a sleek black BMW halted behind the row of cars. Daviot got out. “I was on my way to Braikie when I got a phone call telling me the news. You found the body, Macbeth?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell me about it.”

So Hamish told him how he had come to believe that Miss McAndrew might be the poison-pen writer and how he had found stationery which matched the paper used by the poison-pen writer in her desk.

“As you know by now, you were right about Miss Beattie’s death. It’s estimated the murder took place on the Saturday evening, maybe somewhere between nine and ten,” said Daviot.

“Aye, and I’m wondering why I wasnae told that the findings were in when I phoned this morning,” said Hamish.

Blair scowled at the sky. He had been passing by when he heard the girl taking Hamish’s call and had told her to say that nothing had been discovered yet. Blair was jealous of Hamish and was always afraid that this peculiar policeman might one day decide not to sidestep promotion, move to Strathbane, and replace him.

“I don’t know how that happened,” said Daviot. “I think the best idea is for you to question people in Braikie and try to find out whether anyone was seen going up the stairs to Miss Seattle’s flat. When we’re finished here, I’ll have some men released to help you.”

“I take it that countermands Mr. Blair’s order?”

“What order?”

“I was told to go back to my sheep, sir.”

Blair forced a jolly laugh. “The trouble wi’ you Highlanders,” he said, “is that you cannae take a joke.”

“There you are, Macbeth. Now off you go.”

Another car screeched to a halt, and Elspeth and Pat Mallone got out. “And get rid of those press,” ordered Daviot.

Hamish went up to Elspeth. “She’s dead, isn’t she?” she asked.

“I’m supposed to get rid of you,” said Hamish. “Follow me to Braikie and I’ll tell you about it, but mind, you didn’t hear it from me.”

They went into a dingy pub in Braikie called the Red Rory. In a puritan place like Braikie, thought Hamish, it followed that any drinking establishment should be as grim as possible. They ordered soft drinks and sat down at a table by the window.

Hamish explianed what he had found out.

“A double murder!” Pat’s Irish eyes gleamed with excitement. “I never thought I’d find such excitement up here.”

“Where are you from?” asked Hamish.

“Dublin.”

“And what brought you here?”

“I saw Sam’s advertisement in the National Union of Journalists magazine and applied.” He grinned. “I think I was the cheapest he could get, and I didn’t have any experience in newspapers. I had been an advertising copywriter since I left university. Mind you, when I saw Lochdubh and the Highland Times, I thought, what a dump. I can’t live here. But then Elspeth walked in.” He smiled blindingly at her. Elspeth looked vaguely out of the grimy bar window.

“So you have the facts,” said Hamish. “But don’t quote me, not even as a source. Go out there and get quotes from the townspeople and quotes from Strathbane. Now I’m off to see what I can find out.”

♦

“Are you sweet on him?” asked Pat after Hamish had left the pub.

“The only thing I’m sweet on,” said Elspeth coldly, “is this story. Why don’t we finish our drinks and see what we can find out so that we can print the stuff without betraying that Hamish told us.”

“Okay. It’s going to be a long day. Why don’t we have dinner at the Italian’s tonight? Come on, Elspeth. You’ve been good taking me around and showing me the ropes. But we’ve got to relax sometime.”

Elspeth suddenly smiled. Why not? she thought. It wasn’t as if Hamish Macbeth had shown any desire for her company recently.

“Fine. Let’s get on.”

Pat grinned happily. He tried to remember whether the restaurant had candlelight. Candlelight was so romantic.

♦

Hamish went first to see Mrs. Harris, who had found Miss Beattie’s body. “It’s yourself again,” she said, opening the door to him. “Why are all the polis swarming all ower the place?”

“Can we go inside? I’ll tell you about it.”

She lived in a flat above the shops near the post office.

She led the way into a neat parlour where a budgie sang in a cage by the window and a large fat cat purred in front of the peat fire. “Sit down,” said Mrs. Harris. “I’ll get some tea.”

Hamish sank down in a comfortable, battered armchair by the fire. The cat purred, the clock on the mantel ticked, and he felt suddenly weary of the whole business.

He half closed his eyes and thought hard. Miss Beattie, the postmistress, had been murdered. Who better to have guessed the identity of the poison-pen writer than the postmistress? But Miss McAndrew had been killed, and not in a planned and calculated manner, as in the murder of Miss Beattie, but by a frenzied stabbing. He felt he could now be looking for two murderers.

