Death of a Poison Pen

∨ Death of a Poison Pen ∧

9

Man is neither angel nor beast; and the misfortune is that he who would act the angel acts the beast.

—Blaise Pascal

At the end of a long day, Hamish returned to his police station. He checked on his sheep and locked his hens up for the night. There was a fox roaming around and Hamish knew if he saw it, he would take his shotgun and blast the animal to kingdom come. He was always amazed at the bleeding hearts of townspeople who would step on a cockroach but went all sentimental over Mr. Foxy. Had they ever been at the receiving end of the cruelty of a fox, who would kill lambs and hens and leave them bleeding, not killing for food but for the sheer hell of it, perhaps it would have changed their minds – although he doubted it. There existed in the British Isles a large body of people who neither knew much about nor understood wild animals, the sort of people who would shake their heads and say, “Animals are better than people any day,” by which they meant that they demanded unconditional love from dogs and cats but found humans too difficult.

He had been turned off animal documentaries on television because they always gave animals pet names, saying, “Here comes Betty,” and on the screen limps an antelope, say, which has been rejected by the herd, and ten to one it is going to be eaten before the end by some other creature that Hamish cynically thought the film makers let out of a cage to speed up the process. Then there is little Jimmy, the baby turtle, just born and struggling towards the ocean, and Hamish always knew that little Jimmy was not going to make it. Some marauding seagull would get him. So in all, he found an animal documentary as much fun as a snuff movie.

He went indoors and made himself some supper and was emotionally blackmailed into sharing it with Lugs, who whined and rattled his bowl, although he was sure Angela had fed the dog earlier.

He then went through to the office and switched on the computer and began to go through his reports. Archie had said he had seen someone possibly aged seventeen lurking near the post office. But he had not seen the person’s face and seventeen would seem old to Archie, so it could have been anyone.

There was a knock at the kitchen door and he heard Elspeth’s voice calling out, “Hamish, are you there?”

“I’m in the office,” he shouted back, “but I’m busy.”

Undeterred, Elspeth strolled into the office. “Hard at work, copper?”

“Aye, I’m going over my notes, so I haven’t time to talk.”

“Why don’t we go over them together? I might see something you’ve missed.”

“I doubt it,” said Hamish crossly.

“Come on, Hamish. Even if I make a stupid suggestion, it might spark an intelligent one.”

“Oh, all right. Sit down and keep quiet.”

Elspeth pulled up a chair beside him and sat quietly while he scrolled through the notes on the computer screen. He reached the notes he had typed in after his visit to Perth. “I haven’t sent this stuff over,” he said, “because I didn’t get anywhere and I wasn’t even supposed to be there.”

“Wait a minute,” said Elspeth. “This Graham Simpson said that Peter Stoddart was in Australia. Now, that name rings a bell. Let me think.”

Hamish waited patiently.

“I know. Moy Hall, outside Inverness. I was covering the fair there a year ago. I’m sure a chap called Peter Stoddart won the clay pigeon shoot.”

“Could be lots of Peter Stoddarts.”

“But we got a photo of him.”

“Let’s go along to that office of yours and see if you’ve still got the photo in the files.”

As they walked into the newspaper office, Sam waylaid Elspeth, saying, “Don’t you think I should give Pat another chance? He did a good story on the bullying.”

“I haven’t had time to tell you,” said Elspeth, “but that colour piece in the Sunday Bugle was mine. He put his byline on it instead of mine.”

Sam sighed. “Oh, well, in that case he can leave at the end of the month. What are you doing here, Hamish?”

“Detecting.”

“If you come up with anything that would make a story, let me know.”

Elspeth went to the filing cabinets where the photographs were stored. “We’ve had so many dizzy village girls helping out with the filing, God knows what it’ll be under.”

She tried under ‘Moy Hall.’ Then under ‘Clay pigeon shooting.’ No success.

“Can you remember the headline?” asked Hamish.

“It was something daft. Sam does the headlines. Oh, I remember: FASTEST GUN IN THE NORTH.”

“Try under ‘F’.”

“Really, Hamish!”

“You ought to know how the locals think.”

“Okay, Sherlock. Here are the F’s. Gosh, you’re right. I’ve got it.”

Elspeth pulled out a photograph.

