Death of a Snob

∨ Death of a Snob ∧

5

I hope I shall never be deterred from detecting what I think a cheat, by the menace of a ruffian.

—SAMUEL JOHNSON

Hamish supposed there would be a doctor on the island. There must be. He stood up and stretched and looked up at the crag above him and then at Heather’s body. The only heights on the island were the crags at various parts of the coast. How could she have broken her neck? The crag was only about fifteen feet above the beach. It was no enormous cliff with a fall onto jagged rocks. Admittedly, if she had bounced against one of the sharp projecting edges, that might have done the trick.

The wind was less savage now and he could clearly hear the sound of voices above him. Occasionally a torch beam searched him out as more islanders began to gather. And then he heard Sandy Ferguson’s voice. “Is that you, Hamish? I’ll send a couple of men down to collect her so that Dr. Queen can have a look at the body.”

“No, you won’t,” shouted Hamish. “Nothing has to be touched. Get him down here and bring a tent to cover the body until the pathologist arrives.”

There was the sound of swearing and then a scuffle followed by the clatter of falling debris as Sandy and a thin elderly man made their way down.

“This is Dr. Queen,” said Sandy.

The doctor was a thin, spare man with a face set in lines of permanent arrogance. “I gather you’re some sort of local bobby from the west coast,” he said. “Well, stand aside, man, and let’s have a look at her.”

“Gently, now,” warned Hamish. “Don’t disturb anything.”

The doctor ignored him. “Bring that lantern closer, Sandy,” he said. “Mmm, yes. As I thought. She was blown off the top of the crag and broke her neck. Sad but straightforward. Get some men to take her up, Sandy, and get her put in my surgery while I prepare a report for the procurator fiscal.”

“You are not to touch her.” Hamish Macbeth stood foursquare beside the body.

“Why not?”

“Because I think it might be murder. I think someone struck her a savage blow on the neck wi’ a rock.”

“Dear me, don’t be a fool, there’s a good fellow,” said the doctor.

“I repeat: no one touches this body until a team from Strathbane arrives,” said Hamish stubbornly.

“You have not the authority. This is my island,” protested Sandy.

“Aye, and you’ll find yourself off it soon enough if I have my way,” snapped Hamish. “I’m telling you to leave it where it is or, by God, I’ll make trouble for both o’ ye.”

The doctor glared at him, but snobbery came to Hamish’s rescue. Had Hamish been a holidaying policeman who was bird-watching or hiking, then Dr. Queen would have ignored him. But this Macbeth was a guest at The Happy Wanderer where, the doctor had learned, there was a barrister in residence. He and the other guests might back Hamish.

“Have it your way,” he said haughtily. “But you’re going to look a right idiot, wasting the taxpayers’ money like this.”

Hamish turned to Sandy. “Are you going to phone headquarters, or am I?”

“Oh, you do it, laddie,” jeered Sandy.

“Then get a tent over the body and set two men to guard it. I’ll be back.”

One of the islanders ran Hamish to The Happy Wanderer. When he went into the lounge, the guests started up. There were also five of the island women there who, it turned out, worked as servants at the hotel during the season. Hatred for Jane seemed to have disappeared with the tragedy, and they were all exclaiming and commiserating in their soft island voices, changed from sinister threatening figures to a group of ordinary women.

“This is terrible,” said Jane.

“Where is Diarmuid?”

“In his room. He’s phoned his secretary, Jessie Maclean, and told her to get up here as fast as possible. I’ve heard of Jessie. Seems she does everything for him, including thinking, or that’s the way Heather put it once.”

“I’ve got calls to make,” said Hamish, and Jane led him into the office and left him.

Hamish decided to phone the bane of his life, Detective Chief Inspector Blair, and make his report to him direct. If he did not, it was ten to one that it would be Blair who would arrive anyway, and a Blair sulky that Hamish had not told him about it firsthand.

Blair gave Hamish his customary greeting in his heavy Glasgow accent. “How are ye, pillock?”

“Listen,” said Hamish. “I’m staying at a place called The Happy Wanderer on Eileencraig. One of the guests appears to have fallen off a crag and broken her neck, but I’m convinced it’s murder.”

There was a silence, and then Blair said sharply, “Are ye sure? Working in the holidays is a pain in the arse as it is, and ah’m no’ that keen tae get the police helicopter oot on a wild-goose chase.”

