Death of a Snob

∨ Death of a Snob ∧

7

Vanity, like murder, will out.

—HANNAH COWLEY

Glasgow. Hamish was bewildered. He had not visited the city in years. Everything seemed to have changed. Landmarks he had known as a child were gone forever. What of St. Enoch Square, which was once commanded by the station hotel, the very epitome of Victorian architecture? All gone, down to the tin advertisement which used to be on the wall opposite the Renfrew bus stop: “They Come As a Boon and a Blessing to Men, The Pickwick, the Owl, and the Waverky Pen.” Now there was a large glass pyramid, very much like the one outside the Louvre in Paris, but housing a shopping centre covering the whole area of the square.

He and Harriet had left their bags in a small hotel in the Great Western Road and had taken a taxi to drive them about the city. They dined in an Italian restaurant after their tour, Harriet saying they should have an early night and start their investigations in the morning. Diarmuid had hired a car in Oban and had gone, after all, with Jessie to Strathbane to make arrangements for Heather’s body to be taken south to a funeral parlour in Glasgow.

Hamish said good night to Harriet outside her hotel room. All of a sudden he found himself remembering that impulsive kiss she had given him and wondering if he could have another. But by that time, she had closed the door. He was strongly attracted to her, that he realised, and then, hard on that thought, he remembered Priscilla. He went to his own room and dialled the Tommel Castle Hotel.

To his amazement, he was told Priscilla was not back yet. He asked for Mr. Johnson and soon the hotel manager of the Lochdubh Hotel was on the line. “How’re you getting on?” asked Hamish.

“Just fine,” said Mr. Johnson. “Everything’s running like clockwork.”

“Not having any troubles with the colonel?”

“Och, no, I just get on with the work, Hamish, and ignore his tantrums. I’m thinking of working here permanently.”

“And what has Priscilla to say to that?”

“Actually, it was her idea. She phoned up at Christmas, worried about what was happening, and when I told her everything, despite her lather’s frequent interference, was running all right, she suggested I stay on. Suits me. The pay’s a damn sight better than at the Lochdubh. When are you coming back?”

“Shortly,” said Hamish. “I’d better phone Priscilla. Still at Rogart?”

“Aye, still there and having a grand time, by the sound of it.”

Hamish then rang his mother and apologized for not having called sooner, and after asking about various members of the family, asked to speak to Priscilla. “I’m afraid you can’t,” came his mother’s voice. “She’s gone off tae the pub with your dad and his friends for a drink.”

Hamish briefly tried to imagine the elegant Priscilla propping up some Highland bar with his father and friends and found he could not.

“Where are you, son?” asked his mother.

“In Glasgow.”

“At Jean’s?”

Jean was Hamish’s cousin. “No,” said Hamish, “I’m at the Fleur De Lys Hotel in the Great Western Road.”

“What are ye doing there? It’s awfy expensive.”

“Och, it’s chust a wee place,” said Hamish, taking in the luxury of his bedroom surroundings for the first time and feeling like a kept man.

“No, no, I read an article aboot it,” came his mother’s voice. “How can you afford a place like that?”

Hamish found himself blushing. “It’s a long story, Ma. I’ll tell ye all about it when I get home.”

He talked some more and then rang off. He undressed, got into bed and lay awake for a long time, thinking about the case; and the more he thought about it, the more he decided it must have been an accident and that the weird atmosphere of Eileencraig had put ideas of murder into his head.

But in the morning, over breakfast, he found Harriet was anxious to start the investigations. “I mink we should call on Diarmuid,” she said. “Where does he live?”

“Morris Mace, as I recall.”

She took out a street map and studied it. “Why, that’s just around the corner. We can walk there.”

Morris Place turned out to be a small square of Victorian houses, mostly divided into flats, but Diarmuid, it transpired, owned a whole house. They rang the bell and waited.

After some time, Diarmuid opened the door. He was impeccably dressed in a pin-striped suit, white shirt, and striped silk tie.

“Going out?” asked Hamish.

“I was thinking about going down to the office,” said, Diarmuid, blocking the doorway, “although I’m pretty tired. I got back from the north in the small hours of the morning. What are you doing here?”

“We just wanted to ask you about Heather.”

He heaved an impatient sigh and reluctantly stood back, allowing them to enter. He then led the way to a sitting-room on the first floor. It was thickly carpeted and had a green silk-covered three–piece suite, both armchairs and sofa being ornamented with silk tassels. Heavy green silk fringed curtains were drawn back to let in the pale, grey daylight. A gas fire of simulated logs was flaring away on the hearth. In one corner of the room there was a bar. A low coffee-table stood in front of the fire, its polished oak surface protected with coasters depicting paintings by Impressionist artists. Diarmuid ushered them into chairs and then sat down, adjusting his handsome features into what he obviously considered, an expression of suitable grief.

