Death of a Snob

∨ Death of a Snob ∧

3

Though by whim, envy, or resentment led,

They damn those authors whom they never read.

—CHARLES CHURCHILL

To Hamish’s surprise, breakfast, cooked by Jane, turned out to be an excellent meal, although he missed not having any tea or coffee. It consisted of toast and low-cholesterol margarine, fresh grapefruit, muesli, and a large glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.

The breakfast was marred only by the seeming emotions around him. Jane had appeared wearing pink denim shorts with a bib front over a white-and-pink-checked blouse and walking boots in tan leather. She was shortly followed by Heather, wearing exactly the same outfit.

Heather’s face was flushed and angry and Diarmuid looked sulky. They had just had a row. The normally placid Diarmuid had suddenly snapped that if Heather thought Jane sexless, then why did she try to dress like her? It only made her look like a fright. And certainly Heather did look awful, having rolls and bumps of flesh where Jane had none, and fat white hairy legs, Heather believing that to shave one’s legs was merely pandering to masculine sexism. Jane looked at Heather as she entered and something for a moment glittered in the depths of her eyes and then was gone.

Sheila had carried her romance to the breakfast table and was reading it, occasionally darting nasty little looks at Heather, and her husband also darted angry little looks at Heather, so that the round Carpenters looked more like twins than husband and wife.

John Wetherby was glowering at his breakfast. He was wearing a V-necked pullover over a blue shirt and a tightly knotted tie, grey flannels, and walking shoes, his idea of suitable wear for a hiker.

Jane rose and addressed them at the end of the meal. “This will not do,” she said gaily. “There is a nasty atmosphere and we should all be having a lovely, lovely time.” She lifted a box and put it on the table. “I have here a supply of balloons, thread, and pencil and paper. Now, I suggest we each write down our resentments, blow up our balloons, and carry them outside and watch them all float away!”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Jane,” snapped her ex-husband. “Be your age.”

“Don’t be stuffy,” said Heather. “Sounds like fun. Come on, Sheila, get your head out of that trash.” She gave that laugh copied from Jane. “It’s like watching a rather nice little pig with its head in the trough.”

“Watch your mouth, you rotten bitch,” shouted Ian.

“I know what it is,” cried Jane, holding up her hands. “We need some fresh air to blow the cobwebs away. Forget about the balloons. Where’s your Christmas spirit? Get your coats and off we go.”

They all meekly rose to their feet. “I don’t think I can bear this,” said Harriet to Hamish.

He smiled down at her. “I have to go over to the village this morning, and maybe there’s a bar there…”

“I’ll come with you,” said Harriet. “Don’t tell the others. We’ll just join the end of the crocodile and then veer off.”

Jane set out at the head of the group. Her voice floated back to them. “Let’s sing! All together now. ‘One man went to mow…’”

“Come on,” said Hamish to Harriet as the group straggled along the beach behind Jane.

The air was warmer than the day before, but a howling gale was still blowing. Snatches of Jane’s singing reached the ears of Hamish and Harriet as they made their way inland and onto the road that led to the village; The rising sun was low on the horizon, curlews piped dismally from the heather, and seagulls crouched on the ground, occasionally taking off to battle with the gale.

They tried to talk but at last fell silent, for the shrieking wind meant they had to shout. Harriet was wearing a tweed jacket and matching skirt. Her short brown hair streaked with grey was crisp and curly. She walked with an easy stride by Hamish’s side. Hamish was happy. The silence between them was companionable, tinged with a conspiratorial edge prompted by their escape from the others.

They turned a bend in the road and in front of them stood a very battered old Fiat truck, parked in the middle. They made their way around it and stopped short. A small man was sitting at the side of the road in front of the truck, weeping bitterly.

“Hey,” cried Hamish, crouching down beside the forlorn figure. “What’s your trouble?”

“It iss him,” said the man, raising a tear-stained face and jerking a gnarled thumb in the direction of the truck. “He iss out to kill me.”

Hamish got up, and motioning Harriet to stand well back, he went quickly to the truck. There was no one in the cabin and nothing in the back but barrels of lobster.

He loped back and sat down on the road beside the man and said coaxingly, “Now, then, there’s no one there. Who are you talking about?”

“Him!” said the little man passionately, and again that thumb jerked at the truck. “Can’t you see him, sitting there, watching me?”

The truck-driver was probably only in his forties, but hard weather and a hard life made him appear older. Like most of the islanders, he was small in stature. He had a weather-beaten face. Sparse grey hairs clung to his brown scalp.

