Death of a Scriptwriter

∨ Death of a Scriptwriter ∧

5

It almost makes me cry to tell

What foolish Harriet befell.

—Heinnch Hoffman

Eileen Jessop watched the return of the television film crew with heavy eyes. Who would be interested in her amateur efforts now? It had all been going so well. The women had liked the Scottish comedy she had written so many years ago. She had felt important and popular for the first time in ages.

She wearily trudged down to the general store. Ailsa once more had her sixties hairstyle, and from the community hall came the thump, thump, thump of the music from Edie’s exercise class.

“It’s yourself, Eileen,” Ailsa hailed her. “Going to get a part in the movies?”

Eileen shook her head.

“Och, you’ll be following the camera crew around, getting tips.”

“I don’t suppose any of the women will be interested in my little amateur venture anymore,” said Eileen sadly.

“Don’t say that! It’s the best fun we’ve had in ages. I bet we could knock spots off this lot.”

Eileen blinked myopically. “You mean you all want to go on?”

“Sure.” Ailsa leaned her freckled arms on the counter. “See here, we always do our filming in the evening, and that’s when this lot pack up. Of course we’ll go on.”

Eileen gave her a blinding smile. “That’s wonderful. Mr. Jessop doesn’t mind the rehearsals and the filming at all.”

“Neither he should,” said Ailsa with a grin. “We don’t film on the Sabbath and there aren’t any nude women in it.”

“I hope they all keep their clothes on in this television thing,” said Eileen anxiously. “Mr. Jessop’s blood pressure is quite high.”

“Do you always call him Mr. Jessop? Sounds like one o’ thae Victorian novels.”

“I mean Colin. He likes me to call him Mr. Jessop when talking about him.”

“Funny. But that’s men for you.”

♦

After the filming of The Case of the Rising Tides got well under way, Sheila Burford found herself increasingly reluctant to return to the Tommel Castle Hotel in the evenings with the rest of them to talk endless shop. She was becoming more and more disenchanted with the television world and was beginning to wonder if she had gotten into it because it made her mother so proud of her and all her friends seemed to think she had an exciting job. Sometimes she felt like some sort of maid, fetching and carrying and serving drinks and coffee.

After the first week, she drove to the police station.

“There’s that blonde calling on Hamish Macbeth,” said Jessie Currie to her sister, Nessie. “He can’t keep his hands off them.”

Sheila, all too aware of two pairs of eyes scrutinising her from behind thick glasses, knocked at the kitchen door of the police station.

“Come in,” said Hamish Macbeth cheerfully. “Nothing wrong, is there?”

“No, I just got bored with television chatter.”

She followed him into the kitchen.

“Filming going all right?” asked Hamish.

“Oh, like clockwork, good script, everyone pulling together. It’s as if Jamie had never existed.”

Hamish put a battered old kettle on top of the wood-burning stove. “It’s a warm evening,” said Sheila, who was wearing a T·shirt with the Strathclyde Television logo and a pair of cut-off jeans and large boots. “Do you always have that burning?”

“I was just about to put on my dinner. Want to join me? It’s only chicken casserole.”

“If you’re sure…That would be nice.”

“All right. We’ll have coffee first…So Jamie’s conveniently dead and everyone is happy. Fiona’s kept her job and Angus Harris has come into money and Penelope Gates has lost a husband she didn’t much like anyway. How’s Penelope bearing up?”

“Remarkably well,” said Sheila dryly. “In fact, she’s becoming a bit starry.”

“Meaning?”

“She’s beginning to queen about a bit. It’s odd, that. When Jamie was alive, she was very pleasant and subdued and only really came to life on the set. A hardworking actress, not all that great, but she has the looks. Now she seems to fly off the handle over every little thing and has to be coaxed back into a good temper.”

There was a silence while the kettle boiled. Hamish put instant coffee in two mugs and then carried them to the table and sat down next to Sheila.

“So were you surprised when you found out the murderer was Josh?” he asked.

Sheila took a sip of coffee and wrinkled her smooth brow. She was a very pretty girl, reflected Hamish, and almost immediately, Down, Hamish, you’ve had enough rejections to last you a lifetime!

“I was,” said Sheila. “Just a feeling.”

“Why?” asked Hamish curiously.

“Well, the only proof it was Josh was the blood on his hands.”

“I thought of that,” said Hamish. “He could have been skulking about up on the mountain and found Jamie dead. The body had been turned over.”

“Did they ever find out what struck him?”

“A rock. They found infinitesimal traces of rock in his skull. But all the murderer had to do was throw it away. Just below that bit of heather where he was lying is a whole expanse of scree. If the rock had been hurled down there, well, it could be anywhere.”

“Did they look?”

“Yes, they had a team o’ coppers crawling over the mountain like ants.” Hamish suddenly froze, his mouth a little open.

“What’s the matter?” asked Sheila sharply.

“I’ve chust remembered something,” he muttered. He could feel sweat trickling down from under his armpits. “Excuse me,” he said.

He went through to the bathroom and stripped off his shirt and sponged himself down, then went through to the bedroom and put on a clean shirt. What sort of policeman was he? He had put all the bits and pieces he had picked up off the heather into his backpack and, after finding the body, had forgotten all about them. The plastic bag he had put them in and the cellophane packet with those two threads of cloth were still in the backpack, which he had thrown in the bottom of the wardrobe. When Jimmy had called to tell him that the case was all wrapped up, he had forgotten all about them. He should have handed them over to the forensic team when he left the mountain.

He returned to the kitchen. “I’ll chust put the casserole in the oven and we’ll move to the living room. It’s hot in here.”

Sheila looked curiously at him as she sat down in the living room. “Are you sure you haven’t had a shock?” she asked. “Was it something I said?”

“No, no, I chust remembered I had a report to type up.”