Hamish’s first question appeared to surprise him. Was Heather writing a book? Diarmuid said no, although he added that she was always scribbling away at things. “If she had written a book,” said Diarmuid, “then she would have got Jessie to type it. Jessie typed all her letters.”

Hamish looked at him curiously. “Jessie was your secretary. Didn’t she resent having to work for your wife as well?”

“Oh, no, she’s a good girl, and besides, Heather paid her separately.”

“Where is she now?”

“At home.”

Hamish took out a small notebook in which he had written all the phone numbers and addresses of his suspects. “Would you mind if I used your phone and gave Jessie a call?”

“Help yourself,” said Diarmuid, jerking his head to a white-and-gilt model of an early telephone which stood on a side-table by the window.

Hamish rang Jessie. When she answered, he asked her if Heather had ever asked her to type any pages of manuscript.

“No,” said Jessie harshly. “Anything else? I’m busy with the funeral arrangements.”

Hamish said no, nothing for the moment, and thoughtfully replaced the receiver.

There seemed to be nothing else to ask Diarmuid. Diarmuid appeared to have forgotten all about going to the office as he ushered them out.

“I feel like giving up,” said Harriet gloomily as they left Morris Place. “It’s such a long shot, Hamish.”

“I’d like to try that editor in New York again,” said Hamish. “I’ve got an idea.”

“Well, we can’t phone until at least three in the afternoon, when it’ll be ten in the morning in New York,” pointed out Harriet. “I’e got some shopping to do. I’ll meet you back at the hotel this afternoon.”

Hamish wandered about the city and then ate a solitary lunch, although his mind was not on what he was eating. Bits and pieces of scenes floated through his mind. Jane flushed and angry. John Wetherby electing to stay with Jane. The Carpenters, fat and miserable, trailing off to the station in Oban. Jessie, cool and competent, going off to hire a car in Oban. Diarmuid, relying on his secretary to do everything.

When Harriet came to his hotel room at three in the afternoon, Hamish began to speak immediately, as if he had been discussing the case with her all through lunch. “Look, what about this? Heather actually succeeds in writing a blockbuster. Jessie types it and sends it off…but she puts her own name on it.”

Harriet looked doubtful. “Would such as Jessie recognise a block-buster? Then we’re back to means and opportunity. Jessie was not on the island when Heather was killed.”

“But Diarmuid was,” said Hamish. “That brief fling with Jane could have been a blind.”

“He’d need to have been awfully fast to follow Heather all the way over to the other side of the island, run all the way back, and then hop into bed with Jane,” pointed out Harriet, “Then striking her down in the dark when he was supposed to be searching for her – well, that’s hardly premeditated, and if there’s money for a book involved, her death would have to be worked out carefully beforehand.”

“There’s something there,” muttered Hamish. “I can feel it.”

He picked up the phone and dialed the editor in New York. “I’m sorry to keep bothering you, but it’s terribly important that I find out who wrote that book I was asking you about.”

“Look, all right, all right,” said the editor, “I’ll give you the author’s name. It’s Fiona Stuart.”

“Her address?”

The editor’s voice was terse. “Sorry, can’t do that.”

Hamish sadly replaced the receiver. “It’s no go. The book was written by someone called Fiona Stuart. Of course it could be a pseudonym.”

“Give up, Hamish,” said Harriet. “I’m beginning to think it way an accident.”

“lust one more try,” begged Hamish. “Let me speak to that agent of yours.”

Harriet sighed but phoned her agent in New York and told the surprised man that a Highland constable called Hamish Macbeth wished to speak to him about that block-buster.

“Well, you’re in luck,” said the agent as soon as Hamish was on the phone. “The advance publicity is out. It’s a saga of vice and crime and passion in the Highlands of Scotland, purple prose, I gather, at its worst. It’s a story about a sensitive heroine who is raped by some Highland lord in Chapter One, gang-raped by yuppies in Chapter Two, mugged in Chapter Three. Falls in love with the villain in Chapter Four, and eventually, after bags of sex and mayhem, meets her true love in tune for a steamy clinch in the last chapter, her true love being the one who raped her in Chapter One. It’s called Rising Passion and is reputed to out-Jackie Collins. Fiona Stuart is the name of the author.”

Hamish put down the phone and told Harriet what her agent had said. “Hardly a romance,” he commented.

