insensitive, posturing clod,” commented John Wetherby. “Really!” screamed the Carpenters.
Hamish held up his hands for silence. “Hear me out,” he said.
“The murder was committed by Jane Wetherby and Diarmuid Todd.” They gazed at him open-mouthed.
“It was all planned,” said Hamish. “All they needed was the opportunity. The stage had been set by having so-called attempts on Jane’s life. I was invited over to make everything more realistic. With everyone going for a walk on a wild day, Jane suggested that Heather take her coat so that she could claim, as she later did, that she, Jane, had been the intended victim, not Heather. Either Diarmuid followed Heather and murdered her, or he returned to the hotel and collected Jane and they murdered her together.”
Jane burst into tears and Diarmuid slowly rose to his feet, ashen-faced.
The others sat around stricken.
“I am afraid I hid in the lounge last night and listened to your conversation,” said Hamish. “I heard you, Jane, tell Diarmuid that no one must ever know what you had done.” He looked steadily at the weeping Jane.
Then Jane straightened and marched up to Hamish, proud bosoms jutting, head thrown back. “I know how it must look,” she said, “but you see…” She swung round and shouted at Diarmuid, “For goodness’ sake, tell him! Do you want to be tried for murder?”
Diarmuid just stood there, looking miserable.
Hamish had an awful feeling that his beautiful love-triangle-murder theory was falling into ruins somewhere in his head. “You tell me,” he said to Jane.
Jane said loudly, “We couldn’t have done it. Either of us. We were in bed together. I was lonely. I needed someone. Then Diarmuid came back. He needed someone, too. He was dejected because his business had collapsed and Heather was treating him like dirt because he couldn’t finance her little salons any longer. We had just got dressed and were back in the lounge when you all came back. Don’t you see, that’s what I meant when I said no one must ever know.” She rounded on John Wetherby. “You’re sitting there smirking; well, hear this! This was the first affair I’ve had in years. I was never unfaithful to you. I only pretended to be to get revenge for your insults and slights and nasty remarks. And all that’s happened is that I’ve been to bed with some useless geek. I hate men!
“So did we bash Heather while pretending to look for her? No, we did not, for I wouldn’t go anywhere with Diarmuid, not ever again.”
John Wetherby came to her side and put an arm about her waist. “I‘ll sue this copper for harassment, Jane.”
“Piss off, all of you,” shouted Jane, her face contorted with rage. “There’s a ferry leaves tomorrow. Be on it. All of you!”
She stormed out.
Hamish stood silent, feeling like an utter fool. How could he have ever suspected Jane? Harriet had been right. It was his dislike of Diarmuid that had coloured his judgement.
Jane’s voice had held the ring of truth.
“Let’s get out of here.” It was Harriet at his elbow.
Sadly Hamish trailed out after her. The tide was out and they walked side by side over the hard white sand towards the sea. The sand was covered at low tide by an inch of water and the flat island soon disappeared behind them, leaving them walking across a mirror of water. Large clouds sailed overhead and under their feet. The absence of any feeling of land or place gave Harriet a slight feeling of vertigo. They came to a stop and stood together.
“How weird this is,” said Harriet softly. “Standing in the middle of nowhere. In the cities there are lights and people and noise. No wonder poor Geordie is mad. I would go mad myself if I lived on this island for very long.”
“I think it hass affected my wits.” The sibilancy of Hamish’s accent showed how distressed he was. He hadn’t even phoned Priscilla, he had been so hell-bent on finding a murderer. Let it go, his mind told him, it was an accident. Let it go.
“Let’s go down to Skulag,” said Harriet.
They walked back together. A wind sprang up and began to ruffle tile surface of the water beneath their feet. They had reached the road and had gone a little way along it when an islander stopped his car beside them and offered them a lift. They gratefully accepted, remorseful Hamish glad of this sign of the islanders’ new tolerance for Jane; before Heather’s death, no one would have stopped to offer any guest from The Happy Wanderer a lift.
But to his fury, when they reached The Highland Comfort, the driver stretched out a dirty paw and said, “That’ll be twa pund and fifty pee.”
“Two pounds and fifty pence for what?” demanded Hamish.
“That’s whit ye’d pay for a taxi,” said the driver.
Harriet turned away as the normally mild Hamish Mac-beth told the driver what to do with his car and where to put it before joining her in front of the hotel.
“That was all I needed,” said Hamish angrily.
“Whisky’s what we need,” said Harriet bracingly. “I can’t drink any more of that gnat’s piss they call beer.”
When they were seated by the window in the bar, each nursing a large glass of whisky, Harriet looked at gloomy Hamish and said gently, “You mustn’t give up now. You were so sure it was murder.”
“Aye, but I’m right sorry about Jane. I cannae bring to mind a time before when I made such a fool of myself.”
“It’s the motive that‘s lacking,” said Harriet.
Hamish looked at her. “The motive usually lies in the person themselves. That is, the murderee. What are the usual motives? Passion and money, but usually money. Of course, there’s drink or drugs, but I think whoever it was put an end to Heather had all their wits about them. I cannae think what else I can do. I am sure that the clue to the whole business, lies somewhere in Glasglow. Talk to me about Heather.”
“There’s nothing more than I’ve already told you.” Harriet looked out at the jetty. Geordie’s truck was parked there, and as she watched, the small figure of Geordie came round the side of it and gave the truck a savage kick in the tyre. “Geordie’s just kicked his truck,” said Harriet. “He shouldn’t have done that.”
“You’re getting as bad as him.” Hamish cast an indifferent glance out of the window. “Go on about Heather.”
“Let me see. Oh, I know.” Harriet’s fece lit up. “You’ll never believe this, but I came across her reading that romance of Sheila’s. She was so absorbed in it, she didn’t even notice me.”
“So much for her hating romances,” commented Hamish.
“She seemed to have an obsession about them,” said Harriet. “She cornered me and asked me to go for a walk with her, and then, as soon as we were walking along the beach, she started to grill me about how much romance writers made. I said there were romance writers and romance writers, you know, from the trash to the really top-level stuff. First-time authors in Britain often get as little as two hundred pounds a book. She said – let me think – she said that surely America was the market. What about New York publishers? I said I thought it was possible for a first-time author to get a lot of money, provided the book was a block-buster. I got the strange impression she had written one, but when I asked her, she denied it with her usual sneers.”
“We’ve got nothing else to go on.” Hamish sat and thought hard. “Look, do you have a New York agent?”
“Yes, and a very good one.”
“Would he know if there was a block-buster in the offing, say, one with a background of Glasgow? What else do we know about Heather? She claimed to have been brought up in the Gorbals, that horrible slum, or it was when she was growing up. See if there’s any hint of a book. It’s a bit farfetched. But if Heather had actually pulled it off and was due a large sum of money, which her husband would inherit, then Diarmuid might find it worthwhile to push her off that crag after breaking her neck.”
“So back to Diarmuid. Are you sure…?”
“No, I am not letting my dislike colour my judgement this time. Could you phone your agent?”
“All right,” said Harriet. “So long as Jane gives me permission.”
When they arrived back at The Happy Wanderer it was to find the place wearing an air of mourning caused more by Jane’s desire to get rid of her guests than by Heather’s death. It was a new Jane, tight-faced and brisk.
