Death of a Dreamer

∨ Death of a Dreamer ∧

9

How happy could I be with either,

Were t’other dear charmer away!

—John Gay

“You’ve lost that look,” complained Jock, working busily on Priscilla’s portrait.

“What look?” asked Priscilla.

“The distant one, the remote one. What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing in particular.”

“Didn’t look that way,” grumbled Jock.

Priscilla had been thinking about Hamish Macbeth. In London, it had been easy to dismiss him from her mind. But up here when he seemed to be pursued by other women, it was hard not to think about him.

Elspeth had confided in her that she had had an affair with Hamish and that she had presented him with an ultimatum – marriage or nothing else. Priscilla had been amazed at the bitter jealousy that admission had caused her. Now there was Betty Barnard.

Jock interrupted her thoughts again. “When I’ve finished this,” he said tentatively, “would you consider buying it?”

“I’ll think about it,” said Priscilla. So even this artist hasn’t got any designs on me other than money, she thought. Hamish has nothing to worry about.

♦

Hamish was roused from his breakfast chores by a knock at the door. He assumed it was Robin and was wondering whether to say anything about having seen her last night. But then he would have to confess that he had been in the restaurant with Betty, and she would give him a stern lecture on socialising with a suspect.

But it was a strange woman who stood on the doorstep. “I am Mrs. Addenfest,” she said.

“Come in,” said Hamish, standing aside. She walked past him into the kitchen, a subtle perfume wafting about her.

She sat down at the kitchen table and crossed a pair of excellent legs. Her hair was an expensive dyed blonde – no brass, but a sort of silvery gold. She had high cheekbones, a full mouth, a straight little nose, and calculating brown eyes which betrayed that she was actually much older than she looked. Hamish guessed she had gone in for an expensive facelift to match the expensive hair. She was dressed in Fifth Avenue’s idea of suitable fashion for the Highlands of Scotland: a tweed jacket with patches at the elbows and a brown velvet collar and that King tweed skirt, sheer stockings, and brogues the colour of chestnuts.

“How can I help you?” he asked.

“I axed up at the hotel and was told you was the brightest around.” The Brooklyn voice emanating from this richly manufactured beauty came as a surprise.

“So what is it you want from me?”

“Who killed him?”

“I wish I knew,” said Hamish. “We’re working hard on it. When did you arrive?”

“Last night. Fact is I feel I owe it to Hal – I mean, to be here and arrange the funeral and all. He never got around to changing his will, although he meant to leave me with zilch. I’m one rich lady.”

“Coffee? Although I wouldnae recommend it. Tea’s better.”

“Tea’s fine.” She watched as Hamish put an old smoke-blackened kettle on the stove. She gave a harsh laugh. “You find out who murdered Hal and I’ll buy you a new teakettle.”

“There will be no need for that,” said Hamish huffily. “I haff an electric one somewhere.”

The cat and dog wandered in. She eyed the cat warily. “That looks like a lynx.”

“It’s a highland wild cat, but a domesticated one.”

“Can you get rid of it for now? It scares the pants off me.”

Hamish opened the kitchen door, and the dog and cat slouched out.

“Tell me about Hal,” said Hamish. “How did you meet?”

“It was back in New York when I was working as a model. Hal was the type of man who liked arm candy. I was tired of slaving as a model, and with models getting younger and younger, I wanted security. He was working for an accounting firm and climbing fast up the corporate ladder. We rubbed along pretty well.”

“I gather he divorced you and got out of paying anything.”

“He could afford the best lawyers, and I couldn’t. He’d put a private detective on me and found out I was having affairs. Jeez, he must be turning in his grave at the thought of me getting all his money. I’ll give him a big send-off.”

“Did he have any enemies?”

“Not murderous ones. Nobody liked him, but because he was chairman of the company, they all crawled to him. When he retired, though, he found no one wanted to know him. He was so vain he decided it must be my fault. I think he thought that if he got rid of me, he’d get friends. Didn’t happen.”

“Did you hear from him after he moved here?”

“Just one odd phone call. He said, “Listen, you old bitch, I’m going to get married again and to a real woman who appreciates me and who doesn’t go dropping her panties in motels for every trucker who takes her fancy.” I hung up on him, and that’s the last I heard until you police got in touch with me. I went straight to his lawyers before I left, and bingo, Gloria’s hit the jackpot.”