“Let’s take it over to the light,” said Hamish. He fished in his inside pocket and pulled out the photograph of Amy Beattie with the bikers.

In Elspeth’s photograph, a burly man stood holding up a silver cup. His hair was white. Hamish looked from Elspeth’s photograph to the one in his hand.

“I swear they’re one and the same person,” he said. “Can you fish out the article? There would be a caption under the photograph.”

“We still keep back copies of the paper in bound volumes. You’ll need to help me. They’re through in the storeroom.”

Hamish walked with her through to a room at the back of the building where the bound volumes of the paper were stored. Elspeth scanned the spines. “It’s that one. Up on the top shelf,” she said.

Hamish reached up and lifted it down. They carried it to a table. Elspeth opened it and flipped through the August editions of the newspaper until she found the right one. “Here we are! Right on page one.”

They both bent over the paper, their heads together. The caption under the photograph read: “Winner of the clay pigeon shoot at Moy Hall, Mr. Peter Stoddart of Perth.”

“Where in Perth?” demanded Hamish.

“I might have put it in the article,” said Elspeth. “Ah, here it is. Peter Stoddart, plumber, of 58 Herrich Road, Perth.”

Hamish closed the book, lifted it up, and put it back on the shelf. “I’ve got to get to Perth tomorrow,” he said. “That bank manager said this Stoddart was in Australia. Why would he lie?”

“You’ll maybe find out he went to Australia and came back again. Go and see him first before you start accusing the bank manager of anything.”

“I’ve got to get to Perth without Blair knowing anything. If I tell him, he’ll tell me I’m wasting my time and if I’ve got any suspicions, to tell the Perth police. Och. I’ll chust go. With luck he’ll think I’m somewhere around Braikie making enquiries.”

“But what’s so important about all this, Hamish?”

“I’ve got to find out what drove Miss Beattie away from her home.”

“That’s easy. Her parents.”

“Maybe. I’ve got to try anyway.”

♦

Hamish set off with Lugs beside him early the next morning. It was a dismal day with a fine drizzle smearing the windscreen. This time, he was not wearing his uniform. He shouldn’t have been wearing it the last time, he thought. He could have been spotted by some Perth policeman. Of course, some Perth policeman could easily spot the Land Rover, but he felt less conspicuous walking around in civilian clothes. He decided to try to find Peter Stoddart and tackle him first.

Again, outside Perth, he stopped by the road, walked Lugs, and consulted his map of Perth. Then he set off again, hoping that Stoddart worked from home.

Herrich Road was in a fairly new housing development on the outside of the town. He located Stoddart’s house and went up and knocked at the door, which was answered by a tired, faded-looking woman.

“I am Police Constable Macbeth,” said Hamish. “Is your man at home?”

“Aye, come in. What’s the matter?”

“Nothing to worry about. I just wanted a wee talk with him.”

She ushered him into what she called the lounge. Hamish sat down on a cream wool-covered sofa and looked around. The room smelled of disuse. How odd, he mused, that in this modern day and age so many houses in Scotland kept a room for ‘best.’ What a waste of living space.

The door opened and the man from the photograph walked in. “What’s up?” he said. “You lot were round last month to check the guns and the gun cabinet.”

“Nothing to do with that,” said Hamish soothingly. He took out the photograph he had got from Mrs. Dinwiddie. “Is that you?”

“Aye, so it is. I loved that bike.”

“You’ll have read about the murder of Miss Amy Beattie?”

“I did that. Bad business. But what’s it got to do with me?”

“I’m trying to find out why Miss Beattie left Perth.”

“Oh, that’s easy. I remember it fine. It was those parents of hers. They found she’d been sneaking out to meet us and locked her up in her room after they’d burnt her clothes.”

“Was she your girlfriend?”

“Not me, laddie. She and Graham were pretty thick. But it didnae last long.”

“Have you ever been to Australia?”

Stoddart looked puzzled. “No, why?”

“Someone said you had.”

“Who was it?”

“Oh, just someone. I’ll maybe let you know later. Nothing to worry about. What was your impression of Miss Beattie?”

“She was a wild one. Up for anything. I ‘member when Graham’s folks were away for a week. Graham was on his own so he threw a party. We all got awfy drunk and Amy was dancing on the coffee table. It was a glass one and it broke. Graham was in such a state. He and Amy started shouting at each other and it got a bit nasty, so we all left them to it.”

