∨ Death of a Gentle Lady ∧

4

Oh, what a tangled web we weave,

When first we practise to deceive!

—Sir Walter Scott

Hamish parked on the waterfront and walked towards the Currie sisters’ cottage. Anxious to delay going in, he stood with his back to the loch and surveyed his home village, sharply aware, not for the first time, how much he loved the place.

It was dark, and lights shone from the windows of the small whitewashed cottages. You could tell the time of day by the smells in Lochdubh, thought Hamish. Morning was redolent with bacon and eggs and strong tea, intermingling with the scent of peat smoke from newly lit fires. Then, no such thing as lunch in Lochdubh. Dinner was in the middle of the day. Complex smells of soup, beef stew, roast lamb, and again strong tea – tea with everything, and it must be nearly black in colour. High tea was at six o’clock. No one wanted newfangled oven chips. Chips must be fried in cholesterol-building lard. High tea brought the smell of kippers or sliced ham along with the sugary smell of cakes, because no high tea was properly served unless there were plain cakes and iced cakes. Supper was cocoa-and-toasted-jam-sandwiches time.

Hamish sniffed the chocolate-scented air. Suppertime already. Nine o’clock. With a sigh he approached the Curries’ cottage. The door opened just as he reached it.

“We saw you hanging about across the road,” said Nessie. “Wasting police time, that’s what you were doing.”

“I need to ask you some questions,” said Hamish.

“Come ben.” Hamish followed her into the small front parlour. Jessie Currie was watching television. “You interrupted this programme, this programme,” said Jessie, who always repeated the last words of her sentences.

“It’s fair amazing the way you can keep one eye on the telly and keek out o’ the window with the other,” said Hamish.

“Oh, sit down and get on with it,” said Nessie. “Well, my lad, you had a lucky escape. A prostitute! We could hardly believe our ears.”

“Believe our ears,” echoed her sister, her eyes glued to a fornicating hippo on a wildlife programme.

Hamish sighed. They complained of leaks at Number 10; they complained of leaks at the White House. But those were nothing compared with the Highlands of Scotland, which leaked information day in and day out like a sieve.

“You ken Mrs. Cullie, her what lives up the brae?”

“Aye.”

“Her niece is a nurse at Strathbane hospital and she heard that fat detective, Blair, laughing fit to burst a gut. She asked him what the matter was and when he could finish laughing he said he’d just received a phone call and learned you were about to wed a hooker.”

For once Jessie was too engrossed in the programme on television to echo her sister’s comments. A wildebeest was being savaged by a pack of hyenas. Probably the producers of the programme orchestrated the kill, thought Hamish cynically.

“Forget about that,” said Hamish crossly. “Now, yesterday morning, someone made a call from that phone box on the waterfront, around eleven o’clock. Did you see anyone?”

“Let me think. Oh, turn the sound down, Jessie. Aye, I mind I was coming out o’ Patel’s. He’d just got in some nice ham. I like a slice of ham at teatime. I’d got that and a can of Russian salad. What else? Oh, I know, another packet of beef lard. You can’t make proper chips with oil. And – ”

“For heffen’s sakes!” howled Hamish. “Forget the shopping list and chust be telling me who you saw.”

“No need to shout, laddie. It was a woman, quite tall, wearing a headscarf, but she had brown hair, I could see that, and dark glasses. She was wearing a tweed jacket and shooting breeches, lovat socks and brogues on her feet. The headscarf was a red-and-gold pattern.”

Hamish wrote busily in his notebook. “Anything about her face?”

“She had a big mole on her chin, on her chin,” said Jessie.

“That’s all we could see,” said Nessie. “Those dark glasses were so big.”

“Did you see anyone speaking to her?”

“Mrs. Wellington tried to. Bu the woman just put her head down, got on her bike, and pedalled off.”

“On a bike? What kind of bike? Mountain bike?”

“No, it was one o’ thae old-fashioned ladies’ models with the basket on front. We used to call them sit-up-and-beg, didn’t we, Jessie?”

But Jessie had returned to watching her wildlife programme, where the helicopter carrying the cameraman was buzzing a herd of antelope and sending them stampeding in panic.

