“I doubt it. While they’re talking about the Twelve Steps of recovery, Blair will be plotting how to escape to the nearest pub.”
“Keep your fingers crossed that the auld scunner dies. I’m in line to get his job.”
“Joined the Freemasons?”
“No, but if that’s what it takes, I’ll roll up my trouser leg with the best of them. Do you want to come up here?”
“I think I’ll just hang around the village and get local matters up to shape. It doesn’t matter if there’s a double murder, sheep dip papers must be attended to.”
“I’ll leave you to it.”
¦
For the next few days, Hamish patrolled his extensive beat, calling on the elderly in the outlying croft houses, but there was no attempt on his life.
Jimmy phoned to say that they had had to release Mark Gentle. He had hired a good lawyer who pointed out that they had nothing except a fragment of his voice on a tape. The lawyer also said that Mark had sworn he had gone on to say that unfortunately he didn’t have the guts to kill anyone, which was probably why Irena had saved only the one incriminating little bit.
“Did he say anything about Irena trying to blackmail him with it?” asked Hamish.
“No, he seemed hurt and puzzled. Seemed to think Irena fancied him.”
But why, wondered Hamish as he drove through the early gloaming, had Irena kept that fragment? Did she know that someone planned to kill Mrs. Gentle? Had she been in league with the murderer and kept that little bit on her recorder to help him? And had she changed her mind and decided to blackmail the murderer?
And what woman could be the murderer? Kylie Gentle, her daughter, or someone else?
What about the caterers? Was there some link there to the Gentle family? Or had there been some woman who answered the description of the woman seen in the phone box staying at the hotel where they worked?
The police would have checked up on all strangers in the area, but what if there had been some seemingly respectable lady staying at a bed-and-breakfast or somewhere else?
He drove towards Braikie, determined to interview Fiona King and Alison Queen, the chefs.
Both women seemed to be very busy in the kitchen but said they would be glad to take a break and talk to him.
“There can’t be many guests at this time of year,” said Hamish.
“A lot of people travel quite a distance to come here for dinner in the evenings,” said Fiona. “But this is really what’s keeping us busy.” She handed Hamish a brochure entitled,
“You see, we cater for people in their homes,” said Alison. “Because of the smoking ban in Scotland, and up here they smoke like the third world, a lot of them don’t want to go out to a smoke-free restaurant. So we serve them dinner in their own homes where they can smoke themselves to death in comfort.”
“I forgot to ask you last time,” said Hamish, “but I’m trying to find a stranger who might have been staying here or in the area. She’s tall with a mole on her chin. Maybe wearing a red-and-gold headscarf and dark glasses. Dressed in a tweed jacket, shooting breeches, and brogues.”
The chefs looked at each other and then shook their heads. “Haven’t seen anyone like that, not even amongst the dinner crowd,” said Fiona.
“You hadn’t met any of the Gentle family before?”
Alison giggled. “No, and we’re too busy to murder anyone.”
Hamish thanked them and left, spending what remained of the day calling at every bed-and-breakfast he could think of without success.
As he wearily crawled into bed that night, he found himself almost hoping that the murderer would make an attempt on his life. Anything to give him just one clue.
? Death of a Gentle Lady ?
9
—Somerset Maugham
Hamish, in the following days, was anxious to talk over the murder cases with Priscilla. But every time he called at the hotel, it was to be told she was either out walking with Patrick Fitzpatrick, having dinner with Patrick, or rehearsing her part with Harold.
Why Patrick? he wondered. There had been nothing very interesting about the man that he could remember. He was tall and slim, ginger hair, pursed little mouth, and reddish skin. Hardly an Adonis.
He would not admit to jealousy, but thought bitterly that for auld lang syne Priscilla should at least have made herself available to act as his Watson.
He called on Angela Brodie instead. To his amazement, the usually messy and unhygienic kitchen was clean, the many cats confined to the garden.
“What happened?” he asked, looking around. “Expecting a visit from the health inspector?”
“Don’t be nasty, Hamish. I’ve been reading a self-help book. It says, in effect, that if you are not getting on with your work, it could be because of the mess at home, or because you are working in a dirty office. Would you like a coffee?”
“Fine.” Hamish quite often shied away from Angela’s offers of coffee, expecting to find some awful cat hairs sticking to his mug, because the cats too often roamed the kitchen table, licking the butter and drinking out of the milk jug. “It’ll save you a lot of vet’s fees,” he added, removing his peaked cap and sitting down. Only two weeks before, one of the cats had ended up with its head stuck firmly in the milk jug.
“It hasn’t helped a bit with the writing,” said Angela. “Instead of being compulsive about finishing this latest book, I’ve become compulsive about cleaning.”
A dismal yowling started up outside.
“That’s it!” Angela turned to open the kitchen door. “Poor beasties. I can’t bear it any longer. I’m going to let them in.”
“Could you wait till we’ve had coffee?” pleaded Hamish. “I’ll need to talk to someone.”
“What about? The fact that Irena told you something mysterious?”
“I made that up, hoping our murderer might have a go at me.”
“But you got your man. I haven’t been reading the newspapers. Has something else happened?”
Hamish told her about the wire across the stairs and the female footprints.
“A woman? Who on earth could that be?”
“Probably someone who’s long gone. No, wait a bit. She might just still be around the area. Jimmy told me he’d put extra men on the job, going all over the place, interviewing any visitors. Where could she be staying?”
“A tent up on the hills somewhere?”
“That’s an idea. I’d better get off and tour around again.”
Angela put a mug of coffee down in front of him. “Have your coffee first. What’s happened to that Russian policewoman?”
“Gone back to London, thank goodness. She fair gave me the creeps.”
“Have you seen much of Priscilla?”
“I have not,” said Hamish huffily. “Herself is either walking the hills with an Irishman who’s staying at the hotel or rehearsing her part with Harold Jury.”
“I might call on Harold Jury again,” said Angela. “I only met him briefly when he suggested I might like to play Lady Macbeth. It would be nice to discuss writing with another author.”
“He’s an odd character,” said Hamish. “I put him down as dead arrogant and yet when I went to one of the rehearsals, I must say I was surprised at his patience.”
“Have you read his latest book?”
“No. Any good?”
“I found it a bit dull but maybe that’s just me. I like stories, and that stream-of-consciousness business bores
