Chapter Four
I would like to be there, were it but to see how the cat jumps.
—Sir Walter Scott
The following morning, Hamish drove to Drim. Milly nervously called through the door, “Who is it?”
“Hamish Macbeth.”
He had to wait until locks were opened and a chain removed.
“You’re getting well protected,” he said, taking off his cap and following her into the kitchen.
“The villagers are so kind. There’s a retired locksmith here and he came and put new locks all over the place, even on the windows.”
“Grand. Now, the reason I am here is because I think those four men will be back this morning, seeing if they can get any money out of you.”
“Right after the funerals! Surely not.”
“We’ll see. Could you take them into the drawing room and then I’ll listen at the door to make sure you’re all right?”
“I’ve known them all before,” said Milly, “and their wives. We were all such friends.”
“Nonetheless, it’s better to be safe. I hear the sound of a car. I’ll wait in here until they’re all safely in the drawing room.”
There was a knock at the door. Hamish listened hard. He could hear Milly welcoming the men. He waited until the voices went into the drawing room and he heard Milly shut the door. Then he nipped across the hall and pressed his ear to the panels.
They sat around at first, murmuring the usual platitudes about how sad and peculiar the death of Captain Davenport had been.
Then Thomas Bromley said in a coaxing voice: “The sad thing is, Milly, that Henry owed us all money. We are sure you are going to honour your dead husband’s debts.”
“It’s an awful lot of money,” quavered Milly, “and I don’t have that much left.”
“Then you’ll need to sell this house,” said John Sanders. “I am sure you would not want people to think badly of your husband.”
Enough, thought Hamish. He pushed open the door and went in. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said. “What is the reason for this call?”
“Just to give the lady our condolences.”
“It’s too soon after all the shocks for Mrs. Davenport to be disturbed. I’ll just be seeing you out.”
Hamish suddenly sensed evil in the room, but he did not know which one of them was emanating it.
He held the drawing room door wide. “Good day to you.”
Charles Prosser said haughtily, “We’ll be back to see you when this interfering policeman is not around.”
“No you won’t,” said Milly, getting to her feet. “I’ve had enough. Don’t come back. I haven’t any money.”
“What’s this?” asked Hamish. “Have you been harassing Mrs. Davenport for money at such a time?”
“We’ll be on our way,” said Bromley. They pushed past Hamish and left.
Milly sobbed quietly while the sound of their car died away. “Look here,” said Hamish, “that money was got from them by fraud. You are not responsible.”
“I was thinking of selling the house,” said Milly, drying her eyes. “But the village people are so kind. I’ve never really had friends of my own since I got married. To tell the truth, I didn’t like their wives, but Henry insisted they were my best friends.”
“Will your sister-in-law have left you anything in her will?”
“I very much doubt it.”
Hamish took out his phone. “I think I’ll just be calling in a few favours from a couple of men on the Forestry Commission. As soon as all the shrubbery is taken away, you’ll get a clear view of who’s approaching the house.”
There was a knock at the door, and Milly winced. Hamish went to answer it. But it was Ailsa and Edie bearing a cake. “We thought a bit o’ cake might cheer her up.”
Milly appeared behind Hamish. “How kind of you. Let’s go into the kitchen. The drawing room is cold.”
Hamish returned to his phone call. “Two forestry men’ll be along this afternoon,” he said.
“What do I pay them?” asked Milly.
“Nothing. Like I said, they’ll take away the wood as payment.”
When Hamish arrived back at his police station, he phoned the hotel and found to his dismay that none of the four had checked out. For once he would have welcomed Detective Inspector Blair with his bullying ways. Why wasn’t he up at the hotel grilling them?
He phoned Jimmy and asked. “I’m on my road over,” said Jimmy. “Blair smells that this is a case that’ll never be solved. He’s got a glowing report on all four men from the regiment. He says I’ve got to concentrate on the villagers in Drim. He says they’re probably all inbred and daft. He says some lunatic stuffed the captain up the chimney. He says we cannot go around annoying brave soldiers.”
“Ex-soldiers,” corrected Hamish, “and they were up at Drim this morning, trying to get money out o’ Milly.”
