Death of a Gentle Lady

∨ Death of a Gentle Lady ∧

9

The tragedy of love is indifference.

—Somerset Maugham

Hamish, in the following days, was anxious to talk over the murder cases with Priscilla. But every time he called at the hotel, it was to be told she was either out walking with Patrick Fitzpatrick, having dinner with Patrick, or rehearsing her part with Harold.

Why Patrick? he wondered. There had been nothing very interesting about the man that he could remember. He was tall and slim, ginger hair, pursed little mouth, and reddish skin. Hardly an Adonis.

He would not admit to jealousy, but thought bitterly that for auld lang syne Priscilla should at least have made herself available to act as his Watson.

He called on Angela Brodie instead. To his amazement, the usually messy and unhygienic kitchen was clean, the many cats confined to the garden.

“What happened?” he asked, looking around. “Expecting a visit from the health inspector?”

“Don’t be nasty, Hamish. I’ve been reading a self-help book. It says, in effect, that if you are not getting on with your work, it could be because of the mess at home, or because you are working in a dirty office. Would you like a coffee?”

“Fine.” Hamish quite often shied away from Angela’s offers of coffee, expecting to find some awful cat hairs sticking to his mug, because the cats too often roamed the kitchen table, licking the butter and drinking out of the milk jug. “It’ll save you a lot of vet’s fees,” he added, removing his peaked cap and sitting down. Only two weeks before, one of the cats had ended up with its head stuck firmly in the milk jug.

“It hasn’t helped a bit with the writing,” said Angela. “Instead of being compulsive about finishing this latest book, I’ve become compulsive about cleaning.”

A dismal yowling started up outside.

“That’s it!” Angela turned to open the kitchen door. “Poor beasties. I can’t bear it any longer. I’m going to let them in.”

“Could you wait till we’ve had coffee?” pleaded Hamish. “I’ll need to talk to someone.”

“What about? The fact that Irena told you something mysterious?”

“I made that up, hoping our murderer might have a go at me.”

“But you got your man. I haven’t been reading the newspapers. Has something else happened?”

Hamish told her about the wire across the stairs and the female footprints.

“A woman? Who on earth could that be?”

“Probably someone who’s long gone. No, wait a bit. She might just still be around the area. Jimmy told me he’d put extra men on the job, going all over the place, interviewing any visitors. Where could she be staying?”

“A tent up on the hills somewhere?”

“That’s an idea. I’d better get off and tour around again.”

Angela put a mug of coffee down in front of him. “Have your coffee first. What’s happened to that Russian policewoman?”

“Gone back to London, thank goodness. She fair gave me the creeps.”

“Have you seen much of Priscilla?”

“I have not,” said Hamish huffily. “Herself is either walking the hills with an Irishman who’s staying at the hotel or rehearsing her part with Harold Jury.”

“I might call on Harold Jury again,” said Angela. “I only met him briefly when he suggested I might like to play Lady Macbeth. It would be nice to discuss writing with another author.”

“He’s an odd character,” said Hamish. “I put him down as dead arrogant and yet when I went to one of the rehearsals, I must say I was surprised at his patience.”

“Have you read his latest book?”

“No. Any good?”

“I found it a bit dull but maybe that’s just me. I like stories, and that stream-of-consciousness business bores the pants off me. I’ll lend it to you.”

“Can’t be bothered. Well, I’m off.”

Hamish hovered in the doorway wondering whether to dare ask her to look after the dog and cat, but then decided that if he was simply going to search around the moorland and the foothills, he could take them with him.

The balmy weather had ceased, and Sutherland was gearing itself up for the long northern winter. Hamish hurried back to the police station, knowing he had better set off quickly – the sun went down at four in the afternoon.

♦

Once the animals were put in the Land Rover along with lunch packed for all of them, Hamish drove up into the hills and along heathery little-used tracks, stopping occasionally at outlying crofts to ask if they had seen any campers.

