Death of a Scriptwriter

Jessop insisted she put only 40-watt bulbs in the sockets to save money.

“You could organise some activity for them,” said the minister crossly. “Weaving or something.”

“Why would they want to weave anything?” asked Eileen. “The women buy their clothes from Marks and Spencer. And I don’t know how to weave.”

“Think of something. You never talk to any of the women except to say good morning and good evening. Get to know them.”

Eileen stifled a sigh. “I’ll see what I can do.”

¦

It started more as a venture to keep her husband quiet. The next day Eileen plucked up her courage and went down to the general store, where Ailsa was leaning on the counter and filing her nails.

“What can I do for you, Mrs. Jessop?” asked Ailsa.

“I was wondering whether I could organize anything for the village women,” said Eileen timidly. “Perhaps Scottish country dancing, something like that.”

“We all know fine how to dance,” said Ailsa. She gave a rueful laugh. “They were all hoping for parts in the fillum, that they were, and now they all feel flat.”

And then Eileen found herself saying, “It’s a pity we couldn’t make a film of our own.”

“A grand idea, Mrs. Jessop, but – ”

“Eileen.”

“Eileen, then. A grand idea, but what do any of us know about filming?”

“My husband has a camcorder,” said Eileen, “and I could get some books and maybe write a script. I was in my university dramatic society, and I wrote a couple of Scottish plays.”

Ailsa looked in surprise at the minister’s wife, at her grey hair and glasses and at the jumble of shapeless clothes she wore. “Funny,” she said, “I cannae imagine you being in any amateur dramatic society.”

“That was before I married Mr. Jessop, of course,” said Eileen, thinking treacherously of how marriage to a bad-tempered and domineering man had crushed the life out of her over the years. “What do you say, Ailsa? Mr. Jessop is going to Inverness this evening. We could have a meeting in the manse if you could round up some people who might be interested. There are some crowd scenes in the play. We could end up using everyone in the village.”

Ailsa suddenly smiled, and her blue eyes sparkled. “You know, that would be the grand thing. What time?”

“Seven o’clock?”

“Fine, I’ll see you then.”

¦

Mr. Jessop looked amazed and then gratified when his wife told him she was going to make an amateur film using the people of the village as actors.

“I’m glad to see you are taking your parish duties seriously at last,” he said waspishly. He never believed in praising anyone. It caused vanity.

¦

A few weeks after the murder, Hamish Macbeth suddenly decided to call on Patricia. He put on the suit she had admired, Savile Row, bought from a thrift shop in Strathbane, and drove over to Cnothan and up to Patricia’s cottage.

A light was shining in her living room, and as he approached the low door of her cottage, he could hear the busy clatter of the typewriter.

He knocked on the door and waited. At last, Patricia opened the door.

“Yes?” she demanded.

“Just a social call,” said Hamish.

“Come in, but not for long. I am writing.” She led him into the living room and sat down again behind the typewriter and looked at him enquiringly.

“I wondered how you were getting on,” said Hamish.

“Fine,” retorted Patricia, her fingers hovering impatiently over the keys.

“I gather from Major Neal that they’re getting another scriptwriter and going ahead with the series.”

“It is no longer of any interest to me,” said Patricia. “As you see, I am writing again, and that is more important than anything.”

Hamish leaned back in his chair and surveyed her. “And yet you got a good bit of publicity out of the murder. I saw you interviewed on television several times.”

“I thought I came over very well,” said Patricia complacently.

Hamish privately thought Patricia had come over as cold and snobbish and patronising.

“So what are you writing?” he asked.

“I don’t want to talk about it until it’s finished. I feel it’s bad luck to talk about it.”

“Good luck to you anyway.”

“Thank you. Is there anything else?”

“No, no, just came for a chat.”

“Most kind of you, but I would really like to get on.”

Hamish left, feeling snubbed. He wondered why he had ever felt sorry for Patricia. The woman was as hard as nails!

¦

Six scriptwriters were seated around the conference table at Strathclyde Television. The main scriptwriter was an Englishman, David Devery, thin, caustic and clever. Harry Frame did not like him but had to admit that he had put a lot of wit and humour into Jamie’s scripts. The part of Lady Harriet had come to life. The commune had been written out. But Lady Harriet was to remain blond and voluptuous Penelope Gates, and she still seduced the chief inspector.

“We need to get all this rehearsed and get back up there as quickly as possible,” said Harry.

Sheila, filling cups over by the coffee machine, looked over her shoulder at Fiona. Fiona’s normally hard-bitten face looked radiant. It was all going her way now, thought Sheila. With Jamie out of the way, the atmosphere of purpose and ambition had done wonders for Fiona.

And Jamie was more than dead. He was disgraced. Because of the publicity engendered by the murder, two people from Jamie’s scriptwriting class had surfaced to say that Stuart had shown them that script of Football Fever and said he was going to give it to Jamie, that Jamie had cruelly trashed it, and Stuart had felt so low about it, he had said he would never write again.

Sheila found she was looking forward to going back to the Highlands. A picture of Hamish Macbeth rose in her mind. She wondered what he had really thought about Jamie’s murder. Penelope Gates, who had not seemed to mourn her husband one bit, had nonetheless told Sheila that she was puzzled by the murder. Josh, said Penelope, might have beaten her up, but murder Jamie? Never!

If Hamish were in a book like one of Patricia’s, she thought dreamily, he would prove that Fiona had done it to keep her job. But Hamish was only the village bobby, and –

“What about that coffee, girl?” demanded Harry.

Sheila sighed. Harry called himself a feminist but never seemed to practice what he preached.

She put cups on a tray and carried them to the table. Her mind wandered back to the murder. BBC Scotland had agreed to pay royalties for Football Fever to Stuart’s estate, which meant that Angus Harris had come into quite a bit of money. He had even sold several of Stuart’s manuscripts to a publisher.

How neat it would be if Angus had done the murder. But no one had really been asked to produce an alibi. Josh had done it. Case closed.

? Death of a Scriptwriter ?

5

It almost makes me cry to tell

What foolish Harriet befell.