“I’ll go and see Mrs. Wellington,” said Hamish, closing his notebook.

“You’d better get yourself over to the hospital for a blood test,” said Nessie.

“Why?”

“You could have AIDS.”

“I neffer slept with the lassie,” shouted Hamish.

He shook his head in bewilderment as he walked up to the manse. He should not let the Currie sisters rile him, but they always managed to.

Mrs. Wellington answered the door to him. “Come in, Hamish. I’d offer you a cup of tea but I don’t want to catch one of those sexual diseases.”

“I did not even kiss her,” said Hamish grimly. “All I want from you is a bit of information. Now, yesterday morning, the Currie sisters said you tried to talk to a tall woman who then rode off on a bike.”

“Oh, her. I was about to welcome her to the village and tell her about the church services, but she just ignored me.”

Mrs. Wellington’s description of the woman tallied with that of the Currie sisters. Hamish thanked her and picked up his peaked cap, which he had laid on the kitchen table. Mrs. Wellington whipped a disinfectant wipe out of its packet and scrubbed the table where his hat had been lying.

Hamish sighed. The news that he had been on the point of marrying a prostitute would be all around the village, and would seep up to the Tommel Castle Hotel. The colonel would no doubt phone his daughter, Priscilla, to tell her all about it.

He collected the Land Rover and went back to the police station. He fed the dog and cat but only made a sandwich for himself. He sent over the description of the mysterious woman to Strathbane and was about to go to bed when Jimmy Anderson arrived.

“I could almost wish Blair were back on his gouty feet to take over,” groaned Jimmy. “Daviot’s decided to head the investigation himself.”

“Surely anything’s better than Blair.”

“Daviot fusses and frets. Usually when he deals with the press, it’s a carefully orchestrated press conference. He’s not used to dealing wi’ the wolf pack on the ground. The forensic lab’s groaning that it’s got cases a year old, but Daviot wants DNA results now. Dr. Forsythe’s working hard. She wants to retire after this case.”

“So how far have they got?”

“Still too early. Dr. Forsythe is checking the toxicology. She thinks a big strong lassie like that might have to be drugged first.”

“I thought of that myself. But maybe if she was hit hard on the head with a hammer or something, she wouldn’t need to be drugged.”

“Right. But there were no drag marks on the stairs. I know it looked as if the cellar had been recently cleaned, but something would have shown up if she’d been hit on the head and pulled down the stairs. Even cleaned-up blood shows up under those blue lights they were flashing around. So it stands to reason it was someone she knew. Two glasses on the table, one bottle, no prints. A full bottle of Amontillado. Say someone said, “I’ve got a good bottle of wine in the cellar. Come down and we’ll drink to your wedding. You’ve got time.””

“Mrs. Gentle said she went out for a walk.”

“Mrs. Gentle could have been in on the murder.”

“I forgot to tell you. I’ve got witnesses to that phone call from the box,” said Hamish. “I sent a report over.” He described the woman.

“I’ll phone headquarters and get them on to it right away,” said Jimmy, going through to the office. “They can start with that bike,” he called over his shoulder.

When he came back, he rubbed his hand over his bristly chin and yawned. “I’ll stay here the night, Hamish.”

“That’s another pair of my underpants, not to mention another clean shirt,” complained Hamish. “Want a drink?”

“I don’t. Blair’s alcoholism has given me a real scare.”

Harold Jury knocked on Archie Maclean’s door the following morning. “Your local policeman suggested I call on you,” said Harold, looking down at the small fisherman. Archie was not what he had expected. He had fondly pictured a tall, burly son of the sea, not this small man in a cloth cap and a tight suit.

“Come ben,” said Archie. “Oh, wait a minute.” He reached behind the door, picked up a fir branch, and struck Harold across the face with it. He chanted something in Gaelic, then said, “Now you can come in.”

The blow had been a light one, but Harold still felt shocked. He followed Archie into the kitchen. The floor was covered in newspapers. “The wifie’s house-proud,” said Archie. “Don’t want to get dirty marks on the floor.”

He placed a bowl of rock salt on the table and said, “Eat up. Welcome to ma house.”

“Can I have some water with this?” asked Harold.