Mrs. Harris came back in, carrying a laden tray. Hamish jumped to his feet and relieved her of it. “Just set it on the table by the window,” she said.

“You shouldnae ha’ gone to all this trouble,” said Hamish, looking down at plates of cakes and scones and a large pot of tea.

“It’s not often I get the company, and now herself has gone, there’s really nobody.” A tear rolled down Mrs. Harris’s withered cheek and she wiped it away with a corner of her flowered apron.

She poured tea. Hamish drew up a chair at the table. She sat down to the left of him, twisting her apron in her hands.

“Don’t you have any family?” asked Hamish gently.

“My husband died twenty years ago. I never had the weans. My sister’s gone as well.”

Hamish made a mental note to find out if there was some sort of old folks’ club in Braikie and then asked, between bites of scone, “Did Miss Beattie ever hint to you that she might have guessed the identity of the poison-pen writer?”

She frowned in thought. “Wait a bittie. When you made that speech at the community hall, she says to me as we left, ‘It’s all very well being asked to do your civic duty, but what if you’ve only got a suspicion and some poor respectable body is going to end up grilled by the police and maybe lose her reputation for nothing?”

“Well, I didn’t think that much of it at the time because folks were guessing all over the place. I thought her question was…was…”

“Academic?”

“Aye, just a theory.”

“When did you last see her before you found her dead?”

“Outside the post office. She was locking up. Afore she left, she says, “Come round tomorrow and I’ll give you some of my cakes.” She had a rare light hand.”

“What of yourself? Did you ever have any suspicions about anyone?”

She shook her head. “To tell the truth, I got fair sickened wi’ all the accusations flying around. Why all these questions and why all the polis?”

“We like to be thorough,” said Hamish. He couldn’t really tell her that her friend had been murdered until after the official announcement. She would find out soon enough, he thought.

“Did Miss Beattie have any relatives?”

“She had a sister, down in Perth. I think she’s on her way up to the procurator fiscal’s in Strathbane.” Scotland has a system based on Roman law, and the procurator fiscal is the coroner and public prosecutor of a Scottish district.

Hamish finished his tea and stood up. “I’ll be back to see you as soon as I have any news.”

Another tear rolled down her cheek. “What’s to tell? She took her ain life. I didnae know she was that unhappy. She should ha’ told me.”

Hamish longed to tell her the truth, that her friend had not committed suicide, but still dared not tell her anything before it was all made official.

He left and went straight to the schoolhouse. It was an old–fashioned Victorian building of grey stone. He entered and wandered along a dingy corridor looking for a door marked head teacher, or headmistress or headmaster. He came to a door with a pane of frosted glass in it bearing the legend ‘Head Teacher’ in black painted letters. He knocked and a masculine voice said, “Come!”

Hamish detested people who said ‘Come.’

He opened the door and walked in. A small fussy man with gold-rimmed spectacles and thinning grey hair pasted across a freckled scalp was sitting behind a desk. He went on correcting papers.

Hamish felt his irritation growing. “Now that you’ve impressed me with your importance, perhaps you might be able to answer a few questions, Mr…?”

The man looked up. “Arkle,” he said. “I am a very busy man. I’ve just taken over here. If you think I was trying to impress you, then you are much mistaken.”

“Good. Now, Mr. Arkle, did you know Miss McAndrew?”

“We met at her leaving party. There was no need for me to see her before that. The school secretary explianed everything to me.”

“I’d like a word with the secretary after I’ve finished with you. Now, Miss McAndrew has been found brutally stabbed to death this morning.”

“Dear me. Dear, dear me. What a shock! How can I help you?”

That’s got your attention, you pompous git, thought Hamish. “I am trying to get someone to describe her to me,” he said. “What impression did you form of her?”

He frowned and placed the tips of his fingers together and peered wisely over them at Hamish. He always sees himself in a film, thought Hamish. “Hmm. Let me see,” Mr. Arkle said. “Woman of the old school of teaching. Stern disciplinarian. She produced good results. Not a sympathetic type. I can’t tell you much more than that.”

“May I be having a word with your secretary?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” He picked up the phone and dialled an extension. “Miss Mather? Could you step into my office? The police would like to interview you.” He put the phone down. “She will be along presently.”