“Gloria being you?”

“Sure. May I call you Hamish?”

“Of course.”

“Okay, Hamish. Who’s this female who’s getting her portrait painted by Jock Fleming? Is she a suspect?”

“Priscilla Halburton-Smythe,” said Hamish stiffly. “Her parents own the hotel. I’ve known her for a long time. Mrs. Addenfest, I would suggest strongly that you leave all investigation to the police. There is a dangerous murderer out there.”

“Look, I couldn’t stand the man, but I’ve got his money and I feel, well, kinda responsible for him now. When’s the coroner releasing the body?”

“We don’t have coroners in Scotland. You need to contact the procurator fiscal’s office. Hang on and I’ll get you the address.”

He went through to his office. When he came back, it was to find that Robin had arrived.

She was once more her neat and businesslike self. “Mrs. Addenfest and I are becoming acquainted,” said Robin.

“How long will you be staying?” Hamish asked Gloria.

“Just till I get him buried.”

“Aren’t you taking the body back to the States?”

“Too much trouble. I’ll see the preacher here and arrange a funeral. I’ve heard the Church of Scotland will bury anybody. He didn’t have any religion. Like, he thought he was God.” She picked up her handbag. “Where do I find the local preacher?”

“If you walk out to the waterfront and turn right, you’ll see the church and the manse where he lives right next door.”

“Thanks. See ya.”

She departed on a cloud of perfume.

“What do you make of her?” asked Robin.

“Not much. She married for money, and I haff no time for the women who court men for money or for advancement in their jobs.”

He looked narrowly at Robin. “You’ve got a love bite on your neck,” he accused.

“I do have a private life, Hamish, and it has nothing to do with you.”

Good God, thought Hamish, trying – and failing – to imagine Daviot in the throes of passion. What on earth was his boss doing? Daviot had always seemed like a rather rigid, moral man, given to preaching the benefits of family life.

“Stop staring at me!” snapped Robin.

“I was thinking about the ex-wife. I wonder when she arrived. It would be really difficult if it turns out we have two murderers. We’ll go and see Jimmy and find out if he checked when she arrived in this country.”

♦

Priscilla made her way up to Jocks temporary studio for the morning session. There was no sign of Jock. She waited and waited, but he did not arrive. Priscilla had told Jock that she would need to consider if she had enough money to pay for the portrait. Jock had said she could have it for the ‘knock-down price’ of ten thousand pounds.

At last, she rose and lifted the cover off the painting to see how he was getting on. She let out a cry of dismay. It looked as if someone had taken a rag soaked in turpentine and smeared it right across the portrait to obliterate the face.

Priscilla ran downstairs and phoned Hamish on his mobile.

♦

Hamish arrived with Robin, and they went up to the studio. “I’ll need to get this whole room dusted for fingerprints,” said Hamish. “Lock it up.”

He phoned Jimmy and explained what had happened. After Priscilla had locked the studio, he said he would need to ask Betty Barnard, Mrs. Addenfest, and Jock himself for permission to search their rooms.

Betty looked mildly hurt. “Now, why would I go about destroying my clients work, Hamish?”

“It’s just a process of elimination,” said Hamish.

Betty’s room was a mess, with clothes lying on the bed and scattered on the floor. “I can never decide what to wear,” said Betty defensively. There seemed to be nothing incriminating, but Hamish had not expected there would be. He had suggested searching Betty’s room because he did not want to be accused of favouritism. Mrs. Addenfest was nowhere in the hotel. Hamish assumed she was at the manse talking to the minister.

Jock was nowhere to be found. They searched the hotel and the grounds. Hamish borrowed a pair of binoculars and went out to the car park and focussed them up towards the mountains. Then he made out a figure up at Geordie’s Cleft. He adjusted the focus to get a sharper image. It was Jock, sitting at an easel.

“He’s up at Geordie’s Cleft,” said Hamish. “We’d better get up there.”

Robin looked down ruefully at her neat court shoes. “I’m not exactly dressed for climbing.”

“You wait here for the forensic people,” said Hamish.

“I’ll go.”

