Death of a Gentle Lady (4 page)

“Can’t I wait for the pathologist’s report? You’re not Blair.”

“Well, just till then.”

They waited a long time while the sky grew darker and sheets of rain began to sweep across the landscape.

At last Dr. Forsythe came up from the cellar. “She was struck a heavy blow to the head with a blunt object. I’ll have a better idea of what sort of object when I get the body back to the lab. I can’t tell the time of death until then, either, but from the state of the corpse it does look as if she was killed on the day of her wedding.”

“But the only person in the castle then was Mrs. Gentle,” exclaimed Hamish. “Could a wee woman like that have had the strength to get that body in the trunk?”

“I’ll need to check the toxicology. There were traces of vomit in her mouth. Whoever put the body in the trunk then jumped up and down on it to cram it in. Her ribs are broken.

At the moment, mind you, that’s just a guess.”

“Off you go, Hamish,” said Jimmy.

Hamish turned to go and then stopped, poised on one foot like a heron.

“What now?” asked Jimmy.

“Can you let me know what Mrs. Gentle’s background is?” asked Hamish. “I mean, her maiden name, who she was married to, all that?”

“Look, I’ll drop in on you later.”

As Hamish hung a sign on the phone box saying it was not to be used, he noticed that the light inside the old-fashioned red box had been smashed. He put police tape around it. When he started, there hadn’t been a soul on the waterfront, but when he finished he found that a small crowd had gathered. Archie Maclean, the fisherman, was there. “We’re right sorry to hear about your poor fiancée,” he said.

“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 fiancée 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 fiancée 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 fiancée 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 fiancée 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.”

“That’s kind of you. I suppose a writer must suffer for his art.”

Hamish decided he was wasting his time at the hotel. Surely the villagers were the best bet. He called on Archie Maclean first. “I cannae ask you in, Hamish,” said Archie. “The wife’s down in Inverness visiting her sister. She’ll check when I get back to make sure I havenae dirtied anything.”

“I won’t bother you,” said Hamish. “But I want you to do something for me. It’s a bit of a joke . . .”

When Hamish had finished preparing Harold Jury’s highland welcome, he realised he would have to visit the Currie sisters, Nessie and Jessie, Lochdubh’s spinster twins. They noticed everything that happened in the village.

He could only hope that they had not yet learned of Irena’s profession.

Chapter Four

Oh, what a tangled web we weave,When first we practise to deceive!

—Sir Walter Scott

Hamish parked on the waterfront and walked towards the Currie sisters’ cottage. Anxious to delay going in, he stood with his back to the loch and surveyed his home village, sharply aware, not for the first time, how much he loved the place.

It was dark, and lights shone from the windows of the small whitewashed cottages. You could tell the time of day by the smells in Lochdubh, thought Hamish. Morning was redolent with bacon and eggs and strong tea, intermingling with the scent of peat smoke from newly lit fires. Then, no such thing as lunch in Lochdubh. Dinner was in the middle of the day. Complex smells of soup, beef stew, roast lamb, and again strong tea—tea with everything, and it must be nearly black in colour. High tea was at six o’clock. No one wanted newfangled oven chips. Chips must be fried in cholesterol-building lard. High tea brought the smell of kippers or sliced ham along with the sugary smell of cakes, because no high tea was properly served unless there were plain cakes and iced cakes. Supper was cocoa-and-toastedjam-sandwiches time.

Hamish sniffed the chocolate-scented air. Suppertime already. Nine o’clock. With a sigh he approached the Curries’ cottage. The door opened just as he reached it.

“We saw you hanging about across the road,” said Nessie. “Wasting police time, that’s what you were doing.”

“I need to ask you some questions,” said Hamish.

“Come ben.” Hamish followed her into the small front parlour. Jessie Currie was watching television. “You interrupted this programme, this programme,” said Jessie, who always repeated the last words of her sentences.

“It’s fair amazing the way you can keep one eye on the telly and keek out o’ the window with the other,” said Hamish.

“Oh, sit down and get on with it,” said Nessie. “Well, my lad, you had a lucky escape. A prostitute! We could hardly believe our ears.”

“Believe our ears,” echoed her sister, her eyes glued to a fornicating hippo on a wildlife programme.

Hamish sighed. They complained of leaks at Number 10; they complained of leaks at the White House. But those were nothing compared with the Highlands of Scotland, which leaked information day in and day out like a sieve.

“You ken Mrs. Cullie, her what lives up the brae?”

“Aye.”

“Her niece is a nurse at Strathbane hospital and she heard that fat detective, Blair, laughing fit to burst a gut. She asked him what the matter was and when he could finish laughing he said he’d just received a phone call and learned you were about to wed a hooker.”

For once Jessie was too engrossed in the programme on television to echo her sister’s comments. A wildebeest was being savaged by a pack of hyenas. Probably the producers of the programme orchestrated the kill, thought Hamish cynically.

“Forget about that,” said Hamish crossly. “Now, yesterday morning, someone made a call from that phone box on the waterfront, around eleven o’clock. Did you see anyone?”