“That’s romance these days,” said Harriet drily. “I bet it all bears no relation to the Highlands whatsoever, and what woman in her right mind would fall in love with a man who’d raped her?”

Hamish put his head in his hands. “There must be some connection.” He phoned the editor again. “I told you and told you,” snapped the editor, “I can’t tell you anything about her. Why don’t you phone her agent, for Chrissakes?”

“Can you give me the name of her agent?” asked Hamish. He waited. He was not hopeful at all. He expected the editor to read him out the name of a New York agent. Her American voice twanged over the line. “Here it is. Jessie Maclean, 1256b Billhead Road, Glasgow.”

“Thank you,” said Hamish faintly. He put down the phone and turned to Harriet. “Jessie’s the agent. How does that work?”

“Easy!” cried Harriet, looking excited. “All my money goes to my agent. He takes his percentage and then sends the rest to me. If he decided to cash the money and disappear abroad, there’s nothing I could do about it. Jessie takes Heather’s book and acts as agent. She tells Heather she’s sent it off to a New York publisher. Maybe, if she was shrewd enough, she’d send several copies round the New York publishers and then play one off against the other. Then she gets the stupendous offer of half a million. She doesn’t tell Heather, but she knows the minute the book is published, Heather would know about it.”

“But Heather might never have known about it,” said Hamish. “She – Jessie, I mean – could just sit back and not offer it to any publisher in Britain. That way there would be a good chance that Heather would never find out about it being published in America.”

“But don’t you see, Hamish, for half a million she probably sold the world rights.”

“Aye, but wait a minute, for that sort of money, wouldn’t any editor want to talk to the author?”

“Doesn’t need to. All the agent has to say is that the author is very retiring, so retiring she’s written under a pseudonym. Jessie can cope with the copy-edited manuscript and the galleys and all that.”

“So we’ve done it,” said Hamish, clutching his red hair.

“But how do we prove it? There’s no Fiona Stuart. It must be Heather’s book and Jessie pinched it. But proof? All Jessie has to say is that she wrote the book herself under an assumed name and acted as her own agent. There’s no law against that. And even if we could prove it was Heather’s book, how could we tie Jessie in with the murder? She wasn’t on the island. She didn’t know about Heather’s death until Diarmuid phoned her.”

“Wait a bit,” said Harriet. “I’ve just had an idea. Listen to this. Diarmuid’s the sort of weak man who has always had his life run for him by two women, Heather at home and Jessie in the office. Such a man likes to pretend he’s the one who makes all the decisions. What if Jessie phoned him?”

Hamish looked at her silently for a long moment and then phoned The Happy Wanderer. It was a bad line and Jane’s voice sounded tinny and very far away. Hamish clutched the phone hard as he asked, “Did Diarmuid receive any phone calls on the night Heather’s death was discovered?”

“He received one from some woman,” came Jane’s voice. “He took it in my office.”

“So far so good,” said Harriet when Hamish told her. “But she wasn’t on the island.”

They argued on about the pros and cons of the case until Harriet suggested they should see a movie and take their minds off it and return to the problem afresh. But nothing new occurred to either of them. Again, outside her door that night, Hamish wondered whether to try to kiss her, but again she had closed the door on him before he could summon up the courage.

Hamish lay in his bed, tossing and turning, thinking about Eileencraig. He fell into an uneasy sleep about two in the morning, and in his dreams he was being forced off the jetty by Geordie’s truck while the maid from The Highland Comfort stood and laughed. He awoke abruptly and switched on the bedside light. That maid, glimpsed briefly, in the shadowy darkness of the stair. Fat with red hair. Wait a bit. What of a Jessie minus horn-rimmed glasses, with pads in her cheeks to fatten them and a red wig on her head? He could hardly wait for breakfast to expound this latest theory to his Watson. “Won’t work,” said Harriet. “The hotel would ask for her employment card.”

“Not necessarily,” said Hamish. “Goodness, if all the employees in hotels in Britain had to have employment cards, well, there’d be self-service. And The Highland Comfort must find it nearly impossible to get staff.”

“I can’t buy that,” retorted Harriet. “There’s little enough work on these islands as it is. Look at all the women eager to work for Jane.”

“That’s different. I bet Jane pays high wages. It’s no use phoning up the owner of The Highland Comfort because he’s not going to admit to a copper that he hires staff without employment cards. The owner’s also the barman and he was complaining about having to do everything himself. Come on, Harriet, we’re going to search Jessie’s desk.”

