M.C. Beaton: Death of a Gentle Lady

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?”