He stopped for a picnic lunch. After his pets had been fed, he put them in the Land Rover and decided to roam across the moorland on foot before the light faded.

But all was peaceful and quiet apart from the sad piping of the curlews. Soon the shadow of the mountains fell over the landscape. He returned to the Land Rover, got in, and stared out at the fading countryside. His ruse was not working. There had been no more attempts on his life.

Back to Lochdubh, where a letter was lying on the doormat. He walked in, sat down, and opened it. It was from Elspeth. ‘This is just to say goodbye,’ she had written. ‘Let me know if anything happens. I’ve been called back but can come straight back up again if you’ve got any news. Elspeth.’

He looked at it sadly. No ‘Love, Elspeth,’ not even ‘Best wishes, Elspeth.’

Did he really want to marry her now? And why did he nurse that odd hankering for Priscilla? Why did he keep hoping that one day she would thaw out and become as passionate as the woman of his dreams?

The kitchen door opened and the fisherman Archie walked in. “We was coming back this morning, Hamish,” he said, “and I got a good look at thon folly from the sea. There’s a big chunk o’ the cliff has fallen and it’s perched there like a toy castle balancing on someone’s outstretched hand. It’s now only got the lip o’ the cliff to support it.”

“I’ll phone up Andrew Gentle and warn him,” said Hamish. “Sit down, Archie. Want some of that wine?”

“Na. I don’t know how thae actors survive on that bitter stuff. I thocht yours had gone off but they had some at the rehearsal and it was like drinking acid. I’ll take a dram.”

Hamish poured him a measure of whisky and then, after some hesitation, poured one for himself.

“You know what puzzles me, Archie?” said Hamish. “Everyone up here knows everyone else’s business. All I want to know is if someone’s seen a tall strange woman about, and no one’s seen anything at all.”

“Gamekeeper Geordie saw Priscilla and thon Irishman having a picnic,” said Archie. “You chust going tae stand by and let that happen? They was up by the Beithe Burn.”

“Archie, Priscilla can do what she likes.”

♦

When Archie had left, Hamish found Andrew Gentle’s card and phoned to warn him about the perilous condition of the castle.

“There’s nothing I can do about it,” said Andrew testily. “I am sure if the damn thing falls into the sea, the insurance company will put it down to an act of God. I’ll come up in the spring, hire an architect, and see if anything can be done.”

It was only when he had rung off that Hamish realised he still had the key.

He could not settle down for the evening. He felt restless. He wanted to banish Priscilla’s bright image from a corner of his brain. He decided to take a run down to Inverness. It was late-night shopping, and if he hurried he could be there in time. He needed some new casual clothes.

He took Sonsie and Lugs with him. There were plenty of shops in Strathbane, the nearer town, but he wanted to get well away from Lochdubh.

But by the time he had battled round the crowded shops and bought new shirts and trousers, he was longing to get back to the peace of home. He bought kebabs for himself, the dog, and the cat, and fed them in the quiet street by the river where he had parked before setting out for home.

He decided to take the old way over the Struie Pass and whistled cheerfully as he zigzagged round the hairpin bends into Sutherland. He had just reached the famous viewpoint when the engine coughed and died. The petrol light was flashing empty. Hamish stared at it, puzzled. He had filled the tank just before arriving in Inverness. He got out with his torch, searched under the vehicle, and then shone the torch back along the road. There was no sign of any petrol leakage.

He opened up the petrol cap and put a dipstick in. The stick came out dry. He took a four-gallon tank of petrol out of the back of the Land Rover and poured it into the tank.

Still puzzled, he drove on. At the police station, he lifted his pets down from the vehicle, took the key down from the gutter, opened the kitchen door, and switched on the light.

“I don’t think you pair need anything more to eat tonight,” said Hamish. “Off to bed.”

He decided to have a cup of coffee. Coffee never stopped him from sleeping.