“I promised if there wass ever another murder, I’d let ye in on it,”said Hamish. “I think you ought to come and bring the works.”

“Oh, well, ah never cared much for Christmas anyways. As long as I’m back for Hogmanay, it’ll suit me. I could be daein’ wi’ the overtime.”

Hamish briefly gave a description of where the body was to be found, what the local doctor had said, why he, Hamish, thought it might be murder, and a brief summary of the little he knew of the Todds. Blair recorded it all and told Hamish to watch the body and that he and the forensic team should be with him in a couple of hours.

Hamish rang off and then rested his elbows on the desk and wondered if he was making a fool of himself. The wind had been savage. She could easily have been blown off flat crag.

The office door opened and Harriet came in and stood looking at him quietly. “Surely an accident,” she said.

“It could be murder, Harriet.”

“But we were all here!”

Not when we were searching for her, thought Hamish. Someone could have found her when they were out searching and struck her down.

“It’s got to be investigated anyway,” said Hamish wearily. “I’ve got to get back and make sure they don’t move the body.”

“Give me a few minutes and I’ll come with you. I can make a thermos of coffee and some sandwiches and take blankets along. No, don’t protest. It’s better than waiting here. There are more islanders arriving, men this time. They’re all being terribly nice to Jane. It’s a great pity it had to be Heather’s death that brought this about. I won’t be very long.”

Hamish went back to the lounge. Jane had found a long black dress and put it on. She was dispensing large whiskies to the islanders. Perhaps it was genuine sympathy, or perhaps because the news that free whisky being served acted on the Highland and Island brain wonderfully, but more islanders kept arriving every minute.

Hamish went to Diarmuid’s room and quietly opened the door. Diarmuid was sitting in an armchair, staring into space.

“I’ll get matters cleared up as soon as possible,” said Hamish quietly. “Are you all right?”

“My God,” said Diarmuid in a low voice, “I don’t feel a damn thing.”

“Shock,” said Hamish. “Do you want someone to sit with you?”

Diarmuid shuddered. “I ‘d rather be alone, Hamish.”

“I’ll send someone to fetch the doctor. You need a sedative to settle you for the night.”

Hamish went back to the lounge. John Wetherby came up to him. “Can’t you get rid of these people?” he asked. “This is hardly the occasion for a party.”

“I think it’s better for Jane that they stay,” said Hamish. “It’s high time they found out she’s just an ordinary person like themselves.”

John made a contemptuous noise which sounded like “garrr,” and strode off. The Carpenters were talking to some of the islanders. They did not look shocked, rather they looked happy and excited. Ian was talking about sheep, a subject close to any islander’s heart, and he had a rapt audience.

Harriet came back carrying a large bag. “Blankets and food,” she said briskly.

“Right,” said Hamish. “Now let’s see if someone can lend me a car.”

One islander, clutching a large tumbler of whisky, cheerfully parted with his car keys and Hamish with Harriet made his way back over to the west.

The men put on guard were happy to be relieved. “We will chust be going over to that hotel to offer our condolences,” said one eagerly.

“That’s nice of them,” said Harriet when the men had left after Hamish had instructed them to find Dr. Queen and send him to The Happy Wanderer to attend to Diarmuid.

“You’d be amazed if you knew how news travels up here,” said Hamish. “They’ve got the wind of whisky. In another hour, an awfy lot o’ islanders will have found their way to The Happy Wanderer.”

A small tent had been erected over Heather’s body, much to Harriet’s relief. The wind had dropped and the tide had started to go out. They sat down on the beach a little way away from the tent, wrapped in blankets, sipping hot coffee and eating turkey sandwiches.

“If it is murder,” said Harriet suddenly, “have you taken into account that Heather was wearing Jane’s oilskin?”

“Yes, I’ve thought of that. But we all knew Heather was wearing it.”

“But listen! The islanders didn’t know, and Jane was wearing another of her yellow oilskins, an older one, when we went out searching. In the dark, someone with a torch bent on murder might only see the gleam of yellow.”

“Could be. But I’ve a feeling, if it is murder, that the intended victim was Heather.”

“Wait a bit. Diarmuid could have staged that row. Instead of going back to the hotel, he could have followed Heather. It’s always the husband, isn’t it?”

“Yes, quite often,” said Hamish slowly. “But keep this to yourself. I thought Diarmuid had maybe staged that row so as to go back and be alone with Jane.”