“Where is her office?”

“Next door.”

And you couldn’t just have shouted for her, could you, you twerp, thought Hamish. He saw a shadow outside the frosted glass of the door and jerked it open. A pale wispy girl stood there. “Miss Mather?”

She looked up at him with wide frightened eyes. “We’ll just step outside,” said Hamish quickly. He had no desire to ask her questions with the head teacher listening and probably interrupting.

“Shall we go to my office?” she asked, casting a nervous glance at the head teacher’s door.

“It’s a grand day. Let’s take a wee walk outside.”

She followed him meekly out of the school and stood beside him on the grey asphalt of the playground.

“Now, Miss Mather, my name is Hamish. And you are?”

“Freda.”

“Why are you looking so frightened?”

“When a policeman calls, it’s almost always bad news. My mother…?”

“No, nothing about your family. The fact is that Miss McAndrew was found murdered this morning.”

She turned white and swayed. He caught her round the waist and led her to a bench at the edge of the playground. “Put your head between your knees. That’s a good girl. Now straighten up and take deep breaths.”

He waited until a little colour had come back to her face and then asked, “Did you work for her?”

“Ye-es. For…for the past five years.”

“Think carefully and tell me honestly, what was she like?”

“Oh, she was a fine woman and got good results for the school.”

“Forget she’s dead and tell me honestly what you really thought of her.”

A seagull landed on the ground at their feet, cocked its prehistoric head on one side, and, seeing no evidence of food, flew off with a contemptuous screech.

Freda bent her head. She was a drab-looking girl: hair of an indeterminate colour, neither fair nor brown, eyes of a washed-out blue, thin hunched figure.

“She was a bully,” said Freda. She gave a choked little sob. “She would give little parties at her home and make me act as waitress, pouring out tea, handing round cakes, and she never paid me for it.”

“If she was such a bully, I’m surprised people wanted to visit her.”

“Oh, she was nice as pie to everyone, except maybe me and one of the other teachers.”

“There are four teachers, aren’t there?”

“Yes, there’s Miss Maisie Hart, Mrs. Henrietta McNicol, Mr. Jamie Burns, and a newcomer, Mr. Matthew Eskdale.”

“And which one did she bully?”

“Mr. Burns. He’s quite old, you see, and he wants to hang on to get his pension.”

“You and Mr. Burns could find other jobs?”

“Mr. Burns is stubborn and swore she wasn’t going to drive him out. As for me, my mother is not in good health, and finding another job would mean moving to Strathbane. I like to stay close.”

“Did anyone ever threaten Miss McAndrew?”

“I don’t think anyone would dare.”

“What about the parents?”

“There was an incident last year at parents’ day. Mr. Joseph Cromarty, who runs the ironmonger’s shop in the main street: His son, Geordie, had not been chosen for the school play and he shouted at her and accused her of having a down on the boy.”

“And did she?”

“You’d need to ask the boy’s teacher, Mr. Burns. I don’t know about that.”

The dinner bell shrilled out from the school. Dinner was still in the middle of the day. Some children streamed out into the playground towards parents waiting at the gates. Other children carrying lunch boxes sat down on benches on the other side of the school yard. A harassed-looking elderly man came out and stood on the school steps.

“That’s Mr. Burns,” whispered Freda.

“Thanks for your time. I’ll just have a word with him. Would you give me your home address and telephone number?”

She gave them to him. He thanked her again and she scuttled off into the school, her head bent.

Poor wee soul, thought Hamish. One bullying boss replaced by another.

He rose and approached Mr. Burns. “I’ve just heard the news about Miss McAndrew,” said Mr. Burns. He had obviously once been a powerfully built man, but age had rounded his shoulders and turned muscle into fat. He had a thick shock of white hair and sagging jowls, his face marred by red broken veins.

“Who told you?” asked Hamish.

“Arkle.”

“Are you surprised? You don’t seem surprised.”

“I hated the auld biddy. Mind you, I would have thought everyone was too scared of her to murder her.”

“Someone obviously wasn’t. Do you know of anyone in particular who might have hated her enough?”

“Apart from me? No, not a clue. What a goings-on for a wee place like Braikie. First poor Miss Beattie murdered and now this.”

“Who told you Miss Beattie was murdered?” demanded Hamish sharply.