“Where are they now?”
“Tommel Castle.”
“I’ll just be having a wee word wi’ them.”
“Drop in here first. I’ve got an idea.”
When Jimmy arrived, demanding whisky as usual, Hamish said, “Has anyone looked into how their businesses are doing?”
“Don’t think so.”
“All of them or one of them must be desperate for money or they wouldn’t go to such lengths.”
“I’ll use your phone and get on to it. Where’s Elspeth? I heard she’d been spotted.”
“Down in Surrey, trying to get some background.”
“Good luck to her. But believe me, the police down there have been thorough. Wait! I’ll use your phone and get on to them and see if one of the four has a failing business.”
Hamish waited. The wind was rising like a bad omen. It had a peculiar keening sound, heralding worse to come.
Ailsa, Edie, and Milly were eating cake and drinking coffee when someone knocked at the door. “I’ll go,” said Ailsa.
After a few minutes, she called, “It’s that reporter, Tam Tamworth.”
“Oh, show him in,” said Milly.
“Are you sure you want to be speaking to the press?” asked Ailsa.
“Tam swears he won’t publish anything until the murders are solved. And he’s kind.”
Ailsa ushered Tam into the kitchen. He was carrying a bunch of yellow roses, which he presented to Milly. “How lovely, Tam. I’ll put these in water.”
Ailsa winked at Edie, and both women rose to their feet. “We’ll leave you to it, Milly. Phone if there’s anything you want.”
After they had gone, Tam nervously cleared his throat and said, “It’s my day off.”
“Then how nice of you to come to see me.”
“I wondered if you felt like a trip to Strathbane this evening for dinner.”
“Oh… I don’t know. Wouldn’t it look odd so soon after the funeral?”
“I don’t think anyone will notice us. It just crossed my mind that it might be a wee bit o’ a tonic to get out o’ here. And you did want to see a movie.”
“Oh, it would. Coffee?”
“I’ll be on my way and pick ye up at seven o’clock.”
Jimmy came back from his phone call. “Dead end. Yes, they investigated their finances and all are well off.”
“It’s because they’ve been conned out of the money,” said Hamish slowly. “The captain made a fool of them. I’ll swear to God one of them hated him violently and the others are covering up.”
Elspeth was feeling she had made a wasted journey. She had hit a brick wall everywhere she went. The four men were considered model citizens. Not one of them had a dishonourable discharge from the army. When she had tried to pump the adjutant about the captain’s suspected selling of arms in Northern Ireland, she was told roundly that it had all turned out to be nonsense. Her researcher, Betty Close, worked hard and seemed eager but there was something about the girl that Elspeth did not like. Betty was small and sallow with a little beaky nose and a small mouth. Her one beauty lay in her eyes, which were large and dark brown, fringed with heavy lashes. She dyed her long hair black and had an irritating habit of tossing it around as if advertising shampoo.
Betty wanted Elspeth’s job. She wanted everything that Elspeth had, from her flat down by the River Clyde to her status at the television station.
She knew Elspeth was worried about losing her job as a news presenter. Betty had overheard the head of news and current affairs saying that if Elspeth could make anything of the Pandora’s Box programme, then she would be an even bigger star. But she did not tell Elspeth this, constantly commiserating with her over the “loss” of her presenting job. To which Elspeth always snapped back that she had not lost it.
“So are we back off up to peasant land?” asked the soundman, Phil Green.
“Not yet. I want to go via London. I’ve got to see an old friend in the City. I wonder if these four men are as successful in business as they claim. Why are they so desperate to get their money back? Is it just because they were conned?”
“London it is,” said the cameraman, George Lennox, gloomily.
The four men waited a couple of days before venturing to visit Milly again. As they approached, they saw that all the shrubbery in front of the house had been cleared away so that anyone approaching from any angle could be clearly seen.
They got down from their vehicle and rang the bell. Ailsa Kennedy answered the door. “Whit?” she demanded.
“We are here to call on Mrs. Davenport.”
“If you want money out o’ her, forget it. We’ve phoned thae lawyers and you’ve no’ got one damn thing in writing to say you ever lent him the money. You’ll not come here again, pestering the poor woman.”
