Death of a Scriptwriter

∨ Death of a Scriptwriter ∧

EPILOGUE

It doesn’t much signify whom one marries, for one is sure to find next morning that it was someone else.

—Samuel Rogers

Now that the murders had been solved and he had made all his statements, Hamish Macbeth moved back into his usual undemanding routine. In anticipation of Priscilla’s arrival, he had bought a new pair of shoes to go with his suit, although he convinced himself that he had only bought them because he urgently needed them.

On the day she was due to arrive home, he was suddenly summoned to Strathbane. It transpired that Patricia Martyn-Broyd was evidently genuinely mad as a hatter, but Daviot had suggested that Hamish should try to speak to her, try to see if she were really insane or faking it, as she had so cleverly faked amnesia.

He drove down to Strathbane and to the secure unit of a psychiatric hospital. It was an old Victorian building, sinister in the mist which had rolled in from the oily, polluted sea around Strathbane.

“What’s she like?” he asked the grim-faced woman with keys jangling at her waist who conducted him along the long corridors. “In a straitjacket?”

“No, herself is quiet. No trouble at all.”

She unlocked a door. Hamish walked in and the door was locked behind him.

Patricia was sitting on the floor, rocking back and forth and crooning to herself.

Hamish sat down on the floor beside her. “Patricia,” he said gently, “do you know me?”

She stopped rocking and her eyes stared at him and then she started rocking again.

“Are you pretending to be mad, Patricia? It won’t do if you are. You don’t want to stay in a place like this for the rest o’ your life. If you stood trial and went to prison, they would let you have something to write on. You’d be able to sell new books.”

The rocking continued.

“It wass a bad thing you did, Patricia, taking two lives. But if you are acting, you are going to haff to go on like this till the end.”

But she rocked and crooned, seemingly oblivious to his presence.

He gave a little sigh. “I would ha’ thought a lady like yourself would have had more courage. In prison, they have a library and you’d be able to see your books, maybe give talks to the other prisoners.”

No response.

His voice grew harder. “Did you know what Jamie Gallagher looked like when I found him? The crows had pecked his eyes out. Did you know that Penelope had maybe had a pretty harsh upbringing? And there she lay, crushed and dying of pain on the side o’ the mountain. Do you know the horror you caused?”

But she rocked and rocked.

He gave up. He got to his feet. The woman looked through a small square of glass window and promptly unlocked and opened the door.

Hamish walked out and the door was locked behind him.

He went along the corridor. Suddenly he said, “Excuse me a minute.” He darted silently back along the corridor and looked through the window into Patricia’s room.

She was standing by the window with her hands on her hips, looking out. He signalled to the woman urgently to open the door. She came running up and unlocked it.

But when he rushed in, Patricia was once more on the floor, rocking and moaning and crooning.

Hamish stood over her. “It iss my belief you’re a fake. But if you want to stay here with the insane, that’s your lookout.”

He waited, but she did not cease her rocking.

He gave an exclamation of disgust and walked out. What should he do? he wondered as he drove to police headquarters. He though of her stance at the window. Even though her back had been turned to him, it had somehow been the posture of a normal woman.

At police headquarters, he had to wait. Jimmy Anderson told him that Daviot wanted to see him. He waited patiently outside Daviot’s room under the grim eye of the secretary, who detested him.

At last he was ushered in. “This is the psychiatrist, Dr. Lodge,” said Daviot. “He has been working with our prisoner.”

Hamish said that he had a shrewd idea that Patricia was acting. “That is not the view of Dr. Lodge here,” said Daviot.

Hamish had to listen then to a long lecture from Dr. Lodge on Patricia’s condition. It became clear to Hamish that the psychiatrist had made up his mind that Patricia was mad and he was angry that a village policeman should have been produced to argue with his expert diagnosis.

“It is just that Macbeth here knew the woman,” said Daviot placatingly.

“You are probably not interested in my opinion, Dr. Lodge.” said Hamish. “I not only think her sane, I think she will take her own life. At first she did not mind, thinking only of the publicity the trial would bring her books. But she obviously does not want to stand trial now and go to prison, nor will she want to remain in a psychiatric unit for the rest of her life.”