Diarmuid was at home. He looked surprised at being asked for his office keys but surrendered them without too much of a fuss, which Hamish thought was highly suspicious, because surely a man would expostulate over a continuing investigation by a Highland bobby when his superiors had said the case was closed.

The estate office was in St. Vincent Street in the centre of Glasgow. Already it had a depressed air of failure about it. Outside, above the street, Christmas decorations winked on and off, intensifying the shadowy gloom of the deserted office.

Harriet switched oh the lights and looked about. “Well, this is easy. Her desk has her name on it. It’s probably locked.”

But the desk drawers slid open easily. Typing paper and carbons in the top drawer, headed stationery in the second, files in the third containing correspondence to do with the sale of houses.

“Nothing,” said Hamish, disgusted. “Absolutely nothing. We’d better take the keys back to Diarmuid.”

A grey drizzle was falling. Christmas was past and people were getting ready for the New Year’s Eve celebrations still to come, but the city wore a tired, tawdry air, as if the Calvinistic ghosts of Glasgow were frowning at all this leisure time. The shops were full of people changing gifts and people clutching bits of toys which they had been supposed to assemble at home, but whose instructions they could not follow, probably because the instructions had been badly translated from Hong Kong Chinese. Christmas had done its usual merry work of setting husband against wife, relative against relative, and spreading bad will among men in general. People looked overfed and hung over and desperately worried about how much they had already spent.

A drunk man on the corner was singing, “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” It sounded like a sneer.

“I hate this time of the year,” said Hamish. “Hardly any daylight. I wish they’d make Christmas a religious festival and stop all this nonsense of decorations, cards, and gifts. A waste of money.” Then he blushed, because he was staying in Glasgow at Harriet’s expense and did not want her to think him mean.

“The trouble with Christmas,” said Harriet, “is that everyone somehow wants to recapture the glitter and magic of childhood, and it never happens if you look for it. I sometimes think that the people who spend Christmas serving meals to the homeless get the best out of it. Easter’s a different matter, but Christmas will always be a pagan festival. The Americans have the best festival – Thanksgiving. No stupid presents, just a good dinner and thanks to God, that’s the way Christmas should be.”

And having thoroughly depressed each other, Hamish and Harriet made their way back to Diarmuid’s to return the keys.

≡≡≡

Diarmuid seemed almost glad to see them this time. He insisted they come indoors and join him for a drink. Harriet privately thought that the sheer relief of never having to see his wife again had hit him at last. As they sat and talked, Hamish discovered to his amazement that Diarmuid thought his investigations merely a matter of police form. “I never knew you chaps were so thorough,” said Diarmuid, sipping a large whisky. “And all because of an accident.”

“Well, just to be even more thorough,” said Hamish, looking about, “could I inspect Heather’s things?”

“I gave her clothes to Oxfam,” said Diarmuid. “Is that what you mean?”

He was wearing an open-necked shirt with a silk cravat. He felt the cravat and a worried frown marred his good looks. He stood in front of the mirror over the fireplace and carefully straightened his cravat. He looked at his reflection in the glass and slowly smiled. Hamish thought that Diarmuid had forgotten their very existence. He was looking at what he loved most in the world.

“Not clothes,” said Hamish. “I was thinking more of paper and notebooks.”

“Mmm?” Diarmuid turned as reluctantly away from his reflection as a lover does from the face of his beloved. “Oh, Jessie was round yesterday afternoon and cleaned the place up. She’s got a kind heart. I couldn’t bear to do it myself.”

“And where did she put the stuff?”

“Into a couple of big garbage bags. Why?”

“Where are the garbage bags?” said Hamish, getting to his feet.

“Downstairs, ready for collection. As a matter of fact, the garbage truck should be along about now. What…?”

He looked in amazement as Hamish and Harriet ran from the room. Then he turned back to the glass and practised a slow, enigmatic smile. He thought that if he could raise one eyebrow like Roger Moore, it would enhance the effect.

Hamish, with Harriet behind him, hurtled out into the street. A small man was just heaving up two bags of garbage to put into the crusher.

“I want these back,” shouted Hamish.

The man hurled them down on the pavement, shrugged and followed the now slowly moving garbage truck along the street.

“Treasure trove,” said Hamish. “Let’s get these back inside and hae a look.”

Diarmuid was still practising how to raise that eyebrow as they entered the sitting-room, Hamish holding the two bags.

“We’ll chust go through these,” said Hamish.

“Mmm.” Diarmuid did not even turn round. There must be some way he could achieve it, but try as he would, both eyebrows kept going up at the same time.

Hamish opened one bag and Harriet the other and they began to sift, through the papers. Then Hamish whistled through his teeth. “Look at this.”