Harriet bent down and shouted above the tumult of the wind, “But there is not a soul about except for us.”

“Wait a bit.” Hamish held up his hand. “Do you mean the truck is trying to kill you?”

“Aye, the beast! The beast. Wass I not loading the lobsters and did he not back into me and try for to tip me into the sea?”

“And did you not have the brakes on?” said Hamish cynically. “What is your name?”

“Geordie Mason.”

“Well, listen, Geordie, stop your havering. I am Hamish Macbeth, and this is Harriet Shaw. We’re going into Skulag. I’ll hae a look at your truck and drive it for ye.”

Geordie rubbed his eyes with his sleeve. “Wid ye dae that? Himself will no’ mind. It’s jist me he cannae thole.”

Hamish drew Harriet aside. “It’ll save us a walk,” he said. “I’m sure the wee man is harmless. Probably been at the methylated spirits.”

Hamish climbed into the driving-seat, Geordie sat next to him, and Harriet on the other side. It was an old–fashioned bench seat, and so it could take the three of them comfortably.

Hamish turned the key in the ignition. The engine gave a cough and remained silent. “Ye’ve got to tell himself it’s no’ me that’s driving.” Geordie had recovered from his grief and seemed almost proud of demonstrating the bloody-mindedness of his vehicle.

Harriet stifled a giggle. “All right,” said Hamish amiably. “Does he have a name?”

“He’s an agent o’ the deil, no’ a pet.”

“Why he?” asked Harriet. “I mean boats and planes and things like that are she.”

“I jist ken,” said Geordie, folding his arms and glaring through the windscreen.

“Oh, Fiat truck,” said Hamish Macbeth, “this is your friend speaking. This is not your master, Geordie Mason. We’re going to Skulag, so be a nice truck and get a move on.”

He grinned as he turned the key in the ignition, a grin that faded as the old engine roared into life.

“I bid ye so, but would yis listen?” demanded Geordie with gloomy satisfaction.

Hamish drove steadily down the road, reflecting that he should be taking better care of Harriet. Perhaps Geordie would start seeing green snakes or spiders before they reached the village. And yet the man did not smell of drink.

“Is there a pub of some kind?” he asked.

“Aye,” said Geordie. “Down at the hotel, The Highland Comfort, next tae the jetty.”

The village of Skulag was a small cluster of low houses standing end-on to the sea, some of them thatched in the old manner with heather. There was no one to be seen as they rattled down the cobbled main street. Hamish parked neatly in front of the hotel, which was on a small rise above the jetty. It was a two-storeyed white-washed building, originally built in the Victorian era as a holiday home for some misguided Glasgow merchant who had survived only one holiday summer before putting the place up for sale. It had been an hotel ever since.

Inside, apart from a hutch of a reception desk, the rooms leading off the hall still bore their Victorian legends of ‘Drawing-Room’, ‘Smoking-Room’, and ‘Billiard Room’.

Hamish, who had been in such hotels before, opened the door marked ‘Drawing-Room’ and there, sure enough, was the bar along one wall. Along the other wall was a line of glass-and-steel windows overlooking the jetty.

“What are you having?” asked Hamish. “I’d sit at a table over at the window, Harriet. I doubt if the natives are friendly.” He nodded towards the line of small men in caps who were propping up the bar. They looked back at him with sullen hostility.

“A whisky and water,” said Harriet.

Hamish ordered two whiskies and water and then carried them over to a table at the window.

“There’s that poor mad truck-driver,” said Harriet.

Hamish looked out. The truck was where he’d left it, parked on the rise. A little below, at the entrance to the jetty, stood Geordie, leaning forward against the force of the wind and trying to light a cigarette.

And then, in front of Hamish’s horrified eyes, the truck began to creep forward and Geordie was standing in a direct line of its approach.

Hamish struggled with the rusty catch of the window and swung it open. “Geordie!” he yelled desperately. “Look out!”

Geordie looked up, startled. The truck stopped dead.

“Wait a minute,” said Hamish to Harriet. He ran outside the hotel and straight up to Geordie. “You’d ‘better have the brakes on that truck of yours checked,” he shouted against the screaming of the wind.

Geordie shrugged. “What’s the point? Anyway, himself stopped when he heard you.”

Hamish went back to the truck and climbed inside the cabin. The keys were still in the ignition. He switched on the engine and put his foot gently on the accelerator. Nothing happened. The brakes held firm.