“I don’t think that can be right.” Harriet shivered and Hamish put an arm about her shoulders. “Jane actually thought Diarmuid was a bit of a silly ass. She said he had only married Heather for her money because his real estate business was going down the tubes. She rather liked Heather’s adulation for her. I can’t really see Jane pinching anyone else’s husband.”

“But I saw her slip him a note on Christmas Eve.”

“Oh, well, you’ll have to ask him about that. Let’s talk about something else. Tell me about your other cases.”

Hamish talked on and they sat huddled together while the receding sea grew quieter.

Harriet was never to forget that night, sitting on a lonely Hebridean beach with a constable’s arm around her shoulders aad a dead body only a few feet away.

And then after a long time had passed and both were getting sleepy, they heard the roar of helicopters. Hamish jumped to his feet and picked up the lantern and began to wave it. The forces of law and order from Strathbane had arrived.

≡≡≡

Harriet watched, fascinated, for the next hour as photographs were taken and samples of pebbles and grit put into envelopes as a forensic team got to work. Detective Chief Inspector Blair and his sidekicks, Detectives Jimmy Anderson and Harry McNab, stood silent. Blair made a sour remark that Macbeth always seemed to have some female hanging about and retreated to the shelter of the helicopter which had brought him to the island and waited for the pathologist’s report.

The pathologist eventually emerged from the tent. “Well?” demanded Hamish.

“Could be,” he said laconically. “On the other hand, ten to one she broke her neck in the fall. The forensic boys are crawling over those rocks on the way down to see if they can find anything.”

Blair’s bulk appeared on the crag above their heads. “Is it murder?”, he asked.

“Maybe,” said the pathologist. “You can get the body photographed now. The forensic team’ll probably be here the rest of the night and then I’ll get the body flown over to the procurator fiscal in Strathbane.”

Blair heaved a great sigh. “Come on up, Macbeth,” he said. Blair was feeling thoroughly fed up. He wished he had not come. But Hamish had a gift for nosing out murders and Blair was frightened that, had he not come, the case might have been given to some young up-and-coming rival. Hamish and Harriet scrambled up after Harriet had neatly stowed blankets, thermos, and sandwich paper wrapping into the bag.

“Show us where this Happy Wanderer place is,” said Blair. “We’ll take the helicopter over. It’s on the east, isn’t it?”

Hamish nodded. He told one of the hovering islanders to take the car he had borrowed back to its owner. Harriet was tired. Everything was becoming unreal.

The helicopter lifted them over the island and landed on the beach in front of the health farm. It took a very short time, Eileencraig being only about thirty miles long and fifteen miles across at the widest part.

They all climbed down. Blair stood outraged.

All the lights in The Happy Wanderer were glaring out into the night. They could hear raucous ‘hoochs’ and the sound of fiddle and accordion.

“Jings,” said the pilot, sounding amused. “They’ve got a ceilidh on.”

And sure enough, as Blair strode into the lounge, a full-scale party was in progress. Couples were dancing Scottish reels while the rest were clapping and shouting and cheering. Jane, face flushed, was enjoying herself, dancing a reel with a small bent man. The Carpenters were clapping in time to the music. There was no sign of either John or Diarmuid.

“Shut that bloody row!” bellowed Blair, his piggy eyes blazing with fury.

He stood blocking the doorway, a heavy-set figure of officialdom. The music stopped abruptly. As Blair, his detectives, Hamish, and Harriet walked into the room, the islanders slid past them and melted away silently into the night.

“Mrs. Wetherby?” demanded Blair, approaching Jane.

“Yes?”

“I am Detective Chief Inspector Blair from Strathbane. I am investigating the death of Heather Todd.” With heavy sarcasm, he added, “I am right sorry to have broken up yer wee party.”

“You mustn’t be shocked, Mr. Blair,” said Jane earnestly. “It’s like a funeral, you see. People react to death in this way. It’s shocking, but people are always jolly glad they’re alive when anyone else has died. I read an article – ”

“I’m no’ interested in any article,” glowered Blair. “Is there a room I can use for interviews? Ah’ll need tae see the husband.”

“I’m afraid that is not possible,” said Jane firmly. “Dr. Queen has given him a sedative.”

“Oh aye? Well, I’ll start wi’ the rest o’ you. Macbeth, you can go tae yer bed. I’d let ye know if ye’r’ needed.”