“Am I holding you back?”

“Och, I can do it tomorrow.”

There was a knock at the kitchen door. Hamish went to answer it. The Currie sisters pushed past him and went straight through to the living room.

“We didn’t know anyone was here, didn’t know anyone was here,” said Jessie, who had an irritating habit of repeating everything. “We dropped by to bring you a lettuce from the garden, the garden. And this is…?”

“Miss Sheila Burford, who is with the television company,” said Hamish. “Sheila, the Misses Currie, Nessie and Jessie.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Sheila, recognising the two who had stared at her so fiercely on her arrival at the police station.

“Is there any trouble at Drim?” asked Nessie.

“Trouble at Drim,” echoed Jessie.

“No, this is just a social call.”

“Is there any news of Miss Halburton-Smythe coming up here soon?” asked Nessie.

“I have not heard from Miss Halburton-Smythe,” said Hamish stiffly.

“Such a beautiful girl,” said Nessie.

“Beautiful,” said Jessie.

“Was engaged to Hamish here, but he didnae appreciate her.”

“Appreciate her.”

“And went to foreign parts.”

“Foreign parts.”

“To hide a broken heart.”

“Broken heart.”

“Havers!” shouted Hamish, exasperated. “I thank you kindly for the lettuce, but I am chust about to prepare dinner.”

“We’re going, going,” said Jessie huffily.

Hamish ushered them out.

“Sorry about that,” he said.

Sheila grinned. “Who is this Miss Halburton-Smythe? Anything to do with the Tommel Castle Hotel?”

“Her father owns it, we were engaged once, didn’t work, end of story. I’ll get the food.”

When they were seated in the kitchen with the stove now damped down and the door and window open to the evening air, Sheila said, “It amazes me that it hardly ever gets dark up here.”

“The nights are beginning to draw in all the same,” said Hamish. “In June it’s light all night.”

“At least we’ll be finished and out of here by the winter,” said Sheila with a reminiscent shiver.

“It wass unusual, all that snow,” said Hamish, but thinking uneasily instead of that plastic bag at the bottom of his wardrobe. His accent, as usual, increased in sibilancy when he was upset. “To get back to Penelope Gates, she’s employed by the television company. Why doesn’t the director or whateffer chust tell her to do her job and cut the histrionics?”

“She’s the star of the show, and stars, however small they might be, can rule the roost.”

“Is she on anything?” asked Hamish, remembering the pot-smoking Fiona. “Uppers or anything?”

“No, I think she was kept down by Josh, and now he’s gone, she’s bursting out all over the place.”

“In every sense of the word, I suppose,” said Hamish. “Unless the naughty scenes have been cut.”

“No, they’re still in. She seduces the chief inspector tomorrow. They’ve built a bedroom set in the castle, four-poster and all that. But it’ll be away from the eyes of the villagers.”

“A good thing, too,” said Hamish. “The minister would have something to say about it.”

“I gather the minister’s wife, Eileen, is making a film of her own.”

“That crushed wee woman! I don’t believe it.”

“Fact. One of the village women told me. Eileen wrote a play when she was at university. They’re performing that, and Eileen’s filming it with her camcorder.”

“And what does the minister have to say?”

“He seems pleased. He doesn’t like us TV people being back, but Fiona gave him a generous donation to the church. This chicken is very good. Just as a matter of interest, what’s Patricia doing?”

“She’s writing again.”

“Where was she on the day Jamie got killed?”

“Out walking, she says.”

“I had her down as the murderess,” said Sheila. “She was so outraged. She’s got a medieval kind efface. I could imagine her being quite ruthless.”

“If she was ruthless,” said Hamish, “she would have found some hot-shot lawyer to try to break the terms of her contract.”

“You may be right.”

Hamish surveyed her. “You definitely don’t think Josh murdered Jamie.”

“I’m fantasising,” said Sheila. “Read too many detective stories. I suppose the police know what they’re doing.”

Hamish said nothing, but he wondered whether Strathbane police, because of pressure from the media, had not jumped too thankfully to the easiest conclusion.

“I’m sorry I havenae any wine to go with the meal,” he said.

“That’s why I’m here,” said Sheila. “The dinners at the hotel get a bit boozy.”

“So tell me about yourself. How did you get into the television business?”

“I went to college in New York, in Washington Square in the Village, to learn all about filming. I did a short film and won the Helena Rubinstein prize. I was homesick, so as soon as I finished the course, I returned to Glasgow and applied for a job on Strathclyde Television. They said I should start at the bottom and learn the ropes. I’ve been there two years and I’m still at the bottom, fetching and carrying and making coffee, fixing hotels, driving that minibus around.”

“So why don’t you try the BBC or ITV or maybe one of the cable channels?”

“Because I’m suddenly sick of the whole business. I think I might take a computing course. I’m interested in computer graphics.”

“All the beautiful girls end up studying computers,” said Hamish.

“Is that what took Miss Halburton-Smythe away?”

“Yes,” he said curtly. “More coffee?”

Sheila wished she hadn’t made that remark. There was a certain chill in the air which had nothing to do with the weather.

When she had finished her coffee, Hamish said, “Now if you don’t mind, I’d better get on with that report.”

“Thanks for dinner. You must let me take you out.”

“Aye, that would be grand.”

“What about tomorrow?”

Hamish hesitated. “Give me the number of your mobile and I’ll phone you.”

Which you won’t, thought Sheila sadly as’ she walked to her car.

♦

When she had gone, Hamish went through to the bedroom, hauled out the backpack and took out the plastic bag and emptied the contents on the floor. Nothing much here, he thought with relief: old Coke cans, cigarette ends, a book of matches, but with no advertising on it, no sinister nightclub or sleazy bar such as they were always finding in detective novels. Then there was the little envelope with the two threads of cloth. Bluish tweed. What had Josh been wearing?