He switched off the engine and got down and walked to the front of the truck. There was no explanation why the thing had suddenly stopped. It was parked on a slope, it had started moving, and it had stopped when he called.

He shrugged and went back into the bar to join Harriet.

“Odd,” he said. “Did you see that?”

“He should get it checked,” said Harriet. “A good mechanic would sort the trouble out in no time.”

The men at the bar were staring at both of them and talking rapidly in Gaelic. “What are they saying?” asked Harriet.

“My Gaelic’s a bit rusty,” said Hamish, “but they are saying, I gather, some pretty nasty things about Jane. That wee man there with the black hair is saying she should be driven off the island and the other one is saying someone should kill the bitch.”

“How awful! Why are they so nasty about her? Jane’s harmless.”

“I think it’s just because they are nasty people,” said Hamish. He shouted something in Gaelic in a sharp voice and the men relapsed into sulky silence.

The door to the bar opened and a large policeman lumbered in. He had a huge round fiery-red face and small watery eyes. Those eyes rested briefly on Hamish and then sharpened. He marched up to their table.

“Whit are you doing here?” Harriet looked from Hamish to the policeman in surprise.

“Holiday, Sandy,” said Hamish briefly.

“At The Happy Wanderer?”

Hamish nodded.

“You need to pit on weight, man, no’ lose it.” Sandy looked cynically down at Hamish’s thin and lanky form. “Wait a minute. The place is closed. She’s got her friends there.”

“One of which is me,” said Hamish equably.

“You’re up tae something.” Sandy looked mulish. “And if I find you’re poaching on my territory, I’ll phone Strathbane and have ye sent home.”

“Do that.” Hamish gazed up at him blandly.

Sandy muttered something, turned and threw a longing look at the bar, and then slouched out.

“What was all that about?” asked Harriet. “Have you a criminal record?”

Hamish shook his head. “I’ll tell you the truth if you promise to keep it to yourself. I am the local copper in a village called Lochdubh on the west coast of Sutherland. Jane asked me to come because she was afraid someone was trying to kill her.”

“Oh, the bathroom heater. But that was an accident. But of course I won’t tell anyone who you are.”

“Jane herself thought it an accident but she went to a Mrs. Bannerman in this village and got her fortune told. This Mrs. Bannennan told her that someone from far away was trying to kill her. Jane had also just missed being hit by a falling rock. She was worried it might be one of you. I plan to see Mrs. Bannerman this morning. Would you like to come along?”

Harriet grinned. “Lead on, Sherlock. This is all very exciting.”

“Now that you know the truth about me,” said Hamish, “tell me what you think of the other guests. Let’s start with the horrible Heather.”

“I’ve met types like Heather on visits to Glasgow,” said Harriet. “She seems to spend an awful lot on entertaining any visiting celebrity she can, running a sort of Glaswegian salon. She’s a fairly rich, old–fashioned Communist, looking for another totalitarian regime to worship now that Stalinism has been finally discredited. Says she was brought up in the Gorbals when it was a really horrible slum and tells very colourful stories and I am not sure I believe any of them. Quotes Sartre in very bad French. Refers to celebrities by their first names, Rudi being Rudolph Nureyev, things like that. Adores Jane and is jealous of her at the same time. Jane has no political affiliations that I know of, but she hails from an old county family, and that’s enough for a snob like Heather. Jane’s maiden name is Bellingham. Her pa owns a minor stately home in Wiltshire and Heather keeps hinting she’d like an invitation. Heather is the kind who hangs around the private section of stately homes on view to the public in the hope that one of the family will emerge and recognise one of their own kind.”

“I don’t get it,” said Hamish. “And her a Communist!”

“When it comes to social climbing, such as Heather never lets politics get in the way, hence her friendship with Jane. Hates romance writers. There’s still plenty of first-class romance writers around, but she reserves her venom for what used to be called novelettes, you know, the laird and the country girl, or the advertising exec and the secretary. It’s still the laird and the country girl or whatever, but with lashings of sex thrown in. Nothing too vulgar. Lots of euphemisms. She says all their royalties should be taken from them by the government and given to writers’ workshops to help the up and coming intellectual. She’s about fifty-three. I would say Diarmuid is a bit younger.

“I don’t think there’s much more to Diarmuid than what you see. He is a supremely vain man and yet appears proud of his unlikeable wife. That atmosphere between them this morning was totally new. He’s in real estate, so he can’t be doing too well at the moment with the fall in the market.