“No, the traditional highland welcome says you hae to eat it straight.”

Harold gulped and swallowed. His mouth felt as if it were on fire. At last he finished the small bowl of salt. “What now?” he asked.

“This,” said Archie. He picked up the fir branch and struck Harold again. “Welcome and goodbye.”

“That’s it?” Harold rose from his chair at the kitchen table.

“Aye, that’s it.”

Harold went straight across the road to the bar on the harbour, where he ordered a pint of beer and gulped it down his throat. He was beginning to feel obscurely that there was something too odd about the whole business. He ordered another pint and turned away from the bar, looking for a place to sit down. He noticed that the bar seemed to have filled up, and a group of men were looking at him with covert amusement. An awful suspicion began to grow in his mind. He left his pint untouched and drove back to the Tommel Castle Hotel, where he confronted the manager and demanded to know if what he had experienced was a highland welcome. When he had finished laughing, Mr. Johnson asked, “Where did you get such a silly idea from?”

Furiously Harold described how Hamish Macbeth had sent him to see Archie Maclean. “Do you mean it was all a joke?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“I shall report that policeman to his superiors. I shall phone the local newspaper.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. You’ll look a right fool.”

Harold realised the truth of it. “I’m getting out of here,” he yelled. “Get my bill ready.”

The office door opened, and the vision that was Priscilla Halburton-Smythe walked in.

She stood in a shaft of sunlight. Her smooth blonde hair was a perfect bell. She was wearing a green wool suit. Thoughts of the fairy queen ran through Harold’s head.

“Can I help?” asked Priscilla. “I am Priscilla Halburton-Smythe.”

“It’s all right,” said Mr. Johnson. “Mr. Jury was just asking for his bill. Mr. Jury?”

Harold was hanging on to Priscilla’s proffered hand with a dazed look on his face. “Eh, what?” he asked as Priscilla firmly withdrew her hand. “Oh, that.” He forced a laugh. “Just joking. I’ll be staying on for a bit. Miss Halburton-Smythe, may I offer you a drink?”

“Well…”

“I’m afraid I got unnecessarily upset over a joke played on me by a silly policeman.”

“Tell me all about it,” said Priscilla, and she led the author from the office and into the bar.

“I’m going to interview the family,” said Jimmy that morning.

“Who’s all going to be there?” asked Hamish.

“There’s daughter Sarah, and son Andrew with his wife, Kylie, their two children, John and Twinkle – ”

“And what?”

“Believe it or not, Twinkle is her name. There’s also a nephew, Mark Gentle.”

“Take me with you,” urged Hamish.

“Well, sit in a corner and keep your mouth shut.”

Mrs. Gentle had had the speech and manners of an upper-class lady. Her daughter, Sarah, although tall and rangy, had the same accent as her mother – the result of a good finishing school in her late teens. Andrew Gentle and his wife, Kylie, came as a surprise. Andrew was stocky and very hairy. His thick brown hair grew low on his forehead and he had hair on the back of his hands, making them look like paws. He was wearing an open-necked shirt displaying a great tuft of chest hair. His accent showed traces of cockney. Kylie was tall and anorexic-thin. She had a stiff, expressionless face – Botox, thought Hamish – and masses of artificially red hair. Her vivid blue eyes were the result of contact lenses. Her unexpectedly generous breasts, revealed by a low-cut blouse, hung on her skeletal figure like ripe fruit on a withered tree. Her accent was highland – or maybe more island, decided Hamish after listening carefully. Although soft, it held the fluting tones of the Outer Hebrides.

Andrew, it transpired, was fifty years old and his wife, forty-eight.

Daughter Twinkle was twenty-five. She had a classy accent, but that was the only thing classy about her. She had inherited her father’s stocky figure. Her skin was sallow, her eyes brown, and her large mouth set in a perpetual pout.

Son John was twenty-three, tall, willowy, and effeminate. He had dirty-blonde hair worn long. His voice was pleasant but was marred by a faint lisp. Hamish noticed that he looked frightened.

Nephew Mark Gentle had a London accent. He was handsome in a rugged way: well built with a good head of blonde hair and clear grey eyes. His hands were red and callused. Hamish wondered what he did for a living.