“Maisie Hart. She was late for school because she had a dental appointment and the nurse at the dentist’s told her.”

“And who,” demanded Hamish impatiently, “told the nurse?”

“She passed the post office on her way to the dentist’s and got chatting to the policeman on duty and he told her.”

“I suppose it’s all over the town,” said Hamish.

“Of course.”

If the cat’s out of the bag, I may as well go the whole hog, thought Hamish with a wild mix of metaphors.

“So did you know that Miss McAndrew was our poison-pen letter writer?”

He looked stunned. “Never! I mean, she was a bully, but she was all up front, if you know what I mean. Writing those letters was a poisonous, sneaky thing to do. Come to think about it, they started just around the time she retired.”

“Did you get one?”

“Yes. I sent it to you.”

“Refresh my memory. What was it about?”

“She accused me of having an affair with Maisie Hart. Maisie’s a pretty wee thing. I was flattered.”

Hamish felt a tap on the shoulder and turned round. Blair stood there with Jimmy Anderson, MacNab, and a policeman and policewoman. “We’ll take over here, Macbeth.”

“Don’t you want to know what I’ve got?” asked Hamish.

“I’ll approach this with a fresh mind, laddie. Get off with you and talk to folks in the shops around the post office and people in the flats above. They might have seen something.”

Hamish felt sure he was being sent off to cover ground that had already been covered, but he knew it was useless to protest. He walked off.

He decided to look for the layabout youth of Braikie. There were police all over the place and they would concentrate on the residents around the shops. He wandered along the main street until he saw a group of pallid youths admiring one of their fellows’ motorbikes. They showed signs of dispersing rapidly when they saw him approach, but he hailed them with, “I just want a wee word.”

He was always amazed at how unhealthy some of the young men of the Highlands could look. In some cases, it was drugs, but it was mostly a combination of bad diet and lack of exercise.

“Miss Beattie has been murdered,” he said, no longer seeing any reason to keep it quiet.

There were startled cries and they clustered around him, their eyes shining with excitement. “Will the telly be here?” asked one. “Will we get our pictures on the telly?”

“I should think they’ll be along any minute,” said Hamish. “Now, she was found dead last Sunday, so someone may have called on her on the Saturday evening. Were any of you passing the post office? Did any of you see anyone going up the stairs to her flat or even loitering about?”

They all shook their heads, and then a little voice from the back of the group piped up: “I saw someone.”

They parted to reveal a small boy with a white face dotted with freckles and a mop of hair as red as Hamish’s own.

“Och, Archie,” jeered the one with the motorbike. “You’re aye making things up.”

“But I did,” he protested.

“Come here, Archie,” said Hamish. He led the boy a little away and took out his notebook. “What is your full name?”

“Archie Brand.”

“And where do you live?”

“At 6 Glebe Street.”

“What time would this be?”

“Around nine. The night Miss Beattie was murdered.”

“And what were you doing at that time of night? Glebe Street is at the far end. How old are you?”

“Ten. I was going to the chip shop.”

“Right, Archie, now think carefully. What or who did you see?”

“It was a young fellow. I couldnae see clear, for the street light was out. He was wearing black clothes. He had wan o’ thae baseball caps pulled down low.”

“And what was he doing?”

“Just standing outside the post office, looking up and down, and when I came towards him, he turned and looked in the window.”

“So you didn’t see his face.”

“No, sir.”

“What age?”

“Maybe about ma brither’s age. About seventeen.”

“Tall?”

“Not as tall as you.”

Hamish turned and surveyed the group. “Is your brother there?”

“Yes, he’s the wan wi’ the motorbike.”

“About his height?”

“Just about.”

Hamish wrote five foot eight in his notebook. “Slim, fat, medium?”

“I couldnae be sure. He’d wan o’ thae puffy jackets on. I walked on towards the chippy and I turned back once, but he’d gone.”

“Anyone else around?”

“No, the street was empty. There wasn’t even anyone in the chip shop.”

“This could be vital evidence,” said Hamish solemnly. “I may be calling at your home later.”

In the distance, the school bell shrilled. “You’d best be getting back to school,” said Hamish, closing his notebook.

“Do I hafftae? I mean, this murder and all. Don’t I get a day off?”

“Run along,” said Hamish. The boy reluctantly trailed off in the direction of the school followed by the jeers of the gang headed by his brother.