“John Wetherby. Well, that seems to have been an odd marriage. He delights in running Jane down. I sometimes wonder if she had affairs to score off him. I sometimes wonder if she had any affairs at all. She is a good business woman, but I can’t seem to find anything deeper than what you see on the surface. John is a successful banister, opinionated to the point of smugness. Why he accepted Jane’s invitation I do not know. I cannot see one trace of affection in his manner towards her. I gather he is a trifle mean and Jane told me he probably jumped at the idea of a free holiday.”

Hamish winced and said quickly, “And the Carpenters?”

“He’s got a farm in north Yorkshire. At first when I saw them flirting with each other and cooing at each other, I thought that marriage looked too good to be true, but I think they are a genuinely nice and rather innocent couple.”

“And Harriet Shaw?”

She smiled and he liked the way her eyes crinkled up.

“Widow, no children, writes cookery books which are moderately successful. Gets money from occasional television programmes and cookery articles for magazines. Wonders what she is doing on this bleak island talking about suspects to a policeman.”

Hamish laughed. “Drink up and let’s see this Bannerman woman. I’ll just find out at the bar where she lives.”

Harriet waited for him at the door. “Last cottage at the end of the main street, on the left,” said Hamish, returning from the bar. “Let’s get out of here. You could cut the hostility with a knife.”

As they were leaving, a housemaid, about to descend the stairs, saw them, and retreated quickly.

“Nobody loves us,” mourned Hamish.

They walked down the main street, and women appeared outside their cottages and stood watching them. One approached them, a small woman with a fat white face. She caught hold of Hamish’s sleeve and began to talk to him urgently in Gaelic. Hamish listened patiently and then shook himself free and walked on.

“What did she say?” asked Harriet.

“She said that Jane’s a whore. There was a bad storm the other week and two of the fishermen were washed overboard. They say it’s God’s punishment for having a scarlet woman on the island. Jane’s been here for two years now. Doesn’t she notice any of this? She got me here to protect her because she thinks someone’s trying to kill her. Well, after listening to that woman, I’ve decided that maybe someone is, and if she doesn’t shut up shop soon and leave, they’ll drown her.”

“How did she know who we are?”

“They saw me arriving with her off the boat. Two men left the bar while we were there. The fact that I spoke to them in Gaelic would go round the village in minutes. Here’s this Bannerman woman’s place.”

She opened the door before they could knock. “I knew you wass coming,” she intoned. Harriet looked startled, but Hamish grinned and said, “Phoned you from the bar, did they?”

“Come in,” she said rather huffily. They entered a low, dark parlour. Mrs. Bannerman ushered them into chairs and sat facing them.

She was in her thirties, guessed Hamish, and was wearing what looked like a 1960s Carnaby Street outfit: peasant blouse, flowered skirt, bare feet, and beads. Her hair was long and straggly and she had a thin, unhealthy-looking face and small black eyes. He saw with surprise that her neck was dirty. It was not often one saw a dirty neck these days.

She leaned forward and looked into Hamish’s eyes. “Well, Hamish Macbeth,” she crooned, “and what haff you to say tome?”

Harriet started thinking the woman really had psychic powers, but Hamish glanced at the phone in the corner of the room. His conversation with Sandy would have been overheard. Sandy had a loud voice. Sandy had probably dived into the bar after they left and the barman had phoned Mrs. Bannerman with the details.

“I am here on holiday,” said Hamish, “but I would still like to know why you told Mrs. Wetherby that someone was trying to kill her or going to kill her.”

“I saw death,” moaned Mrs. Bannerman, “right there at the bottom of the cup. I felt a great blackness come ower me.”

“I think you were put up to it, that’s what I think,” said Hamish, becoming tired of all this mumbo-jumbo, particularly as he sensed that Mrs. Bannerman was enjoying herself hugely. “And where is Mr. Bannerman?”

“Dead and gone,” she wailed.

“Dead of what?”

“Died innis bed,” she snapped, her voice momentarily coarsening and losing its Highland accent.

“Where?”

“Ah’m I bein’ accused o’ anything?” demanded Mrs. Bannerman angrily.

“Only that I think you’re a fraud.”

“Whit?” She rose to her feet in a rage. “Get oot o’ ma hoose and go and bile yer heid!”

“That didn’t get you very far,” said Harriet once they were outside.

