He got in and drove to her cottage. She had been released from hospital but was obviously not home yet.
He stared at the cottage in frustration. Then he felt in the guttering above the door where locals usually hid a door key, but there was nothing there. Perhaps Patricia had not even bothered to lock up. He tried the door handle, and to his relief the door opened.
He went in and searched for the bedroom, finding it off the kitchen at the back.
There was a wardrobe over on the far wall. He swung open the door. There were a few tailored suits and dresses and, on a shelf above, an assortment of hats.
He slowly lifted out a blue tweed suit and laid it on the bed and began to go over it inch by inch. And then down at the hem of the skirt, he found where two threads had been tugged out.
He sat down suddenly on the bed. He could hardly go back to Lochdubh and find these threads and present them as evidence, for he would be charged with suppressing evidence.
He was sure now she had murdered both Jamie and Penelope.
And then he heard cars driving up outside. He went to the window. In the first black official car was Patricia with Superintendent Peter Daviot; in the second were Lovelace, Mac-nab and Anderson.
He went to the outside door and opened it. Peter Daviot was helping Patricia from the car. Lovelace and the two detectives had gathered around.
“We must assure you again, Miss Martyn-Broyd, of our deepest apologies,” Mr. Daviot was saying, when Lovelace suddenly saw Hamish standing there.
“What are you doing?” he shouted.
They all turned to stare at him.
“I think we had better all go inside,” said Hamish.
“You’d better have a damned good reason to explain what you are doing in Miss Martyn-Broyd’s cottage,” said Lovelace.
But Patricia, with an odd little smile on her face, had already walked forward. Hamish stood aside, and they all trooped into the parlour.
Hamish was suddenly terrified. All Patricia had to do was deny his accusations. He had no real proof. She could admit to borrowing Ludlow’s car but say that she’d had to get away, that in her distress she had forgotten to explain she was not in her own car. But he had gone this far, so he had to take it to the end.
“Perhaps if we all sit down,” said Hamish, “I’ll explain what I am doing here.”
“Tea?” said Patricia, smiling all around.
“Not now,” said Hamish. “I haff a story for you, Miss Martyn-Broyd, that is stranger than any fiction. Josh Gates did not kill Jamie Gallagher. You did. I think you waited until you saw them all leave. You had not thought of murder then. You noticed that Jamie had not come down. You were probably hidden somewhere beside the path. You went on up. You saw Jamie sitting there, and the impulse took you. You picked up a rock and brained him with it, and then just went away. You felt that the man who had sneered at your work, who had debased it, was finally dead and gone.
“But then there was Penelope Gates. She, too, sneered at you and told you how you had been tricked. You had killed once, and you could kill again. Somehow you knew from the script that she would be up on the mountain. In your book
“At around six in the morning on the day of the murder you were spotted by the tramp Scan Fitz, heading for Drim. I think you found by accident that other path up the mountain. You would want to avoid the main path, too many people coming and going.
“Sound carries verra clearly up there. You heard the instruction to Penelope to stand on that outcrop of rock. You were hidden underneath. When you knew she was in position, you stood up and grasped her ankle and jerked her over your head, and she went flying down the mountain. You escaped in the thick mist, got in the car, drove around and finally went to the Sutherland Arms Hotel for lunch. Then you returned the car to Ludlow.”
Lovelace opened his mouth to say something, but Daviot held up a warning finger. All looked at Patricia.
“What a load of rubbish,” she fluted. “Yes, I did borrow a car, but I was so dazed and unhappy, I did not know what I was doing that day. Yes, I may have gone near Drim, but I did not go up on that mountain.” She spread her hands in an appealing gesture and looked at Lovelace. “Have I not endured enough?”
She might get away with it, thought Hamish, and even if it cost him his job, she would not get away with it. He would need to confess about those two threads of cloth.
He said instead, “You were seen going up the mountain on the day Jamie Gallagher was murdered. I chust found that out today. A crofter saw you and didn’t think anything of it at the time, thinking you were part of the TV crew.”
“You’re lying,” said Patricia flatly.
Too right, thought Hamish dismally. But he looked straight at her and said evenly, “I am only glad you will not profit from your crimes because after you are charged with these murders, the sales of your books will be immense, and all over the world, too. You will be a truly famous writer, and that is a distinction you do not deserve.”
Patricia stared at him.
Lovelace stood up. “This is enough,” he said. “1 have heard about you, Macbeth, and your behaviour has been disgraceful. Breaking into this poor woman’s cottage – ”
“I did it,” said Patricia.
Everyone froze except Hamish, who felt himself go almost limp with relief.
She gave a shrug and said in an almost merry voice, “It was justice, don’t you see? They were killing Lady Harriet, so they both had to go. I do not regret it. You are right. I did not mean to kill that Gallagher man. But I did not lurk around waiting until they all had left. I was late. I thought they were all still up there and that perhaps I could get them to change their minds. But there was no one there. I wandered about. And then I saw Jamie, sitting on the edge of the heather in front of the scree. After that I do not know what happened until he was dead at my feet and I was standing with a bloody rock in my hand. I hurled it away as hard as I could. I do not regret it.
“Penelope Gates was everything I hated, crude and vulgar and vicious. She had to go. I do not regret her death, either.”
“But two murders!” exclaimed Daviot.
“But they were guilty of infanticide,” said Patricia with a sort of dreadful patience. “They killed my child. They were killing Lady Harriet.”
Lovelace charged her with the murders. She kept looking at Hamish. When Lovelace had finished, she said, “Hamish, will I be really famous?”
“Yes,” he said sadly. “Very famous indeed.”
“Then that’s all right,” she said briskly, getting to her feet. “Shall we go?”
“Wait a minute,” said Hamish as she was being led out. “Patricia, why did you ask for my help to clear your name?”
“Oh, I thought you were the only person I had to fear,” said Patricia with a little smile. “These other gentlemen are so stupid. It worked for a bit, didn’t it?”
“Yes, it worked,” said Hamish. “And did you really lose your memory?”
“No, I did not. I simply became weary of the act and decided to find it again. I wrote about an amnesia case in one of my books and had read a great deal on the subject, enough to trick the psychiatrist. How did you guess it was me?”
One more lie wouldn’t matter, thought Hamish. He hoped they would forget about that crofter he said had seen Patricia on the mountain.
“It was Detective Jimmy Anderson who suggested that you might have used another car.”
“How odd,” said Patricia. “I would have thought him as stupid as the rest.”
She was led out.
Daviot remained behind with Hamish. “Good work,” he said. “This lets Blair off the hook, and I’m glad of it. He’s a good man and probably thought she had done it all along.”
Hamish groaned inwardly, but better Blair than Lovelace.
“I shall be glad to return Lovelace to Inverness,” went on Daviot. “He ruffled too many feathers at
