“And would she maybe have a diary or anything with notes?”
“No, she did not,” said Jimmy Anderson. “Deil a piece o’ paper or a note. Her money’s there and her credit cards and cheque-book.”
“And it was in her room?”
“Aye, and Mr Blair still thinks someone killed her to stop her publishing something.”
“What have you got on them, just by way of a wee gossip?” Hamish reached a hand into a vase and produced a bottle of Scotch. “You’ll be having a dram, of course.”
“That’s very kind of you,” said Anderson, visibly thawing. “Don’t see any harm in telling you, only don’t tell Blair. Cheers. Right, now. We’re waiting to hear about the Roths. Blair’s keen on them all of a sudden despite that Buy British thing. He thinks there’s a chance Roth might have Mafia connections and Lady Jane might have been on to it. Would damage his career.”
“Would it now,” said Hamish, pouring himself a whisky. “Mind you, it doesn’t seem to have got in the way of an American politician’s career before. What about Amy Roth?”
“We’re trying to find a bit on her too.”
“But Lady Jane would not have had the time to find out about the Roths. I mean, if it’s that difficult.”
“All these bookings were made at least eight months ago and that’s when Lady Jane got the list. She’s been in the States since then.”
“She certainly worked hard for her living,” said Hamish. “A little more to warm you, Mr Anderson?”
“Thank you. Call me Jimmy. As to the rest, Jeremy Blythe’s got an interest in politics as well. He was supposed to be sent down from Oxford for having an affair with the wife of one of the dons, but there’s more to it than that. While he was having an affair with her, he also found time to get one of the local barmaids pregnant, and her husband raised a stink at the college. That way the don’s wife found out and made a stink. Then he owed money all over the place although Daddy’s rich. Wasn’t studying. Sent down and finished his degree at London University. Became respectable but is still paying for the upkeep of the barmaid’s kid. Her husband settled for that out of court. Daddy bought him a partnership, but he’s been making rumblings of becoming the next Conservative candidate. At a party last year, old friend from Oxford started ribbing him about the barmaid and this Jeremy punched him rotten. Police called in but no charges. Filthy temper, he has.
“Alice Wilson chucked a brick through a neighbour’s window when she was a kid and ended up in court. Not much there.
“Daphne Gore comes from a rich family. Caused a scandal by running off with a Spanish waiter who, it turned out, had no intention of marrying her but had to be bought off by Daphne’s parents. Girl went into a depression and was in a psychiatric clinic for a few months. Could be a bit of insanity still around.
“Heather and John Cartwright. Very suspicious. Owned up they knew Lady Jane was out to get the school and they’re both fishing mad. Not a sport with them, more a religion.
“Charlie Baxter. You can never tell with kids of that age, but I’m sure he’s out of it. The mother, On the other hand, is an hysterical type.”
“And the major?” prompted Hamish. “He was more humiliated by Lady Jane than any of them.”
“Oh, the fishing and all that. We heard about how he’d threatened to kill her. Don’t think there’s anything to worry about there. Fine old soldier. Blair likes him. But we’re waiting for a full report.”
There was the crunch of wheels on the gravel outside. One minute Hamish was lounging in the chair opposite Anderson. The next he was gone – and the bottle of whisky.
Hamish ambled along the front. A pale sun was beginning to turn the mist to gold, and there was a long patch of greenish-blue sky out on the horizon where the tiny white dot of a yacht bucketed about to show the approaching wind beyond the shelter of the harbour. The tide was out, leaving an expanse of oily pebbled beach scattered with the debris of storms and flotsam and jetsam from boats.
He tried to focus his whole mind on the problem of the murder to banish the haunting picture of Priscilla languishing away the afternoon in this man Harrington’s arms.
Then he saw the Roths approaching. They were an odd pair, he thought. Amy was a big, soft woman, but Marvin’s six feet topped her by a few inches. Although her movements were usually slow and calm, there seemed an underlying restlessness about her. She was wearing a trouser suit of faded denim with a scarf knotted about her throat. Marvin had changed into his usual sombre black business suit, and his bald head shone in the yellow light from the sea.
“When is all this going to end?” demanded Marvin as the couple came abreast of Hamish. “Amy isn’t used to being treated the way she’s been by your coppers. That Blair thinks he’s hot shit.”
“I’m used to being treated like a lady,” said Amy. “I thought all you Britishers were supposed to be gentlemen.”
“We’re just like other folk,” said Hamish soothingly. “Like sweeties. We come in all shapes and sizes and some of us are horrible.”
“Sweeties?” queried Amy, momentarily diverted.
“Candy,” translated Marvin. “See here, Amy’s like aristocracy back home. This Blair wouldn’t treat your Queen like this.”
“It’s to my way of thinking that he might,” said Hamish.
“Well, it’s a pity Amy’s folks have all passed away or they would have something to say about this.”
Hamish looked at Amy as Marvin spoke and noticed the tightening of the skin at the corners of her eyelids and the way she was obviously ferreting around in her mind for a change of subject. He had a sudden intuition that Amy had been lying about her background. Well, a lot of people did, but they didn’t go around committing murder when they were found out. Or did they?
“Why doesn’t Blair just arrest that major? He’s the only one who had it in for Lady Jane,” said Amy. “You heard about his trick with the salmon?”
“Oh, aye, the gossip went two times around the village and back again. It is very hard to keep anything quiet in the Highlands.”
Amy muttered something like, “Just like red hook,” and Hamish wondered whether it was something to do with fishing.
“Except murder,” said Marvin. “This place is the asshole of the world. I don’t like the country, I don’t like the hick servants at the hotel. What’s a FEB?”
“Nothing that would apply to you, Mr Roth. It is just an expression the barman uses.”
“Him!” said Marvin with great contempt. “He can’t even make a dry martini. One part gin to three parts warm French is his idea. Jeez, the fuckers in this dump piss me off.”
“Honey,” pleaded Amy, “watch your language.”
Hamish’s red eyebrows had vanished up under his cap with shock.
“Sorry,” said Marvin wearily. “I guess I’m frightened. I feel trapped here. If we’re going for this goddam constitutional, then we’d better get on with it.”
“Catch any fish?” asked Hamish.
“Jeremy and Heather caught a trout each,” said Marvin, “but those salmon just can’t be caught, in my opinion. They just jump about the place and keep well away from the hooks.”
“I could lend you one of my flies,” volunteered Hamish. “I have had a bit of luck with it.”
“Say, why don’t you join us for dinner tonight and bring it with you,” said Marvin. “Everyone knows you’re not on the case and we’re getting a bit sick of each other. After all, one of us did it and we all sit around wondering who’s going to be next.”
Hamish accepted the invitation and went on his way.
As he approached the hotel, he saw Jeremy coming down towards it from the direction of the Marag, still wearing his fishing gear.
“Got one!” he shouted as Hamish approached. He held up a fair-sized trout.
“Let’s get into the hotel,” said Hamish, noticing a reporter and photographer heading in their direction.
They walked together into the little room where Jeremy placed his catch on the scales and logged the weight in the book. “I was hearing that you were seen in the corridor outside Lady Jane’s room the night she was murdered,” said Hamish.
“Nonsense,” said Jeremy, carefully lifting his fish off the scales. “Aren’t you supposed to be out of this investigation? I don’t think Blair would like to hear you had been asking questions.”