Harriet took the proffered page.

There was no doubt, it was part of a steamy novel. He took it from her and asked Diarmuid, “Is this your wife’s handwriting?”

Diarmuid turned reluctantly away from the mirror. “Yes, that’s Heather’s, all right. What’s this all about?”

“Did you really call Jessie to get her to come to Eileencraig?” asked Hamish. “Or did she phone you?”

Diarmuid looked uneasy. “Well, it’s hard to remember. I was in shock.”

“It’s verra important!”

“Well,” mumbled Diarmuid, “she did phone me, as a matter of fact, just to find out how I was getting along, and I told her about Heather’s death and she said she would come up right away. She asked me to phone and arrange for a boat to collect her at Oban.”

Without asking his permission, Hamish picked up the phone and dialled Jessie’s number. There was no reply. “Come on,” he said to Harriet. “I’ve an awful feeling she’s gone.”

They took a taxi the short distance to Jessie’s. It turned out to be a basement flat. He did not even bother to ring the bell. There was a forlorn, deserted air about the place. A woman was leaning against the railings outside talking to another woman. Hamish approached them.

“Have you seen Miss Jessie Maclean this morning?” he asked.

“Aye,” said one of the women placidly.

“Do you know where she was going?” Hamish demanded, “Shopping?”

“No’ unless it was shopliftin’,” said the woman and her friend laughed heartily at her wit. “She had two suitcases. Yes, she left about an hour ago wi’ her man.” – “What man?”

“Her fella. An accountant, I think that’s what she said.”

Hamish thought hard. Spain! That was where she had said she might go. He turned to the woman again. “May I use your phone? I am a policeman.”

“He must be in trouble again, Betty,” said the woman’s friend.

“In trouble? What this about trouble?” asked Hamish feverishly.

“Her man, her boyfriend. He’d done a stretch in prison, I know that,” said the woman called Betty, “because Mrs. Queen doon the road’s son used tae go tae school wi’ him and recognised nun and knew all about him.”

“Phone, please,” begged Hamish.

“I’ll take him in,” said Betty to her friend. She led Hamish up to the front door above Jessie’s basement, opened it with her key and let him into a dark hall. Hamish and Harriet waited in an agony of impatience while she fumbled with the key to the door of her ground-floor flat.

“In the hall on the table,” said Betty.

The hall was actually a dim corridor. Hamish searched through the phone book and then dialled Glasgow Airport. “Yes,” came the metallic voice from the other end in reply to Hamish’s question. “There’s a plane due to take off for Spain. It’s a charter flight delayed for mechanical reasons, but expected to leave any minute now.”

Hamish asked to be put through to airport security and introduced himself. “Find Out if there’s a Jessie Maclean on the flight to Spain, that charter flight.”

There was a long wait and then he was told there was no one of that name on the flight. He turned to the woman who was standing in the hall with a small pocket calculator, obviously working out how much to charge him for the call. “What’s the boyfriend’s name?” he demanded.

“Macdonald,” she said. “Willie Macdonald.”

Hamish spoke quickly into the phone and then waited impatiently.

Back came the reply after five agonizing minutes. “Yes, there is a Mr. and Mrs. Macdonald on board.”

“There’s a murder suspect on that plane,” said Hamish. “Get Mr. and Mrs. Macdonald off it and keep them at the airport.” Harriet, listening, heard the voice at the other end quack indignantly.

“Yes, yes,” said Hamish. “I’ll get the proper authority. Don’t let them get away!”

He put down the phone and said to Harriet. “Let’s go.”

“Whit about paying for the call?” demanded Betty. He handed her a pound note and, dragging Harriet after him, ran out and down the street, looking for a cab. It was Hogmanay, New Year’s Eve, he thought. There would be very few, if any, free cabs about. And then he saw a taxi with its light on rounding a corner and raced for it, with Harriet tumbling after him. He told the cabby to take them to police headquarters.

“How are you going to manage it, Hamish?” asked Harriet anxiously. “You’ve no proof. I mean, you’ve proof that she pinched Heather’s book but no proof she murdered her.”

“I’ll get proof,” said Hamish, leaning forward and willing the cab to go faster.

At Glasgow police headquarters there were more delays while a detective sergeant phoned Strathbane to establish Hamish’s credentials. But Hamish was lucky, Blair was still on holiday, and it was Jimmy Anderson, slightly drunk, who said that Hamish Macbeth was Scotland’s answer to Kojak, and if he said there was a murderer at Glasgow Airport, then there surely was.