♦

It was one of those white summer days in the Highlands when the sky is covered by a thin veil of cloud and all colour seems to have been bleached out of the landscape. The air was warm and humid, and the midges, those Scottish mosquitoes, were out in force. Hamish liberally applied repellent to his face and neck from a stick he always kept in his pocket. He drove up as far as he could and then got out and began to walk, his large regulation boots occasionally slipping on the scree.

He met Jock as the artist was on his way down. “Waste of time, Hamish,” shouted Jock as he approached the policeman. “The weather just turned, and there doesn’t seem to be a bit of colour anywhere. You’re obviously looking for me. Why?”

“Someone has defaced that portrait of Priscilla.”

“What!”

“Someone has taken turpentine and scrubbed the face out.”

“I’ll kill the bastard who did this,” raged Jock. “I’ll get compensation from that hotel.”

“Won’t work,” said Hamish. “They’ve given you a free room and a studio. They’re not responsible for protecting your work. You didn’t lock up the studio, did you?”

“Didn’t see the need,” said Jock bitterly. “I’m getting out of this hellish place.”

“I want you to stay here a bit longer.” They both began to slither down the hill. “It’s a bit insensitive of you to be up at Geordie’s Cleft.”

“Why? It gives the best panoramic view, and Effie was nothing to me.”

“When did you last do any work on the portrait?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

“And you haven’t been inside the studio since?”

“I went in early this morning, around eight, to pick up my paints. I had a look at the portrait. It was all right then.”

“Do the maids clean the studio?”

“No, they’ve got orders to leave it alone until I’m finished. I suppose there’s no use going on with it now. Oh, man, what a waste!”

I must get more on Jock’s background, thought Hamish. I wonder if his money goes to something like drugs or gambling. Aloud, he said, “Hal’s ex-wife has arrived.”

“What’s she like?”

“Very rich now. Hal never got round to changing his will.”

“Might have a crack at her. Wouldn’t mind having enough to travel the world without this pressure of producing canvas after canvas.”

“Surely you’ve got enough money now.”

“I spend a lot, and then Dora takes a chunk for the kids’ welfare.”

They had reached Hamish’s Land Rover. “You go on down to the police unit and report,” said Hamish. “I’m going to see Effie’s sister.”

♦

Caro invited Hamish in. She had been working at a small easel. “I hope there have been no more murders,” she said.

“No, but Jock’s painting of Priscilla has been defaced.”

“But that’s dreadful. How? When?”

“He saw it at eight o’clock this morning, so it must have been shortly after that. Where were you?”

“Why should I…? Oh, for heaven’s sake. I was here.”

“Anyone see you?”

“Up here? No, not a soul. Why on earth should I deface one of Jock’s paintings?”

“Because maybe you suspect him of the murder of your sister.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it? You must wonder who did it.”

“I don’t, and do you know why? I think Effie committed suicide. She could have had that note and wine bottle ready and put it on the doorstep when I turned away to get in my car. She was always jealous of me. I think Jock’s rejection of her and the shame of having been found out as a liar by the whole village must have turned her mind.”

“And you’re convinced of this?”

“Absolutely.”

When Hamish left her cottage, he felt the bonnet of her car. It was warm. He turned back and looked thoughtfully at the cottage. Caro’s white face glimmered back at him through the small window. But the day was unusually warm. That might explain it.

♦

Hamish parked the Land Rover on the waterfront and was going to the police unit when he was accosted by Elspeth.

“So what’s your explanation for last night?” she demanded.

“Elspeth, I’m right sorry. I forgot.”

“You were seen driving off with Betty Barnard.”

“Oh, all right, Elspeth. But I don’t need to explain my movements to you.”

She studied him thoughtfully and then said, “Do you know what your problem is? You’re afraid of love. You’d rather settle for companionship. Does Betty know she’s got serious competition?”

“Like who?”

“Like your cat and your dog. You know what you are? You’re nothing more than an old maid.”

“Get the hell away from me,” raged Hamish, his highland vanity cut to the quick. Then he gave a malicious smile. “So don’t you think there’s something up with you, hanging around and nagging someone who doesn’t want you?”

Elspeth slapped him full across the face and walked off.

