Hamish Macbeth 01; Death of a Gossip

“Well, you must be pleased about that. I mean, you never were exactly one of the world’s greatest workers.”

“How would you know that, Miss Halburton-Smythe? It is not as if I have the murder on my hands every day of the week.”

“You must admit when Daddy wants to talk to you about poaching or something, you’re never where you should be. I told Daddy not to worry you about, poachers since you’re one yourself.”

“That is not a very nice thing to say.”

“I was only joking. Do you really want to find the murderer? Do you need a Watson? I shall follow you about saying, ‘By Jove, you’re a wonder. How on earth did you think of that?’”

“Oh, I suppose I’ll do as I’m told and keep out of the way,” said Hamish equably.

“Funny, I thought you’d have been dying to find out for yourself. All that Highland curiosity.” Priscilla sounded disappointed.

“Aye, well…” began Hamish, and then his gaze suddenly sharpened. Mrs Baxter and Charlie could be seen leaving the hotel.

“Are you going to ask them questions?” asked Priscilla, following his gaze. “Can I listen?”

“Och, no. The wee lad has a very interesting stamp and I wanted to have another look at it.”

“Hamish Macbeth, I give you up!”

He gave her a crooked grin. “I did not know you had ever taken me on, Miss Halburton-Smythe.”

He pushed his hat up on his forehead, thrust his hands in his pockets, and strolled off to meet the Baxters.

Highly irritated, Priscilla watched him go.

? Death of a Gossip ?

Day Five

A counsel of perfection is very easy advice to give, but is usually quite impracticable.

—Maxwell Knight, Bird Gardening

Alice started to dress hurriedly, although it was only seven in the morning. She wanted to escape from the hotel before they were besieged by the press again. They had started to filter in gradually, and by late evening they had grown to an army: an army of questioning faces. Alice’s juvenile crime loomed large in her mind. If Lady Jane could have found out about that, then they could too. Normally Alice would have been thrilled to bits at the idea of getting her photograph in the papers. But her murky past tortured her. Jeremy had been particularly warm and friendly to her the evening before. She felt sure he would not even look at her again if he found out. The major had howled at the hotel manager over the problem of the press, and the manager had at last reluctantly banned them. He was thoroughly fed up with the notoriety the murder had brought to his hotel and had hoped to ease the pain with the large amount of money the gentlemen of the press were spending in the bar. But guests other than the major had complained, guests who came every year. And so the reporters and the photographers were now billeted out in the village, most of them at a boarding house at the other end of the bay.

Alice was just on the point of leaving the room when the telephone began to ring. She stared at it and then suddenly rushed and picked it up. Her mother’s voice, sharp with agitation, sounded over the line. “What’s all this, luv? Your name’s in the morning papers. You didn’t even tell us you was going to such a place. We’re that worried.”

“It’s all right, Mum,” said Alice. “It’s got nothing to do with me.”

“I know that, luv, but that woman that was murdered, her photo’s in the papers and she was around here last week, asking questions. Said she was writing a piece on young girls who had made the move to London and their reasons for doing it.”

She must have got all our addresses from Heather, thought Alice with a sudden sickening lurch of the heart. Heather even sent me the names of the other guests, sort of to make it sound social.

Her voice shrill with anxiety, Alice asked, “Did she find out anything about me being in court?”

“You was never in court, luv.”

“Yes. ‘Member? It was when I broke Mr Jenkins’ window and he took me to the juvenile court.”

“Oh, that. She didn’t ask me and I don’t suppose anyone around here remembers a silly little thing like that. She talked to Maggie Harrison, mind.”

Alice held tightly on to the phone. Maggie Harrison had been her rival for years. If Maggie could have remembered anything nasty about her, Alice, then Maggie would have undoubtedly told everything.

“Are you there?” Her mother’s voice sounded like a squawk. “I’m in a call box and the money’s running out. Can you call me back?”

“No, Mum, I’ve got to go. I’ll be all right.”

“Take care of yourself, will you? I don’t like you getting mixed up with those sort of people.”

The line went dead.

Alice slowly replaced the receiver and wiped her damp palm on her sweater. Well, Lady Jane couldn’t write anything now.

She turned quickly and ran from the room. Outside the hotel a thin, greasy drizzle was falling.

She looked quickly along the waterfront, dreading to see a reporter waiting to pounce on her, but everything was deserted as far as she could see. She hesitated. Perhaps it would have been better to stay in the hotel. It was now banned to the press, so why bother to venture out? But the fear of anyone – Jeremy in particular – finding out about her past drove her on.

There was a pleasant smell of woodsmoke, tar, kippers, bacon and strong tea drifting from the cottages. Alice approached Constable Macbeth’s house and saw him standing in his garden, feeding the chickens. He turned at the sound of her footsteps, and she smiled weakly.

“Is your third degree over?” asked the policeman.

“It wasn’t so bad,” said Alice. “I really didn’t know that awful woman was a newspaper columnist, and I think they believed me.”

“I was just about to make a cup of tea. Would you like one?”

“Yes,” said Alice gratefully, thinking how very unlike a policeman Constable Macbeth looked. He was hatless and wearing an old army sweater and a faded pair of jeans. That chief detective had made it plain that the village constable would not be having anything to do with the investigation. Mr Macbeth must have riled him in some way because he had been quite unpleasant about it, Alice remembered. Blair had asked her if she had noticed or heard anything unusual that might point to the murderer, and Alice had shaken her head, but had said if she did remember anything she would tell Constable Macbeth, and that was when Blair had sourly pointed out that the village policeman was not part of the murder investigation.

Alice followed Hamish into his kitchen, which was long and narrow with a table against the window.

She looked around the kitchen curiously. It was messy in a clean sort of way. There were piles of magazines, china, bits of old farm implements, Victorian dolls, and stacks of jam jars.

“I’m a hoarder,” said Mr Macbeth. “If aye think a thing’ll fetch a good price if I just hang on to it. I have a terrible time throwing things away. Milk and sugar?”

“Yes, please,” said Alice. He gave her a cup, sat down next to her at the table, and heaped five spoonfuls of sugar into his own tea.

“Do I look like a murderer?” asked Alice intently.

“I think a murderer could look like anyone,” said the policeman placidly. “Now this Lady Jane, it strikes me she went to a lot of work to find out about the people who were going to be at the fishing school. How did she know who was going?”

“Oh, that’s easy. Heather sent us all a list of names and addresses. The idea is that we can get in touch with anyone in our area and maybe travel up with them. That’s how Jeremy came to travel up with Daphne. He didn’t know her before,” Alice blushed furiously and buried her nose in her cup.

“Yes, and she must have found out about me and my family after she came,” said Hamish. “She had only to