The Fiat truck rattled along the main street and came to a stop in front of them. “If you’re going back, I’ll gie ye a lift,” called Geordie.

“May as well,” said Hamish. They climbed into the cabin.

“Going all right now?” asked Hamish.

“Aye,” said Geordie. “I gave him a wee bit o’ oil, not that he needs it, but he aye likes a treat.”

Hamish stifled a groan. “Tell me about Mrs. Bannerman,” he said. “She’s not an islander, is she?”

“Naw, herself’s frae Glasgow. Come up here, must hae been about five years ago.”

“So why all the hostility to Mrs. Wetherby and none to her?”

“She doesnae go around dressed in them short skirts,” said Geordie. “Besides, she knows her tea-leaves and ye go careful wi’ someone like that.”

“Did that silly woman tell you that your truck was trying to kill you?” asked Hamish.

“Don’t be daft,” said Geordie. “The truck telt me.”

Hamish gave him an uneasy look, wondering just how deranged Geordie was.

“And what of Mrs. Bannerman’s husband?”

“Doing a stretch for GBH in Barlinnie Prison.”

“What’s g.b.h.?” asked Harriet.

“Grievous bodily harm,” said Hamish but with his eyes still fixed curiously on the driver. “How did you find that out?”

“Her mither arrived frae Glasgow last year on a visit. Rare gossip that woman wass.”

“And who did Bannerman attack?” pursued Hamish.

“I don’t know,” said Geordie. “Will ye leave me tae drive himself in peace?”

They travelled the rest of the way in silence, thanked Geordie when they got off at The Happy Wanderer, and went inside to find the others quite resentful that they had decided to go off on their own.

Hamish asked Jane if he might use her phone and then went into the office and phoned his mother. “Priscilla gone?” he asked.

“No,” said his mother. “She can’t really travel. The roads are still bad. She started fretting about her father and the guests, so I told her to get on to Mr. Johnson at the Lochdubh Hotel. They’re closed down for the winter. I told her to ask him to go up and offer his services for the Christmas period and ask a high price. The colonel will want his money’s worth out o’ Johnson, but he’ll respect someone he’s paying a lot for.”

“Good idea. But I’ll bet she won’t do it.”

“She already has,” said his mother triumphantly.

“My! Can. I speak to her?”

“No, son, she’s out sledging with the children.”

They talked for a little and then Hamish rang off, trying to imagine Priscilla sledging with his brothers and sisters. Hamish had been an only child for many years, and then, when his mother was in her forties, she had begun to produce brothers and sisters for him, three boys and three girls. This largely explained Hamish’s unmarried state, for it was a Highland tradition that the eldest should stay unmarried and help to support the family. He sent everything he could home and had learned to be thrifty, as well as expert at cadging free meals.

Lunch was an edgy affair. He wondered what on earth was up when he entered the dining-room and felt the weight of the silence. Harriet told him afterwards, as they all set out for the afternoon walk with Jane, that Sheila had decided to carry her lunch into the television room in order to watch the midday showing of the Australian soaps. Heather had lectured her on the stupidity of this pastime and had even gone in and switched off the television. Shelia had burst into tears and thrown her first course of vegetable soup at Heather’s head.

They marched inland, Jane striding out in front, the rest trailing behind. The sky was darkening above and the sun was sinking low on the horizon and then, just before darkness fell, Jane stopped and pointed to the west. It was an awesome sight. They were almost at the centre of the island. It was below sea-level. Out to the west, it looked as if the whole of the Atlantic were about to come charging down on them. “How terrifying to look up at the sea,” said Harriet. She moved closer to Hamish and he put an arm around her shoulders and she leaned against him briefly, then straightened up and disengaged herself, her cheeks pink.

The exercise had revived everyone’s spirits and there was a sort of silent agreement not to quarrel. John Wetherby caught up with Jane and they headed back to the hotel. Hamish noticed that John and Jane were talking like old friends.

Dinner was pleasant. Then television destroyed everything. Heather wanted to watch a production of King Lear in modern dress; the rest wanted to watch ‘Cheers’ and ‘The Golden Girls.” Heather lectured them bitterly on the folly of watching rubbish produced by American imperialists. Jane put it to a vote and the American imperialists won. Heather stalked off to bed.

Immediately the atmosphere lightened. Diarmuid stayed to watch the comedies and laughed as hard as the rest. But when it was over, John Wetherby suddenly glared at his ex-wife, who was sharing a sofa with Diarmuid. Jane had changed into a short miniskirt and blouse. “Pull your skirt down, for God’s sake,” he snapped. “You’re showing everything.”