Hamish walked back to the post office and studied the shops opposite. Some of them obviously used the upstairs of the premises, but above what was once a dress shop and was now an ironmonger’s, he could see curtains at windows. He crossed the road and went up the stairs to the flats above. What had once been a dentist’s surgery had the name of a law firm on the door. He remembered the murder of the dentist. There had been an old man living at the top of the stairs then. Hamish wondered whether he was still alive.

He mounted another flight of stairs and knocked at the door at the top. The door opened and Hamish thought he recognised Fred Sutherland. He was wearing a dressing gown, striped pyjamas, and a flat cap. “Fred?”

“No, that was my cousin. I’m Jock. Fred left me the flat. Come ben. Terrible business. Two murders.”

“Who told you?”

“Joe Cromarty, the ironmonger. He came up a few minutes ago and says to me that Miss McAndrew’s been murdered and that poor Miss Seattle was murdered as well.”

Hamish reflected bitterly that the whole of northern Scotland must know about the murders. Gossip in the Highlands spread as rapidly as fire in the heather after a dry summer.

“Would you like some tea?” asked Jock.

“No, I just want to ask you a few questions. Miss Beattie was killed sometime on Saturday night.” Hamish crossed to the window. “You can get a good look across the street to the post office. Did you see anyone or anything? Might be around nine o’clock.”

“I can’t remember the time. I’d been to that meeting o’ yours in the community hall. Wait a bit. I did look across because Miss Beattie always left her curtains drawn back and if she saw me at the window, she’d give me a wave. But the curtains were drawn tight. She did that if she was entertaining someone.”

Hamish looked at him sharply. “A man?”

“One night I saw a man’s back at the window and he disappeared into the room and Miss Beattie then drew the curtains.”

“What age of a man?”

“I couldnae right say. I just caught a wee glimpse of his back, and the window’s small and cut off the top of his head.”

“But did you get an impression of his age?”

“The shoulders were pretty broad and a bit rounded. Wearing a dark suit. Couldnae tell you his age.”

“You didn’t see anyone loitering in the street?”

“I didn’t look down. Then I made myself a cup of tea and watched the telly.”

“Did you know Miss McAndrew?”

“I met her a few times. There’s an old folks’ club at the community centre. She would come there sometimes. She was promoting a reading and writing class for the elderly. Waste of time. In our day, no child in the parish left school without being able to read and write. Bossy woman. All teeth and dyed-blonde hair.”

“You didn’t like her?”

“Nobody did.”

“I always got the impression she was well respected.”

“Och, you know what parents are like in Scotland. She managed to get good grades, and as long as she got good grades for the kids, the parents didn’t really care what she was like.”

“I gather Mr. Cromarty had a row with her.”

“Och, him? Nothing in that. He shouldn’t be running a shop. He’ll have a row with everyone.”

“I’d better speak to him. If you hear anything, phone me at Lochdubh.”

Hamish went out into the street and walked into the ironmonger’s shop. He had expected to see a thuggish man behind the counter, but there was only a small man with thick horn-rimmed glasses and a shock of brown hair. He was wearing a brown cotton coat over his suit.

“I’m looking for Joseph Cromarty,” said Hamish.

“That’s me.”

“I am Hamish Macbeth, constable at Lochdubh.”

“I heard you at the community hall. What’s all this about two murders?”

Hamish told him briefly and then asked Joe if he’d seen anyone loitering around on the Saturday evening.

“I couldn’t see anyone. Half day on Saturday. I spent the afternoon in my garden and then went to the movies in Strathbane with the wife. So I’ve got a cast-iron alibi.”

“Nobody’s accusing you of anything,” said Hamish mildly. “Now, do you know if Miss Beattie had a gentleman friend?”

“What the hell are you implying?”

Hamish stared at the suddenly belligerent face in surprise. “Why are you so angry? Why so defensive? Was her caller yourself?”

Joe Cromarty erupted. “I’ll phone your superiors and I’ll be having you for slander.”

Hamish lost his temper. “What the hell’s the matter wi’ you, you silly wee man? If there was nothing going on between you and Miss Beattie, why are you firing up?”

“I’m sick o’ the gossip in this town. Everyone mumbling and whispering about everyone else’s business.”

“Let’s try another tack. I hear you were furious with Miss McAndrew on parents’ day at the school.”