He should throw this lot away and forget about it.

Case closed.

♦

Patricia Martyn-Broyd received a letter from her publishers. She weighed the large buff envelope in her hand and then slit it open. She pulled out book jackets and a letter from her editor, Sue Percival.

“Dear Patricia,” Sue had written. “As you will see, we have changed the book jackets, feeling the original ones might not have been too tasteful in view of the murder. We hope you like them.”

The new cover showed Penelope Gates dressed in tweed hacking jacket, knee breeches, lovat stockings and brogues, standing on a heathery hillside, looking down at the village of Drim. Patricia’s name was larger and more prominent this time.

She heaved a sigh of relief. Everything was working out quite well. Harry Frame had called to tell her they had cut out the commune scenes. She smiled.

It was time she visited the location and saw what they were doing. She was pleased with the new covers, very pleased.

♦

“This coffee tastes like filth,” said Penelope Gates, throwing the contents against the wall of her caravan. “Get me a decent one.”

>

“Get it yourself,” said Sheila. “Who the hell do you think you are? You’ve started to behave like a maniac.”

Penelope looked at her with narrowed eyes. “You have just got yourself out of a job, Sheila. I’ll speak to Harry Frame today.”

Sheila opened the door of the caravan and walked out. Then she shouted through the open door, “I hope you break your bloody neck!”

“Here, what’s all this about?” demanded the director, Giles Brown, coming up to her.

“It’s that bitch,” said Sheila. “I can’t take any more of her prima donna tantrums.”

“You’ll just have to put up with it,” said Giles. “We have to keep her in a good mood. We can’t get anyone else at this late date. We’ve already lost a lot of money over Jamie’s death. Think of all the publicity we’ve put out about Penelope. I know, I know, we’re all beginning to realise why her husband beat her. I’ll have a word with her.”

He went into the caravan. Penelope surveyed him with baleful blue eyes. “I want that bitch fired,” she said.

“I’ll see about it,” said Giles wearily. “Look, luv, it’s all been going well. Don’t we all run around and look after you?”

“Let me know when you’ve fired her,” said Penelope coldly. “You want this sex scene to work, don’t you? Well, just see that no one else upsets me and get me a decent cup of coffee.”

“Sure, Penelope. Anything you say.”

Penelope smiled to herself. She took out a packet of amphetamines and swallowed two. They would give her the necessary buzz she needed for the filming. It had been wonderful since Josh died. She had been bullied by her parents, bullied by schoolteachers and bullied by Josh. She hardly ever saw her parents now and Josh was dead and she was her own woman and free to take revenge on every bastard who tried to push her around. She had been feeling very exhausted since Josh’s death, what with the shock of it all, and a friend had introduced her to ‘uppers.’ Penelope felt strong and in command of every situation for the first time in her life.

♦

“No funny business now,” said Giles Brown to Gervase Hart, the leading man, or rather the anti-leading man, in that he was playing the part of the brutish chief inspector. “You’re only playing a sex scene, not performing it. I’m having trouble enough with Penelope as it is. I don’t want her screaming rape.”

“I couldn’t get it up for that nasty creature who thinks she’s God’s gift,” sneered Gervase.

“You won’t be shot too explicitly,” said Giles. “Bit like Four Weddings and a Funeral. Bits of flesh and a shoulder strap sort of thing.”

Gervase was a heavyset man whose once good-looking face had become a trifle spongy with drink, the features blurred as if someone had passed a sponge over them. Despite his bouts of drinking, he was a competent actor and never late on the set.

“What happened to Penelope?” he asked. “I mean, when we started up here, she was a delight to work with. Now she bitches and complains about everything.”

“I think her husband’s murder shook her more than we can know,” said Giles, ever placating.

“Maybe she did it.”

“No, he choked to death on his own vomit. No doubt about that.”

“Look, Giles, take her out to dinner and have a long talk with her. Soothe her down. We’re all getting on so well. She’s been all right, but her bad behaviour seems to have accelerated in the last few days.”

“I’ll try,” sighed Giles. “You didn’t let slip to any of the villagers about this sex scene?”

“Close as a clam, that’s me,” said Gervase shiftily, because he could not quite remember anything he had said the evening before.

♦

On her way to Drim, Patricia stopped her car in Lochdubh and went into Patel’s general store to buy some groceries. Patel had a better selection than the shop in Cnothan. There were various other customers, and Patricia was, as usual, a bit disappointed that no one came up and asked for her autograph or said, “I saw you on television.” The fact was that most of Lochdubh had seen her being interviewed on television and had not liked what they had seen at all and were damned if they were going to give her any recognition.

Patricia was, however, particularly gracious to Mr. Patel because he was an Indian. Patricia, who still mourned the loss of the British Empire, thought that all those poor Indians had been thrown into a sort of outer darkness by getting their independence and it was no wonder that Mr. Patel had fled to Scotland.

She meant to be gracious but came across as patronising, and Mr. Patel was quite curt.

She went out into the hazy sunlight. She looked up at the sky. Long streamers of clouds were trailing across the blue, heralding a change of weather. The midges, those irritating Scottish mosquitoes, had reappeared, and she fished a stick of repellent out of her capacious handbag and rubbed her face.

“Mrs. Martyn-Broyd?” A large tweedy woman was hailing her, hand outstretched.

“I am Mrs. Wellington, wife of the minister here,” she said.

Patricia murmured something and held out her own hand and found it being pumped energetically.

“We have not been introduced,” said Mrs. Wellington, “but I had to speak to you. I am surprised that you should condone such behaviour.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Patricia, stepping back because Mrs. Wellington had a way of thrusting her bosom forward to the person she was addressing and standing very close up.