Her place was taken by a large man with big ears. “I’m Tam Tamworth from the Strathbane Journal,” he said. “This could be an interesting wee story for me. Are you all so broke that you’re all the way up here harassing a widow woman?”
“You write one word and we’ll sue!” said Charles Prosser.
“Go ahead.” Tam grinned. “You cannae stop me writing about your bothering the widow, now, can ye? Get lost.”
The four men looked at him. For one brief moment, Tam felt a spasm of fear. They looked strong and menacing.
“This was just a friendly call before we leave,” said Charles Prosser smoothly.
“Oh, aye? So leave.”
As they walked back to their vehicle, Tam decided to watch his back in future. If one of that lot was a murderer, someone who had murdered two men viciously, and then a woman, too, he would not hesitate at another.
By the time she got back to the Tommel Castle Hotel, Elspeth had a raging temperature. To her dismay, Dr. Brodie diagnosed swine flu and she was quarantined in her room. She tossed and turned, sometimes fretting over her job, sometimes wondering what had happened to the highland Elspeth of old who reported happily on flower shows and sheep sales for the Highland Times and was not eaten up with ambition.
Betty Close saw her chance. She would see what information she could get out of Hamish Macbeth and send a preliminary report to Glasgow. And perhaps it was one of the locals who had committed the murders.
She decided to walk down to the village. If she told George or Phil what she was up to, they might tell Elspeth. Not that anyone was allowed in her room except Dr. Brodie, who said he was sure he was immune to germs by now. But they could slip notes to her under the door. They had both done that already, wishing her a speedy recovery.
She met the manager, Mr. Johnson, on her way out. “And where are you off to?” he asked.
“Just going for a walk. I’ll maybe pick up some background for Elspeth.”
“I should think Miss Grant knows all the village background, but you could try the seer, Angus Macdonald. He picks up a lot of gossip.” He gave her directions. “Oh, you’d best drop by at Patel’s grocery store and take him a present. He aye expects something.”
Betty walked out into the clear swimming light of a late-spring morning. What a peculiar place to live, she thought as she walked down to the village, stopping briefly on the humpbacked bridge over the River Anstey. The peaty river was swollen with the melting snow from the mountains above. The loch was very still and clear away from the place where the river waters tumbled into it. The village had been built as a result of the highland clearances when the crofters had been driven off their land to make way for vast herds of sheep. Apart from a few Victorian villas and some council houses, the rest of the buildings were Georgian cottages, whitewashed and pretty. By the harbour was a crumbling large building which had once been a hotel. No one wanted to buy it so it lay abandoned, its empty windows staring out over the sea loch.
Betty walked into the grocery store. There were several women gossiping at the counter with the owner, but they fell silent when she entered. A large tweedy woman stepped forward. “I am Mrs. Wellington, the minister’s wife.”
“Betty Close,” said Betty. “I’m here with Elspeth Grant.”
“How is poor Miss Grant?”
“Still quite ill.”
“You must let us know when she is well enough to receive visitors. May we expect to see you at church this Sunday?”
“Sure,” said Betty, who had no intention of going.
Two small women looking exactly alike, from their rigidly permed white hair to their thick spectacles and camel-hair coats, stepped forward. “We are the Misses Currie,” said Nessie. “Do you need anything?”
“Need anything?” echoed the Greek chorus that was her sister, Jessie.
“As Miss Grant is unwell,” said Betty importantly, “and we are here to research the murders, I am taking over. Do you think the murderer could be local?”
Frosty eyes looked at her, and the women turned away.
Betty shrugged and looked through the items in the small supermarket until she found a discounted box of biscuits. When she went back to the counter, the women had gone. She paid for the biscuits, walked out of the shop, and set off in the direction of Angus Macdonald’s cottage.
She felt tired when she finally got there. It had been a long walk from the hotel, and Angus’s cottage was perched on top of a steep brae.
She knocked at the door. A tall old man with a long grey beard opened the door and stared down at her. “Come ben,” he said abruptly. “You will be thon lassie who is a sidekick to our Elspeth.”
