But as soon as Mrs. Todd had switched out the light and left, Alison began to tremble. Which one of them would kill her for the money? Money was so important. She couldn’t sleep. The wind sighed through the trees outside, a mourning sound. She shivered despite the centrally heated warmth of the room.
And then she heard a soft sound outside her door. She switched on the bedside light. The door handle began to turn. Alison opened her mouth to scream but the door opened quickly and revealed Peter Jenkins. “What do you want?” asked Alison harshly.
He came and sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at her. “I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “That detective made me feel like a criminal.” Peter was wearing a paisley silk dressing gown over his pyjamas and his hair was tousled. Alison found she could not feel afraid of him.
“I’m awfully scared,” she said. “I can’t sleep either.”
He took her hand in his. “I’ll sit with you for a bit.”
“Thank you,” said Alison shyly.
They fell silent, looking at each other. Then Peter slowly bent his head and kissed Alison gently on the mouth. She wrapped her arms around him and the next thing he was lying on the bed and a few kisses later, in the bed, and a few more and they had both managed to divest themselves of their nightwear with that strange agility of people who are determined to make love.
Their lovemaking was brief but satisfactory to both. Heaven, thought Alison just before she drifted off to sleep in Peter’s arms, almost as good as driving.
? Death of a Hussy ?
7
Madam, I may not call you; mistress, I am ashamed to call you; and so I know not what to call you; but howsoever, I thank you.
—QUEEN ELIZABETH
HAMISH REALISED ON THE FOLLOWING DAY THAT HE WAS letting his admiration for Donati stop him from thinking clearly about the case. In the past, he had relied on gossip and his own intuition. He decided to follow his nose and go out to the bungalow and see what he could see.
He parked his police Land Rover out on the road. The air was clammy and still and the sea was silent. The midges, those stinging Scottish mosquitoes, were out in force, and he automatically felt in his pocket for the stick of repellent he always kept handy.
He walked quietly up to the kitchen door and then paused as he heard the animated sounds of conversation from within. He walked to the window and cautiously peered in. Mrs. Todd and P.C. Mary Graham were seated at the kitchen table, talking nineteen to the dozen.
He swore under his breath. He should have guessed that Strathbane would send a policewoman rather than a policeman to guard Alison.
He returned to his car and drove back down the road a little to one of those red telephone boxes you find in the isolated parts of the Highlands. This one was perched precariously on the edge of a cliff. He phoned the bungalow and, disguising his voice, asked for Alison. “Who is speaking?” demanded Mrs. Todd sharply.
“Ian Chisholm,” said Hamish, and then waited.
When Alison answered the phone, he said quickly, “It’s Hamish. I’m at the phone box down the road. Can you come down and meet me?”
“I can’t, Hamish,” said Alison airily. “I’m busy right now.”
“It’s very important,” said Hamish. “It won’t take long. And don’t tell anyone where you’re going.”
“All right,” said Alison and put down the receiver.
About ten minutes later, Hamish saw the little red mini, Alison’s new pride and joy, nosing its way down the cliff road.
He waited until she had parked and then climbed into the passenger seat beside her.
“What’s P.C. Graham doing inside the house?” asked Hamish. “She’s supposed to be on guard outside.”
“Well, she did ask for a cup of tea when she arrived but Mrs. Todd told her she was supposed to be on duty at the gate. The policewoman went off and started marching up and down like a sentry on duty. Mrs. Todd was fussing about the kitchen. She seemed edgy. She kept looking out of the window at…Mary, is it? Then she said, “Come to think of it, I’d feel safer with her in here,” and called her in and in about a few minutes time, they seemed to be the best of friends.”
“And why was that, do you think?”
“If you must know, Mrs. Todd opened the conversation by saying she was glad it was a sensible policewoman and not that idiot, Macbeth, and Mary said you were a layabout and they fell to tearing you to bits. What did you want to see me about?”
“It’s about that book. When Donati asked you if there was anything about the four men in that book, you said no, but you looked startled.”
“I’d just remembered something,” said Alison. “I didn’t want to tell Donati, because I felt like a spiteful fool. You see, I let them all think they were in it.”
“Oh, my! Now about the people you remembered in the book, you said Maggie had had one friend but you couldn’t quite remember the name. You said it was Glenys something.”
“It’s funny. I remembered during the night.” Alison blushed furiously. Hamish’s eyes sharpened. Alison was wearing a soft green silk blouse tucked into one of her old skirts but with a broad green leather belt with a gold clasp at her waist. She was also wearing sheer tights and high heels. She had put on eye make-up and lipstick and Hamish couldn’t flatter himself all this effort was for him. So Peter Jenkins managed to score, he thought privately.
“I just remembered all at once,” said Alison. “It was Glenys Evans.”
“And where did she live?”
Alison shook her head.
“Anyway, I might be able to find her. Now the sooner this murderer, or would-be murderer, is caught, the better for you, Alison. I am sure all these men are rushing around you hoping to marry your fortune.”
“Some of them may just like me,” said Alison sharply.
“Aye, but you could talk to them and find out if any of them bore a grudge against Maggie.” For the first time Hamish turned the full force of his charm on Alison. “It would be our secret.”
“Oh, yes,” said Alison, forgetting Peter for one glorious moment.
Hamish phoned Donati and gave him Glenys’s name. But later on, his Highland curiosity got the better of him: He had an urge to talk to this woman himself. He went straight down to the post office and demanded the London telephone books. There seemed to be a great number of Evanses. He slid his thumb down the list and then stopped in surprise. For there it was in clear type, Glenys Evans, Harold Mews, London W.I.
He went back to the police station and put through a call. An autocratic voice answered the telephone and identified itself as Glenys Evans.
“It is Hamish Macbeth from Lochdubh police in Sutherland,” began Hamish.
“Then you can stop right there,” said Glenys. “I’ve already had some pig of a detective around here this morning with a most offensive manner.”
Of course, thought Hamish quickly, Donati would telephone the Yard and they would have a man on the job first thing.
“I’m very sorry a lady like yourself had such a nasty experience,” said Hamish. “But you see, I hae a personal interest in the matter. I wass very fond o’ Mrs. Baird and I would like to get my hands on the villain who tried to murder her.”
“What! That clodhopper said she’d died of a heart attack.”
“A heart attack induced by someone rigging up her car so that it burst into flames when she turned the key in the ignition. She had four guests at the house, Crispin Witherington, James Frame, Peter Jenkins, and Steel Ironside at the time, and her niece, Alison.”
“I didn’t know she had any relatives.” There was a long silence. “All right,” said Glenys at last. “If you come down here, I’ll see what I can do to help.”