Soon Harriet found herself crammed into a police car along with Hamish, two detectives, and a policewoman while a carload of four policemen followed behind. They had only gone a little way when Hamish shouted, “Stop!”

The detectives stolidly watched Hamish Macbeth hurtle into a hairdressing salon called ‘Binty’s Beauty Parlour’.

“Whit’s he daein’?” asked one laconically. “How should I know?” retorted the other. “Them Highlanders are all daft. Ye cannae figure oot the way their minds work. Maybe it’s the mountains. Something tae do wi’ the altitude. It affects their brains. Maybe he wants tae look nice for the arrest and is getting his hair cut.”

Hamish emerged carrying a paper bag and climbed back info the police car. The detective, driving, said with heavy sarcasm, “Any mair shopping you would like to do?”

“No,” said Hamish. “Chust make it quick.”

The detective put on the siren and off they went again. Harriet clutched Hamish’s hand hard as houses streamed past under the winking lights of the Christmas decorations. At one point, they had to swerve wildly to avoid a drunk weaving across the road. Glasgow had obviously started the New Year’s celebrations early.

Hamish gave the detectives an outline of his investigations and Harriet could practically feel disbelief emanating from the square shoulders of the detectives in the front seat, detectives who were used to drunken murders, savage gang fights on the housing estates, but not to sophisticated rigmaroles about books.

Fortunately, it was only a short trip to Glasgow Airport. Harriet blinked in the lights as the detectives, who obviously knew where they were going, led them along a corridor away from the staring passengers and into a room marked ‘Security’.

And there was Jessie Maclean with a tall, weedy man sitting beside her. On a long table in front of them were their suitcases.

Jessie turned white at the sight of Hamish, but she said nothing. “Open the suitcases,” ordered Hamish. Jessie slowly produced the keys. Hamish searched one of Jessie’s pale-blue suitcases carefully after examining the passports. Their passports, which showed they were married, had been issued only a few weeks before.

Then he found the contract for the book and sheets of headed paper, “Jessie Maclean, Literary Agent.” He silently took Jessie’s handbag from her and tipped out the contents. In it was a banker’s draft for the money.

Jessie glared up at him after stuffing everything back into her bag and clutching it tight. “That money’s mine,” she said. “I earned it. I wrote the book.”

Hamish put both hands on the other side of the table and leaned forward.

“What were you doing on Eileencraig the day Heather Todd was murdered?”

“You’re daft!” screamed Jessie. “You all saw me arrive. You can’t keep me. Let me out of here…”

Hamish smiled and slowly straightened up. He turned round and took the bag he had brought out of the hairdressers’ from Harriet. He turned back and opened it and edged out of the bag a handful of red hair, a wig.

Harriet reflected dizzily that she had read of people turning green but had never seen it before that moment. Jessie’s face was an awful colour under the harsh glare of the strip lighting overhead.

She rounded on her husband. “You stupid bastard!” she screamed. “You told me you’d burnt it.” She tried to rake his face with her nails and was dragged off, still screaming, by the detectives to a corner of the room, where she suddenly subsided into noisy sobs.

“Well, Willie Macdonald?” demanded Hamish. “You’d better tell all or you’ll find yourself on a murder charge as well.”

“Don’t tell him,” gulped Jessie between sobs.

“It wisnae anything to do wi’ me,” said Willie, looking down at the table. “Jessie told me the auld bag had written a book but didnae want anyone to know about it in case it got rejected, so she asked Jessie tae type it oot and put her name down as literary agent. Jessie thought it was a right load o’ rubbish. Then she got a phone call frae New York offering her a half a million on behalf of her client. She thought the whole thing up herself. Naethin’ tae dae wi’ me. She telt’ me she killed her. She hid ootside that health farm and watched for the opportunity.”

His thin, weak face suddenly looked up at Hamish in puzzlement. “But how did ye find the wig? I burnt it, like she said, in a bin in the garden at the back o’ her flat.”

“And so you probably did,” said Hamish pleasantly. “This is a wig I bought at a hairdressers’ on the road here.”

“You bastard,” whispered Jessie suddenly. “I could have got away with it.”

One of the detectives read the charges. “We’ll take them back to headquarters and get their statements. We’d better get your statement as well, Macbeth.” He held out his hand. “Detective Sergeant Peter Sinclair, Macbeth. It’s been a pleasure watching ye work. But man, man, ye took a chance buying that wig.”

Hamish shook hands with-him, and then, putting an arm around Harriet’s shoulders, he followed police and prisoners outside to the car.

≡≡≡

When they finally emerged from police headquarters, all the city bells were ringing. A drunk reeled past, red-eyed under the street lights. “Happy New Year,” he shouted.

