Death of a Gentle Lady

“How did you find out?”

“Gamekeeper Diarmuid heard it frae his cousin in Braikie who got it frae Ellen, the cousin’s sister, who got it frae – ”

“Oh, all right, Archie. It’s a sad business. Did any of you see any strangers in the village yesterday?”

Mrs. Wellington, the minister’s wife, volunteered that several guests from the hotel had been seen in the village buying postcards. “Would you like my husband to have a word with you, Hamish? You must be grieving. The police should have more sensitivity than to put you on this case.”

“I’m better working,” said Hamish.

“We felt a bit mean, taking all our presents back,” said Mrs. Guthrie, one of the villagers. “So Mrs. Wellington told us to put them on display in the church hall and you can pick out what you need for the station.”

Hamish looked at the kind, concerned faces and turned abruptly away, a lump in his throat. “Very kind,” he said hoarsely, and hurried off to the police station.

“Near tears, the poor soul, poor soul,” said Jessie Currie. There was a murmur of sympathy.

Hamish got into the Land Rover. He felt very low. He had a guilty feeling of relief that Irena was dead and could not come back into his life to threaten him. He also felt guilty over the villagers’ warmhearted sympathy.

¦

Priscilla Halburton-Smythe received another phone call from her father. “You’ve had a lucky escape, my girl,” said the colonel. “Hamish Macbeth has murdered that fiancee of his.”

“What?”

“Some reporter’s just told me. She’s been found dead in a trunk in the cellar of that folly the other woman was living in, the one who ended up at the bottom of the cliffs. Who else would want rid of her but Hamish? Folks say he looked relieved when she didn’t turn up on his wedding day.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Hamish wouldn’t hurt a fly. If everyone is saying what you’re saying, he’ll need some support. See you soon.” And, deaf to her father’s protests, she rang off.

¦

Elspeth Grant was summoned to the newsroom. “Get yourself up to Lochdubh fastest,” said the news editor. “Bodies all over the place. One at the foot of the cliffs and now the fiancee of that copper has been found murdered.”

“Hamish Macbeth?”

“That’s the man.”

¦

Mr. Johnson, the hotel manager, welcomed Hamish cautiously. “I’ll give you a cup of coffee before you start questioning the guests. But don’t go upsetting them, mind? And do you have to bring those weird animals with you? Go and put them back in your vehicle. That cat of yours is enough to scare a man to death.”

“She’s just a pussycat,” said Hamish crossly, but he put the dog and cat in the police Land Rover, leaving the engine running and the heater on.

He was just about to sit down in the manager’s office when Mr. Johnson said, “I’d better go out to the car park. Someone’s running their engine. Maybe I’ll wait a minute and see if they drive off.”

“That’s mine,” said Hamish sulkily.

“Whatever for? Oh, I know. The beasties have to be kept warm. Hamish, they are animals. They come supplied by the good Lord with coats. Go and turn that damn engine off.”

Hamish stalked out and returned shortly. “You’re a hard man,” he said, picking up his cup of coffee.

“And you’re a softie. I’ve got news for you.”

“About the murders?”

“Not them. Wait a bit, murders! I thought there was only the one.”

“My fiancee who turns out to have been a Russian has been found in the cellar of the castle in a trunk with her head bashed.”

“I am so sorry. You must be feeling awful. Did you love her very much?”

“Something like that,” said Hamish hurriedly. “What news?”

“Priscilla phoned to say she’s coming up, and your friend Elspeth Grant has booked a room. She’s lucky we had one left. The press are booking in as hard as they can.”

“It’ll be grand to see them,” lied Hamish, who did not wish any more complications in his already complicated life. It would soon come out that Irena had been a hooker, and he knew that would shock the villagers.

“I thought your fiancee was Turkish.”

“So did I,” said Hamish. “I’m afraid she tricked me.”

“You can’t have been very close then. You’re usually awfully sharp.”

“There was the rush getting the necessary permission to marry her,” said Hamish.

“I saw her,” said Mr. Johnson. “She was stunning. I can’t blame you for being swept off your feet.”

“It seems that all she wanted was British nationality.”

“So that’s why you don’t seem to be grieving.”

Hamish finished his coffee. “I’d better start with the guests.”

“The trouble is,” said the manager, “a lot of them have left. The press are apt to get very drunk and noisy. There are a couple of hotels up Braikie way, as you know, and plenty of bed-and-breakfasts, but the press always want to choose the most expensive hotel.”

“Any of them seem suspicious? I mean, the guests?”

“No, all very quiet and respectable. Mostly fishing types. We’ve got a writer. Harold Jury. Quite well known. His last book, Depths of Darkness, was nominated for the Booker Prize.”

“I’d like to start with him. Writers are supposed to observe life more than ordinary people.”

“Maybe. But this one’s head is so far up his own arse, he could clean his teeth from the inside.”

“I’ll try him anyway. Where is he at the moment?”

“He’s probably in the lounge. He sits there with his laptop, showing off.”

¦

Hamish strolled into the lounge. A man sat staring at a laptop. On a small table beside him was a pile of books.

“Mr. Jury?”

Harold Jury held up one hand for silence and continued to type. “I’ll sign a copy of my book for you in a minute,” he said. He was tall and pale-faced, probably in his late fifties, and wearing a grey shirt with grey trousers. He had thick brown hair and small brown eyes.

“This is police business,” said Hamish loudly, “so switch off your computer and pay attention.”

Harold glared at him but did as he was told. He looked up angrily at the tall policeman with the hazel eyes and flaming red hair.

Hamish pulled up a chair and sat facing him. “I am investigating two murders,” he began.

“What on earth has that got to do with me?” asked Harold.

Hamish noticed that he did not ask which murders – and the murder of Irena had not yet reached the newspapers. Of course, the press in the hotel might have got wind of it already and told him.

“Were you in the village yesterday morning around eleven o’clock?”

“Yes, I took a walk. I bought some postcards.”

“Did you see anyone in the phone box?”

“I don’t even remember seeing a phone box.”

“What brought you up to the Highlands?”

“I am writing a novel about the forgotten primitive people of the British Isles.”

“And do the forgotten primitive people usually run five-star hotels?”

“I must confess I am disappointed. But I shall walk out onto the moors and speak to crofters.”

“I’m sure they’ll give you a right primitive welcome,” said Hamish. “Part of the highland greeting is to strike the visitor several times with a branch before inviting him inside. Then he must swallow a small bowl of rock salt and eat a piece of dried bread.”

“I don’t know if I could cope with that.”

“Try,” urged Hamish. “In fact, you don’t need to go up on the moors. Why not try the village? There’s a fisherman, Archie Maclean, has the wee cottage down by the harbour. I’ll tell him you’re coming.”