Hamish became aware of the curious eyes of villagers. He glared back and went into the police unit to be told that Mr. Daviot had arrived and was up at the castle with Robin and Jimmy.

He decided to go back to the police station and take Sonsie and Lugs for a walk so he could think in peace. “And if there’s some woman waiting for me,” he muttered, “I’ll strangle her.”

But he could hardly strangle his boss’s wife.

With a sinking heart, he recognised the matronly figure of Mrs. Daviot waiting for him on the doorstep.

He had always considered the Daviots the very picture of a contented marriage. Mr. Daviot with his sleek grey hair, impeccably tailored suits, and smoothly shaven cheeks looked more like a successful businessman than a police superintendent. Mrs. Daviot was small and trim with dyed-brown hair in neat, permed curls and large blue eyes in a carefully made-up face.

“Come in, Mrs. Daviot,” said Hamish. “Are you looking for your husband?”

“No, I’m looking for you.” Her voice trembled on the edge of tears.

Oh, dear, thought Hamish. She suspects something.

“Would you like some tea?”

“No, yes…well, maybe.”

“I’ll take that as a yes. How can I help you?”

She sat down at the table and clasped her handbag on her lap. “I think Peter is having an affair.”

“What makes you think that?”

“He says he’s going out to some police function or other, and then I find out there was no such function. He smells of perfume. He looks excited, elated. He mutters into the phone, and if I walk into the room, he hangs up.”

“It could all just be police business, after all,” said Hamish awkwardly. He poured tea and told her to help herself to milk and sugar.

“I want you to investigate. I want you to find out who she is.”

“Its right difficult,” said Hamish. “He is my boss. I think he’d fire me like a shot if he even guessed what I was doing.”

“Please, Hamish.” Her eyes swam with tears. “I’m begging you.”

He sighed. “I’ll do my best.”

She opened her handbag and took out a card case. “Here’s my mobile phone number. Phone me night or day if you find out anything.”

“What will you do if it turns out to be true?”

“I’ll divorce him.”

“That’s a wee bit extreme. If there is something, it could just be a passing fancy.”

“My husband,” she said grimly, “is not allowed passing fancies.”

♦

After Mrs. Daviot had left, Hamish went out towards the police unit. Back from the Tommel Castle, Superintendent Daviot was standing outside, smoking a cigarette.

“Sir,” said Hamish.

“Ah, good morning. Isn’t it a glorious morning, Hamish?”

“Yes, indeed, sir.”

“We must get these murders solved. I’m giving a press conference up at the hotel this evening. The press are becoming very strident.”

“Maybe some other big story will happen to take them away,” said Hamish. “They’re really more interested in political scandal than anything else these days. Do you remember that foreign minister last year who was found to be having an affair with a researcher? What a carry-on that was, and for once, the wife didn’t stand by him but demanded a divorce. It was the end o’ his career. You know, sir, I often wonder what makes important men throw their careers away all because of a fling.”

“Maybe he was deeply in love with her,” said Daviot, staring at Hamish.

“Not if you remember the aftermath. Because he was out of a job, he suddenly looked at her and wondered what he had ever seen in her. Of course, if he’d been philandering up here in the Highlands, everyone would have known about it from the word go. Everyone knows everyone else’s business up here.”

“Except when it comes to witnessing a murder,” said Daviot.

“Now, that’s what’s so odd,” said Hamish. “Normally you can’t even take a walk across the moors without someone having seen you. I can only conclude the murderer was extremely lucky. Has Detective Mackenzie arrived?”

“Yes, she’s inside the unit. What do you think of her?”

“I think she is keen and ambitious. She’ll rise right to the top. Only trouble is she might not be too nice about how she gets there.” Hamish touched his cap. “I’ll just go inside and get my briefing. Give my best to your good wife, sir. Splendid woman.”

After the door of the unit had closed behind Hamish, Daviot stood for a long moment before angrily crushing out his cigarette. He was damn sure Hamish Macbeth had just given him a warning.

But his obsession for Robin gripped hard. He started guiltily when the door of the unit opened and she came out.

“Peter, darling,” she whispered. “A word with you.”

“What is it?”

“This press conference this evening. I was thinking the press can be very aggressive. I thought it might be a good idea if I fielded the questions for you.”

