Death of a Poison Pen

“So what? So what?” demanded Jessie. “Where was he the day Miss McAndrew was murdered, when she was murdered?”

“Oh, of course you’re right,” said Jenny. “What do you think of Billy?”

“I don’t hold with adultery,” said Nessie. “But mind you, that wife of his is a fiend and Billy aye had the reputation of being a kind and decent man. If I were you, I’d be talking to Penny Roberts’s parents. Now that they know Miss McAndrew was writing those dreadful letters, they might come out with something about her that they didn’t realise before.”

“We’ll do that. What a good idea!” enthused Jenny.

“You know Mr. Blakey at the old folks’ club?” said Hamish.

“Senior citizens,” corrected Jessie. “He rightly came to us for advice. At the beginning, we vetted the videos for him in case there would be anything nasty. But we haven’t been there for a while.”

Both Jenny and Hamish rose to their feet. “You’re a good lassie,” said Jessie. “A good lassie. We hope to see you in church on Sunday, church on Sunday.”

“I’ll be there,” said Jenny with a warm smile.

The Currie sisters stood at their parlour window and watched Hamish and Jenny leave. Jenny stumbled and clutched at Hamish’s arm for support.

Nessie shook her head. “It’s that evil underwear. Enough to unbalance anyone. Do you think she’s a virgin?”

“She’d have to be, to be,” said Jessie. “I mean, it would be uncomfortable otherwise when you think – ”

“I’d rather not, if you don’t mind,” said Nessie severely. “And you shouldn’t be thinking such thoughts. But she’s a brand to be saved from the burning. We’ll have a go at her after church on Sunday.”

? Death of a Poison Pen ?

5

I had rather take my chance that some traitors will escape detection than spread abroad a spirit of general suspicion and distrust, which accepts rumour and gossip in place of undismayed and unintimidated inquiry.

—Learned Hand

Hamish explianed to Jenny that he could not take her to Braikie in a police vehicle, but she said cheerfully that she would follow behind him in her ‘ridiculous little car.’

Jenny’s ambition had changed. She was no longer interested in snaring Hamish Macbeth, but – remembering how much Priscilla had talked about the cases she and Hamish had solved together – in returning to London with the story about how her help had solved two murders.

Hamish just hoped Blair would not see him around with Jenny in tow. He had to admit to himself that she had a knack of getting people to warm to her.

He decided to call on Penny Roberts’s parents first. He stopped in the main street and checked a computer list of addresses, then swung the Land Rover round and headed out again towards the coast end of the town and stopped outside a row of Victorian villas. The Robertses lived in a neat house, two-storeyed, with pointed gables. He knocked at the door, guiltily aware of the small figure of Jenny behind him, realising it must look odd to bring a civilian along with him.

A dark-haired skinny woman opened the door and surveyed him. She had a thick-lipped mouth, small eyes, and an incipient moustache. Must be a friend or relative, he thought. “Police,” he said. “I wondered if I could be having a word with Mr. or Mrs. Roberts.”

“Come in,” she said, stepping back. “I’m Mrs. Roberts.”

Startled, Hamish thought that Penny must surely have inherited her stunning looks from her father, but when they were ushered into a living room, Mr. Roberts was introduced. He was also dark and skinny and very hairy. “I am Hamish Macbeth.” Hamish removed his cap and tucked it under his arm. “As this is an unofficial visit, I hope you don’t mind my friend Jenny Ogilvie joining us.”

“Not at all,” said Mrs. Roberts. “Sit down. A dreadful business, all this.”

Jenny glanced around the living room. There was a two-bar electric fire, glowing orange in front of a fireplace, blocked up with newspaper. But the furniture, like the house, was dark and Victorian with two oils of Highland landscapes hanging from walls decorated in faded wallpaper.

“This house must have been in your family a long time,” said Jenny.

“Yes, it belonged to my great-grandfather,” said Mrs. Roberts. “I was lucky in a way, if you can call it luck. My mother died a week before me and Cyril” – she nodded towards her husband – “were due to get married. Of course, we were going to stay with Mother, but the poor soul was fair gone with Alzheimer’s, so it was a blessed release.”

“Housing is so difficult these days, Mrs. Roberts,” said Jenny.

Hamish was about to interrupt her, but Mrs. Roberts smiled on Jenny and said, “Call me Mary. You’re quite right. We could never have afforded a place like this. Not then. But Cyril is doing nicely now. He’s a civil engineer with Bradley’s in Strathbane. Not at work, I can see you’re wondering. With all this going on, Cyril took a few days off.”

“Quite right,” said Jenny. “You want to be with your family at a time like this.”

Hamish cleared his throat. “Did you get any of the poison-pen letters?”

There was a brief silence. “No,” said Mary Roberts. “I mean, it turns out it was Miss McAndrew that was writing them and she was so fond of Penny that she wouldn’t attack us. I mean, after all, we’ve no guilty secrets.”

And yet, Hamish thought, I feel you’re lying. He pressed on. “Weren’t you made uneasy that the headmistress should make such a pet of your daughter?”

“We were pleased for her,” said Cyril. “I mean, Penny’s a bright girl, head and shoulders above the rest. It seemed natural to us that Miss McAndrew should take such a great interest.”

Hamish’s eyes roamed briefly around the room. There were photos of Penny everywhere: Penny as a toddler, Penny as a schoolgirl, Penny on holiday in Cornwall.

“Did you know Miss Beattie well?” asked Jenny.

“We knew her the way everyone else in Braikie knew her,” said Mary. “We chatted a bit over the counter, that sort of thing.”

“But you didn’t socialise with her?”

“No, she really isn’t in our class,” said Mary with all the simple snobbery of a small, remote village.

Hamish looked at them for a moment, puzzled. There was a secret in this room – in the air.

“Didn’t you have any inkling that Miss McAndrew was a poison-pen writer?”

“Oh, no,” said Mary. “I mean, such a respectable body! How could we dream she would do such a thing?”

Jenny spoke suddenly. “Before Penny,” she said, “who was teacher’s pet?”

“Pardon?”

“I mean, before Penny, do you know who was Miss McAndrew’s favourite?”

Mary Roberts and her husband exchanged glances. “Let me see,” said Mary. “There was Jessie Briggs.”

“And is she still at school?”

“No, she left two years ago.”

“Where does she live?” asked Hamish.

“At the council houses. Highland Close. I don’t know the number.”

“Is she working?”

“I don’t know.”

Hamish asked more questions about their opinion of the late Miss McAndrew, but they did seem genuinely bewildered that the respected headmistress had been anything other than perfect.

¦

Outside, Hamish said, “What prompted you to ask about another favourite?”