Another long and tedious lecture, which all boiled down to the fact that Dr. Lodge considered it impossible that Patricia would commit suicide. Daviot was obviously impressed as some Scots are by esoteric lectures of which they do not understand one word.

“Thank you, nonetheless, for your input,” said Daviot finally. “You may go.”

Hamish went into the detectives’ room. Blair was back at his desk. “Here he comes,” said Blair. “The village idiot. Didn’t I say that wumman had done it? If they hadnae taken me off the case, I’d have had it wrapped up.”

“Chust as you had the murder of Jamie Gallagher wrapped up?” asked Hamish.

“Get oot o’ here!” roared Blair.

Hamish grinned and walked off. Blair was back and things were back to normal.

♦

As he drove back to Lochdubh, he thought of seeing Priscilla Halburton-Smythe again with a rising feeling of excitement. Once at the police station, he changed into his new suit and good shoes. He drove up to the Tommel Castle Hotel and went into reception. Mr. Johnson stopped when he saw him. “Looking very chic, Hamish. What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion,” said Hamish, colouring. “Priscilla arrived?”

“Oh, didn’t you know? She phoned to say she had been delayed in London and doesn’t know when she’ll get up.”

“Aye, well, thanks for telling me.”

“Did you come hoping to see her?”

“No,” lied Hamish, and improvising wildly. “Is Fiona King around?”

Mr. Johnson looked past him through the open door to the car park. “I think that’s her just arriving.”

Hamish went out to meet Fiona. “Everything going all right?” he asked.

“Right as rain,” said Fiona.

“Is Sheila around?”

“She got fired and took off ages ago. Don’t know where she is. Glasgow, I suppose.”

“Something’s been puzzling me,” said Hamish. “Did you ever go to Angus Macdonald?”

“The seer? Well, yes, I did. A lot of us went over to have our fortunes told.”

She must have said something nasty about Penelope to give the seer the idea that she had killed her, thought Hamish.

He got into the police Land Rover and drove into Lochdubh. Then he thought, surely Priscilla would have phoned, left a message for him.

He ran into the police office and played his answering machine. Nothing, nothing at all. Sheila had gone off without saying goodbye, Priscilla could not come home and yet had not considered him worth even a message.

His gloomy thoughts turned back to the case. He supposed he would always regard it as one of his failures, for surely the evidence that Patricia had committed the murder lay right there in her character. He discounted the fact that Blair had said he knew it was her all along, for Blair crashed through every case, accusing everyone. Misery loves company. He would go over to Drim and see the minister, Colin Jessop.

The minister led him into his study. “What brings you, Macbeth?”

“I wondered if you had any news from your wife. I wondered if you had heard from her or wanted her traced.”

“I have not heard from her, nor do I want her traced.”

“Why did she take off?”

“It was this TV business. It turned her into a silly woman.”

“Perhaps when she’s had a bit of time away, she’ll come back home,” said Hamish soothingly.

“In that case,” said the minister waspishly, “she’ll have the door slammed in her face.”

The study door opened and a hard-faced middle-aged blond woman came in, carrying a tray. “Time for your tea, dear,” she cooed.

“If that’s all, Constable,” said the minister impatiently.

Hamish left, pushing back his cap and scratching his fiery red hair in bewilderment. What a nasty wee man that minister was, yet it had taken him no time at all to find a replacement for his wife. What was up with one Hamish Macbeth? No one wanted him.

He went down to the general store to buy some groceries. Ailsa Kennedy was behind the counter.

“It is yourself, Hamish,” she said.

“I see the minister’s got a new woman,” said Hamish, leaning on the counter.

“Calls her his housekeeper,” said Ailsa.

“Have you heard from Eileen Jessop?”

Ailsa’s face darkened. “No, she just took off without a word to anyone. I thought she was my friend. All the village women believed thon lie you told Edie about Eileen sending her film to Hollywood. Of course, they know it’s a lot of rubbish now. They’re not wanted for any more crowd scenes, so they’re all a bit flat.”

“Well, it’ll stop them throwing bricks at each other,” said Hamish heartlessly.

But as he paid for his groceries and made his way home, he had to confess to feeling pretty flat himself.

♦

Eileen’s play had been kept a secret, and the women of Drim’ did not know about it until Holly Andrews ran around the village waving a newspaper. The advance reviews for The Witch of Drim were enthusiastic.

