have had anything in common with the late Mrs. Gillespie.
“Can I be having a word with you?” he asked.
“It’ll be about Mavis,” she said. She turned to her assistant. “Alice, mind the counter.”
Queenie raised the counter flap and walked through. “It’s a terrible business,” she said. “Poor Mavis.”
“I gather you were a friend of Mrs. Gillespie.”
“Yes, we often had a chat together after I’d closed up the shop. My, the poor woman did love cream cakes.”
“Did you ever get the impression – now, think carefully – that she might be a blackmailer?”
She turned a little pale.
“Look,” urged Hamish. “She’s dead. If you know anything at all, please tell me.”
“If I tell you, you’ll report me to the council,” she whispered.
“Come outside,” said Hamish. “We need a private chat.”
They walked together outside the shop. The wind had died down, and the day was warm and sunny.
“I’ll do you a deal,” said Hamish. “Whatever you tell me, I won’t report you to the council.”
She hugged herself with strong arms across her white-aproned chest.
“It’s like this. I had this plague o’ mice. Had a job getting rid o’ the things. The shop was quiet, and I happened to tell Mavis about it. ‘Let me see,’ she said. ‘I’ve a fair way with the mice.’
“I led her through to the back. I switched on the light, and there they were, mice scampering all over the place. To my horror, she took out a wee camera and started snapping off pictures. Then she said, ‘Now, Queenie, I think the health and safety people at the council would be interested in these photos.’ I told her the exterminator was coming in the morning, but I know there’s this bastard on the council who loves making life a misery for shopkeepers. She said she wouldn’t do anything about it as long as she could have a box of cream cakes every day.
That wasn’t enough. She insisted she was my friend and kept dropping in for a chat. She frightened me.”
“You should have come to me,” said Hamish. “I’d soon have shut her up. I’ll need to ask you what you were doing yesterday morning.”
“I was in the shop all morning. I can tell you which customers came in, and Alice was with me the whole time.”
“Did it never dawn on you that if she was blackmailing you, she could have been blackmailing others?”
“No. She never asked for money. Just cream cakes.”
Hamish thanked her and told her if she could think of anything else or had any idea who else Mrs. Gillespie might have been blackmailing, to let him know.
As he drove off to interview Mrs. Styles, he glanced in his rear-view mirror and noticed a small car following him with Shona Fraser at the wheel. He stopped, got out as she parked behind him, and went to speak to her.
“You should be with the detective chief inspector,” he said.
“He does nothing but shout at people. I thought I’d catch up with you. I’m sure you’re the better story.”
Hamish leered down at her. “Aye, that would be grand. I can chust see myself on the telly. Which would you say wass my best side?”
“Forget about that. Where are you going?”
“I’m going up to the Gordons’ farm to check their sheep papers are in order. Checking sheep papers is a right important thing.”
“But what about the murder!”
“The sheep papers may not be important to you,” said Hamish, whose face reflected nothing more than amiable stupidity, “but they’re life and death to some folk. Now, let me tell you all about sheep. I haff the rare knowledge of the sheep.”
“Got to go,” said Shona hurriedly.
Hamish watched, amused, as she drove off. Then the smile left his face as he continued to drive towards the home of Mrs. Styles. The fact that Mrs. Gillespie could go to such lengths to blackmail Mrs. Hendry – and for cream cakes! Gluttony, malice, control, and bullying. No wonder someone murdered her!
Mrs. Styles lived in a bungalow on the outskirts of the town. He cursed Blair as he walked up to the door. Blair would have left Mrs. Styles with a dislike and distrust of the police.
¦
Luke Teviot felt awash with tea. He found Elspeth’s idea of reporting in the Highlands very odd. Instead of going to interview the people for whom Mrs. Gillespie had cleaned, she had called on various homes between Lochdubh and Braikie, being welcomed by people she had known, drinking tea, and gossiping. But he soon began to see that she was eliciting quite a bit of information about the late Mrs. Gillespie.
At last, Elspeth said, “We’re going to see a Mrs. Samson. She lived next door to Mrs. Fleming and seems to have been a friend of Mrs. Gillespie as well as being a nasty gossip.”
“All right,” said Luke, sending a lazy spiral of cigarette smoke up into the clear air. “But if I have to drink another cup of tea or eat another scone, I’ll scream.”
Soon they were sitting in the smoky cavern of Mrs. Samson’s living room. “Do you mind if I smoke?” asked Luke.
“Yes, I do,” snapped Mrs. Samson. “Do you know what that stuff does to your lungs?”
The fire belched out another cloud of grey coal smoke.
“As I was saying,” pursued Elspeth, “we are planning to write a nice obituary about your friend.”
Those eyes magnified by the thick glasses seemed to grow even larger as Mrs. Samson gave a dry chuckle. Then she said, “You’ll have a hard time, lassie. Nobody liked her.”
“But you were her friend.”
“I liked her gossip. She knew something about everyone, even you, Miss Grant. She knew you were pining after that policeman but how he never got over Miss Halburton-Smythe.”
Luke raised his eyebrows in surprise. Elspeth said quickly, “Then obviously she often never got her facts straight. How did you both become friends?”
“She came to my door one day. She asked to use the phone. I said I’d seen her with one o’ those mobile things, but herself said the battery was dead. I let her in. She made a call from the hall to someone. She said, “I’m missing my wages and you’d better pay up.” That’s all I heard. Now I learn from that Macbeth policeman that she was a blackmailer.”
“When was this? When did she make that call?” asked Elspeth.
“Let me see. My memory isn’t so good. Maybe June last year.”
“So you didn’t know her for long?”
“No, but she was a fair gossip. That first time, she says to me, she says, your neighbour killed her husband. Did you know that? Well, I told her to sit down because I fair loathe that wee scunner next door with her airs and graces. Always complaining. She said the smoke from my lum had messed up her washing.”
Elspeth wondered briefly how any smoke managed to get up the chimney, as most of it seemed to escape into the room.
“How did Mrs. Fleming’s husband die?” asked Luke.
“Fell down the stairs and broke his neck.”
“And had Mrs. Gillespie seen this?”
“She didn’t say. She was always hinting at things. After she said that Mrs. Fleming had murdered her husband, she wouldn’t be drawn on anything. Did she make a will?”
“I suppose so,” said Elspeth. “Why?”
“Herself said she’d leave me something useful in her will.”
Elspeth was now longing to get to the house next door and interview Mrs. Fleming, but she had to go on pretending she was writing an obituary.
At last, they escaped.
“Whew!” said Elspeth. “I thought I’d choke to death. I wonder if she did make a will. Let’s try Mrs. Fleming. Put that cigarette out, Luke. Haven’t you inhaled enough smoke already?”
¦
Mrs. Styles was a formidable woman. She was built like a cottage loaf and had thick grey hair worn in a bun.