Hamish was about to open the fridge door when he glanced down at the floor. Soot from the stove had covered a little bit of the floor in a fine black layer, and in the middle was the faint imprint of a shoe.

He stared at it for a long moment. He guessed the wearer would take size seven shoes. That was the size of the shoeprints on the back stairs of the castle. Size seven, British, was size nine, American – and what was that in centimetres? Did anyone in Britain know their shoe size in centimetres?

Hamish carefully lifted the lid of the stove. He had left, as usual, sticks and kindling and firelighter. What he usually did was just toss a match in and replace the lid.

He bent down and sniffed. There was a smell of diesel.

He backed off and whistled to his pets. “Going for a walk,” he said, “and fast.”

He hurried along to the Italian restaurant, where Willie was wiping the tables for the night. Hamish rapped on the door. “We’re closed,” said Willie.

“It’s urgent,” said Hamish. “I need to phone headquarters. There’s a bomb in the police station.”

“Come in,” said Willie. “Michty me!”

Hamish took out his mobile phone. “Willie, start evacuating the houses around the police station. Do it quick.”

Willie ran off. Hamish got a sleepy Jimmy on his mobile number.

“Jimmy, get the bomb squad. I think someone’s put a fertiliser bomb in the stove in my kitchen. I’m in the Italian restaurant. Willie Lamont’s gone to evacuate the houses nearby. I’m off to help him.”

“Be with you fast,” said Jimmy, and rang off.

♦

The night was frosty so Willie ushered several families into the restaurant. Mrs. Wellington, who had been telephoned for help, had taken the rest of those considered to be in the danger area up to the manse.

Hamish fretted and waited, only relaxing when he heard the sound of the sirens coming over the hills towards Lochdubh.

He walked along to the police station to meet Jimmy, who was standing there with an army bomb disposal unit.

“Tell the sergeant here about it,” said Jimmy.

Hamish described the footprint on the sooty floor and the smell of diesel.

“Any wires?” asked the sergeant.

“No. I looked.”

Two of his men went inside the police station. Hamish turned to Jimmy. “It was the same size as the footprint we saw in the castle.”

“Damn and blast it!” said Jimmy. “If this murderer thinks you know something, doesn’t he think it odd you’d keep it to yourself?”

“He may think Irena told me something that I haven’t yet figured out,” said Hamish.

The men came out, carrying something in a plastic forensic bag.

“Here it is,” said one. “A fertiliser bomb. Nice little homemade thing. All you need is newspaper, chemical fertiliser, cotton, diesel, and you’ve got your bomb. Someone put the fertiliser wrapped in newspaper at the bottom of your stove, then put cotton soaked with diesel on the top. If you’d lit your stove, it would have blown apart five hundred square metres – which would have dealt with you and your police station.”

“Hamish,” said Jimmy, “maybe we’re being sidetracked by the whole Gentle family. You don’t think there might be some Russian connection?”

“No, I don’t. They would have caught up with her before this.”

“Maybe not. Who’d think of looking for her in the north of Scotland?”

“We should be looking for someone fairly tall and slim with size seven feet,” said Hamish. “Might be a good idea to check Kylie Gentle’s alibi.”

People were returning to their houses. The forensic team arrived and went into the kitchen.

“I’m going to go up to the hotel and see if I can mooch a room,” said Hamish. “Oh, there’s another thing, Jimmy. I was coming back over the Struie Pass when I ran out of petrol. Now, I filled the tank up just before I got to Inverness. Say someone followed me down and drained most of the tank to immobilise me so that they could race back to the station and plant the bomb?”

“Might get something on CCTV,” said Jimmy. “Where were you parked?”

“Away down on a side street off the Ness Bank.”

“It’s a pity you were too cheap to pay for proper parking. You’d best leave the Land Rover and let the forensic boys look over it.”

“Could one of your lads give me a lift to the hotel?”

“Aileen will do that. Wait a minute.”

