Death of a Bore

“I can see it might be pretty in the summer,” said Matthew as he drove down into Ullapool, “but it looks wet and miserable today.”

The weather had performed one of its usual mercurial changes. Sheets of fine rain were driving in off a heaving sea in a rising gale.

They parked in the municipal car park and began to walk down to the waterfront. Elspeth clutched Matthew’s arm. “Something’s wrong,” she said.

“What? Time of the month?”

Elspeth shook her head as if to clear it. “I felt something bad,” she said uneasily.

“It’s that rich lunch we had,” said Matthew. “When my stomach’s upset, it does funny things to my brain. Where’s this Fisherman’s Arms?”

“Not far.”

“I’m soaked. I can hardly see anything for the rain.”

“It’s what we call a grand soft day,” said Elspeth. The wind whipped her umbrella out of her hand and sent it sailing into the harbour. “Oh, let’s run!”

They charged into the Fisherman’s Arms and shrugged off their soaking coats.

“I want a double whisky before I ask anyone anything,” said Matthew.

“You’re driving.”

“So what?”

“So go ahead and I’ll drive back. I’ll have a glass of white wine.”

Matthew returned with the drinks. “Wait till I get this down me and then we’ll both go to the bar and start asking questions.”

Elspeth tasted her glass of wine cautiously. She reflected she should have known better than to order white wine in a bar. It tasted like vinegar.

“Right,” said Matthew when he had gulped down his whisky. “That’s better.”

They walked up to the bar, where a diminutive highland barmaid was staring vaguely into space. Apart from Elspeth and Matthew, there were only two other customers.

Matthew handed over the photograph of Harry Tarrant.

“We’re reporters from the Daily Bugle,” he said. “We’re reporting on that murder in Cnothan. Did this man come here on the day of the murder?”

“When was that again?”

“The seventeenth.”

“Aye, so it was. I wisnae here. Big Jake was on duty. You’d best ask him.”

“Where do we find him?”

“Sullivan Road. The housing estate up the back o’ the town. Number 5.”

“Is it far? Should I go back to the car park and get the car?” asked Matthew.

“No. It’s just a toddle. Go to the end and turn left. You’ll see the council houses up on the hill.”

¦

The walk in the driving rain turned out to be a long one, and by the time they reached Big Jake’s address, they were soaked to the skin.

A man in dirty pyjamas answered the door. He was tall with a long thin face. His grey hair was thinning on top, but he had a long ponytail at the back.

“Big Jake?” asked Matthew.

“Aye.”

“We’re reporters from the Daily Bugle. Can we come in?”

“No. I’m busy.”

Matthew fished out the photograph of Harry. “Can you tell us if this man was in the Fisherman’s Arms the evening John Heppel was murdered over in Cnothan?”

“Aye, that’s him. I mind him well. I said if he drank ony mair, I’d need to take his car keys off him.”

“He was there all evening?”

“About three hours.”

“Was he with anyone?”

“No, sat by hisself drinking whisky.”

“Jake!” called a woman’s voice from inside the house.

“Like a told you,” said Jake, “I’m busy.” And he slammed the door.

“What a wasted day,” grumbled Matthew as they bent their heads before the rising storm and hurried back to the car. “I’ve an awful feeling in my bones we’re not going to find much to write about.”

But he was wrong.

? Death of a Bore ?

8

When constabulary duty’s to be done,

The policeman’s lot is not a happy one.

—W. S. Gilbert

After Matthew and Elspeth had arrived back at the Tommel Castle Hotel and had changed into dry clothes, they met in the bar.

“We’ll need to find something to write,” said Elspeth.

“Couldn’t we just stay in this nice hotel for the evening and start tomorrow?”

“No, I think…Oh, good evening, Mr. Johnson.”

“Shame about Hamish Macbeth,” said the manager.

Elspeth’s eyes widened in shock. “What’s happened to Hamish?”

“He was up at John Heppel’s cottage when someone struck him a sore blow on the head. Perry Sutherland saw the cottage door lying open and went in and found him.”

“Where is he?”

“Over at Braikie Hospital.”

“Come on, Matthew,” said Elspeth.

¦

The waiting room of Braikie Hospital was full of villagers from Lochdubh. Mrs. Wellington strode forward to meet them. “They’re only allowing us in two at a time,” she said. “You’ll need to wait.”

“How is he?” asked Elspeth.

“He had a bad blow to the head, but they say he is only slightly concussed. It’s not serious.”

“Who’s with him now?”

“Miss Garrety, the schoolteacher.”

“And who’s with her?”

Mrs. Wellington gave a sly smile. “We all agreed to let her go in on her own. It’s time Macbeth was married.”

“Is there a canteen in this place?” asked Matthew.

“Yes, on the first floor.”

“Come along, Elspeth. We’ll get a cup of tea while we’re waiting.”

When they were out of earshot, Matthew said, “I’ve got a plan.”

“Like what?”

“Let’s go down to the basement instead. Maybe there’s a laundry room there where we could disguise ourselves and jump the queue.”

“We’d be spotted. We can’t cover our faces.”

“We can if we find some surgeons’ stuff.”

Fortunately the basement area appeared to be deserted. They tried door after door. Most were locked.

“Someone’s coming,” hissed Elspeth.

“In here!” urged Matthew, reopening one of the doors he knew was unlocked.