“That was legitimate. My Geordie’s a bright boy and she only gave him a B in his history exam while she gave Penny Roberts, who’s as dim as anything, an A. Then she wouldn’t let him in the school play. I accused her of favouritism. She was aye keeping Penny in after school for a wee chat. Penny told Geordie the auld woman gave her the creeps.”

“Do you know where Penny Roberts lives?”

“Out on the shore road afore you get to Miss McAndrew’s. It’s a bungalow called Highland Home.”

♦

When he left the shop, Hamish realised he was hungry. He took out his phone and called Angela Brodie, the doctor’s wife, and begged her to collect Lugs and take the dog for a walk. As he put his phone back in his pocket, he felt a tap on his shoulder and turned round and saw Elspeth.

“How are you getting on?” she asked.

“Slowly. What about you?”

“I’m hungry. Let’s find somewhere for lunch and I’ll tell you what I’ve got.”

“Where’s Pat?”

“He got a call from our boss, saying he must have learnt the ropes by now and there was a dried-flower show over at Lairg waiting to be covered.”

“That seems a bit odd considering there are two murders here.”

“Not to Sam. Flower shows with lots of names and pictures sell more papers in the long run, he says. The murders will be covered by the nationals anyway and television.”

“They’re here already,” said Hamish, watching satellite dishes being set up and cables snaking from vans across the street outside the post office.

“Right. There’s a hotel north of here with good food.”

“Which one?”

“The Clachan. My car’s right here.”

Hamish looked around in case Blair was skulking about, but there were only uniformed policemen going from door to door.

They drove north out of Braikie. The coastal road became more rugged and was one-track with grass growing in the middle of it. After a couple of miles, Elspeth swung off to the right and up a winding drive bordered by thick rhododendron bushes.

“This used to be Colonel Hargreaves’s place,” said Hamish.

“He got rheumatism and blamed the climate. He sold up and moved south. An English couple bought it and turned it into a hotel.”

She parked outside the hotel and they both got out. It was a Victorian building dating from the days of the nineteenth century, when the queen had made it fashionable to holiday in Scotland. They were ushered into the dining room by the new owner, John Speir. “You’ve got the dining room all to yourself,” he said, showing them to a table at the window. “But it won’t be quiet for long. Press from all over have booked rooms. Terrible, these murders, but great for the hotel business. Still, I didn’t expect many customers now the summer is over, so it’s a set menu.” He handed them a card each. There was a choice of two dishes for each course. They both chose the same: Scotch broth, poached salmon, and sherry trifle.

“Now,” said Hamish, “what have you got?”

Elspeth’s grey eyes gleamed silver. “Miss Beattie was having an affair.”

“I’d got that far,” said Hamish. “Any idea who it is?”

“Billy Mackay.”

“What! The postman? But he’s married.”

“Why do you think she kept it so secret?”

Hamish half rose. “I should go and see him right away.”

“Sit down, copper. You wouldn’t have found out for ages if I hadn’t told you. He’ll wait and I’m hungry.”

“Who told you?”

“I cannot reveal my source,” said Elspeth primly.

“All right. How did you manage to find out?”

“I’m known in Braikie more for being an astrologer than for being the local reporter, and they’re a superstitious lot. Some woman asked me to read her palm. I told her the usual and then said she was holding back some secret about Miss Beattie.”

“How did you know that?”

“Just a guess.”

Mrs. Harris, thought Hamish. I bet she knew.

“She got frightened and asked me not to put a curse on her if she told me. I promised I wouldn’t use it in the paper.”

“So Mrs. Harris knew you were of Gypsy blood?”

Elspeth’s face fell. “How did you know it was Mrs. Harris?”

“An educated guess. And let’s hope the food comes quickly. I can’t wait to hear what this postman has to say for himself.”

The food was excellent and both enjoyed their meal. Elspeth drove Hamish back into Braikie. He refused to let her come with him to Billy Mackay’s but promised to meet her afterwards, outside the post office in an hour, and tell her what he had found out.

By asking around, he found that Billy Mackay lived in public housing at the edge of Braikie. He knocked at the door. It was answered by a slattern of a woman wearing a stained apron and with her hair in rollers. “Mrs. Mackay?”

“Aye, that’s me.”

“I would like to talk to your husband.”

“What about?”

“I’m making general enquiries, that is all.”