Jane blushed furiously. It was the first time Hamish had seen her really put out. Then she gave that merry laugh and suggested they all move through to the lounge for drinks.

Hamish retired to bed early. Once, more he felt gloomy. Once more he wished he had never come.

≡≡≡

The next day was a hell of low cloud and driving rain. House-bound, the guests idled about. Hamish began to read some of Jane’s magazines to pass the time. He found a serial in Women’s Home Journal that was extremely good and rifled through the back numbers until he had got the whole book and settled down comfortably to read.

“I’m going out for a walk,” called Jane. “Anyone coming?”

Diarmuid half-started to his feet but his wife pulled him back down. No one else moved.

“Then I’ll go myself,” said Jane. She was wearing a bright-yellow oilskin. She hesitated at the door and looked at John Wetherby. He grunted and picked up his newspaper and hid behind it.

Jane walked out.

The day dragged past. But at four in the afternoon, Hamish realised it was pitch-black outside and Jane had not returned.

“Where’s Jane?” he asked suddenly.

“Probably in the kitchen,” said John. He was now playing chess with Diarmuid.

“I’ll look,” said Harriet quickly.

She came back after about ten minutes. “She’s not in her room, and not in the kitchen, not anywhere. Her oilskin’s missing.”

Hamish got his own coat and made for the door. “Wait a bit,” called Harriet. “I’m coming with you.”

They collected torches from a ledge beside the door and made their way out into the howling gale. “Where would she go?” shouted Hamish.

“The beach,” said Harriet. “She usually walks on the beach when she’s on her own.”

They walked rapidly along the beach. The tide was coming in and great waves fanned out at their feet. Hamish was cursing himself. He had taken his duties too lightly. He should never have let her go off on her own. “You’d better take my hand,” he shouted at Harriet. “I don’t want you getting lost as well.”

Harriet had a warm, dry hand. Despite his anxiety, Hamish enjoyed the feel of it.

And then the wind dropped, just like that, as it sometimes does on the islands, with dramatic suddenness. There was no sound but the crashing of the waves.

They stopped and listened hard.

Harriet squeezed his hand urgently. “Listen! I heard something. A faint cry.”

“Probably a sheep.”

“Shhh!”

In the pause between one wave and the next, Hamish heard a faint call. It was coming from someplace in front of them. It could be a nocturnal seabird, but it had to be investigated. They walked slowly on, stopping and listening.

And then they heard it, a cry for help. Hamish swung the torch around and its powerful beam picked out a pillbox on a bluff above the beach, one of those pillboxes built out of concrete during the Second World War. Dragging Harriet after him, he ran towards it. “Jane!” he called.

“Here!” came the faint reply.

A door had been put on the pillbox, quite a modern door with a shining new bolt. Hamish jerked back the bolt and Jane Wetherby tumbled out. As Harriet comforted her, he shone the torch inside. It was full of old barrels and fishing nets and bits of machinery. Someone was using it as a storehouse.

He went back to Jane. “What happened?” he asked.

“I was walking along the beach and I saw the pillbox door open. It was the first time I had seen it open. It was a bit nosy of me, but I went to have a look inside. Nothing but nets and things. And then someone pushed me and I went flying inside and the door was slammed and bolted behind me. Those village children, no doubt.”

“Are you all right?” asked Harriet anxiously.

“Yes, fine. I wasn’t scared. I just didn’t want to spend the night in there. It was getting so cold.”

The night was bitter cold. Hamish walked back, worried. A less healthy and robust woman than Jane, locked up there and left for, say, twenty-four hours before she was found, might have died of exposure. “Who owns that pillbox, or rather, who uses it?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said Jane.

Back at the health farm, and after Jane had answered all the guests’ questions, Hamish took her aside and said it was time he had a quiet talk with her, perhaps when the others had retired for the night…

“Come to my room,” said Jane.

Hamish eyed her nervously and scratched his red hair. “What about the kitchen?” he suggested, and Jane agreed. Twelve o’clock was decided on.

The guests retired early. Hamish lay reading more magazines until midnight. Then he left his room and went through to the kitchen. He pushed open the door.

Jane was standing by the table in the centre of the room. She was wearing a black, transparent nightie over a suspender belt and black stockings and very high-heeled black shoes. “Good evening, copper,” she said.