“This television thing is based on your books, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“I cannot understand why a lady like yourself can condone sexual intercourse appearing on television.”

“What?”

“Sexual intercourse.” Several fishermen stopped their promenade along the waterfront to listen in amusement to the minister’s wife.

Two spots of colour burned on Patricia’s white cheeks. “Explain yourself,” she snapped.

“Some actor was drinking in the hotel bar last night and he was heard to say, “I’ll be screwing Penelope Gates tomorrow.” He was asked about it, and he said he and Penelope were to be filmed in bed together in a set in Drim Castle and without a stitch on.”

“This shall be stopped,” panted Patricia. “I won’t allow it.”

“Good,” said Mrs. Wellington approvingly. “I myself will phone the minister in Drim.”

Patricia strode off to her car, her brain in a turmoil of rage and anxiety.

♦

“Where are you going?” barked Mr. Jessop as Eileen was heading out the door, her camcorder in one hand.

Eileen stopped and blinked at him myopically. “I am going to see one of those TV cameramen. He said he could give me a few pointers.”

“You are to go nowhere near any of them.”

“Why?”

“Do as you’re told, woman. I’m off to the castle to deal with something.”

♦

“Now, Gervase,” Giles Brown was saying, “you come into the bedroom, you see her naked on the bed, smiling at you, and you start to tear off your uniform. Your eyes gleam with lust.”

“Sure,” said Gervase in a bored voice.

“Let’s just run through it first,” said Giles.

Penelope appeared from behind a screen. She was stark naked.

Definitely a 38D cup, thought Fiona. What a figure!

Penelope lay down on the bed. She raised herself on one elbow and smiled seductively at Gervase, who began to tear off his clothes. When he was naked, he approached the bed.

Penelope rolled on her back and laughed uproariously.

“What’s up?” asked Fiona crossly.

“Him!” said Penelope when she could. “Have you ever seen such an ugly body? Jesus wept, he’s got breasts like a woman.”

Before anyone could say anything, the door of the room opened and Mr. Jessop, followed by Patricia, burst in.

“What is going on here?” shouted the minister.

“How dare you turn my work into pornography!” screamed Patricia.

Fiona saw disaster and moved quickly. “Come outside and I’ll explain things. We were just rehearsing until their costumes arrived.”

She shooed them out of the room and led them along to her office.

“It’s like this,” she lied. “Actors are used to seeing each other naked. No one thinks anything of it. They’ll be dressed in the actual scene. Penelope will be wearing a nightdress and Gervase pyjamas.”

“I do not believe you,” said Patricia.

“Wait a minute and I’ll arrange for them to show you the actual scene.”

Fiona sped back to the set and said to Giles, “Get them both into nightclothes, and you two, perform a decorous petting scene. Sheila, get a nightgown and pyjamas fast.”

She then went back to the office. “You can see the scene in a few moments.”

“This is a trick,” said Mr. Jessop. “There was some actor telling the locals last night how he was going to have intercourse with that actress.”

“Now, Mr. Jessop,” cooed Fiona, “do you think we would show such a scene? Gervase must have been a bit drunk, and he brags a lot. This is for family viewing. Nudity may be shocking to you, but we’re used to it. I mean, have you seen some of the beaches in Spain, or even Brighton? Nobody thinks anything these days about going naked.”

“You must think us very silly to be taken in by such a story,” said Patricia.

Fiona forced herself to smile calmly. All would be well just so long as this precious pair did not ask for any confirmation in writing.

“Television is a mad world.” She spread her hands ruefully. “But just think. Would we jeopardise our chances of getting the prime family slot on Sunday viewing by showing explicit sex scenes?”

Sheila put her head round the door. “Ready for you.”

“Come along,” said Fiona, “and you’ll see for yourselves.”

Penelope and Gervase, alarmed into good behaviour by the threat that the series might be sabotaged, were now dressed: Penelope in a long Laura Ashley cotton nightgown and Gervase in striped pyjamas rather like the minister’s own. Fiona thought the wretched pair were deliberately hamming it up to make it look and sound like a Victorian courting scene. Certainly they ended up in bed together, but they finished the scene with a chaste kiss.

“And we fade there,” said Fiona brightly.

But old·fashioned Patricia and Mr. Jessop had found it all very tasteful. They did not know that Penelope and Gervase had made up the lines as they went along.

“But they are not married and they are in bed together,” said Mr. Jessop cautiously.

Fiona seized a script and pretended to consult it. “A gamekeeper bursts in at that moment and says, “There’s a body on the beach.” They both hurry off to investigate. Nothing further happens between them.”

Relieved, Patricia and the minister accepted this explanation. They could not believe that these television people would go to such lengths to deceive them. Fiona took them back to the office, served them coffee and talked soothingly and flatteringly about the genius of Patricia’s writing.

Patricia left, feeling quite elated.

Having seen them off the premises and having instructed two men to guard the door of the set in future, Fiona went back into the ‘bedroom.’ Giles was sitting in a corner, clutching his head.

“What the fuck’s up now?” asked Fiona, her temper breaking.

“That bitch,” said Gervase, pointing a shaking finger at Penelope.

“She won’t stop laughing,” mourned Giles.

“You cannot expect me to seriously make love to a man with a body like that,” sneered Penelope.

“Look here,” said Fiona wrathfully, advancing on Penelope. “If you do not do what you are paid to do and keep making trouble, we’ll find someone else.”

“You can’t afford to,” said Penelope, looking at her with dislike. “I hate being pushed around by people. I’ve been pushed around all my life, and I’m not going to take any more of it. Get rid of me? It’d be cheaper to get rid of you. Harry Frame’ll be here later. Let’s see what he has to say about it.”

Fiona tried to laugh it all off. It certainly would be easier to get rid of her than Penelope. “Come on, Penelope,” she coaxed. “Let’s just get the scene done.”

