Death of a Poison Pen

One reporter, less seduced by Jenny’s attractions than the rest, asked her, “Is it true that you were listening at the police station door whilst Hamish Macbeth was discussing the case and that’s how you found out about the Robertses?”

Jenny blushed but said, “I went to see Hamish, yes, but all I heard was someone with him, so I went away. You see, I had already worked things out for myself and I had been going to tell him. But when I heard he had someone with him, I decided to investigate for myself.” She fluttered her eyelashes at the reporter. “It was silly of me, I know, but at that time it was just an idea.”

? Death of a Poison Pen ?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

In winter, when the dismal rain

Came down in slanting lines,

And Wind, that grand old harper, smote

His thunder-harp of pines.

—Alexander Smith

The following day, Hamish received a phone call from Priscilla. “What’s all this?” asked Priscilla. “Jenny’s over the front page of every newspaper saying she solved the murders.”

“She was listening at the kitchen door when I was discussing the case with Elspeth. That’s how she found out.”

“Elspeth? Oh, that little reporter. That your latest squeeze?”

“Elspeth Grant is a friend of mine and has been a great help to me.”

There was a silence and then Priscilla said, “So can’t Elspeth put the papers right?”

“The papers have got their heroine and they are not going to change their story and say it was some boring Highland copper. Are you coming up soon?”

“I thought of flying up to see Jenny, but I am too cross with her to bother now. She shouldn’t have snatched the glory from you.”

“Well, the lassie’s probably done me a favour. Anytime I have even a wee bit of success, Peter Daviot starts mumbling about moving me to Strathbane.”

“But he surely knows it was you who solved the murders?”

“Aye, but he’s driven by the press. What gets in the press is only what interests Daviot. Another thing: I am perfectly sure Blair backed up Jenny’s story so that I would get as little credit as possible.”

“Jenny’s parents phoned me today,” said Priscilla. “They are now speeding north to take their daughter home, so she’ll soon be out of your hair.”

Hamish wanted to ask her how her love life was getting on and whether she was about to get married soon, but he dreaded what the answer might be. So instead, he talked about the locals, about how he had to woo back his dog’s affections because Lugs had spent so much time with Angela that he seemed to prefer going there, and how pleasant it was to settle back down to a less demanding life.

“Why did the Robertses do it?” asked Priscilla.

“Because their child wasn’t their own.”

“I know that. But to commit two murders!”

“I’ll find out and let you know,” said Hamish. “Jimmy Anderson is going to call and let me see a transcript of the interview.”

When she rang off, Hamish went out to feed his hens and check on his sheep. The air was cold and damp and the wind had shifted round to the northeast. The long Highland winter was howling on the threshold.

¦

By faking references, Pat Mallone had managed to get a job on the Dublin Mercury as a junior reporter. On his way to work, he stopped by a shop to buy cigarettes, a habit he had taken up after his flight from the Highlands. Although he was perfectly sure the Scottish police would not go to the trouble to extradite anyone on such a minor charge, he still felt uneasy. The shop sold the British newspapers, and there was Jenny’s face smiling up at him from the front pages. He bought several and then, after buying his cigarettes as well, stood on Grafton Street and read the stories.

If only he had stayed, he thought bitterly, he could have basked in some reflected glory. Of course, none of what had happened to him was really his fault. It had all been just bad luck.

¦

After another two days, Hamish was just beginning to think that Jimmy had forgotten about him when the man himself appeared in the evening, carrying a bottle of whisky.

“Come ben,” said Hamish. “It is not like you to be providing the whisky.”

“I feel you deserve it, laddie. I was getting damn sick o’ Braikie. How you can bear living up here fair beats me.” As if in answer to him, the wind howled around the police station like an Irish banshee.

“Sit yourself down,” said Hamish, putting two glasses on the kitchen table. “Did Cyril Roberts confess?”

“Aye,” said Jimmy, pouring a large whisky for himself and a small one for Hamish. He tugged several pieces of paper out of his jacket pocket. “Read that.”

Hamish spread the papers on the table and began to read.

“Amy Beattie,” Cyril Roberts had written, “came to us as a cleaner sixteen years ago. My wife, Mary, found her crying in the kitchen one day and asked her what was troubling her. Amy said she was pregnant. She said she would have to have the child and then give it up for adoption. Now, Mary and I couldn’t have children. We’d always longed for one. We’d thought of adoption, but the adoption societies are so difficult. So when Mary told me, we hit upon a plan. We’ve got a holiday cottage over in Caithness, just north of Helmsdale. Amy would go and live there when her time was near. Meanwhile, Mary would tell everyone she was pregnant. Then when Amy was due, we’d go over there. Mary used to be a nurse so she would deliver the baby. She would come back with it as our own.

“We doted on Penny as she grew up. Have you seen her? Have you ever seen anything more beautiful? Amy seemed to have started a new life for herself. We’d given her a large sum of money and she bought the post office. We’d inherited a lot of money after Mary pushed her own mother down the stairs.”

“I remember,” said Hamish, “that Mary said her mother had Alzheimer’s and died a week before she married Cyril.” He went back to reading.

“And then one day Amy Beattie turned up. She said she wanted Penny to know the identity of her real mother. We couldn’t be having that. We threatened her and we thought that would keep her quiet. But she went to Miss McAndrew. Miss McAndrew was hot for Penny to go to university and Penny wanted a career in television. Miss McAndrew told us that if we did not make sure Penny went to the university, then she would tell everyone in Braikie that Penny was not our child. Then the anonymous letter arrived, addressed to Penny. The post was late that morning and it arrived after Penny had left for school. We opened and read it and we were pretty sure it was from Miss McAndrew.

“Mary said no one was going to take our precious child away. We told Amy that we had decided to let her tell Penny but we would like to discuss it with her first. We went round to her flat. Mary put a strong sleeping draught in her tea and when she was unconscious, we hanged her and left that anonymous letter, knowing that Miss McAndrew would read about it in the papers and take it as a warning. Just to be sure, we took a bit of video film and sent it to her as a further warning. No, I don’t know who sent it to the community centre. We thought that was an end to it. Then Miss McAndrew phoned up soon afterwards and said she had been wrestling with her conscience. She said she would have to go to the police and tell them everything. It was late at night and Mary said she wouldn’t go to the police that night and had to be silenced. I said that one killing was enough and Mary said she would kill me if I didn’t help her. She said she would do it. Now, Penny had keys to Miss McAndrew’s house. I begged Mary not to do it, just to frighten Miss McAndrew, and Mary said all right. We let ourselves in and crept up to the bedroom and then Mary produced this knife and began to stab and stab and stab.

“And we thought for a while we’d got clean away with both murders. We were even able to go on as normal. We adore Penny. And then that girl Jenny called. Mary hit her on the head. I wish we had just bluffed our way out of