“I’m in charge now,” said Betty importantly. She looked around curiously, at the peat fire in the hearth with a blackened kettle on a chain hung over it, at the Orkney chairs on one side of the hearth and the battered wing chair on the other.
She handed Angus the box of biscuits. “Cut price at Patel’s,” he said. “I thocht you lot would have had better expenses.”
Betty’s sallow face coloured up in embarrassment. “Sit down,” commanded Angus.
Betty made to sit down in the wing chair but Angus said, “That’s mine,” so she sat down on one of the Orkney chairs while he settled down and surveyed her with a gleam of amusement in his eyes.
“So you want to take Elspeth’s job away from her,” commented Angus.
“Not at all. I am making enquiries because she is ill.”
“I wouldnae pin your hopes on her being out o’ commission for long,” said Angus. “The swine flu comes bad but it can be quite short and she’s a healthy lass.”
“I’ve heard you see things,” said Betty gamely. “I think maybe we’re looking in the wrong place and the murders might have been committed by someone local.”
Angus studied her for a long moment. She wondered uneasily what he was thinking. Angus was not thinking about Betty. He was thinking maliciously about Hamish Macbeth.
He had overheard a tourist last summer asking about the “famous seer” and heard Hamish say with a laugh, “I think he relies more on local gossip than second sight.”
Angus was vain and had the highland habit of plotting revenge long after the event.
“Now, Elspeth got a lot of her information up here before,” he said, “from Hamish Macbeth. Very keen on Hamish is our Elspeth. We all thought at one time that they’d get married, but, och, he kept backing off. Don’t interfere there, my girl, or you’ll really hurt Elspeth and she would not like you getting information that would put her in the shade.”
“I would do nothing to hurt Elspeth,” said Betty. “I must be on my way.”
Aye, and straight from here to the police station, thought Angus cynically.
He watched from the window as she hurried down the brae, and then he clutched at the sill. It seemed as if a dark shadow was creeping across the heather to engulf her. He shook his head and the vision disappeared.
But Hamish Macbeth was not at his police station. He was on his road to Inverness. He thought not enough had been done to investigate the woman who had helped to abduct Philomena.
He drove into the car park of the Dancing Scotsman, went into the bar, and asked to speak to the waitress who had previously been interviewed by the police. A plump waitress came forward wearing her uniform of frilly white blouse and Buchanan tartan pinafore dress.
“I’m sure I cannae tell ye more than I’ve already told the police afore,” she said.
“Maybe we could just sit down and have a wee chat,” suggested Hamish. The waitress, whose name was Rose Cameron, looked around the near-empty bar.
“Won’t do any harm. It’s fair quiet.”
“I know you’ve been through all this before and I’ve read the reports. But if you could just be describing her to me again.”
Hamish was in plainclothes and was driving an old car borrowed from the garage in Lochdubh, not wanting to alert Inverness police that he was poaching on their patch.
Rose was quite old for the job. Her face was wrinkled, and her sagging mouth showed that she had lost all her teeth some time ago. “Let’s see,” she said. “She was a bit on the fat side, dressed in a suede jacket and trousers. Her hair was hidden under one of those tweed fishing hats.”
“Face?”
“Roundish. Maybe she’d been to the dentist because she had a wee bittie difficulty speaking, as if her mouth was still frozen.”
“What kind of accent?”
“Posh. Lowlands. She came up to the bar for her first drink afore she joined that dead woman and I heard her telling the barman she was from Edinburgh.”
Hamish brightened. He now had one fact that the police had missed.
“And she didn’t pay by credit card?”
“No, cash. We were busy at the time so I didn’t take much notice.”
“Did the Inverness police examine the tape from the security cameras?”
“They tried. But the boss is a bit mean ower small things and there wasn’t any tape in there.”
“She surely wasn’t wearing gloves. There must have been some fingerprints.”
“By the time they got around to asking, her glass had been washed and the table she sat at wiped clean.”
Hamish asked a few more questions and then returned to his hired car, deep in thought. Would a ruthless murderer want a woman around who could identify him? Maybe blackmail him?