“I’ve a headache now,” said Penelope mulishly. “Tell Harry to come and see me when he arrives.”

She swept out.

“She’s costing us money,” said Hal Forsyth, the production manager. “Who does she think she is? Liz Taylor?”

“Tell Harry to see me before he sees her,” said Fiona.

Sheila followed her out. “I want a word with you, Fiona.”

“Not you, too.”

“I’ve got something to tell you which might help. I was down in Lochdubh visiting that policeman. He said something about Penelope being on uppers, and I said then I didn’t think so, but now I’m beginning to wonder.”

Fiona swung round. “You mean, find proof and get her arrested?”

“I think Hamish would just give her a warning. No, I was thinking, she’ll leave her caravan for lunch. I could go in there, search around, and if I find them, confiscate the lot. I think that’s maybe what’s been turning her into an aggressive bitch. It’s worth a try.”

“Do it.”

Sheila hung around Penelope’s trailer until she saw her stepping down and making her way to the temporary restaurant.

She had a spare key. She let herself in. Penelope’s handbag was lying on the dressing table. She went through the contents until she came upon two bottles of pills. One was marked Lib-rium and had a chemist’s name on it. The other bottle did not carry any label. Sheila decided to take what she thought might be the uppers and leave the tranquillisers. She hoped that the unlabelled bottle did not carry heart pills or anything important and legal. But then if it did, Penelope would raise a fuss.

The first person Penelope saw when she entered the trailer which housed the restaurant was Gervase. She collected her food and went to join him.

“I am not happy with you,” she said, fixing the actor with a cold blue stare.

“You’re not happy with me?” spluttered Gervase. “You’ve ruined a morning’s shoot with your silly behaviour. What’s come over you, Penelope? You’re like a spoilt brat.”

“I didn’t ruin the morning’s shoot. It was you, I gather, who got drunk and spilled the beans so that writer and that minister got to hear of it. I’m going to have a word with Harry. I can’t act with you.”

“You’re mad,” said Gervase, but suddenly frightened. He had been finding it harder and harder to get parts of late. “I’ll kill you. You’ll be as dead as Jamie if you spoil my career.”

“I’m not frightened of you.” Penelope tossed her long blond hair.

Gervase picked up his plate of food and, ignoring the startled looks from the others in the restaurant, sat down at a table as far away from her as possible.

♦

It was unfortunate for Fiona that she was called to the phone to speak to the drama director of BBC Scotland just as Harry Frame arrived. Penelope hailed him as she left the restaurant. “Come to my caravan, Harry,” she called.

He followed her in and sat down.

Penelope outlined what had happened that morning, ending up by saying she could not work with Gervase or Fiona or Sheila.

Harry fought down a rising feeling of panic. “Look here,” he said. “I can’t go around firing everyone.”

“You were prepared to fire Fiona when Jamie asked you.”

Harry rose, his large bulk looming over her. “And look what happened to him,” he said. “I’ve taken enough. Get on with it, luv. Because it would be easier to replace you than either Fiona, Gervase or Sheila. There’s plenty of little totties with good bodies and thin talent prepared to take your place.”

“Are you saying I can’t act?”

He shrugged. “You’re no great shakes. Think about it.”

After he had gone, Penelope scrabbled in her handbag. Her pills had gone!

One of them must have taken them, but she couldn’t very well complain. She swallowed a couple of tranquillisers. They couldn’t really fire her. They wouldn’t dare.

♦

To everyone’s relief, Penelope performed her part during the rest of the day without any awkward scenes. Her acting was a little wooden, but Giles decided to let it go for the sake of harmony.

By evening Penelope’s tranquillisers had worn off, and she was feeling cross and irritable and hard done by.

Fiona was the one she hated the most. She wanted revenge. She had demanded that Fiona be fired, and that demand had been refused.

When she arrived in the dining room of the Tommel Castle Hotel that evening, she pointedly did not join the others but took a table on her own in a corner. She ordered trout and a bottle of champagne. After the others had left, she stayed in the dining room, finishing the bottle.

And then she heard a high, fluting English voice, saying, “I am a trifle late, but I do not feel like cooking for myself tonight.”

Penelope looked up. Patricia Martyn-Broyd was being escorted to a table. Suddenly Penelope, elated and angry with champagne, thought she saw a way to get even with Fiona. She rose a trifle unsteadily to her feet and weaved between the tables in Patricia’s direction, and came to a stop in front of her.

She leaned one hand on the table for support and said, “You surely weren’t taken in by that farce this morning, Patricia.”

“Well, at first it did look a little bit shocking, but after Fiona had explained it, I just had to accept that I am a bit behind the times.”

“You silly old cow,” said Penelope contemptuously, “that scene with the nightwear was laid on for your benefit. The real scene, the screwing one, is the one that will be shown.”

“You must be lying!”

“Why should I bother? Instead of constantly complaining and interfering, you should be kissing our feet that your dreary books have got some recognition.”

“I shall get a lawyer tomorrow,” said Patricia, “and get it stopped.”

Penelope shrugged. “You can try. The reason you are shocked at the thought of naked bodies is because of the horrible one you’ve got yourself. I bet you have to hang a towel over the bathroom mirror.”

Patricia looked wildly around and saw the manager. “Mr. Johnson,” she called. “Remove this person.”

“I’m going,” said Penelope, feeling all powerful. “But I tell you this,” she said over her shoulder. “You should save your money. You signed the contract and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

After she had gone, Patricia sat at her table like a stone. The maître d’ came up with the menu.

“What?” said Patricia in a dazed way.

“Are you ready to order, madam?”

“Yes…no…no, I am going home…home.” Patricia stood up. She knocked her handbag to the floor, and the contents scattered over the carpet. She knelt and began to pick them up. Jenkins, the maître d’, stooped to help her.