“That’s not fair,” protested Harriet. “It’s his case.”

“Neffer mind,” said Hamish, although he was furious with Blair. “I need some sleep and so do you.”

“After I’ve interviewed her,” said Blair pompously, looking Harriet up and down.

Jane was efficiently clearing up dirty glasses and plates and stacking them on a tray. “You can use my office,” she said, “but you had better let me know now how it is that the constable who found the body is being barred from the investigation.”

Her upperclass accents fell unwelcomely on Blair’s ears. Blair had made up his mind it was an accident and wanted to get back to the mainland as soon as possible, and he didn’t want Hamish Macbeth around, throwing a spanner in the works. On the other hand, he didn’t want to offend anyone who might raise a dust with headquarters. “I was merely concerned for his welfare,” he growled. “All right then. You can stay, Macbeth. Show us to the office, Mrs. Wetherby, and we’ll start with you.”

Soon he was seated behind Jane’s desk, with his detectives standing respectfully behind him. That was the way he liked it. Jane sat opposite and Hamish lounged over near the door and tried not to yawn.

“Now, Mrs. Wetherby…oh, we’d better have a copper take doon yer statement. Got yer notebook, Macbeth?”

“I’m on holiday,” said Hamish patiently.

“All right, Anderson, you do it.”

Jimmy Anderson found a hard chair in the corner and pulled out a notebook.

“I saw three policemen in the other helicopter,” said Hamish, and Jimmy Anderson flashed him a grateful look.

“I’m no’ going oot tae look for them,” said Blair.

“Where is…the body?” asked Jane.

“At the doctor’s surgery in the village,” replied Blair. “Now, Mrs. Wetherby, let us begin.”

It was then that Jane dropped her bombshell. “The murderer meant to kill me, not Heather.”

Blair’s eyes bulged. “Whit?”

So Jane told him all about the reason for Hamish’s visit and about Heather’s taking her coat and Blair groaned inwardly at this extra complication. Jane then went on to describe how the others had gone out for a walk. She had meant to follow them but had got a sudden headache and had taken a couple of aspirins and gone to bed.

Hamish looked at her suspiciously. He was sure Jane had never had a headache in her life, and furthermore would have been more apt to drink herb tea if she did have a headache, rather than take aspirin.

“And then I got up,” Jane went on. The black dress had a deep V at the front. She leaned forward and stared at Blair, whose eyes goggled at the amount of rich cleavage exposed. “Diarmuid – Mr. Todd – was in the lounge and shortly afterwards I joined him. The rest, minus Heather, came back. We went out to search. I was on my own. I walked as far as the centre of the island before I gave up. I didn’t see any of the other searchers until I got back.”

Blair asked her a few more questions and then dismissed her after asking her to send John Wetherby in.

The barrister appeared looking cross, dressed in pyjamas and dressing-gown. He railed on for several minutes about the ‘indecent’ party until he was silenced by Blair’s remarking patronizingly that he had obviously never attended a Highland funeral, just as if he, Blair, had not been equally shocked by the festivities.

Blair’s questions, to Hamish’s surprise, were only perfunctory. His surprise increased as the Carpenters and Hariet were also questioned in the same brief manner. Where was Blair’s usual hectoring and bullying?

They were finally all allowed to go to bed, Blair saying he would be back first thing in the morning.

“It nearly is morning,” said Harriet to Hamish and then gave a cavernous yawn. “So much for a police grilling. He never really asked anything. Maybe he’s saving his big guns for Diarmuid.”

“Maybe,” said Hamish, although in his heart of hearts he felt that Blair, who had worked Christmas so as to have extra time to enjoy the New Year celebrations, was only interested in getting it written off as an accident.

≡≡≡

Blair did not turn up until ten o’clock, and with him he brought Jessie Maclean, Diarmuid’s secretary, who had arrived on a fishing boat. She was a slim, pale girl in her late twenties with straight brown hair and horn-rimmed spectacles.

Diarmuid was summoned to Jane’s office. Jessie went to fetch him and tried to follow nun in, but Blair told her sharply that as she had reported to him as soon as she had got off the boat and he had taken her statement, he had no more need of her.