“And so it is,” said Hamish. He put his arms around Harriet and held her close and bent his head to kiss her. He finally raised his head and looked down at her curiously. She was stiff in his arms and she had only endured that kiss.

“I think,” said Harriet breathlessly, “that we should call on Diarmuid.”

“Why?” demanded Hamish, made cross by rejection.

“The police’ll have phoned him.”

“Well, it’s New Year’s Eve and I have a feeling he’ll be all alone. Did you notice the times we were there that the phone did not ring once? No one calling to offer their condolences?”

“Very well, then,” said Hamish sulkily. “But I can tell you this, Harriet. I wish he had done it.”

They couldn’t get a cab, so Hamish went back into the police station and begged a lift in a squad car.

As he rang Diarmuid’s doorbell and waited, hoping that the man wouldn’t answer, he wondered why Harriet had disliked that kiss. She was attracted to him, he was sure of that. He was just about to turn away, relieved, when the hall light went on and then Diarmuid answered the door. He was wearing pale-blue silk pyjamas and a white satin dressing-gown with his initials monogrammed in gold on one pocket.

“Hamish and Harriet,” he exclaimed. “How good of you to come. This is a terrible business. A terrible business. The police told me about it.”

“Have you no one with you?” asked Harriet as they followed him up the stairs and into the sitting-room. Diarmuid litthe gas fire. “No,” he said. “It’s with it being New Year’s Eve. I phoned a few people but they were all busy. Can you tell me about it, Hamish? All I got from the police was that Jessie had murdered my wife and that they would be calling on me in the morning to take a statement.”

Hamish sat down. He looked curiously at Harriet, a question in his eyes. She flushed slightly and looked away.

“It’s like this,” said Hamish in a flat voice. “Your wife wrote a steamy romance…”

“Heather? She never would!”

“I don’t think she thought of it as popular writing,” said Harriet. “She probably set out to write a literary novel and that’s the way it came out. She must have read an awful lot of that kind of book, and with enjoyment, too. You can’t really write what you don’t like to read.” – Diarmuid put a finger to his brow and frowned. Does the man never stop acting? thought Hamish angrily.

“She did read a lot of them,” he volunteered, “but it was because she said she was writing a speech to give to the Workers’ Party on decadence and the decline of moral standards in popular fiction.”

What had Heather really been like under all that political pose? wondered Harriet. She must have needed a fantasy life to read and enjoy and absorb so many sexy romances.

“Anyway,” said Hamish, anxious to get this visit over with quickly, “the police telephoned the owner of The Highland Comfort this evening. Jessie, padded out and wearing a red wig, just walked in about two weeks before the murder. She said she wanted a working holiday and he was glad to get her. No, he didn’t ask for her employment card. He told the police that Jessie had told him her employment card was being sent on. He said Jane had spoiled things for him by paying high wages. He paid abysmal wages, as it turned out, so the island women who used to work for him preferred to wait until the season started and work for Jane.”

“What name did Jessie use when she was working there?” asked Harriet.

“That’s where I could kick myself,” said Hamish ruefully. “She went under the name of Fiona Stuart, Heather’s pseudonym.

“She said she didn’t mean to murder Heather. She had some idea that if she told Heather, they could split the proceeds fifty-fifty, and she meant to suggest to her that they didn’t let Diarmuid know. On her afternoon off, she hid behind that pillbox and saw us all coming out. Then she saw Heather and you, Diarmuid, having that row and Heather stalking off on her own. She followed her and when she considered they were both far enough away from the health farm, she caught up with her. Heather was amazed to see the efficient secretary, rising, it seemed, out of the moorland, wearing a red wig and with her cheeks and figure padded out.

“They walked together towards the west coast and that crag, and as they went, Jessie told Heather about her plan to split the proceeds. Heather was very excited, elated. She said her book was a literary work of art. She babbled on about possible lecture tours in the States. Jessie interrupted at last by asking her if they had a deal. Heather looked at her in surprise and said of course they hadn’t a deal.

“Jessie then asked bitterly if she could at least depend on her agent’s fee of fifteen per cent. Heather sneered that Jessie was nothing but a little secretary and was paid well for her duties and there was no need for her to get greedy. By this time she was standing on that crag. She looked out to sea and began to talk again about how famous she would be.