He remembered afterwards, when questioned by the police, that Miss Martyn-Broyd had been weeping.

To Fiona’s relief, it was a very subdued Penelope who reported for work at seven the following morning. The scene of the chase across the mountain was to be reshot. The sun had gone and the day was misty, all colours bleached out of the landscape.

“Won’t the mist be too thick up on the mountain?” Fiona asked the director.

“It’s supposed to lift later,” said Giles, “and we might get some good atmospheric shots.”

Once the helicopters had everyone up on the heathery plateau, they all climbed out. Sheila felt there was something wrong in being in the same place where Jamie had been murdered. Mist swirled around. Sometimes it lifted and she could see everyone clearly, and then it closed down again.

“We’ll just do the running shot,” said the director when everything was set up. “Perhaps it won’t work with this mist. You start from here, Penelope, and run over to the edge and stop short.”

“Isn’t that where Jamie was murdered?” asked Penelope.

“No, he was murdered over there. Sheila, go over to that crag and show her where to stand.”

Sheila obediently trotted off. The mist lifted again like a curtain being raised, and they could see Sheila standing on an outcrop of rock.

“You’ll come to a stop right here, Penelope,” Sheila called back. “Then you stand and shield your eyes and look down the mountain.”

“Wait there a minute,” Giles called.

Sheila stood where she was. A shaft of sunlight suddenly lit up the village of Drim, standing beside the black loch. The air was pure and clean and scented with wild thyme.

“All right,” she heard Giles shout. “You can come back now.”

Sheila walked back. “So, Penelope, in your own time,” said Giles, “start running and then stop just where Sheila was.”

“Mist’s closing down again,” said Fiona.

“I know,” said Giles. “But I just want to try one shot and see what she looks like disappearing into the mist.”

Penelope was wearing a long scarlet dress which floated about her excellent body.

They all took up their positions. “Right,” said Giles softly, “when you’re ready, Penelope. Quiet, everyone. And…action!”

Penelope ran off into the mist as fleet as a deer. She disappeared into the thickening mist. There was a silence.

Then suddenly there was a high, wailing, descending scream.

“She’s fallen!” screamed Sheila.

“Not her,” said Giles dryly. “Just playing silly games. Go and get her, Sheila. Fiona!…Where’s Fiona?”

Sheila ran forward. She reached the outcrop. There was no sign of Penelope.

“Penelope!” she shouted.

At first there was no sound at all, and then she heard a faint moan coming from far below her.

Then the mist lifted again and she saw Penelope spread out on a rock a dizzying distance below the outcrop.

“Oh, God, she has fallen!” she screamed. “Get help! Phone Hamish Macbeth!”

As if in mockery, the mist lifted entirely and the sun blazed down.

♦

Harry Frame, Fiona, Giles and the production manager, Hal Forsyth, sat huddled in Fiona’s office in Drim Castle.

“Her family are going to sue the life out of us,” muttered Harry Frame.

The phone rang, making them all jump. Fiona picked it up and listened. Then she said in a bleak voice after she had replaced the receiver. “That was Sheila from the hospital in Inverness. Penelope’s dead. She died on arrival.”

“Shit!” said Harry Frame bitterly. “Time’s running out. We’ll need to get a new actress, coach her. Winter comes here early.”

Major Neal put his head round the door. “Police,” he announced.

Startled faces turned in the direction of the door.

Detective Chief Inspector Blair lumbered in, followed by Macnab and Anderson.

“Penelope Gates is dead,” he said.

“We know,” said Fiona. “We’ve just heard the news from the hospital.”

“P. C. Hamish Macbeth went down to the hospital in the helicopter with her. She said something to him afore she died. She said, “Someone caught my ankle and pulled me over.” So we’re looking at a case of murder!”

♦

“We’d better talk about this,” said Hamish as he left Raigmore Hospital in Inverness with Sheila. “Let’s have a quick meal before we go back.”

They took a taxi to a small restaurant in the centre of Inverness which was self-service. When they had collected their food and found a table, Hamish asked, “Who wanted her dead?”

“Everyone,” said Sheila. Her eyes filled with tears. “It was such a dreadful day yesterday.” She slowly began to tell him everything that had happened. “Fiona said she had a good mind to tell you about her suspicions that Penelope was on uppers so you could arrest her.”

“I probably wouldn’t have, not having arrested Fiona herself for smoking pot,” said Hamish. “I sometimes wonder why they have laws banning soft drugs when we’re supposed to turn a blind eye to them. Look at New York. They started this zero tolerance business, clearing up all the lesser crimes like mugging and graffiti, and it’s been a big success. They feel if they began at the bottom and started clearing up the soft drugs, the harder ones might become less common. A businessman can be in bad trouble if he’s been drinking and he’s only a little over the limit, but anyone can smoke themselves silly with pot. But, my God, mention arresting anyone for smoking pot, and you’ll have every liberal in the country down on your neck. Arrest a man for having drunk a little bit over the limit, and it’s ‘Well done. Officer.”

“So she threatened, or so you heard, to get rid of you, Fiona and Gervase. What had Harry Frame to say about that?”

“We don’t know,” said Sheila. “He just said he didn’t want to talk about it.”

“So as far as Fiona and the rest of you were concerned, he may have been thinking of sacking you?”

“Yes…well, no. He couldn’t have got rid of three people.” Her eyes again filled with tears. “I think I’ll hear that scream of Penelope’s as she went over until the day I die.”

“And Patricia? She believed that silly explanation about the nude scene?”

“Oh, yes, she was all soothed down and happy when she left.”

“The trouble is,” said Hamish, “in the Highlands everything gets out sooner or later. You say something to someone in private, and before you know it, the whole village has heard about it the next day.”

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and tried to smile. “In that case, murders should be easy to solve.”