“Who were the others?”

“Some bikers from down south and the local girls they’d picked up.”

“Thank you,” said Hamish. “I would appreciate it if you did not tell anyone of this visit.”

“Why?”

“I’m working undercover,” said Hamish desperately. But his lie appeared to satisfy the plumber.

♦

As Hamish was driving towards the bank, his radio crackled and he heard a voice hailing him. He cursed and switched it off. His absence had been noted, but he did not want to turn back now.

♦

“I want that bastard found…now!” Blair howled to Jimmy Anderson. “He’s probably still in his bed. He’s not answering his radio. Get over to Lochdubh and see if you can find him.”

“Why me? Can’t you send one of the policemen?”

“No, you’re so pally with him, you can go.”

Cursing Hamish under his breath, Jimmy drove to Lochdubh. He knocked at the kitchen door of the police station and shouted at the windows.

“It’s no use raising a fuss.” Jimmy swung round. He recognised the minister’s wife, Mrs. Wellington.

“Where’s he gone?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Wellington. “But I was up early and saw him driving out of Lochdubh.”

No point in asking in which direction, thought Jimmy. There was only one road out of Lochdubh.

“You’re not the only one looking for him,” said Mrs. Wellington. “Sergeant MacGregor over at Cnothan is in bed with the cold. His wife phoned me. She said there’s been a burglary at the grocer’s and Hamish has got to cover for him.”

Annoyed as he was with Hamish, Jimmy saw a way of getting his friend off the hook. He thanked Mrs. Wellington and phoned Blair.

“Macbeth has been dragged off to cover a burglary at Cnothan. MacGregor’s sick.”

“Oh, all right. But he should have reported to me first.”

Now, thought Jimmy, all I have to do is to keep phoning Hamish and hope he answers. He’d better get to Cnothan fast before that grocer calls headquarters. Then he thought, Cnothan isn’t far. I could nip over there myself to soothe them down. But, by God, Hamish had better pay me in whisky for this.

♦

When Hamish presented himself at the bank, the teller who had gone in to see the manager reappeared, looking flustered.

“I’m afraid Mr. Simpson isn’t in today.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Where are you going?” she shrieked.

Hamish went straight to the bank manager’s door and opened it. Graham Simpson leapt to his feet. “You’ve got no right to barge your way in here.”

“And you have no right to lie to the police. Sit down. I’ve a few questions for you regarding Amy Beattie. You lied to me.”

“I did not,” blustered the bank manager.

“You said that Peter Stoddart went to Australia when he’s right here in Perth.”

“Is he? Someone must have told me he had gone to Australia.”

“Havers. You had an affair with Amy Beattie, didn’t you?”

“Oh, well, it isn’t a crime. I had a party one night at my house. We all got a bit drunk and Amy damaged a table. We had a row and then made up. We were both very drunk.”

Hamish sat down and surveyed him. He suddenly remembered that poison-pen letter that had been found by Miss Beattie’s body, which read: “I have proof that you’re a bastard. Your father never married your mother and I’ll tell everyone.”

He had never been able to see the point of that letter. Miss Beattie’s parents were married. But what if that letter had been sent to someone else, and that someone else had been so frightened that it had led to murder.

In a level voice, he asked, “So when did she tell you she was pregnant?”

“I’m a respectable man,” he began.

“Forget it. You can stay a respectable man unless you go on blocking my enquiries.”

Graham Simpson bowed his head. Hamish thought he wasn’t going to say anything, but at last he said in a low voice, “What a mess. She somehow managed to get a note to me three months later. She said she’d been missing her periods. She said her parents would kill her. I thought about it for a week and worried about it. Then I told my parents. They said I had to marry Amy, do the decent thing. I was going to go round there, but her parents arrived at our home and started shouting that Amy had run away and where was she? We couldn’t help them. Another week went by and I plucked up courage to go and call on them. They said they had a letter from Amy saying she never wanted to see either of them again. Her parents said they had struck her name from the family Bible and she was no longer any daughter of theirs. I never heard from Amy again.”

“Are you telling me the truth this time?”