“Jessie said she suddenly thought of all the drudgery, all the work she had done for Heather, and she saw red. She saw a large, sharp rock lying on the ground at her feet. She picked it up and smashed it into the side of Heather’s neck. Heather fell down on that little beach and lay still. Jessie threw the rock into the sea and ran all the way back to the hotel and waited until she heard the news next day that Heather’s body had been found. She phoned you, Diarmuid, saying she was in Glasgow and you told her about Heather and she offered to come up. She was working in the bar that night and that was where you phoned to Angus Macleod to ask him to go and pick up Jessie. Jessie then approached Angus and said she was fed up with the hotel and wanted to leave, and as he was going to Oban anyway, he could take her.

“Once in Oban, she went to lodgings she had already hired and packed up the wig and the padding. Now the thing is, I do not think the murder was unpremeditated, because she had all the business papers and copies of Heather’s will and insurance in a case already with her. All she had to do was travel back with Angus and then act the part of perfect secretary.”

“Did her husband put her up to it?” asked Harriet.

“Husband? What husband?” demanded Diarmuid.

“She had married a criminal, Willie Macdonald,” said Hamish. “He had just got out of prison after serving a sentence for defrauding the company he had worked for as an accountant. He would know about cashing bank drafts and everything like that. But no, Jessie was the sole planner of the whole thing.”

“Goodness,” said Diarmuid weakly, “and to think I have had a murderess working for me!”

Suddenly he leaned forward and said eagerly, “Heather left me everything in her will. Of course, up till now ‘everything’ was nothing but debts. Will I get the money for the book?”

Hamish looked at him with distaste. “Oh, yes,” he said.

“And although all this publicity will be very painful,” put in Harriet, “it should help sales immensely.”

Diarmuid rubbed his hands. “Just wait till I tell my friends.”

“Yes, now you’ve money, you’ll probably see them all again,” said Hamish cynically, but Diarmuid wasn’t listening.

He crossed to the bar. “Well,” he said cheerfully, “this does call for a celebration.”

Hamish felt he had had enough. “No, we must go. Coming, Harriet?”

Harriet stood up reluctantly. Hamish was going to ask her questions she didn’t want to answer.

They walked silently together to their hotel. This time, Hamish followed Harriet into her room and looked down at her seriously. “I am not in the way of making passes when I think they will not be welcome,” said Hamish. “So what happened?”

“Sit down, Hamish,” said Harriet. Hamish sat on the edge of the bed and she sat beside him and took one of his hands in hers.

“I’m to blame.” Harriet looked up at him and there was the glitter of tears in her large grey eyes. “I was…I am attracted to you. I should have let you know before, but it, was all so exciting, the murder investigation, I mean.”

“Let me know what?”

“I am engaged to be married, My future husband, Neil, is an officer in the British Army. He’s due back from Hong Kong.”

Hamish removed his hand. “When?”

“In London, tomorrow. I’m travelling down on the morning plane.”

“You might have let me know,” said Hamish stiffly. “Oh, Hamish…”

He rose. “I, too, will leave in the morning,” he said without looking at her. “Thank you for all your generosity and help.”

“Hamish…”

But he walked out and closed the door behind him.

He went to his room and set the alarm in case he slept in. He would catch the train to Edinburgh in the morning and from there take the train to Inverness. He lay down on the bed, fully dressed, and tried not to feel like a fool.

And then the phone beside his ear rang sharp and insistent. He reached out and picked it up.

“Hamish!” came Priscilla Halburton-Smythe’s voice.

“Priscilla.” He sat up.

“I’ve been phoning and phoning,” cried Priscilla. “Where have you been?”

“Out. It’s a long story. What’s wrong?”

“I just wanted to wish you a Happy New Year.”

“Oh, aye, Happy New Year, Priscilla. Still with my folks?”

“No, back at the hotel. Towser’s here. He’s fine but missing you. I had the best Christmas ever. When do you get back?”

“I’m catching the Inverness train from Edinburgh tomorrow. I’ll be in Inverness just after eight. I’ll probably stay the night with my friends, Iain and Biddy, out at Torgormack, and then catch the sprinter in the morning.”

There was a silence and then Priscilla said, “I’ll come and fetch you if you like. Tomorrow. At Inverness station.”

“That would be grand, Priscilla.”

There was another silence.

Then Priscilla’s voice, sharp and anxious. “What’s up, Hamish?”

“It wass the end of a murder inquiry,” said Hamish. “I feel flat. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you.”

“How come you are staying at such an expensive hotel? Glasgow police being generous?”

“No, I’ll tell you about that as well. I’d better get some sleep.”

“All right, Hamish. Goodbye.”

Priscilla slowly replaced the receiver. Something had happened to Hamish Macbeth and she was sure it was nothing to do with the murder case he had been on.