“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.”