Jimmy went off and came back with a policewoman. “This is Aileen Drummond.”

Aileen was small and chubby with a cheeky face. When he got into the police car, Hamish said awkwardly, “I wonder whether you might stop at that Italian restaurant on the waterfront to pick up my dog and cat?”

“No trouble,” said Aileen.

But she flinched as Sonsie and Lugs were ushered into the backseat. “No,” said Hamish, before she could speak, “it’s not a wild cat.”

“Looks fair savage to me,” said Aileen.

“Are you from Glasgow?”

“Yes. Recognise the accent, did you?”

“It’s not as thick as Blair’s, but yes. What’s brought you up here?”

“I wanted to work in the Highlands but I landed in Strathbane, which is a sort o’ Glasgow in miniature but without the culture, without the restaurants, and without the posh shops. One great heaving underclass o’ criminals. You all right? Must be a hell o’ a shock finding a bomb in your kitchen.”

“I’m fine.”

“Here’s the hotel. Want to go in and get blootered? I could say you were in shock and needed tender loving care.”

“I don’t want to get drunk, and you’re driving.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Tell you what,” said Hamish, “I’ll stand you one drink.”

“You’re on.”

When Hamish went into the bar, he found Priscilla with Patrick and Harold Jury, sitting at a corner table and enjoying after-dinner coffees and brandies.

Priscilla rose and came to join him. “I heard about the bomb,” she said. “How are you?”

“Not bad, but I need a room for the night.”

Priscilla smiled. “Meaning a free room. I’ll get you one.”

Hamish introduced Aileen. When Priscilla went off to find a room for him, Hamish asked Aileen what she would like to drink. To his relief she ordered whisky and water. The few young women he had entertained often asked for peculiar mixtures or cocktails he had never heard of.

♦

Elspeth struggled awake later that night. Her phone was ringing. It was the night desk. “You’re to get back up to the Highlands, fast,” said the night news editor. “That policeman was nearly blown up tonight. Someone put a bomb in his station.”

“Hamish, is he all right?”

“Yes, he escaped. They haven’t found anyone for those murders yet. They’ve had to let that Mark Gentle go. And stop taking your own photographs or there’ll be trouble with the union. I know you claimed they were taken by some highland fellow called Sean McSween, but no one’s ever heard of him and the picture editor’s swearing you made him up. So stop by the office and pick up Billy Southey.”

Elspeth scrambled out of bed and began to dress. Billy was a new photographer. She hadn’t been out on a story with him yet. She hoped he wasn’t a drunk.

♦

Hamish had managed to get rid of Aileen after one drink by promising to take her out for dinner. He had fallen asleep almost immediately only to be awakened an hour later by the phone ringing loudly beside his bed.

It was Jimmy. “Daviot’s in a fair taking,” he said. “He wants you hidden away. He says the attempt on your life could have killed some villagers as well. You’re to pack your suitcase and come to headquarters tomorrow. I’ll get you an unmarked car, and you can drive it to wherever they’ve decided to hide you.”

“I should stick around. The only way we might catch this female is if there’s another attempt,” protested Hamish.

“Sorry, laddie. Orders are orders.”

Hamish realised after he had hung up that his pets must have been out of the police station when that bomb was planted or they would have attacked the intruder and might have been killed. Perhaps it would be better to go into hiding.

♦

The next day, Detective Chief Inspector Blair arrived at police headquarters. He had checked himself out of rehab two days before. They had protested and told him they would send a report to Superintendent Daviot.

He made his way up to Daviot’s office. Secretary Helen smiled at him. She liked Blair, who occasionally bought her flowers and chocolates.

“We didn’t expect to see you for a while,” said Helen.

“I’m all right now.”

“I’m afraid Mr. Daviot is busy.”

“I’ll wait,” said Blair. “Any chance of a coffee?”

“Of course.”

Helen rose and went into the small kitchen next to her desk. The morning post was lying in a basket on her desk.