Jimmy said he would interview them one at a time, starting with Andrew, and asked if there was a suitable room. Andrew suggested the study.

Jimmy, flanked by Andy MacNab, was to conduct the interview. A policewoman was there to take notes, even though the interviews were to be recorded. Hamish sat in a corner of the study and looked around with interest.

He doubted whether Mrs. Gentle had ever used the room. It had a masculine flavour. There was a large Victorian desk and several hard chairs. Sporting prints hung on the walls; a stuffed fox snarled in its glass case on a cabinet by the window. The room was very cold.

Jimmy shivered. “Before we begin the questioning, Mr. Gentle, is there any way of heating this room?”

Andrew left and came back with an old-fashioned two-bar electric heater decorated with fake coals on the top and plugged it in.

“How is the rest of the place heated?” asked Hamish.

“Coal fires in the rooms,” said Andrew.

But not in Irena’s, thought Hamish.

Glaring at Hamish, Jimmy began the questioning. He already had in front of him a list of names, ages, and addresses. After the usual preliminaries for the tape recorder, he began. Where had Andrew been during the last week? Andrew said he had been at his office in the City of London.

“You visited your mother for a family reunion,” said Jimmy. “What was that all about?”

“She wanted to discuss her will. It was very straightforward: half to me and half to my sister, Sarah.”

“Was your mother afraid of anyone?”

“No.”

“Did you speak to the girl we now know as Irena when you were here?”

“Of course. She was the hired help. I’d ask her to fetch me a coffee, things like that.”

“What time did she get off?”

“I don’t know. Sarah’ll probably know. She was staying here before Mother turfed her out.”

“When you were here, are you sure nothing was said to upset or frighten your mother in any way?”

“Not a thing,” said Andrew.

Lying, thought Hamish.

Jimmy persevered with a few more questions and then asked Andrew to send his wife in.

Kylie tottered in on her very high heels. She crossed her legs, letting her skirt ride up. The room was still cold, and her nipples stood out sharply against the thin fabric of her blouse.

No bra. Boob job, thought Hamish. Proud of it, too. Would rather die of cold than cover them up.

“Now, Mrs. Gentle…”

“Call me Kylie.”

“Your accent sounds local. Are you originally from around here?”

“I was brought up in South Uist.”

“And how did you meet your husband?”

“I got out of South Uist as soon as I could and got a job as an air hostess. I met Andrew when he was on a business flight to the States.”

“Think carefully, Kylie. Was there anything at the family reunion to upset Mrs. Gentle?”

“Get one thing straight. My mother-in-law specialised in upsetting people, not the other way round.”

“Did she upset anyone?”

“All of us. Let me see, her beloved Andrew was the only one who escaped. She constantly referred to me as the stick insect, she sneered at Sarah because Sarah hadn’t yet found a job and was desperate for money, she called my daughter, Twinkle, Twinkle Little Tart, she called my son a poofter, and she told Mark it was no use him hanging around, he wasn’t getting any money.”

“What about the girl, Irena?”

“Treated her like a slave. I don’t know why she put up with it. Quite a beauty. I think she was jealous of the girl. Margaret always was a jealous bitch. I hated her, but I didn’t murder her.”

“With all these insults flying around, surely someone threatened Mrs. Gentle.”

“Nobody dared. She didn’t tell us the terms of the will until we were all ready to go. Everyone was frightened of not getting a penny.”

“Why should the nephew, Mark Gentle, expect anything?”

“He’s Andrew’s uncle’s boy. Couldn’t make him out. You’d better ask him.”

Hamish spoke up from his corner. “Who was Mrs. Gentle married to?”

“A financier, Byron Gentle.”

“When did he die?”

“Just after Sarah was born.”

Jimmy glared at Hamish but Hamish ignored him.

“What did he die of?”

“A heart attack. That’s where Ma Gentle got all her money from.”

Jimmy interrupted. “Where were you during the past few days?”

“I was in London with my husband. We’ve got a live-in maid. You can ask her.”

“Thank you. Please send in Mark.”

When Kylie had left, Jimmy rounded on Hamish. “What was the point of your questions?”