The wives of his four suspects were all in Guildford at the time of Philomena’s abduction and murder with plenty of witnesses. He frowned as he remembered the police reports.
The four men had pretty much alibied one another. But it would take only one of them to be the murderer with his mates covering up for him.
He drove back to Lochdubh as fast as the old banger of a car he had rented would let him.
Sonsie and Lugs were waiting outside the police station for him. He had forgotten to feed them before he left but he was pretty sure the pair of them would have gone along to the kitchen door of the Italian restaurant, where the staff spoiled them. They could come and go by a large cat flap in the kitchen door of the police station.
“They’ve been fed,” said a voice behind him.
He swung round. Angela Brodie, the doctor’s wife, stood there, her soft wispy hair blowing around her thin face. “They were eating like pigs outside the Italian restaurant. Lugs is particularly fond of osso buco.”
“I’ll make us some coffee,” said Hamish.
“How’s the case going?” asked Angela when they were seated at the kitchen table.
“Not well.”
“Been to see Elspeth? She’ll soon be past the infectious stage.”
“I’ll head up there later. What should I take her?”
“I think she would like something easy to read.”
“I’ll look for something. I’d better check that those four bastards have left the area.”
“Do you suspect one of them?”
“Yes, I do.”
“But why? I gather Davenport owed them all money, but they all seem to be pretty well off.”
“I think I’m dealing with a psychopath with an overweening vanity.”
When Angela had left, Hamish went through to the police office and called Jimmy Anderson.
“Jimmy, this is one hell of a long shot. It’s about that woman who helped our murderer abduct Philomena.”
“What about her?”
“I think she was in disguise.”
“Stands to reason.”
“I mean I think she had stuffed her face and body to make herself look fatter. The waitress said she spoke as if she’d just been to the dentist. And she said she was from Edinburgh.”
“What are you getting at?”
“Could you do me a favour? Could you get on to Edinburgh police and give them, say, the day after Philomena’s murder, or the day after that, and ask if there were any suspicious deaths in Edinburgh?”
“The damn city’s probably got a long list. Okay, I’ll let you know.”
“I’m going out to take my beasts for a walk.”
“Hamish, I probably won’t get back to you until this evening.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Hamish put down the phone. He felt a draught on the back of his neck and went into the kitchen. The door was slightly open. He frowned. He was sure he had shut it. Sonsie and Lugs were nowhere in sight. He decided to go out and look for them. He locked the kitchen door, put the key up in the gutter above the door, and set off.
Betty crept out from behind the henhouse, where she had fled when she had heard Hamish put down the phone.
She quickly nipped up to the kitchen door, took the key down from the gutter, and let herself in.
Inside the police station office, Betty took a small, powerful tape recorder out of her bag and searched for a place to hide it. There was a shelf of files above the desk. She set it up there and let herself out, heading off up the back way, through Hamish’s grazing flock of sheep and made her way by a roundabout route back to the hotel.
She had read about Hamish in the Glasgow office. With any luck he might be on to something and she could steal the show from Elspeth.
Hamish found Lugs and Sonsie along the waterfront, took them back to the police station, and loaded them into the Land Rover. He collected a pile of old paperbacks and headed off for the Tommel Castle Hotel.
He was met by Dr. Brodie, who told him that it might be an idea to leave Elspeth alone for another couple of days although she appeared to be much better. Hamish handed him the pile of books and asked him to take them up to her.
He drove off towards the police station. Rain was smearing the windscreen. For once the wind of Sutherland had deserted the county. The waters of the loch lay still and dark, and the pine forest opposite was obscured by mist.
He parked at the police station. Lugs and Sonsie followed him in. Lugs gave a sharp bark, and the fur on Sonsie’s back was raised. Hamish stood inside the door, listening, waiting, and sniffing the air. There was a faint smell of perfume. He went back out to the Land Rover and collected his forensic kit. He sprinkled powder on the entrance to the kitchen and then carefully dusted it. Footprints. Not his. Small and neat. He sat back on his heels. He went to the police station office on his knees, powdering and dusting as he went. The footprints stopped in front of his desk. He fingerprinted in his office until he found the powerful little tape recorder hidden behind the files. Hamish carefully fingerprinted it as well. He went out and back to the waterfront. Toddling through the mist came the Currie sisters.