Keeping an eye on the kitchen, Blair riffled through it until he found an envelope with the name of the rehab on the front. He tucked it inside his jacket and retreated as Helen returned with his coffee.

“Who’s in there?” asked Blair.

“Mr. Anderson and Hamish Macbeth.”

“What’s up?”

“Didn’t you hear? Someone tried to blow up the Lochdubh police station last night. It’s the second attempt on Hamish’s life, so they’re going to hide him away. I had to start first thing this morning, phoning estate agents to find a suitable place.”

Blair paused, his coffee cup halfway to his lips. “Why’s someone trying to bump off yon loon?”

“The murderer seems to think Hamish knows something or something like that,” said Helen. “Really, that man is such a load of trouble.”

“Where did you find a place?” asked Blair.

“It’s top secret, you know, but of course there’s no harm in telling you. I found a cottage in Grianach. Ideal place. There’s just one road down into it.”

“Where is it?”

“Right up in the northwest of Sutherland, near the top.”

Hamish and Jimmy came out of the superintendent’s office. “You can go in now,” said Helen.

“And how are you?” asked Daviot, looking doubtfully at Blair. “I thought you were going to be away for a few weeks.”

“They decided I wasn’t an alcoholic,” lied Blair. “It was all a result of a dirty trick played on me by that Russian.” He described the vodka-drinking session and ended by saying, “You must see, sir, I couldnae do anything else, with her being a visitor and all.”

“I think, however, you should go home and get some more rest,” said Daviot. “Detective Inspector Anderson can cope with everything.”

♦

Blair left in a foul mood. He could see the day approaching when he would be forced into early retirement and Jimmy Anderson would get his job. And he would hate to leave the force without first getting rid of Hamish Macbeth.

And then he had a brilliant idea. If some murderer was looking for Hamish Macbeth, why not help the murderer to find him?

He checked through his notebook and then headed down to the dismal tower blocks at the docks and was soon knocking on a dirty, scarred door.

“How are you, Tommy?” said Blair to the unsavoury creature who answered the door.

“I’m jist fine, so don’t you go trying tae pin anything on me.”

“I want you to do something for me. I’ll pay you. Or can I put it another way: If you don’t do it, I’ll have you back inside as soon as I can.”

“You’ll pay me?”

“Right. I want you to go over to Lochdubh, go to that bar on the waterfront, and spread a wee bit o’ gossip around.”

“Like what?”

“Let me in and I’ll tell you.”

♦

Hamish drove an unmarked car down into the village of Grianach. Grianach, he knew, was the Gaelic for ‘sand,’ and sure enough there was a small sandy beach at the front of the tiny village. He had decided to call himself William Shore.

To the side of the beach was a jetty with a lone fishing boat bobbing at anchor. The village consisted of a few fishermen’s cottages, a small church, and a general store and post office.

He went into the tiny dark shop. He wondered how it managed to survive. There was a musty smell of old grain and the scent of paraffin from a heater.

A small man appeared from the back of the shop. He was almost dwarf size, and Hamish felt an unreasonable stab of superstitious unease. For the fairies, which now only the old people believed in, were not glittery little things with wings but small, dark, troll-like men.

A half-remembered poem learned at school came into his head.

Up the rocky mountain.

Down the rushy glen.

We dare not go a-hunting

For fear of little men.

The shopkeeper had a thick thatch of black hair and bright green eyes. His face was sallow, his nose large, and his mouth very long and thin.

He asked Hamish in Gaelic what he wanted. With an effort, Hamish managed to reply in the same language, saying he was looking for Third Cottage.

The man replied that if he went out of the door, turned left, and went up the brae, the cottage was the last one on the left.

Hamish had brought groceries with him, but, to be polite, he bought a loaf of bread, two tins of baked beans, and a slab of Mull cheddar. Then he got back into his car and drove up a cobbled lane until he found the house. He unlocked the cottage door and went in.