For the first time, Daviot wondered whether she was using him. The television cameras would be there. She was really too low in rank to even suggest such a thing.

“No, I do not think that’s a good idea at all. I am surprised you should even suggest such a thing. Please go back to your duties and remember to call me ‘sir.’ We are, after all, in the middle of a murder investigation.”

“But Peter…”

“Detective Mackenzie, please remember our relative positions.”

“Like the missionary one?” snapped Robin.

He took a deep breath. “I have made a bad mistake. Either get a transfer or get on with your work here. I do not want to see you outside work again.”

♦

“Hamish!” shouted Jimmy. “I’ve been trying to talk to you, and you’ve been glued to that window.”

“Sorry,” said Hamish, turning round.

“I want you to go and see Jock’s ex-wife again. I find it odd the way she’s hanging around.”

Robin came into the unit. Her face was red, and her eyes were angry.

“Take Detective Mackenzie with you,” said Jimmy.

Robin and Hamish walked in silence along to Sea View. Mrs. Dunne said Dora Fleming had left earlier, saying she was going up to the hotel to see Jock.

“We’ll take the Land Rover,” said Hamish. “It’s almost as if our Dora had something on Jock.”

They found Dora and Jock at a corner table in the bar. They were holding hands and talking urgently, their heads together.

They broke off when they saw Hamish and Robin. “What now?” asked Jock truculently.

“I really wanted to talk to Mrs. Fleming here,” said Hamish.

Jock rose to his feet. “Right. I’m off.”

They waited until he had left and sat down opposite Dora. Dora was picking a beermat apart with long red nails. Prostitutes are always terrible fidgets, thought Hamish.

Hamish looked at Robin, but she seemed lost in her own thoughts, so he began the questioning.

“I was wondering, Mrs. Fleming, why you’re still in Lochdubh. You must miss your children.”

“I was telt not to leave, and the children are just fine with my mither.”

“You and Jock appear to have patched up any differences.”

“What’s that to you?”

“Did you know that Hal Addenfest, the dead man, took notes of what everyone was saying?”

“No.”

“I find it hard to believe that you didn’t. Everyone in Lochdubh knew about it.”

“They don’t talk to me.”

“Come on. Mrs. Dunne gossips to everyone. I can ask her.”

“She may have said something. Wasnae important anyway. Nothing that goes on in this arsehole of the world is important.”

“I tell you what I’ll do for you,” said Hamish. “I’ll have a word with my boss and get you permission to leave.”

“I’ll leave when I’m good and ready.”

When they left her, Hamish saw Priscilla and Betty talking in the reception area. Betty gave him a wink and a cheeky smile. Priscilla’s face was smooth and expressionless.

“Where now?” asked Robin, jerking herself out of her thoughts with an effort.

“Back to Sea View. I wonder if Mrs. Dunne heard anything.”

“As far as I remember from the reports, she said she hadn’t.”

“Nonetheless, I would like to try again. I wonder if Dora Fleming was in her bed all night.”

♦

Mrs. Dunne complained she was too busy to answer any more questions. “That’s a pity,” said Robin, and then trotted out her usual compliment. “You see, people often do hear or see something and only remember it later. And you, being such an obviously quick-witted and intelligent lady, might just have remembered something.”

“What we’re after,” put in Hamish, “is whether you are sure that Dora Fleming spent all night in her bed.”

Mrs. Dunne stood frowning. She had been flattered by Robin’s compliment. “There was one thing,” she said slowly. “I thought I heard a wee noise at the back of the house.”

“Like what?”

“A sort of bang. I’ve got Mrs. Fleming here and a couple from Glasgow and three of the forestry workers. They were all in their rooms when I locked up. Och, I mind the days when I wouldn’t have bothered, but it’s a wicked world now.”

“Don’t the guests have their own keys?”

“I don’t trust anyone with the keys. I wait until they’re all indoors.”

“So how would anyone get out?”

“There’s the fire door at the back on the first.”

“Show it to us.”

She led the way upstairs and along a corridor on the first landing. Hamish studied the fire door, and then his sharp eyes noticed a small square wad of paper lying on the floor. He took out a pair of tweezers, lifted the paper, and put it in a cellophane envelope.

He thanked Mrs. Dunne and went back outside the building, followed by Robin.