“I swear to God. This could ruin me if it gets out.”

“If you didn’t kill anyone, it’s certainly not going to ruin you. How could an affair with a girl all those years ago ruin you?”

Hamish left the bank and climbed into the Land Rover. He took out his mobile phone to check for messages. There was a text message from Jimmy Anderson. It read: “Get your arse over to Cnothan fast. There’s been a break-in at the grocer’s.”

Like Jimmy, Hamish saw a way of covering up his visit to Perth. He switched on the blue light and the siren, no longer caring if the Perth police saw him, and broke the speed limit all the way north to Cnothan.

Although Jimmy had called before him, he had made only a cursory inspection before speeding off. Hamish found that the shop had a security camera and after studying the film was able to make out the features of two of the local youth. He arrested them and drove them down to Strathbane, where they were formally charged and told to appear in the sheriff’s court in a month’s time.

By the time he got to Lochdubh, he realised he hadn’t eaten all day and neither had Lugs. As usual, he fed the dog first before scrambling some eggs for himself. He was just sitting down at his computer when Elspeth walked in.

“Do you never knock?” he asked angrily.

“Come on. Out with it. I helped you, remember?”

“Oh, all right. Sit down and be quiet.”

“Wait a bit,” said Elspeth. “What’s that about Archie seeing a seventeen-year-old lurking near the post office?”

“I’ve thought about that. It could have been someone much older. All Archie could really describe were the clothes.”

“Where were you today?”

“Down in Perth.”

“Find out anything?”

“Keep it to yourself. I found out why Amy Beattie ran away from home.”

“Why?”

“She was pregnant.”

“Goodness,” said Elspeth. “Was it Stoddart?”

“No, it was the bank manager, Graham Simpson.”

“So where’s the child?”

“Elspeth,” said Hamish angrily, “if I knew that, I’d…” He suddenly gazed blankly at the computer screen.

“What?” demanded Elspeth.

“I’m thinking about that letter, the one found with Miss Beattie’s body. It said: “I have proof that you’re a bastard. Your father never married your mother and I’ll tell everyone.” What if that was a letter sent to someone else? Let me think. Chust suppose for a minute Miss Beattie’s child is alive and well in Braikie. Adopted, maybe. The adopted parents are desperate to protect the child and intercept that letter sent to the child.”

“But if they adopted the child, they had nothing to fear. Doesn’t add up, Hamish.”

“You’re right. Shut up and let me go back over my notes.”

“When did Miss Beattie arrive in Braikie?”

“Folks say about sixteen years ago. I said shut up, Elspeth.”

Elspeth sat quietly and impatiently. Then Hamish said, “Why did you ask when she arrived in Braikie?”

“I was thinking of the one person who seems to have caused strong emotions and she’s sixteen.”

They looked at each other and both said at the same time, “Penny Roberts!”

“Miss Beattie had changed a lot in appearance,” said Hamish. “Billy said she had survived cancer. But in the early photographs she’s attractive, and Graham Simpson used to be a good-looking young man. Now, Mr. and Mrs. Roberts are far from lookers. I remember wondering how they had managed to produce such a beauty. What if Miss Beattie wanted to claim her daughter? What if Miss Beattie wanted Penelope to know that she was her real mother? What if Miss McAndrew had found out the secret of Penelope’s birth?”

“That would certainly tie the two murders together,” said Elspeth slowly. “Miss McAndrew may have guessed the truth. She wanted Penny to go to university. Just suppose she threatened to tell Penny the name of her real mother unless they helped her get Penny to university?”

“The problem is how to go about it,” said Hamish. “If I tell all my suppositions to Blair, he’ll demand evidence and I haven’t got any.”

“Someone must have known Miss Beattie was pregnant when she arrived.”

“Not necessarily. She did some cleaning work when she first arrived. What if she cleaned for the Robertses and blurted out her secret? Maybe Mary Roberts had always wanted a child. Maybe she arranged that she would masquerade as the pregnant one while Miss Beattie went away somewhere arranged by her. The baby is born. Mary Roberts discards the cushion she’s been wearing and produces the newborn baby. I’d better start by going to see them in the morning.”

Elspeth heard a sound. She held up a hand. “Did you hear something?”

They listened but could only hear the sound of the wind.