“I just wondered if there was something in the family’s past that Irena had overheard, something that she thought she could blackmail someone with.”

Mark Gentle strolled in. He seemed very much at his ease.

“Were you invited to the family reunion?” asked Jimmy.

“Yes, I wouldn’t have come otherwise. Aunt Margaret always had a soft spot for me.”

“And yet she left you nothing in her will.”

“As a matter of fact, she did.”

“But we understand that she was leaving her money equally divided between her son and daughter.”

Mark gave a lazy smile. “That was her intention. But the old will still stands, and in it I get a whack of money.”

“Do the rest of the family know this?”

“I shouldn’t think so. Aunt Margaret confided in me a lot.”

“We’ll check with her lawyer,” said Jimmy. His foxy blue eyes narrowed. “You must have been right put out when you learned you were going to be cut out.”

He shrugged. “Didn’t bother me. I’ve always worked for my living.”

“As what?”

“Motor mechanic.”

“I gather that your late uncle, Byron Gentle, was extremely wealthy. Is your family wealthy also?”

“Dad’s dead. He ran a corner shop. When Byron died, he left everything to Aunt Margaret.”

“That must have caused a lot of bitterness.”

Again that shrug. “Mum was dead. Dad didn’t live long enough to get bitter. He got cancer shortly after Byron died. I sold the shop and set up my own garage doing car repairs.”

“Why do you think Mrs. Gentle changed her mind about leaving you any money?”

“Blessed if I know.”

“Were you fond of your aunt?”

“I admired her. She was very cunning. Do you know, she was a hatcheck girl in a London nightclub when Byron fell for her? She didn’t always have that lady-of-the-manor act.”

Jimmy looked down at his notes. Mark was forty-eight years old. He looked much younger.

“You look good for your age,” said Jimmy.

Mark smiled. “Clean living and early nights.”

“Where were you during the past five days?”

“At my work. I employ two men who can vouch for me, not to mention my customers.”

“And after work?”

“I was with my girlfriend, Sharon Bentley. You can check with her.”

Jimmy pushed forward a sheet of paper. “Write down her name and address.”

When Mark had jotted it down, Jimmy continued to question him, feeling all the time that he was being stonewalled. At last he told the man not to leave the country and dismissed him.

When the door had closed behind Mark, Jimmy said, “Now, that one really had a motive. He bumps the old girl off and Irena finds out about it and…No, that won’t do. Irena was dead before Mrs. Gentle was killed.”

A policeman put his head around the door. “The lawyer’s here.”

“Send him in.”

The lawyer introduced himself as Mr. Poindexter of Poindexter, Bravos and Dunstable. He said their offices were situated in Inverness. Mrs. Gentle had visited them a year previous to draw up her will.

“What were the conditions of the will?” asked Jimmy. “And how much was she worth?”

“With this building, stock and shares, and so on, close to twenty-five million pounds.”

“And how was it to be left?”

“Fifty per cent to her son, Andrew Gentle, thirty per cent to her daughter, Sarah, and twenty per cent to her nephew, Mark.”

“Did you know she planned to make a new will, leaving her estate divided equally between her son and daughter?”

“No, this is the first I’ve heard of it. I learned from your superintendent that you would be wishing to see me, and so I came straight here. Perhaps I should take the opportunity to have a few words with the family if they are not too distressed.”

“I don’t think any of them are grieving at all,” said Jimmy.

“Where is Mr. Daviot?” asked Hamish when the door had closed behind the lawyer. “I thought he was taking over.”

“Our Supreme Being has decided that I should do the interviews first, then he’ll take over and interview them all again.”

Sounds of a screaming altercation faintly reached their ears. “Someone’s not enjoying the news about that will,” said Hamish. “You know what is puzzling me? Twenty-five million pounds is a great deal of money, yet if Byron Gentle was a top financier, it doesn’t seem much.”

“It was at the time he died,” said Jimmy. “Let’s have the daughter in.”

Sarah erupted into the room, wild-eyed with distress. “I want you to arrest Mark right away,” she howled. “He’s your murderer.”

“Have you any proof of that?” asked Andy MacNab, speaking for the first time.