“Nice soft day,” said Nessie.
“Soft day,” murmured her sister.
“Press been bothering you?” asked Hamish.
“They’ve mostly gone,” said Nessie.
“Gone,” echoed Jessie dolefully.
“Excepting that wee lassie, her that came up wi’ Elspeth,” said Nessie as Hamish tuned out the echo that was Jessie. “I think she tried to call on you but you were away. I saw her near the police station.”
Hamish returned to the station. Putting on a pair of latex gloves, he turned on the recorder, listened to the noise of his search, and erased it. Then he put the recorder on his desk, dialled Strathbane headquarters, and cut off the call before anyone could answer so that there would only be the sound on the tape recorder of the dialling beeps. He pretended to be speaking to Jimmy Anderson. “Jimmy, this is Hamish,” he said, his voice full of excitement. “I think I’ve got our man. He’s camping on the beach at Durness. I’m off up there for a recce. Don’t send the troops yet, I’ll phone you from there.”
He turned to his pets, who were studying him.
“Come along. I know ye don’t like the siren but we’re going to blast out o’ this village.”
On the waterfront, Betty swung round as Hamish’s Land Rover sped past with the siren going and the lights flashing. She made her way by a roundabout route to the police station. Once inside, she eased the tape recorder out from behind the files where Hamish had replaced it and switched it on. Her eyes grew wide with excitement. She went out quickly up to the back fields and called the soundman and the cameraman. “Big break on the story,” she said. “Pick me up in Lochdubh. I’ll be outside the shop on the waterfront.”
“We’ll tell Elspeth,” said George Lennox, the cameraman.
“Don’t do that,” said Betty quickly. “She’s too ill. May come to nothing.”
She went to Patel’s grocery store and waited impatiently outside until the large television Winnebago hove into view.
Hamish, hiding in a lay-by behind a strand of trees, watched the Winnebago rush by, heading north.
The television team stopped overnight at a small hotel and started out again at dawn. Betty’s heart rose as the weather changed. The wind rose from the west, driving away the rain and mist until the blue sky arched above. George Lennox was driving. He was rather surly in the way of some TV cameramen. Perhaps it was understandable as the presenter on any programme got all the glory, no matter how dangerous the situation. Phil Green was small and cheerful and kept exclaiming at the beauty of the landscape. Up and down the narrow roads they went until at long last they drove into Durness and down to where a curve of pure white sand faced a green-and-blue sea.
There was no sign of any police Land Rover. Betty climbed stiffly down. It was still and quiet apart from the ceaseless sound of the sea.
She had a sudden queasy feeling of unease. “This is grand,” said Phil. He had a thermos and a pack of sandwiches. He sat down on a flat rock and stared dreamily out to sea. “This is God’s country!”
“This is the bloody end o’ the world that God forgot,” said George, glaring at Betty. “Are you sure o’ this? There’s nobody camping on the beach.”
“We’ll just need to search around,” said Betty desperately.
“You go and search,” said Phil lazily. “Me, I’m staying right here until you find something.”
Betty scrambled up from the beach. There were ruined croft houses here and there. No people. The wind whistled amongst the ruins, and the sad cry of a curlew from the heather seemed to mock her.
Elspeth was feeling much stronger. She sat up in bed and then saw a note, which had been pushed under her door. She struggled out of bed and picked it up.
“Dear Elspeth,” she read. “Your wee researcher had the nerve to hide a tape recorder in my office so I sent her off on a wild goose chase to Durness. Get well soon. Hamish.”
Elspeth phoned the television station in Glasgow and asked for her boss. He listened in horror and then said, “Get her back down here. When you’re better, get back down yourself. We’ve had a lot of complaints about your replacement. And see if you can smooth over that bobby friend o’ yours before he sues us.”
But Hamish had more to worry him now than one overambitious researcher. When he had returned earlier to the station, it was to find Angela Brodie waiting for him. “I’ve come to confess,” she said seriously.