“He’s gone fishing as usual.”

“Where?”

“Up on the Stourie. The pool below the falls. And you tell him the sink still needs fixing and he can stay away as long as he likes but he’ll still have to fix it when he comes home.”

Hamish touched his cap and strode back to the Land Rover. He drove out of Braikie and up into the hills. The Falls of Stourie were a tourist attraction in the summer, but now the car park above the falls was empty except for a red post office van parked against some railings.

He made his precipitous way along a muddy path that led down the side of the falls. The sun was already going down and the cascade of water shone red in the setting rays.

Billy Mackay did not hear him approach because of the sound of the falls. He was a thickset little man in, Hamish judged, his late fifties. Hamish tapped him on the shoulder and he swung around, his face a picture of dismay.

“Up to the car park,” shouted Hamish. “I cannae hear anything here.”

Billy reeled in his line and meekly followed Hamish up the path. He turned and faced Hamish in the car park, wearing a defeated air. He had thin brown hair, a bulbous nose, and surprisingly beautiful blue eyes.

“It’s about Miss Beattie, isn’t it?” he said. “The wife’ll kill me.”

“How long had your affair with Miss Beattie been going on?”

“About ten years.”

“Man, weren’t you frightened of anyone finding out?”

“We kept it really quiet. I’m the postman, see, so no one thought anything of me being around the shop. I don’t know if you could really call it an affair. It was the talking, you see. The companionship. Her at home, after the children grew up and left, she let herself go and nag, nagged, nagged from morning till night.”

Hamish judged that Billy’s parents had probably brought him up to speak Gaelic. He had the clear perfect English of someone who had started his life translating in his head from Gaelic to English.

“When did you last see Miss Beattie?”

“Last time was two weeks ago.”

“Why such a long gap?”

Billy hung his head. “I got one of those filthy poison-pen letters. Whoever wrote it said he knew about the affair and if I didn’t stop seeing her, the whole of Braikie would know. I told her about it and we were both frightened, so we agreed to stop seeing each other. Man, if I had known it would have driven her to take her own life, I would have risked the scandal.”

Hamish sighed. “Billy, you’re in for a shock. Miss Beattie was murdered.”

“But she hanged herself!”

“Someone drugged her first.”

“Who?”

Hamish was sure that Miss Beattie had guessed the identity of the poison-pen writer and that somehow Miss McAndrew had killed her and then someone had killed Miss McAndrew. And Billy was a prime suspect. He would need to take him in for questioning. He knew that probably someone other than Mrs. Harris would know about the affair.

He said gently, “I’m afraid I can’t hush this up, Billy. I’ve got to take you in for questioning.”

He gave a weary shrug. “I’m glad in a way it’s out. I was proud of her friendship. She was a grand lady.” He began to sob, dry racking sobs.

Hamish went to the Land Rover and came back with a flask of brandy. “Get some of that down you, Billy. There, man. I’m right sorry.”

♦

It was Blair’s bad luck that Daviot should still be in Braikie at the mobile unit which had been set up outside Miss McAndrew’s bungalow when Hamish turned up with Billy and explianed why he was taking him in.

“We’ll take him down to Strathbane,” said Daviot. “Anderson, you come with us. Detective Chief Inspector Blair will stay here to supervise the ongoing investigation. You’d better come with us, Hamish.”

Blair scowled horribly. He knew that when the boss used Hamish’s first name, the constable was in high favour.

♦

At Strathbane, it was a long interrogation. But it transpired early on in the interview that on the Saturday evening that Miss Beattie was murdered, Billy had been down in Strathbane for a reunion with some of his old army friends and had not got back to Braikie until the small hours of the morning. His alibi checked out. He was to be kept in the cells overnight, however, for further questioning. He was now a suspect in the death of Miss McAndrew. They would hold him until they discovered from the autopsy some idea of the time of her murder. Hamish was dismissed.

He left headquarters to find Elspeth waiting outside for him.

“You stood me up,” she accused.

“We’ll have something to eat and I’ll tell you about it,” said Hamish.

♦

In the Italian restaurant, Jenny sat alone at one table and Pat sat alone at another. At last Pat called over, “My date hasn’t turned up.”

“Neither has mine,” said Jenny gloomily.

“So why don’t we have a meal together?” suggested Pat.

Jenny gave a shrug. “Why not?”