“Let me think. Oh, turn the sound down, Jessie. Aye, I mind I was coming out o’ Patel’s. He’d just got in some nice ham. I like a slice of ham at teatime. I’d got that and a can of Russian salad. What else? Oh, I know, another packet of beef lard. You can’t make proper chips with oil. And—”

“For heffen’s sakes!” howled Hamish. “Forget the shopping list and chust be telling me who you saw.”

“No need to shout, laddie. It was a woman, quite tall, wearing a headscarf, but she had brown hair, I could see that, and dark glasses. She was wearing a tweed jacket and shooting breeches, lovat socks and brogues on her feet. The head scarf was a red-and-gold pattern.”

Hamish wrote busily in his notebook. “Anything about her face?”

“She had a big mole on her chin, on her chin,” said Jessie.

“That’s all we could see,” said Nessie. “Those dark glasses were so big.”

“Did you see anyone speaking to her?”

“Mrs. Wellington tried to. Bu the woman just put her head down, got on her bike, and pedalled off.”

“On a bike? What kind of bike? Mountain bike?”

“No, it was one o’ thae old-fashioned ladies’ models with the basket on front. We used to call them sit-up-and-beg, didn’t we, Jessie?”

But Jessie had returned to watching her wildlife programme, where the helicopter carrying the cameraman was buzzing a herd of antelope and sending them stampeding in panic.

“I’ll go and see Mrs. Wellington,” said Hamish, closing his notebook.

“You’d better get yourself over to the hospital for a blood test,” said Nessie.

“Why?”

“You could have AIDS.”

“I neffer slept with the lassie,” shouted Hamish.

He shook his head in bewilderment as he walked up to the manse. He should not let the Currie sisters rile him, but they always managed to.

Mrs. Wellington answered the door to him. “Come in, Hamish. I’d offer you a cup of tea but I don’t want to catch one of those sexual diseases.”

“I did not even kiss her,” said Hamish grimly. “All I want from you is a bit of information. Now, yesterday morning, the Currie sisters said you tried to talk to a tall woman who then rode off on a bike.”

“Oh, her. I was about to welcome her to the village and tell her about the church services, but she just ignored me.”

Mrs. Wellington’s description of the woman tallied with that of the Currie sisters. Hamish thanked her and picked up his peaked cap, which he had laid on the kitchen table. Mrs. Wellington whipped a disinfectant wipe out of its packet and scrubbed the table where his hat had been lying.

Hamish sighed. The news that he had been on the point of marrying a prostitute would be all around the village, and would seep up to the Tommel Castle Hotel. The colonel would no doubt phone his daughter, Priscilla, to tell her all about it.

He collected the Land Rover and went back to the police station. He fed the dog and cat but only made a sandwich for himself. He sent over the description of the mysterious woman to Strathbane and was about to go to bed when Jimmy Anderson arrived.

“I could almost wish Blair were back on his gouty feet to take over,” groaned Jimmy. “Daviot’s decided to head the investigation himself.”

“Surely anything’s better than Blair.”

“Daviot fusses and frets. Usually when he deals with the press, it’s a carefully orchestrated press conference. He’s not used to dealing wi’ the wolf pack on the ground. The forensic lab’s groaning that it’s got cases a year old, but Daviot wants DNA results now. Dr. Forsythe’s working hard. She wants to retire after this case.”

“So how far have they got?”

“Still too early. Dr. Forsythe is checking the toxicology. She thinks a big strong lassie like that might have to be drugged first.”

“I thought of that myself. But maybe if she was hit hard on the head with a hammer or something, she wouldn’t need to be drugged.”

“Right. But there were no drag marks on the stairs. I know it looked as if the cellar had been recently cleaned, but something would have shown up if she’d been hit on the head and pulled down the stairs. Even cleaned-up blood shows up under those blue lights they were flashing around. So it stands to reason it was someone she knew. Two glasses on the table, one bottle, no prints. A full bottle of Amontillado. Say someone said, ‘I’ve got a good bottle of wine in the cellar. Come down and we’ll drink to your wedding. You’ve got time.’”

“Mrs. Gentle said she went out for a walk.”

“Mrs. Gentle could have been in on the murder.”

“I forgot to tell you. I’ve got witnesses to that phone call from the box,” said Hamish. “I sent a report over.” He described the woman.

“I’ll phone headquarters and get them on to it right away,” said Jimmy, going through to the office. “They can start with that bike,” he called over his shoulder.

When he came back, he rubbed his hand over his bristly chin and yawned. “I’ll stay here the night, Hamish.”

“That’s another pair of my underpants, not to mention another clean shirt,” complained Hamish. “Want a drink?”

“I don’t. Blair’s alcoholism has given me a real scare.”

Harold Jury knocked on Archie Maclean’s door the following morning. “Your local policeman suggested I call on you,” said Harold, looking down at the small fisherman. Archie was not what he had expected. He had fondly pictured a tall, burly son of the sea, not this small man in a cloth cap and a tight suit.

“Come ben,” said Archie. “Oh, wait a minute.” He reached behind the door, picked up a fir branch, and struck Harold across the face with it. He chanted something in Gaelic, then said, “Now you can come in.”