Flanked by his detectives and this time with a uniformed policeman complete with tape recorder, Blair started his interrogation. Hamish hovered by the door, watching Diarmuid’s bland and handsome face. He discovered to his surprise that he did not like Diarmuid, but why, he did not know. Heather had been so awful that all he had felt before for Diarmuid was mild pity.

“Now,” said Blair, “we are sorry we have to put you through this, Mr. Todd, but I’ll need your movements yesterday.”

Diarmuid took out a pipe, filled it and lit it carefully. “I had a row with my wife when we were out walking, I confess that.”

“What was it about?”

“Money,” said Diarmuid. “I told her she would need to pull her horns in a bit when we got back to Glasgow. No more lavish entertaining. She took exception to this and stormed off. I walked about a bit and then returned to the hotel. There was no sign of Jane, so I read a book. Jane emerged from her room just as the others returned.” He went on to describe the search, saying he had walked miles along the beach on the eastern side of the island in front of the hotel.

“I gather from Miss Maclean that your finances are in a bad way,” said Blair.

“Well, I must admit the slump in house sales caused by the high interest rates caught me on the hop. That’s why Heather and I could take such a long holiday. I dismissed the staff and locked up for the whiter. I’d already sold off two of my branches, so there was just the main office left. What a mess. Thank God Jessie’s here. She’ll be able to sort it all out.”

“Do you inherit anything on your wife’s death?”

“Nothing but a joint overdraft,” said Diarmuid.

“Was her life insured?”

Hamish listened hard.

“It was, but we didn’t keep up the payments, so there’s nothing from that.” Diarmuid sighed heavily.

Blair looked at him sharply. “You know we can check on all this at the Glasgow end?”

“You don’t even need to do that,” said Diarmuid a trifle smugly. “Jessie’s brought all the relevant business papers with her.”

“Why should she do that?”

“Because I phoned her and told her to.”

Blair looked at him suspiciously as he sat there smoking and frowning deeply, like an actor sitting smoking and frowning deeply. There was always something stagy about Diarmuid, Hamish thought.

The Detective Chief Inspector was worried. He did not like Diarmuid’s attitude. He did not like the way he had had the foresight to get his secretary to come up, complete with papers. But Blair wanted to wrap the case up as soon as possible.

“How did Miss Maclean get here so quickly?” he asked.

“There’s a night train from Glasgow to Oban, which arrives at six in the morning. I told her to get that and I phoned the hotel and arranged for one of the fishing boats to go over and pick her up.”

“You must ha’ paid a fair whack to get a fishing boat to go all that way.”

“Yes, but I needed Jessie’s help,” said Diarmuid patiently.

“Who was the fisherman?” asked Hamish suddenly.

“Angus Macleod. Him that usually runs trips to the mainland for Jane,” said Diarmuid.

“But,” expostulated Hamish, “Angus Macleod iss the fellow who shut Jane up in that pillbox.”

“What’s this?” asked Blair.

With a studied patience that was beginning to get on Hamish’s nerves, Diarmuid explained about the ‘prank’. Hamish could almost sense Blair relaxing. There was now no doubt in Hamish’s mind that Blair was going to do everything to prove Heather’s death an accident, and unless Diarmuid was incredibly naive, he was helping the inspector do just that.

Blaur brought the interview to an end. He said he would go back to the hotel and see if the forensic team had reported in with anything.

Hamish went in search of Jane. “Would you mind very much if I stayed on for a bit?” he asked her. “I am convinced that Blair is going to drop the case. I would like to stay on and see if I can discover anything.”

“Then you should,” said Jane earnestly. “I can see you are dedicated to your job, Hamish, and you must have peace of mind or you will begin to suffer from stress.”

Much as Hamish had expected, Blair came back in two hours’ time and called them all together. “The forensic team found nothing on thae rocks or on the beach.”

“Which proves,” said Hamish quickly, “that someone must have struck her a blow on the neck. If she had hit a rock on her road down, then – ”

“Aw, shut up,” said Blair, his Glaswegian accent becoming thicker in his irritation. “Better heads than yours, laddie, hiv discovered it was an accident. Mr. Todd, your wife’s body has been taken to the procurator fiscal at Strathbane and can be recovered there. As I said, it was an accident, and that’s that.”

Hamish followed him out. “I don’t think you really believe what you’ve just said,” he remarked.

“Don’t you tell me what I’m thinking or no’ thinking,” sneered Blair, “and remember you’re addressing a senior officer. Accident, Macbeth. That’s all. Anyway, you got a tasty piece there tae keep ye warm.”