♦

Jenny crept away from the police station, her heart beating hard. She had entered the police station hoping for a word with Hamish. Elspeth had left the door open. Jenny heard the sound of voices coming from the office and decided to listen.

Here was a story! What if she could find out the truth herself and tell Pat? She looked at her watch. Nearly eleven o’ clock.

She had caved in and rented the Morris Minor from Iain after having beaten the price down. It was a sad rust bucket of a car, but it went all right. She went to it, got in, and drove in the direction of Braikie. The cast on her arm itched and was beginning to look dirty. Jenny decided to confront the Robertses, tell Pat what she had found out, and then go back with him in the morning. He could then see the Robertses himself and she would go to the hospital and ask them when the cast could be removed.

To her relief, when she parked outside the Roberts house, she saw a light burning in a downstairs window. They had not yet gone to bed.

Mary Roberts answered the door. “Oh, it’s you,” she said. “What on earth brings you calling at this time of night?”

“I’ve found out something important that may interest you.”

“Come in, then. But don’t stay long. We were just about to go to bed.”

“Where’s Penny?” asked Jenny as she was ushered into their living room and Cyril Roberts rose to meet her.

“It’s half-term. She’s gone to stay with my sister and her family in Lochinver,” said Mary. “So what brings you?”

Jenny sat down. Now she was here, she felt embarrassed and awkward. “I was thinking about that poison-pen letter that was found with Miss Beattie’s body. What if that letter had originally been meant for someone else? And someone didn’t want anyone to know their child was not their own?”

Mary Roberts looked puzzled. “But what’s that got to do with us?”

Jenny braced herself. “I thought Penny might not be your daughter.”

The Robertses exchanged glances and then burst out laughing. Mary said, “You think because we’re a right ugly pair that we couldn’t have had a beauty like Penny? Oh, don’t blush. We’ve heard that one before. Have you told anyone about this daft idea of yours?”

Jenny did not want to admit she had been eavesdropping in the police station. “I haven’t told anyone. It just came to me. You see, that reporter, Pat Mallone, and I are thinking of getting married and I wanted to give him a story. I hope you’re not offended.”

“Och, you’re young and the young can be silly. I’ll get you a cup of tea and then you can be on your way.” Mary stood up and went behind the sofa.

“I don’t really need anything,” said Jenny. Then a savage blow struck her on the back of her head and she lost consciousness.

“What did you do that for?” cried Cyril as Jenny’s body slumped across the sofa.

“She’s a chatterbox,” said Mary. “She’ll go chattering to that reporter. We can’t risk it.” She fished in Jenny’s pocket and drew out the car keys. “Go and drive that car of hers up in the hills and lose it. I’ll see to her.”

♦

Hamish was driving towards Braikie the following morning, wishing the case were closed, so that he could go fishing and enjoy this rare fake spring day. A warm wind was blowing in off the Gulf Stream and great white clouds scudded across a pale blue sky. He had almost reached the outskirts when a small figure hurtled in front of the police Land Rover and held up its arms.

Hamish swore and screeched to a halt and looked down at the excited features of Archie Brand.

He got down from the Land Rover and said severely, “I could have run you over. Don’t ever do that again.”

“But I saw something awfy weird last night.”

“What?”

“I sometimes sneak out at night and go for a walk. Don’t tell my ma.”

“What’s this got to do with anything?”

“Up on the cliffs, the other side o’ Braikie, I was up there last night. I like lying on the top of the cliffs and looking down at the waves. So I was lying in the heather when I hear this car. It drives offa the road and right to the edge o’ the cliff. Then this man gets out and he gets behind the car and gies it a God Almighty shove and it goes right o’er the cliff and down into the sea, just like in the movies. I hid right down in the heather until he had gone.”

“Get in,” said Hamish. “Show me where.” Archie clambered in beside Hamish. “What did this man look like?”

“Couldnae tell. It was right dark and I was feart. There wasnae any moon.”

What now? wondered Hamish grimly. He drove through Braikie and out and up on the cliff road until Archie shouted, “Right here!”

Hamish stopped and he and Archie got out. “tide’s out,” said Archie, tugging Hamish along by his sleeve. “We might see something.”

