M.C. Beaton - Death of a Gentle Lady

“Why? Can’t you make decent coffee? This is dreadful.”

“It’s special instant,” said Hamish huffily. “Mr. Patel said it was pure Kenyan. I think the wire across the stairs is something you see in television movies. I wonder if the members of the Gentle family have all left the area. No, I think the real murderer of Irena will find something more sophisticated to do to me.”

“Aren’t you frightened?” Anna took a silver flask out of her handbag and poured a shot of vodka into her coffee.

“Yes.”

“So why do it?”

“Because somehow I do not believe that Mark Gentle is a murderer,” said Hamish impatiently. “I would be more frightened in a way if I thought a murderer had got away with this.”

“Why?”

“Do you have any children, Inspector? You know how they go on? Why, why, why, and never listen to the answer. I love this place, and it stands to reason I don’t want a killer on my patch.”

“I think you’re wrong,” said Anna, “and I’ve got to get back to London. Let us have sex.”

Hamish coloured up to the roots of his fiery hair.

“Why?”

“Now it’s you with your whys. Because it’s fun and I would like sex.”

“Can’t.” Hamish shuffled his boots miserably.

“Why?”

“The sheets arenae clean.” The real response, the truthful response, thought Hamish, was that he did not feel like romping with someone who looked like the Russian president.

“Are you a virgin?”

“No. Look, I am verra flattered that such an attractive lady as yourself should want to go to bed with me – ”

“Who said anything about bed? You have a kitchen table.”

“Oh, michty me!” howled Hamish. “It’s too early in the day.”

There was a knock at the kitchen door, and Hamish leapt to answer it. Archie Maclean stood there. “Grand news, Hamish. I’m a soldier.”

“Have you given up the fishing?”

“Och, no. In the play.”

“Come ben, Archie. This is Inspector Krokovsky. She was chust leaving.”

Anna smiled wryly and gathered up her belongings. “If you are ever in Russia – ”

“Yes, yes,” gabbled Hamish. “I’ll look you up.”

♦

“You look as red as your hair,” said Archie. “That wumman been givin’ ye a bollocking?”

“Something like that,” said Hamish. “Sit down. Coffee?”

“I’d like a glass of wine.”

“What on earth is this? Drinking in the morning, and wine, too.”

“I’ve been up all the night as you ken very well. This is the evening fur me. Besides, I’m an actor now, and them actors drink wine.”

Hamish might have sent the fisherman packing if he had not been afraid of Anna coming back. “I’ve a bottle out in the shed,” he said. “Someone gave it to me last Christmas.”

He went out and came back with a bottle of Merlot, which he opened. He poured Archie a glass.

Archie sipped it cautiously and made a face. “It’s gone off. Right sour taste.” He saw the sugar bowl on the table, spooned sugar into his glass, and stirred it briskly before taking another sip. “Now, that’s better,” he said.

“Did you hear folk talking lately,” asked Hamish, “about me thinking they had arrested the wrong man?”

“Aye,” said Archie. “Bella Firth, her what lives up the back, big blowsy wumman, she says it’s because you did it yoursel’ but your conscience is troubling you and you want to clear it afore you die of AIDS.”

“To think I have just been defending this place to thon Russian,” marvelled Hamish. “Was everyone else so stupid?”

“Na. Priscilla, she said very loudly that you were never wrong and what you probably meant was that the police had made a wrong arrest and you had a good idea who the real murderer was.”

“So we’ll wait and see,” said Hamish.

“Whit?”

“Nothing,” said Hamish. “Nothing at all.”

♦

After Archie had left, he called Jimmy on his mobile. “Anything useful?” he asked. “Any fingerprints?”

“No, but footprints. It was a woman.”

“And it was a woman in the phone box. You know, Jimmy, there’s something awfy amateurish about that wire across the stairs. Rather as if someone had been watching Miss Marple on the telly and got the idea.”

“We’re checking through the family’s alibis. They all seem to have been on the road by the time you were in the castle. Of course, one of them could have doubled back. They all swear they didn’t know about that staircase.”

“What about Mark?”

“They’re hanging on to him for the moment.”

“Where’s Blair?”

“Back in the rehab in Inverness. Maybe he’ll get it this time.”

“I doubt it. While they’re talking about the Twelve Steps of recovery, Blair will be plotting how to escape to the nearest pub.”

“Keep your fingers crossed that the auld scunner dies. I’m in line to get his job.”

“Joined the Freemasons?”

“No, but if that’s what it takes, I’ll roll up my trouser leg with the best of them. Do you want to come up here?”

“I think I’ll just hang around the village and get local matters up to shape. It doesn’t matter if there’s a double murder, sheep dip papers must be attended to.”

“I’ll leave you to it.”

♦

For the next few days, Hamish patrolled his extensive beat, calling on the elderly in the outlying croft houses, but there was no attempt on his life.

Jimmy phoned to say that they had had to release Mark Gentle. He had hired a good lawyer who pointed out that they had nothing except a fragment of his voice on a tape. The lawyer also said that Mark had sworn he had gone on to say that unfortunately he didn’t have the guts to kill anyone, which was probably why Irena had saved only the one incriminating little bit.

“Did he say anything about Irena trying to blackmail him with it?” asked Hamish.

“No, he seemed hurt and puzzled. Seemed to think Irena fancied him.”

But why, wondered Hamish as he drove through the early gloaming, had Irena kept that fragment? Did she know that someone planned to kill Mrs. Gentle? Had she been in league with the murderer and kept that little bit on her recorder to help him? And had she changed her mind and decided to blackmail the murderer?

And what woman could be the murderer? Kylie Gentle, her daughter, or someone else?

What about the caterers? Was there some link there to the Gentle family? Or had there been some woman who answered the description of the woman seen in the phone box staying at the hotel where they worked?

The police would have checked up on all strangers in the area, but what if there had been some seemingly respectable lady staying at a bed-and-breakfast or somewhere else?

He drove towards Braikie, determined to interview Fiona King and Alison Queen, the chefs.

Both women seemed to be very busy in the kitchen but said they would be glad to take a break and talk to him.

“There can’t be many guests at this time of year,” said Hamish.

“A lot of people travel quite a distance to come here for dinner in the evenings,” said Fiona. “But this is really what’s keeping us busy.” She handed Hamish a brochure entitled, King and Queen, Royalties of Cooking .

“You see, we cater for people in their homes,” said Alison. “Because of the smoking ban in Scotland, and up here they smoke like the third world, a lot of them don’t want to go out to a smoke-free restaurant. So we serve them dinner in their own homes where they can smoke themselves to death in comfort.”

“I forgot to ask you last time,” said Hamish, “but I’m trying to find a stranger who might have been staying here or in the area. She’s tall with a mole on her chin. Maybe wearing a red-and-gold headscarf and dark glasses. Dressed in a tweed jacket, shooting breeches, and brogues.”