“Don’t dare speak to me of Harriet Shaw in those terms,” shouted Hamish.

“Ach, dinnae be daft. I’m no’ speakin’ about the auld bird what writes cookery books. Jane Wetherby. Yum, yum.” And with a heavy wink, Blair got into a battered rented car. Jimmy Anderson, at the wheel, threw Hamish a sympathetic look before driving off.

Hamish went back indoors to hear Diarmuid say pathetically that he would like to stay on for a couple of days to recover before going to Strathbane to make arrangements for the body to be taken down to Glasgow for burial. Jessie, he said, was in the office making all the necessary phone calls.

Harriet looked at Hamish sympathetically. “Care to go out?” she asked.

Hamish looked at her, at her clear eyes, crisp hair and firm figure and felt all his anger and irritation melt away.

“What had ye in mind?” he asked.

“A late working lunch, copper. We’ve had nothing to eat. Get some paper and we’ll go down to the hotel and try to work out who did it.”

“So you think it might be murder as well?”

“Not exactly. But I think we ought to be sure. Blair’s the sort of man who makes one want to prove him wrong.”

They walked briskly towards Skulag. The day was crisp and clear, and for once, windless. The sea shone with a dull grey light on their left. Hamish was surprised not to see Geordie’s truck. Geordie, it appeared, plied his way regularly between the west coast and the village of Skulag, bringing lobsters and fish over, to be loaded onto the ferry when it arrived for delivery to the mainland, or, in summer, put in a large refrigerator shed behind the jetty to await the arrival of the next ferry. In winter, it was always cold enough to store the seafood on the jetty. He also collected goods brought over by ferry or fishing boat and delivered them to various croft houses dotted over the island. He had been working over Christmas, so it was possible he had finally decided to take a rest. The islanders were mainly Presbyterian and a lot of them would think Christmas, despite its name, a pagan festival. Hogmanay – New Year’s Eve – was the real celebration.

The owner of The Highland Comfort, who acted as barman and, it appeared, just about everything else, informed them sourly that the dining-room was closed in the winter but that they could have a meal in the bar. When they were seated, he handed them two greasy menus and left them to make up their minds.

“So much for Highland delicacies,” mourned Harriet. “Chips with everything. Hamburger and chips, lasagne and chips, pie and chips, sausage and chips, and ham, egg and chips.”

“I’ll have the ham, egg and chips,” said Hamish, “and a half pint of beer.”

Harriet settled for the same. The landlord wrote their order down carefully. “I shouldnae hae tae do this mysel’,” he complained. “But I cannae get staff. There wass wan girl left and herself walked out on me.”

He slouched off.

“Since it’ll probably take him about an hour to fry an egg,” said Hamish, “let’s get started.” He opened out a folded pad of paper and took out a pen. “Jane Wetherby first. Any views?”

“I keep thinking about that coat,” said Harriet eagerly. “Look, while Jane was away, we watched an Agatha Christie play on television. A woman calls in Poirot to protect her against somebody who has already tried to murder her. She invites her cousin to stay a few days with her. The cousin puts on the woman’s highly coloured wrap and is killed by mistake. But it turned out that the cousin was the intended victim all along. The woman had manufactured attempts on her life to hide that fact. Jane wasn’t with us. But she could have watched the show on television at her friend Priscilla’s hotel.”

Priscilla. Hamish looked startled. He hadn’t phoned to wish anyone a happy Christmas. They would not know what he was up to, because there would only be about two lines in the newspapers describing the accidental death of a tourist on Eileencraig. Harriet was still talking.

“So you see, Hamish, we have something of the same scenario here. Jane told you of attempts on her life. And it was Jane who told Heather to take her coat. Jane could easily have lied about that headache and slipped out of the house by the back way. The question is…why?”

“That brings us to Diarmuid,” said Hamish. “Heather was older, a bore and a snob. He married her for her money and that money is gone. Did he have someone else ready to be Mrs. Todd Number Two? His business is so bad, he closed down for the whole of December and a bit of January. He could have run after Heather when he was out of sight of the rest of you, stalked her over to the west coast, waited until she climbed up on that crag, and then struck her on the side of the neck with a sharp rock. All he had to do then was hurl the rock in the sea. As I told you, I saw Jane slipping him a note. Jane is a very wealthy woman with a good business. She’s also got looks, and Heather had none. Worth killing for, don’t you think? Diarmuid is incredibly vain, and vain men are dangerous.”