“Why did you pick up that paper?” asked Robin.

“It could have been used to wedge the door so that someone could get back in again. Let’s get back to the unit and examine it properly.”

He explained to Jimmy what he had found. Then he took out the envelope and, putting on gloves, extracted the wad of paper. He laid it on Jimmy’s desk and gently opened it up. “It’s out o’ a film magazine,” Hamish said. “See, there’s a bit from the top of the page – Hollywood World. I’ll go over to Patel’s and see if he sold a copy to anyone.” Robin went with him.

Mr. Patel said he only ordered two copies a month, the locals being more interested in magazines that dealt with television soaps than anything to do with the movies.

“Who bought them?”

“Mrs. Wellington bought one.” Hamish blinked in amazement. He’d never have guessed that the tweedy minister’s wife would want to read about movie stars.

“And the other one?”

“Oh, it was that wee woman who was married to the artist.”

They hurried back to tell Jimmy. “Good work,” he said. “Bring her in.”

♦

They found Dora Fleming crossing the humpback bridge on her way to the boarding house. They marched her back to the police unit and took her inside.

“What’s this all about?” she demanded.

“This,” said Jimmy, pointing to the piece from the film magazine. “This was lying by the fire door at Sea View. We think you used it to wedge the fire door when you crept out so you’d be able to get back in again.”

“Don’t be daft. It’s just a piece of paper.”

“It’s from a film magazine which you bought. The papers glossy, and we should get your prints off it. In fact, we’ll fingerprint you now.”

“I want a lawyer,” she screeched.

“You’ve already got her fingerprints,” interposed Robin. “We took the fingerprints of everyone who might be concerned right after Mr. Addenfest’s murder.”

“So we did,” said Jimmy with his foxy grin. “Right, young woman, where did you go, when, and why?”

“I didnae go anywhere!”

“We’ll look at the steps down from the fire door,” said Jimmy. “I’m sure we’ll find some footprints.”

She stared at him in mulish silence.

“Right,” said Jimmy. “I am taking you into police headquarters for questioning. Hamish, you and Robin go back to Sea View and have a look at the steps down from the fire door. See if you can find anything.”

As two policemen escorted Dora out to the car which was to take her to Strathbane, Jimmy phoned Daviot, who was up at the hotel arranging a room for the press conference. He told him of Hamish’s find. “It was a right smart piece of work on Macbeth’s part,” said Jimmy. “You can at least tell the press we’ve got a suspect.”

♦

Mrs. Dunne took Hamish and Robin round to the back of the house where an iron staircase led down from the fire door. “We’d better not add our own footprints,” said Hamish. The stairs led down to a weedy back garden. “We’ll just need to search through the garden and see if we can find anything.”

He knelt down and began to feel his way through the rough grass with his fingers. Robin was wearing a skirt and did not want to ladder her tights by following Hamish’s example.

“I’ve got to go to the loo,” she called. “Be back soon.”

She went round to the front of the house, knocked, and asked Mrs. Dunne if she could use her bathroom.

“Don’t leave a mess,” said Mrs. Dunne. “I keep a clean house.”

Robin carefully reapplied her make-up. Daviot’s rejection of her request to be at the press conference rankled, and she knew she would feel more confident if she brushed her hair and made up her face.

When she went out again, she saw Daviot’s car heading along the waterfront and eagerly flagged him down.

Daviot lowered the window. “What is it, Detective Mackenzie?”

“I had a marvellous piece of luck,” said Robin. “I found a piece of a magazine by the fire door at Sea View which had been used to wedge the door. I found out Dora Fleming had bought that magazine and – ”

He interrupted her, his voice cold and measured. “I have already heard of Hamish Macbeth’s detective work. Do not try to take credit from another officer again.”

The car window rolled up in her face, he tapped his driver on the shoulder, and the car moved on.

Robin felt miserable. She had dreamt of taking over Blair’s job one day. She trailed back to the garden to find Hamish putting something into an envelope.

“What have you found?” she asked.

“A used condom.”

“So what’s special about that? The local lads probably use this garden for a bit of nooky.”

“No, they don’t,” said Hamish. “I’ll take this straight over to Strathbane. Are you coming?”

But Robin did not want to run into Daviot.