“It stands to reason. She was going to change her will, and he would have got nothing.”

“Please sit down, Mrs…is it Dewar?”

“Yes, I’m divorced.”

“Where were you during the past week?”

“I was down in Edinburgh looking for a job.”

“Do you have proof of that?”

“I stayed at a rotten little bed-and-breakfast, put my name down with Jipson’s employment agency in Leith Walk, and went for various interviews.”

Jimmy gave her a sheet of paper and a pen. “Just write down where you are staying in Edinburgh and the exact address of the agency.”

Hamish spoke up from his corner. “You must have been very angry when your mother threw you out.”

“What are you talking about? Mother was devoted to me. But I wanted my independence.”

“I overheard her telling you to get out,” said Hamish. “It was on the day I called on your mother.”

Sarah glared at him, finished writing, and then said defiantly, “Well, no one wants to admit to having been sent away.”

“It would be as well to stick to the truth,” said Jimmy harshly. “You were suddenly forced into finding work. What had you done before by way of employment?”

“I married young but got divorced two years ago.”

Again Hamish’s voice. “And you blamed your mother for the divorce. What happened?”

All the truculence and defiance left Sarah, and she seemed to crumple. “I had an affair, just a brief fling. I don’t know how Mother got to know of it but she told Allan, my husband. I hadn’t ever worked so I told her she owed me and she could keep me.”

“That seems a good reason for murder,” said Jimmy.

“My own mother! Don’t be stupid.”

“Now, about the maid, who we now know was called Irena. Was there anything that happened at the family party that she might have overheard and used to blackmail someone?”

“No, but she caused a lot of trouble. Mark was flirting with her and so was Andrew.”

More questioning, and then she was allowed to leave.

“Now what?” asked Jimmy. “The children, I suppose. Neither of them married. We’ll have John in first.”

John Gentle drifted in and sat down opposite Jimmy.

He seemed to be thinking of something other than the interview. He gazed dreamily at the ceiling while Jimmy restarted the tape recorder and read out his name, age, and address.

“Where were you during the last five days?” asked Jimmy.

John studied his nails. Then he said, “In my studio in London.”

“You are an artist?”

“Yes.”

“Have you witnesses?”

“My friend, Robbie. He lives with me.”

“I want you to write down his full name and also where you were in the evenings.”

John bent over the paper and began to write slowly. Hamish studied him curiously. When the family had first arrived, John had looked frightened. Not any more. He was almost too calm.

When he had finished, Hamish asked, “Have you taken tranquillisers?”

“Oh, yes. Lots. My nerves are delicate, you know.”

The questions continued, and John answered them all in the same dreamy manner.

He was finally dismissed and told to send his sister in.

What a name to be cursed with, thought Jimmy, when you’re a stocky, tough-looking girl. Her large, almost swollen lips were somehow unnerving.

Twinkle answered all the questions he had already put to the others with a sort of brisk efficiency. She was a computer expert and worked for a merchant bank in the City. They could check that she was at her desk the day her grandmother was murdered.

When she had gone, Jimmy said, “What a mouth!”

“Trout pout,” said Hamish. “Collagen.”

“How do you know these things?”

“I observe,” said Hamish.

“Well, observe this. We seem to have at least two motives if we can break their alibis – Sarah and Mark.”

“If it was one of the family, they’d need to have had an accomplice,” said Hamish. “The woman who made that phone call was tall and slim.”

Jimmy’s phone rang. He listened carefully and then rang off. “Dr. Forsythe’s done the toxicology report. Date-rape drug in the sherry. She must have felt herself blacking out and tried to vomit the drug up. It was the blow on the head that killed her. Only one of the wineglasses had been used. The other one was clean.”

“I feel if we could solve the murder of Irena, then we could find out who murdered Mrs. Gentle,” said Hamish. “Anything about her from the Russians?”

“Not yet. They should come up with something, however. It’s not as if it’s political.”

“Unless her protector, Grigori, is in the mafia and the Russian mafia has links to politics,” said Hamish.

“I tell you what, Hamish. Get back down to Lochdubh and see if you can find that woman or at least the bike. I’m going to have them in again.”

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