Death of a Gentle Lady

He decided to call on Angela and see if she was ready for her big part. He found her in her kitchen, sitting in front of her computer as usual.

“What’s this?” asked Hamish. “I thought you would be walking up and down, feverishly remembering your lines.”

“I’m not going, Hamish.”

“Why?”

Angela sighed and pushed a lock of hair away from her thin face. “I just don’t want to do it. It’s Harold. Why should I bother to help him out when he was so rude to me?”

“How rude?”

“I went up to the hotel yesterday to talk to him about writing. He said to me loftily that he couldn’t be bothered wasting the time to talk to me. He said if I was having difficulties, I should wait for inspiration. So when he came tearing down here to tell me to play Lady Macbeth, I told him I hadn’t the time because I was waiting for inspiration. I suggested he get inspired and find someone else.”

“Unlike you to be so harsh.”

“Hamish, I have met many writers at writers’ conventions and not one has blethered on about inspiration. It’s hard work, and you just sit down and do it. Every writer knows that.”

Hamish scratched his fiery hair. “Angela, don’t you feel you might be letting the rest of the folk in the village down? They’re all so excited about being in a play.”

“Yes, I was struck by guilty conscience, so I phoned him and said if he was absolutely stuck, I would do it. He said harshly he had someone and hung up on me.”

“I wonder who it could be?” marvelled Hamish. “No one else has had time to learn the lines.”

“Maybe he’s got some actress up from London. Anyway, I’m still mad at him.”

“Writing seems to have stiffened your spine,” said Hamish. “The old Angela could be bullied into doing anything for anyone. Even your kitchen’s still clean!”

“Well, you know how it is. I think I am a real writer at last. I sit down at the computer and am overcome by a burning desire to defrost the fridge.”

“Keep at it. I’ll be going to the play tonight. What about you?”

“I can’t now, Hamish. What if it’s a dreadful failure and everyone blames me for letting them down?”

“I’m sure the ambitious Harold will have found someone.”

? Death of a Gentle Lady ?

12

The glass is falling hour by hour, the glass will fall forever

But if you break the bloody glass you won’t hold up the weather.

—Louis MacNeice

The wind had roared away earlier and now mist was creeping up the loch, making the dark evening even darker. Hamish was glad they had a calm night for the performance because he had checked his barometer and the glass was falling.

He walked along to the church hall. He wondered whether the murderer would try to kill him again.

People were streaming out of cottages, and the air was full of excited chatter. I don’t like Harold, thought Hamish, but he’s certainly brought a bit of excitement to the village.

The men had all put on their best suits; some of the women were even wearing their church hats. Hamish was in casual clothes and wondered whether he should go back and change but decided against it.

The seating was on a first-come, first-served basis, and he could only get a seat at the back of the hall.

He studied his programme. Priscilla was still listed as playing Lady Macbeth.

The hall was full. He recognised people from other towns and villages in Sutherland. The play had been well advertised in all the local papers.

The school orchestra were murdering the ‘Toreador’s March’ from Carmen. Too ambitious, thought Hamish.

At last, they screeched off into silence and the curtains parted. The Currie sisters and Mrs. Wellington, barely recognisable in their costumes and make-up as the three witches, began, “When shall we three meet again ? In thunder lightning or in rain? Or in rain?”

“That’s our Jessie,” murmured a woman in front of Hamish.

The play proceeded, the lines of Shakespeare sounding odd. Hamish wondered idly whether he had wanted his characters to speak in Scottish accents.

It was amateur, very amateur. Macbeth stumbled over his lines. Matthew, playing Banquo, made a wild gesture and his kilt fell off, revealing a natty pair of boxer shorts decorated with red hearts. The audience cheered. Just when it looked as if the production would degenerate into farce, Lady Macbeth made her entrance.

Hamish sat up straight and peered over the heads of the villagers in front of them. She was tall with long red hair. She began to speak. It was a deep husky voice, mesmerising, her lines spoken with passion. The effect on the audience was electric.

It was only after half an hour that Hamish realised that Lady Macbeth was not being played by a woman but by Harold Jury himself.

No one bothered about the stumbling actors surrounding Harold. He held the audience from beginning to end, and when he walked forward to take his curtain call and whipped off his wig, there were cries of amazement followed by resounding cheers.

Hamish slid out of the hall and returned to the police station. He needed to think. They had been looking for a woman. What if the murderer had been someone dressed up as a woman?

It couldn’t be Harold because he was a well-known author. Surely Harold had been properly checked into. Or had he?

The police, including himself, had not asked where he was on the days of the murders.

He decided to go to Strathbane in the morning and consult Jimmy. But Blair would be there, demanding to know what he was doing.

Was Harold one of those multi-talented people? He had acted like a true professional. What size were Harold’s feet? Surely not size seven. He was a tall man. He had been wearing a long gown covering his feet.

Hamish hurried back to the hall. He knew there was to be a buffet supper afterwards, the Italian restaurant having generously offered to contribute it.

The actors were still in costume. Harold had his wig on again and was in the middle of an admiring throng.

Willie Lament was serving out plates of food. He hailed Hamish. “Wasn’t Harold a real Oliver?”

“Olivier,” corrected Hamish automatically.

“Have some chicken and penne,” urged Willie.

“Not now,” said Hamish. Willie looked at Hamish in surprise, wondering what was causing him to turn down a free meal.

If only I could see under Harold’s dress and get a look at his feet, thought Hamish.

He turned back. “Any wine, Willie?”

“Aye, look, bottles of the stuff. Help yourself.”

Hamish poured himself a plastic cup of red wine and headed in Harold’s direction. Harold saw him approach and smiled, his eyes glittering in his stage make-up.

“Here’s our local bobby,” he said.

“I thought you were chust grand,” said Hamish. He stumbled, and his cup of wine shot over the skirt of Harold’s costume.

“You clumsy oaf!” yelled Harold.

“Really, Hamish,” complained Mrs. Wellington. She took a paper napkin and began to dab at Harold’s long velvet skirt.

“It’s all right,” said Harold, rapidly recovering from his outburst. “Red skirt, red wine, no damage done.”

But that skirt still remained over his shoes.