“What about John Wetherby?” asked Harriet. “You know, Hamish, for all his sour manner, I think he’s still in love with Jane. What if something made him go mad with jealousy? What if he went over the edge and struck down Heather when we were searching for her, seeing only that yellow oilskin and thinking it was Jane?”

Hamish wrote busily. “We’d better check into John Wetherby’s business affairs and find out if Jane still has a will in his favour, that is, if she ever had one. What about the Carpenters? Is there something there?”

“I don’t think so,” said Harriet roundly, “and neither do you. But I suppose they’ll have to be checked into as well. But how can you do it, not being officially on the case?”

“Wonder o’ wonders,” said Hamish, “here comes our food and beer.”

As they munched their way through greasy chips, salty, fatty ham and watery eggs, and drank their flat beer, Hamish kept looking down at his notes. “I think I should find out what was in that note Jane slipped to Diarmuid,” he said. “But then, we should concentrate more on Heather’s character. See what you can get out of that secretary. Make a friend of her.”

Harriet grinned. “Right you are, Sherlock.”

≡≡≡

When they returned to the health farm, it was to find Diarmuid had retreated to his room again. The rest, including Jessie, were watching television.

Harriet asked Jessie if she would like to take a walk and get a bit of fresh air. Jessie agreed and the pair walked outside.

Harriet studied her companion as they both strolled along the beach. Jessie was attired in a chain store’s contribution to ‘power dressing’. She had on a pin-striped suit, the jacket having very large square shoulder pads, and a short tailored skirt. With it, she wore a high-necked white blouse and black court shoes with low heels.

After some general conversation on the tragedy, Harriet asked curiously, “But what about you? What will you do now? I mean, I gather Diarmuid’s business was pretty much finished.”

“Oh, there’ll be a lot of winding-up of affairs,” said Jessie. “I’ll be kept busy. Then I might go away somewhere. Try going to another country.”

“But you’ve had a month off.”

“And glad of it, too,” said Jessie waspishly. “The Todds were a couple of slave-drivers.”

“How can that be, if the business wasn’t doing at all well? I mean, what was there to do?”

Jessie stopped and looked at Harriet suspiciously and then shrugged. “It was her that was the problem. I don’t believe that woman even knew how to wipe her own backside.” The crudity sounded odd, spoken as it was in Jessie’s prim, Scottish-accented, carefully etecuted vowels. “Who do you think did all the work, setting up her ‘little parties’? Who typed her damn letters to this and that? Me. Even if the business hadn’t collapsed, I meant to leave anyway.”

“Did she entertain much?” Harriet watched Jessie closely, thinking what a moody, rather spiteful girl she appeared. “Oh, lots. It was all supposed to help the business. Invite the ‘right’ people in the hope they would become clients, lavish drink and concert tickets on them. And a useless lot they were, too. Occasionally she’d net a celebrity, by playing one celebrity off against the other, you know – ‘Mr. Bloggs is coming, Mr. Biggs’, and Mr. Biggs is reassured that there is to be another eminent celebrity, as is Mr. Bloggs when he is phoned and told that Mr. Biggs is coming. Old trick, but a surprising lot fell for it. I think Mr. Todd will find he hasn’t a friend in the world when it gets about he hasn’t any money.” This was said with a peculiar relish.

“Heather told me some very colourful stories about her upbringing in the Gorbals when it was one of the worst shims in Glasgow,” said Harriet, “so how did she have so much money?”

Jessie sniffed. “That was one of her lies to make her a genuine member of the left. She was brought up as an only child in a large house in Billhead, which, in case you don’t know, is a posh suburb near the university. She became left-wing to get an entree into a society which would otherwise have rejected her – you know, theatre, writing, the arts.”

“Was Diamond a good boss?”

“Yes, he’d have been all right on his own, but he expected me to work for his wife as well.”

“So why didn’t you leave? How long were you with them?”

“Six years. Look, they paid well, I’ll say that for them. I’ve always wanted to-live in Spain and I’ve kept that as my goal. Now, I’m cold. Run off and tell that copper boyfriend of yours everything I’ve said because that’s the only reason you’re marching me along this cold beach.”

And Harriet Shaw had the grace to blush.