“And she never even said a word to you,” Holly Andrews told Ailsa. “Well, I always said she was sly.”

On the night of the first performance, the whole of Drim crowded round their television sets. Ailsa had invited Holly Andrews, Edie, and Alice to watch it with her. At first they cheered and laughed and hugged each other as they watched the show. But when it was over and Ailsa said, “Eileen really is brilliant,” Holly said, “Aye, and she’ll get a lot of money, and here’s us, who slaved our guts out for her, not even being invited to the press conference or getting a bit of money.”

“That’s right,” said Edie, goggling at her. “She’d better not show herself here again.”

♦

Eileen’s play was shown on television in Scotland and then on national on the following Sunday, where it successfully took away a large chunk of the audience for The Case of the Rising Tides.

Harry’s TV detective series got panned by the critics and suffered badly in comparison with Eileen’s play.

“Do you know,” said Eileen as she and Sheila sat on the floor of Sheila’s flat, with newspapers spread all around them, “I’ve been so busy writing this new play and with all the fuss and excitement, I’ve never given a thought to poor Ailsa.”

“Let’s drive up to Drim this weekend,” said Sheila. “I’d like to see Hamish Macbeth again. That poor man. The number of times I stood him up. I’ll phone him.”

“Tell him not to tell anyone we’re coming,” said Eileen.

“Are you worried about Colin?”

“Not anymore. But I’d like to make our arrival in Drim a surprise.”

Sheila phoned Hamish. “I feel the least I can do is buy you a meal,” she said. “If you’re fed up with me, I quite understand.”

“No,” said Hamish. “But turn up this time. When?”

“We’re driving up on Saturday. Saturday evening at the Napoli at eight?”

“That’ll be grand. How does it feel to be successful?”

“Great.”

“Harry Frame must be furious with you.”

“He tried to offer me a job. Can you believe it? I had great pleasure in telling him to get lost. See you Saturday. Oh, and we want to surprise them in Drim, so don’t tell anyone.”

♦

It was odd to be approaching Drim again, thought Eileen, blinking out at familiar landmarks through her new contact lenses. Sheila drove down the winding road that led down to Drim, then parked outside the general store.

“Well, here we are,” said Sheila as she and Eileen stepped out of the car.

“This looks like a welcoming committee,” laughed Eileen. The women of Drim were coming down from their cottages towards them. Ailsa came out of the shop and stood with her arms folded, her face grim.

“Ailsa!” cried Eileen, making to run towards her.

“Keep your distance,” shouted Ailsa.

“There’s something badly wrong here,” said Sheila nervously, watching the women get closer.

Then Holly Andrews, who was at the head of the group, stood and yanked up a clod of grass and earth and hurled it straight at them.

“Bitch!” shouted Holly. “You made money out o’ us! Bitch!”

A wind raced down the loch, whipping Eileen’s skirts about her legs. Crows dived and screamed overhead.

“Get in the car,” shouted Sheila, her face white.

They drove off as stones rattled against the sides of the car.

“Where to?” panted Eileen.

“Back to Glasgow,” said Sheila. “I’m never coming here again.”

♦

Willie Lamont leaned against Hamish’s table in the restaurant that evening and said, “Stood up again?”

“It looks like that,” said Hamish gloomily.

“It’s your reputation for philately that puts the women off.”

“I suppose you mean philandering, Willie. Who am I supposed to be philandering with? You?”

“No need to get so shirty,” said Willie, backing off.

This is my life, thought Hamish, sitting in a restaurant waiting for some woman who can’t even be bothered to turn up.

Jimmy Anderson walked in.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said. “Patricia Martyn-Broyd’s just topped herself.”

“How did she do it?”

“Hanged herself on a bit o’ sheet. Well, less money for the taxpayer to bother about. You on your own, Hamish?”

“Yes.”

“Good, I’m right hungry. There’s nothing like a plate o’ spaghetti washed down wi’ a glass o’ Scotch.”

Jimmy sat down and shook out his napkin. “Sure you weren’t waiting for anyone, were you?”

“As a matter of fact, I’ve been stood up.”

“That’s the women for ye,” said Jimmy. “And do ye know the answer, Hamish?”

“No.”

“Get drunk!”