“That’s a different thing. When there’s a murder, everyone feels guilty and clams up. It’s odd, but all the innocent people start getting shifty about where they were and what they were doing.”

Sheila turned a trifle pale. “I must be the number one suspect. I could have pushed her over and then pretended she fell.”

“But Penelope herself said someone caught hold of her ankle and pulled her over. Someone must have been lurking around in the mist, waiting for an opportunity. Where was Fiona?”

“She was with Giles Brown, the director, and then she disappeared in the mist for a bit.”

“At least Gervase wasn’t about.”

“But he was,” said Sheila.

“Why?”

“Because the chief inspector is the murderer.”

“How do they work that out?”

“He’s obsessed with Lady Harriet and murders her butler so that he can get her up from England to investigate.”

“But he gets into bed with her.”

“Well, she’s supposed to seduce him to find out what he knows.”

“And where does the rising tide come in?”

“The butler’s body is found on the beach, and Lady Harriet judges the time of death from the high tide mark.”

“I believe Patricia’s book got quite good reviews.”

“When you read it, it’s all convoluted and sounds convincing, although her style is a bit wordy and precious for me. What does ‘pathic’ mean?”

“Don’t know. Give me a sentence.”

“‘She gave him a pathic smile.’ I looked it up. It said victim, catamite, passive. Could mean she smiled like a victim or gave a passive smile. Can’t be a catamite smile, surely? I agree with Orwell: if you have to look up words in the dictionary, don’t use them.”

“Maybe Patricia didn’t have to look it up in the dictionary.”

“Maybe. What happens now?”

“I drive you back to Drim, where the police will interrogate you. The press tonight will be followed tomorrow by the world’s press: “Beautiful Actress Murdered.” Blair will be under intense pressure. Remember that and just answer calmly.”

“How do we get back? They’ll hardly fly us there in a helicopter.”

Hamish took out a mobile telephone. “Inverness police’ll get us back.”

♦

They were driven straight back to Drim Castle. Major Neal had the fire lit in the main hall because although the weather was warm outside, and still light because it was at the time of the year when it hardly ever got dark, the castle was cold and gloomy.

Jimmy Anderson came out to meet Hamish and Sheila. “Follow me,” he said to Sheila. “Mr. Blair wants a word with ye.”

Hamish would have liked to accompany her but was sure that Blair would order him away. He joined the party round the fire. Most of the television crew seemed to be there.

Harry Frame scowled at Hamish. Then he said, “I say we go on. We can’t let all this publicity go for nothing. We’ll raise money selling that last shot of Penelope to every television company from here to Moscow.”

“Aren’t the police hanging on to that?” asked Hamish.

“Got several copies,” said Harry. He turned to Fiona. “What about Mary Hoyle?”

“She’s a fine actress, but no tottie, nor will she shed her clothes.”

“I’m fed up with totties. I want a good, solid actress to pull us through this. You know her reputation. She’s got a photographic memory. Also, she’s not doing anything at the moment.”

“I’d settle for anyone who would keep their mouth shut and just work. But can we really go on?”

“Of course we go on,” said Harry. “With all this publicity, by the time it goes out, we’ll have a huge audience.”

The door of the castle opened and a woman police officer led Patricia in. She looked white and tired and had lost all her usual confidence. “Wait here until they’re ready for you,” ordered the policewoman.

Patricia sat down at the edge of the group, clutching her large handbag.

A silence fell. Patricia was a writer and not one of them. Hamish took his chair round and sat next to her.

“You’ll be asked where you were today,” he said.

“It’s difficult to prove,” said Patricia miserably. She started and dropped her handbag as Jenkins, the mattre d’ from the hotel, came in. “What’s he doing here?” she hissed.

Hamish rose and went forward.

“I don’t want you,” said Jenkins, arms as usual slightly akimbo, as if carrying an imaginary tray. “I want the man in charge. It’s important.”

Glad of an excuse to get into that interviewing room and rescue Sheila, Hamish nodded and left the hall. The interviewing was taking place in Fiona’s office. Blair stopped in midbark and glared at Hamish. “Whit dae ye want?”

“Jenkins, the maître d’ from the Tommel Castle Hotel, is here. He says he has information for you.”

Blair’s eyes gleamed. “Send him in. I’ll talk more to you later, Miss Burford. Don’t leave.”

Hamish went out with Sheila. “Bad time?” he asked sympathetically.

“It was awful. He practically accused me of the murder.”

“That’s his way. He’s aye trying to fright a confession out of someone or other, and I’ve neffer known it to work.”

Sheila joined the others at the fire, and Hamish signalled to Jenkins. He was determined to stay in the interviewing room and hear what the man had to say.

So when Jenkins took a seat in front of the desk facing Blair, Hamish slid to a corner of the room and sat down.

Jenkins introduced himself.

“So what have ye to tell us?” demanded Blair.

“I was on duty in the castle dining room last night,” said Jenkins. “Miss Penelope Gates had dinner on her own. She ordered a bottle of champagne and drank the lot. Then she saw that writer, Miss Martyn-Broyd, come in. I gather from gossip that there was apparently some sex scene and Miss Martyn-Broyd and Mr. Jessop, the minister, had been reassured it was not so. Miss Gates told Miss Martyn-Broyd that she had been tricked, that there was in fact a sex scene, and she called her books dreary. Miss Martyn-Broyd was distressed and weeping. To my way of thinking,” said Jenkins pompously, “her mind was so overset that she probably murdered Miss Gates.”

“If that’s all ye’ve got to say,” said Blair, looking at him with dislike, “ye can go.”

Jenkins departed in a huff.

“Has that writer woman arrived yet?” demanded Blair.

“Yes,” said Hamish.

