“That would be gossip,” said Nessie righteously.
“It is known as helping the police with their enquiries,” corrected Hamish.
Nessie was delighted to have official permission to gossip. “Well,” she began, “Mrs. Fiona Fleming is a young widow with two teenage sons.”
“Can’t be that young. How old are the boys?”
“Sky is thirteen and Bobby, twelve.”
“Where did she get a name like Sky?” asked Hamish, momentarily diverted.
“I don’t know. Off the telly, most like.”
“What age is Mrs. Fleming?”
“About forty, I suppose. That’s young these days.”
“Does she work?”
“Doesn’t have to. Her late husband, Bernie, had a series of DVD rental shops all ower Scotland. She sold them off when he died.”
“When did he die?”
“Let me see.” Jessie came in stooped over a laden tray. “Jessie, when did Bernie Fleming die?”
“About five years ago, five years ago.”
“How did he die?”
“Got drunk and fell down the stairs in his house. Broke his poor neck,” said Nessie with ghoulish relish.
Hamish tuned out Jessie’s chorus and concentrated on what her sister was saying.
“What sort of woman is Mrs. Fleming?”
“Dainty wee thing. Been seen around with Dr. Renfrew from the hospital. Shocking.”
“Why?”
“The man’s married.”
Hamish took an offered cup of tea from Jessie. “And what about Mrs. Styles?”
“Now, there’s a right lady for you. Good church-goer and church worker.”
“Married?”
“Married to a retired shoe salesman. He’s a bit poorly in health.”
¦
When Hamish finally managed to leave the sisters’ cottage, his head was buzzing. He longed to go and interview this Mrs. Fleming. Had her husband’s death really been an accident? Did Dr. Renfrew’s wife know about the affair – if there was an affair? He knew from bitter experience that he had only to take some female out to dinner and the twins put it round the village the next day that he was having an affair.
? Death of a Maid ?
3
—Jane Austen, letter to Anna Austen
Hamish hurried back to the police station, thinking so hard about Mrs. Fleming that he only realised when he sat down in the police station office that he had left his pets in the Land Rover.
He hurried out and released them. “You’ve eaten,” he said. They both stared up at him, and then, with that odd telepathy the dog and the cat seemed to have between them, they both ran up to the fields at the back of the station.
Hamish went back into the office and looked up Jimmy Anderson’s mobile phone number. When Jimmy came on the line, Hamish said, “I happen to know one of the women in Braikie that Mrs. Gillespie cleaned for – a Mrs. Fleming. Could you persuade the auld scunner that it might be a good idea if I went to see her?” The good thing about being a Highlander, thought Hamish, was that one could tell a white lie without any conscience whatsoever.
“Wait a bit,” Jimmy said.
Hamish waited impatiently, hearing voices in the background. Then Jimmy’s voice came on the line again. He sounded amused. “Our lord and master says you can go.”
“Just like that?”
“Aye. That wee Shona lassie was listening, and Blair wants to be a television star, so he said yes. What have you got? You’ve heard something.”
“Tell you tonight,” said Hamish, and rang off.
¦
Nessie Currie had given him a slip of paper with the addresses of both Mrs. Fleming and Mrs. Styles. He noticed that Mrs. Fleming lived very near Professor Sander.
As he drove along the shore road to Braikie, he saw that the heaving Atlantic had turned a dirty grey-black in colour, although the sky above was still blue. “Storm coming,” he muttered to himself. “I hope I get back before this road gets flooded.”
There was no doubt in his mind that the sea had risen in past years. Now the trim bungalows that stood on the other side of the road were frequently deluged. A great buffet of wind suddenly shook the Land Rover, and he was glad to get into the shelter of the main street and then turn off the road which led to the villas.
Like Professor Sander, Mrs. Fleming lived in a Victorian villa with a short drive.
Here there were no flowers or trees in the garden: simply a flat expanse of lawn. He pressed the doorbell, which chimed out the strains of ‘Roamin’ in the Gloamin’.
The door was eventually opened by a small woman. Dainty was the word to describe her, thought Hamish.
She had a small round face, like a doll’s face, with wide blue eyes and a little rosebud of a mouth. Her blonde hair was artfully arranged in glossy curls. She was wearing the sort of Laura Ashley fashion which had been popular in the eighties: a long flowery dress with a square neckline edged in lace.
She looked up at Hamish and put her hand to her throat. “My boys!” she gasped.
“Nothing like that,” said Hamish soothingly. “May I come in?”
“Of course.” She backed away and allowed him to walk past her into the hall before shutting the door behind him.
“This way.” She opened a door off the hall and ushered him into a large living room. Hamish blinked in surprise. Everything seemed to be white: white leather sofa and two white leather armchairs, white coffee table, white curtains at the windows, and white-painted bookshelves. A white china vase held white chrysanthemums. Even the carpet was white.
Mrs. Fleming looked down at a little patch of mud from Hamish’s boots and said, “I should have asked you to take off your boots. I never allow my boys to wear footwear in the house.”
“I’ll take them off now,” said Hamish.
“The damage has been done. Sit down.” For such a small woman, she had a commanding presence.
Hamish took off his cap and sat down on one of the armchairs, which let out a rude noise like a fart. He found to his irritation that he was blushing. “These leather chairs do make awfy rude noises,” he said.
“Really?” She sat down in the armchair opposite him. It did not make a single sound. “Now, why are you here?”
“Mrs. Gillespie has been murdered,” he said.
What was flickering through those china-blue eyes of hers? Relief as well as shock?
“But that’s terrible,” she said. “How? Where?”
“Professor Sander’s house. She was found lying at that old water pump at the gate. I believe someone struck her down with her bucket.”
“Who did it?”
“We’re trying to find out. Where were you this morning, Mrs. Fleming?”
“Surely you don’t think…Oh, of course. You’re just asking everyone who knew her. Let me see, I drove the boys to school and then I came back here.”
“Did anyone see you?”