The blow had been a light one, but Harold still felt shocked. He followed Archie into the kitchen. The floor was covered in newspapers. “The wifie’s house-proud,” said Archie. “Don’t want to get dirty marks on the floor.”

He placed a bowl of rock salt on the table and said, “Eat up. Welcome to ma house.”

“Can I have some water with this?” asked Harold.

“No, the traditional highland welcome says you hae to eat it straight.”

Harold gulped and swallowed. His mouth felt as if it were on fire. At last he finished the small bowl of salt. “What now?” he asked.

“This,” said Archie. He picked up the fir branch and struck Harold again. “Welcome and goodbye.”

“That’s it?” Harold rose from his chair at the kitchen table.

“Aye, that’s it.”

Harold went straight across the road to the bar on the harbour, where he ordered a pint of beer and gulped it down his throat. He was beginning to feel obscurely that there was something too odd about the whole business. He ordered another pint and turned away from the bar, looking for a place to sit down. He noticed that the bar seemed to have filled up, and a group of men were looking at him with covert amusement. An awful suspicion began to grow in his mind. He left his pint untouched and drove back to the Tommel Castle Hotel, where he confronted the manager and demanded to know if what he had experienced was a highland welcome. When he had finished laughing, Mr. Johnson asked, “Where did you get such a silly idea from?”

Furiously Harold described how Hamish Macbeth had sent him to see Archie Maclean. “Do you mean it was all a joke?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“I shall report that policeman to his superiors. I shall phone the local newspaper.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. You’ll look a right fool.”

Harold realised the truth of it. “I’m getting out of here,” he yelled. “Get my bill ready.”

The office door opened, and the vision that was Priscilla Halburton-Smythe walked in.

She stood in a shaft of sunlight. Her smooth blonde hair was a perfect bell. She was wearing a green wool suit. Thoughts of the fairy queen ran through Harold’s head.

“Can I help?” asked Priscilla. “I am Priscilla Halburton-Smythe.”

“It’s all right,” said Mr. Johnson. “Mr. Jury was just asking for his bill. Mr. Jury?”

Harold was hanging on to Priscilla’s proffered hand with a dazed look on his face. “Eh, what?” he asked, as Priscilla firmly withdrew her hand. “Oh, that.” He forced a laugh. “Just joking. I’ll be staying on for a bit. Miss Halburton-Smythe, may I offer you a drink?”

“Well . . .”

“I’m afraid I got unnecessarily upset over a joke played on me by a silly policeman.”

“Tell me all about it,” said Priscilla, and she led the author from the office and into the bar.

“I’m going to interview the family,” said Jimmy that morning.

“Who’s all going to be there?” asked Hamish.

“There’s daughter Sarah, and son Andrew with his wife, Kylie, their two children, John and Twinkle—”

“And
what
?”

“Believe it or not, Twinkle is her name. There’s also a nephew, Mark Gentle.”

“Take me with you,” urged Hamish.

“Well, sit in a corner and keep your mouth shut.”

Mrs. Gentle had had the speech and manners of an upper-class lady. Her daughter, Sarah, although tall and rangy, had the same accent as her mother—the result of a good finishing school in her late teens. Andrew Gentle and his wife, Kylie, came as a surprise. Andrew was stocky and very hairy. His thick brown hair grew low on his forehead and he had hair on the back of his hands, making them look like paws. He was wearing an open-necked shirt displaying a great tuft of chest hair. His accent showed traces of cockney. Kylie was tall and anorexic-thin. She had a stiff, expressionless face— Botox, thought Hamish—and masses of artificially red hair. Her vivid blue eyes were the result of contact lenses. Her unexpectedly generous breasts, revealed by a low-cut blouse, hung on her skeletal figure like ripe fruit on a withered tree. Her accent was highland—or maybe more island, decided Hamish after listening carefully. Although soft, it held the fluting tones of the Outer Hebrides.

Andrew, it transpired, was fifty years old and his wife, forty-eight.

Daughter Twinkle was twenty-five. She had a classy accent, but that was the only thing classy about her. She had inherited her father’s stocky figure. Her skin was sallow, her eyes brown, and her large mouth set in a perpetual pout.

Son John was twenty-three, tall, willowy, and effeminate. He had dirty-blonde hair worn long. His voice was pleasant but was marred by a faint lisp. Hamish noticed that he looked frightened.

Nephew Mark Gentle had a London accent. He was handsome in a rugged way: well built with a good head of blonde hair and clear grey eyes. His hands were red and callused. Hamish wondered what he did for a living.

Jimmy said he would interview them one at a time, starting with Andrew, and asked if there was a suitable room. Andrew suggested the study.

Jimmy, flanked by Andy MacNab, was to conduct the interview. A policewoman was there to take notes, even though the interviews were to be recorded. Hamish sat in a corner of the study and looked around with interest.

He doubted whether Mrs. Gentle had ever used the room. It had a masculine flavour. There was a large Victorian desk and several hard chairs. Sporting prints hung on the walls; a stuffed fox snarled in its glass case on a cabinet by the window. The room was very cold.

Jimmy shivered. “Before we begin the questioning, Mr. Gentle, is there any way of heating this room?”