Blair glared at him for a moment, as if debating whether to tell him that he should not be in the interviewing room, but then said, “Fetch her in.”

Jimmy Anderson went out. Hamish stayed where he was.

Patricia came in. She was quite white, but now composed.

Blair started the questioning in his usual unsubtle way.

“Where were you today?”

“At what time, Officer?”

“Chief Inspector. We’ll start with when you got up.”

“I made breakfast and wrote another few pages of my new book. Then I went out for a drive.”

“Where?”

“I was distressed over what the television people were doing with my book. I know Miss Gates is dead and de mortuis and all that, but she was a horrible, vicious and vulgar woman. She sneered at me in the Tommel Castle Hotel the evening before and told me that what I had been assured was not going to be a pornographic scene was in fact going to be just that. She said they had tricked me into believing it otherwise. I was very, very upset. I could not write properly. So I drove and drove mindlessly. I had planned to drive to Drim and confront them, but I had no courage left. I do not know where I drove or for how long, but I suddenly realised I was hungry. I found myself in Golspie and went to the Sutherland Arms Hotel for a bar lunch. Then I returned home.”

“We’ll check with the Sutherland Arms Hotel. What is the make and registration number of your car?”

Patricia gave it to him.

“The way I see it,” said Blair with a fat smile, “is that you, more than anyone else, had a good reason to want Penelope Gates dead. She had jeered at you about how you had been tricked, and you admit your mind was overset. So you went to Drim and you climbed up that mountain. You heard Penelope being instructed to stand on that rock. You scrambled around in the mist until you were underneath and then you grabbed her ankle and pulled her over.”

“That is ridiculous,” said Patricia coolly. “May I point out that it is now after midnight and I am very tired.”

Blair struck the desk. “We’re all bloody tired, woman! But you will stay here until ah’m finished with you.” His Glasgow accent, which he usually modified when speaking to the ‘toffs’ such as Jenkins and Patricia, suddenly thickened.

♦

Sheila sat in the hall with the others and waited. She was feeling hard done by. It had transpired that the company lawyers had been present when all the others had been interviewed, but to her complaint Harry had given a massive shrug and said the lawyers needed their sleep.

For the first time, Sheila began to wonder who had really murdered Penelope. It was no longer an intellectual exercise. One of them in this castle, probably one of them around the fire, had murdered Penelope. No one was mourning her; no one had a good word to say for her.

♦

Hamish Macbeth awoke the next morning as the alarm shrilled. He felt very tired. He had had about four hours’ sleep.

He ran over in his mind the events of the night before. Fiona said she had been nowhere near Penelope, but there was no proof of that. Gervase had no firm alibi. With the mist so thick, anyone could have been anywhere.

He wondered if the BBC would go for a new actress and changed script or if the whole thing would just fall through.

He rose and washed and dressed. He then went into the kitchen to prepare himself some breakfast. Rain drummed steadily down outside, the first rain for many days.

There was a tentative knock at the door. He sighed. Probably some local looking for gossip. But when he opened the door, it was to find Patricia Martyn-Broyd.

“I must speak to you, Hamish,” she said. There were black circles under her eyes, pandalike against the parchment of her old skin.

“Come in,” he said. “I was just preparing breakfast. Can I be getting you something?”

“I couldn’t eat a thing,” said Patricia.

“Sit yourself down anyway and have a coffee.”

Patricia waited while Hamish prepared two cups of coffee and then sat down at the kitchen table opposite her.

“I am in bad trouble,” said Patricia.

“Why? What’s happened?”

She looked at him impatiently. “I am suspected of murdering that creature.”

“That’s Blair’s way. He goes on as if he suspects everyone.”

“But don’t you see! I am the one with the strongest motive.”

“I don’t know about that. She had threatened to get Fiona King, Gervase Hart and Sheila Burford fired. And they were all up on the mountain with her. Also, Harry Frame let slip last night that there had been some change of mind at BBC Scotland and they wanted more of a traditional detective series, in which case Penelope and her beautiful body would not have been needed all that much. But then, I hardly think Harry Frame would shove her over a cliff to get rid of her. If you have not murdered Penelope Gates, then you have nothing to worry about.”

“I am not stupid!” said Patricia. “I came here to get your help and to get away from the press. I have no alibi, and that man Blair, under pressure from the media, is determined to make an arrest, any arrest. I want you, Hamish Macbeth, to find out who really murdered Penelope.”

“Why me?”

“I formed the opinion that you are not lacking in intelligence. From the church gossip at Cnothan, I discovered that you had solved crimes before, and all on your own initiative.”

“I will do my best, of course, to find out who did it,” said Hamish cautiously. “But I do not have the resources of Strath-bane.”

“Nonetheless, I am relying on you. I am not a poor woman. I can pay you.”

“That’s not necessary. May I suggest if you don’t want any breakfast that you go home and get some sleep?”

“I can’t with all those press around.”

“As you have pointed out, you’re not a poor woman. Take a room at the hotel. They’ll have the keepers posted at the gates to keep the press out.”

“I shall do that. Will you keep me informed of any developments?”

“I’ll tell you what I can, but I would suggest you try to remember where you were driving. Someone might have seen you.”

When she left, he fried himself some bacon and eggs. He did not have any newspaper delivered, usually buying one at Patel’s. The tabloids would be having a field day publishing naked pictures of Penelope. It was as well that husband of hers was dead.

The phone rang constantly in the police office, and each time the answering machine clicked on. Calls from the press.

Then a truculent call from Blair. “I know you’re there, you lazy Hielan hound. Pick up that writer woman and bring her back here. Move your arse.”

Hamish sighed. Poor Patricia. And yet why should he think poor Patricia? The woman was armoured in rigid pride. But she was also lonely and vulnerable under that carapace. He finished his breakfast, checked on his sheep and hens and set out to collect Patricia.