Hamish went to the edge and then lay down on his stomach and peered over. Large glassy waves were crashing on the rocks below and pouring over a shattered Morris Minor.

“Och, it didnae burst into flames,” said Archie’s disappointed voice at his ear. “In the fillums, they aye burst into flames.”

Hamish recognised Iain’s Morris Minor. He went to the Land Rover and radioed for help. Then he phoned Iain and asked him if he’d rented the car to Jenny. “Yes, I rented it to the lassie yesterday,” said Iain.

“You’d best get out here fast and identify it because it looks as if it’s your car that’s in the sea.”

Hamish gave him instructions and sat down to wait. “Will I have to say I was out here at midnight?” said Archie.

“I’m afraid so,” said Hamish. “You saw the man. You may remember something about him. Your mother will forgive you. It’s not a crime.”

“You don’t know my ma,” mumbled Archie miserably.

“Does she have a car?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, what’s your phone number? We’d better have her up here while they interview you.”

Hamish phoned Mrs. Brand, who said she would be with him as fast as she could.

It was as well she arrived the same time as Blair, or Hamish was sure the bad-tempered detective chief inspector would have tried to shake information out of the boy.

♦

It was a long morning. Policemen in climbing gear went down the cliff and reported that there was no body inside the car but that the driver’s window was open and that Jenny might have tried to swim to safety. Hamish was then sent back to Lochdubh to see if Jenny had been seen in the car.

Her landlady said her bed had not been slept in, Pat Mallone was nowhere to be found, and Hamish drew a blank right, left, and centre until he met the minister’s wife, Mrs. Wellington.

“I thought you would have been the last person to see her,” she boomed, fixing Hamish with a gimlet eye.

“Why’s that?”

“I saw her in the distance late last night. She was leaving the police station and she got straight into her car and drove off.”

Hamish stood staring down at her, deaf to Mrs. Wellington’s lecture about the seduction of innocent maids from London. Elspeth thought she had heard something. What if Jenny had been listening to their conversation? What if Jenny had decided to go and see the Robertses?

He should phone Blair. But Blair would go crashing around to the Roberts house and they would deny it and that would be that.

Hamish jumped into the Land Rover and sped off back in the direction of Braikie.

♦

Jenny recovered consciousness. She was bound and gagged. She felt terribly sick and was terrified of vomiting into the gag and choking. All around was blackness. Where was she?

Memory came flooding back. She had been talking to the Robertses and then she had received a blow on the head. She kicked out with her feet, which met a wooden door. She kicked again.

Cyril Roberts’s voice came from the other side, low and menacing. “I’ve a shotgun here. If you make a sound, I’ll blast you through the door.”

Jenny slumped back in terror.

Then she heard Mary Roberts’s voice. “We cannae keep her in that cupboard forever. When are you getting rid o’ her?”

“When it’s dark.”

“Why didnae ye just shove her over the cliff in her car?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want another killing.”

“Too late for that,” came Mary’s grim voice.

“Well, it was your idea to get rid of the car. You said you’d see to her.”

Their grumbling voices faded away.

Jenny began to pray. If only God would get her out of this, she vowed, she would go back to the safety of London, work hard at her job, and forget about men.

♦

Pat Mallone arrived at the office, late as usual. The phone on his desk was ringing. He picked up the receiver. “Jack Pelting here,” said a voice at the other end. “I’m the news editor of the Bugle. Can you come down to London for an interview?”

Pat’s heart beat hard with excitement. “Yes, I could,” he said eagerly. “In fact, if I leave now, I could put up somewhere in London overnight and be ready for an interview in the morning.”

“We’ll book you in at the Jessop Hotel near St. Katherine’s Dock. Know it?”

“I’ll find it.”

“Right. I’ll see you tomorrow at eleven in the morning.”

Pat thanked him and rang off. He punched the air. Sam came in and glared at him. “Get yourself over to Braikie. Jenny Ogilvie’s car has been found at the bottom of a cliff and she may have drowned.”

Pat hesitated for only a moment. Jenny could take care of herself if she was alive, and if she was dead, there was nothing he could do about it.

“Right,” he said cheerfully. “On my way.”

He went straight to his digs and packed up. He left a note for his landlady to say he would not be back, packed a suitcase, slung it in his car, and drove off whistling, taking the long road south.