“I don’t think so. You can ask Mrs. Samson next door. She watches from her window all day long.”
“What did you think of Mrs. Gillespie?”
“A rough diamond. Salt of the earth.”
In other words, a walking cliche, thought Hamish cynically. “Were you afraid of her?”
“Of course not. She was just the cleaning woman. She came twice a week.”
Hamish’s hazel eyes roamed round the room. He noticed a thin film of dust on the bookshelves. “When was she here last?”
“That would be yesterday morning.”
“You’ve got dusty bookshelves.”
“Do I? Well, I left her to get on with it, you know.” Her little white hands plucked nervously at her gown. “I had enough of cleaning when my husband was alive.”
“Was she blackmailing you?” asked Hamish abruptly.
“No! Why do you ask such a dreadful thing? My life is an open book.”
“We think that might be the motive for her death.”
“I have nothing to hide.”
“Not even your relationship with Dr. Renfrew?”
Her face was suddenly contorted with fury. “Get out!” she screamed. “And you can speak to me through my lawyer in future.”
Hamish rose to his feet, and the armchair gave a farewell parp. “I will shortly be replaced by a detective, Mrs. Reining, and if you refuse to answer questions, you will be taken to Strathbane headquarters for interrogation.”
“Out! Out! Out!” she screamed. She picked up the white china vase with white chrysanthemums and hurled it at his head. He dodged it, and the vase hit the wall and shattered.
“I could charge you for assaulting a police officer,” said Hamish severely. “I’ll be back.”
“Bugger off, Arnold Schwarzenegger,” she screamed.
¦
Hamish stood outside her gate and thought hard. He could not get over the fact that there had been no incriminating papers or letters in Mrs. Gillespie’s home. If she had been blackmailing her clients, surely she would have kept letters or something. But where?
He looked thoughtfully at the villa next door to the right. A lace curtain twitched.
He walked up to the door of the villa. There was no bell. He rapped with the old·fashioned brass ring set into the oak panels and waited. Shuffling feet approached the door on the other side, and then it was swung open.
“Mrs. Samson?” asked Hamish.
“Aye, come ben. You’re here about the murder. Wipe your feet.”
Mrs. Flora Samson was old and stooped. Pink scalp shone through her wisps of grey hair. Her elderly face was set in wrinkles of discontent. She wore very thick glasses, which magnified her eyes so that they looked like the eyes of an old witch asking the children if they would like some gingerbread.
Her living room was crammed with photos in frames. They seemed to be everywhere. The furniture was Victorian and draped with yellowing lace antimacassars. A stuffed owl on a bamboo table stared out of its glass case with baleful eyes. In another glass case mounted on the wall, a stuffed salmon swam endlessly against a badly painted backdrop of reeds and river. A coal fire was smouldering in the fireplace, occasionally sending out puffs of grey smoke. The room smelled strongly of lavender air freshener, which did not quite cover up the underlying smell of urine and unwashed armpits.
“You’ve come about the murder. Sit down,” said Mrs. Samson.
“How did you hear about it?”
“It was on the telly a quarter of an hour ago. The telly’s in the kitchen. I don’t often watch it, mind, but I keep it on for the sound.” The faint noises of laughter and cheering filtered through from the kitchen. A game show, guessed Hamish.
“I have been interviewing Mrs. Fleming,” said Hamish. “I have to establish alibis for this morning for everyone Mrs. Gillespie cleaned for. Did you see Mrs. Fleming go out this morning?”
“Aye, she took her lads to school, then herself came back. Poke the fire, laddie. It’s right cold in here.”
Hamish picked up a brass poker by the hearth and poked the fire and then backed off as smoke poured up into his face.
“Och,” he said crossly, “you need your chimney swept.”
“Sit down and mind your own business.”
“Did she go out again?” asked Hamish.
Mrs. Samson’s face seemed to swim through the layers of smoke. “She might ha’ done. I had to go to the you know what. It’s up the stairs and man, at my age, it’s like climbing Everest. It’s the arthuritis. Takes me ages.”
“We feel that Mrs. Gillespie might have been a blackmailer,” said Hamish.
Mrs. Samson’s eyes gleamed with malice. A spurt of flame rose from the smoking fire and shone red on the thick lenses of her glasses. “So she might have killed him, after all.”
“Who?”
“Her man, Bernie Fleming. Why would a fit man like that fall down the stairs? He wasn’t fond of a dram, either.”
Hamish was beginning to hate her, but gossip was invaluable.
“Were they a happy couple?”
“Not a bit of it. I could hear them fighting.”
“What? From a villa next door?”
“In their garden in the summer when I was taking the air, I heard them. She screamed that she was sick of cleaning and polishing and that he never took her anywhere. Soon as he was dead, she sold all his stuff, all the furniture, and got all modern put in.”
“I noticed the stairs,” said Hamish. “They’re steep and of polished wood. A man could easily slip.”
Mrs. Samson snorted. “In his day they were thick carpet, top to bottom.”
“How do you know? Had you been in their house?”
“No, but Mrs. Gillespie told me.”
“Did she now? Friendly with her, were you?”
“Herself would drop in now and then for a wee bittie o’ a chat. Not many’ll spend time with an auld woman.”
“Did she say anything to lead you to believe that Mrs. Fleming might have murdered her husband?”
“No, but I have my suspicions.”
“Did she talk about her other clients?” Hamish consulted his list. “Professor Sander, Mrs. Styles, Mrs. Wellington, and Mrs. Barret-Wilkinson?”
“Och, just a few wee remarks, like Mrs. Wellington was a slave-driver and Mrs. Styles wasn’t as saintly as she liked to make out. Never said anything about the other two.”
Hamish suddenly longed to get out of the smoky room. He got to his feet. “I’ll be off, then. I may want another word with you. I think Mrs. Gillespie may have been blackmailing her employers.” He turned in the doorway. “Did Mrs. Gillespie have any friends?”
“I think she sometimes talked to Mrs. Queenie Hendry, her what has the bakery in the main street.”
¦
Hamish’s mobile phone rang as he was leaving the house. It was Jimmy. “Blair says you’re to get over to the daughter’s. No one’s broken the news to her yet.”
“What’s up with her father? Surely he’ll have phoned her by now.”
“We’ve just left Mr. Gillespie. He says it would sound better coming from the police, don’t ask me why. Here’s her address. The Nest, Shore Road, one of those bungalows. You’d think people like that lived in mansions the way they won’t give a street number. How’re you doing?”
“Got a lot, but I’ll tell you in private this evening. I don’t want Blair crashing around at this point.”
As Hamish drove along the shore road, the wind screamed and buffeted at his vehicle, and ahead he could see the first waves crashing onto the road. The Nest had a sign in pokerwork outside the gate, which swung and