The cottage was cold and smelled damp. There was a fireplace but no coal, peat, or logs. The living room was furnished with a scarred round table and two upright chairs. A couple of canvas director’s seats of the kind sold for a few pounds in petrol station shops were placed on either side of the fire. The floor was stone-flagged with only a ratty rug to cover a little of it. The kitchen was in a lean-to at the back, along with a bathroom whose tub was browned by peaty water. The toilet had the lid missing. The kitchen boasted a battered electric stove, an electric kettle, and a small fridge; in the cupboard were a few cups and plates along with a frying pan and one pot. Then there was the ‘best’ room, the one traditionally kept for funerals and weddings. It had a three-piece suite in uncut moquette, badly stained, a small television set, a standard lamp, and a badly executed oil painting above the mantelpiece of hills and heather.

He moved through to the bedroom: one double bed with army-type blankets and a slippery green quilt, a large old wardrobe, and a bedside table with the King James Bible on it.

He sighed and went back out to the car and let the dog and cat out. He carried in a box of groceries and then his suitcase and fishing rod and tackle.

He was just putting down bowls of water in the kitchen for the animals – glad he had brought bowls along, for there were none in the kitchen – when there came a knock at the door.

He opened it and looked down at the small, round woman who stood there. “I’ve brought you some of my scones,” she said. “I’m Ellie Mackay from ower the road.”

“That’s verra kind of you. Come ben,” said Hamish. “Would you like some tea?”

“No, I’ve got to get on.” She had a cheerfully rosy face and grey hair showing from under a headscarf.

“Do you know where I can get some peats or coal?” asked Hamish.

“There’s a wee shed in the back garden,” she said. “There wass stuff in there. This wass supposed to be a holiday let but the holiday folk last time round took wan look at the place and cleared off.”

“I’m right surprised you get any visitors at all.”

“Oh, we get a busload every second week.”

“Tourists?”

“Aye, it’s a firm what calls itself Discover Secret Scotland.”

“Surely they pack up after the summer. There’s hardly any light up here now.”

“They come round the midday. A blessing it is, too. There are a few folks here that carve wooden things – you know, little statues, candlesticks, things like that. Callum down at the stores sells them. He only speaks the Gaelic to them because they love that. But when the bus arrives, we’ve got stalls out on the harbour.”

“Where’s the best place to fish?”

“If you go on up the road a bit, you’ll come to the Corrie River. You don’t need a permit and if you’re lucky, you might be getting a few trout.”

♦

After she had gone, Hamish went out to the shed in the garden and found slabs of peat stacked up, a sack of coal, a pile of logs, and some kindling. He was amazed the locals hadn’t raided it.

He decided to go fishing while it was still light and set off for the river with his rod, the dog and cat following behind. He fished contentedly, catching four trout before the sky turned pale green, heralding the long, dark winter night.

The bus was a problem, but no one knew where he was, so he had nothing to fear. Back at the cottage, he lit the fire in the ‘best’ room, glad that it seemed to be drawing well, and then went through to the kitchen. He gave Sonsie a trout and fried up some deer liver he had brought with him for Lugs. Then he dipped two trout in oatmeal and fried them for his supper along with boiled potatoes and peas.

After dinner, he lay on the sofa after throwing a travel rug over it, and settled down to read an American detective story. Hamish liked American detective stories where the hero seemed to be always partnered with some beautiful female with green eyes and high cheekbones. He liked particularly the ones that were comfortingly familiar. The hero would at one point be suspended and then brought back with the grim warning “You’ve got twenty-four hours.” He got to the bit where the hero was beating up the villain. Good thing he’s not in Britain, thought Hamish cynically, or the villain would sue for assault.

His mobile phone rang. He sat up and tugged it out of his pocket.

It was Elspeth.

“How are things in Grianach?” she asked.

Although the fire was blazing, Hamish felt suddenly cold.

“How did you know?” he asked.