M.C. Beaton - Death of a Gentle Lady

The chefs looked at each other and then shook their heads. “Haven’t seen anyone like that, not even amongst the dinner crowd,” said Fiona.

“You hadn’t met any of the Gentle family before?”

Alison giggled. “No, and we’re too busy to murder anyone.”

Hamish thanked them and left, spending what remained of the day calling at every bed-and-breakfast he could think of without success.

As he wearily crawled into bed that night, he found himself almost hoping that the murderer would make an attempt on his life. Anything to give him just one clue.

∨ Death of a Gentle Lady ∧

9

The tragedy of love is indifference .

—Somerset Maugham

Hamish, in the following days, was anxious to talk over the murder cases with Priscilla. But every time he called at the hotel, it was to be told she was either out walking with Patrick Fitzpatrick, having dinner with Patrick, or rehearsing her part with Harold.

Why Patrick? he wondered. There had been nothing very interesting about the man that he could remember. He was tall and slim, ginger hair, pursed little mouth, and reddish skin. Hardly an Adonis.

He would not admit to jealousy, but thought bitterly that for auld lang syne Priscilla should at least have made herself available to act as his Watson.

He called on Angela Brodie instead. To his amazement, the usually messy and unhygienic kitchen was clean, the many cats confined to the garden.

“What happened?” he asked, looking around. “Expecting a visit from the health inspector?”

“Don’t be nasty, Hamish. I’ve been reading a self-help book. It says, in effect, that if you are not getting on with your work, it could be because of the mess at home, or because you are working in a dirty office. Would you like a coffee?”

“Fine.” Hamish quite often shied away from Angela’s offers of coffee, expecting to find some awful cat hairs sticking to his mug, because the cats too often roamed the kitchen table, licking the butter and drinking out of the milk jug. “It’ll save you a lot of vet’s fees,” he added, removing his peaked cap and sitting down. Only two weeks before, one of the cats had ended up with its head stuck firmly in the milk jug.

“It hasn’t helped a bit with the writing,” said Angela. “Instead of being compulsive about finishing this latest book, I’ve become compulsive about cleaning.”

A dismal yowling started up outside.

“That’s it!” Angela turned to open the kitchen door. “Poor beasties. I can’t bear it any longer. I’m going to let them in.”

“Could you wait till we’ve had coffee?” pleaded Hamish. “I’ll need to talk to someone.”

“What about? The fact that Irena told you something mysterious?”

“I made that up, hoping our murderer might have a go at me.”

“But you got your man. I haven’t been reading the newspapers. Has something else happened?”

Hamish told her about the wire across the stairs and the female footprints.

“A woman? Who on earth could that be?”

“Probably someone who’s long gone. No, wait a bit. She might just still be around the area. Jimmy told me he’d put extra men on the job, going all over the place, interviewing any visitors. Where could she be staying?”

“A tent up on the hills somewhere?”

“That’s an idea. I’d better get off and tour around again.”

Angela put a mug of coffee down in front of him. “Have your coffee first. What’s happened to that Russian policewoman?”

“Gone back to London, thank goodness. She fair gave me the creeps.”

“Have you seen much of Priscilla?”

“I have not,” said Hamish huffily. “Herself is either walking the hills with an Irishman who’s staying at the hotel or rehearsing her part with Harold Jury.”

“I might call on Harold Jury again,” said Angela. “I only met him briefly when he suggested I might like to play Lady Macbeth. It would be nice to discuss writing with another author.”

“He’s an odd character,” said Hamish. “I put him down as dead arrogant and yet when I went to one of the rehearsals, I must say I was surprised at his patience.”

“Have you read his latest book?”

“No. Any good?”

“I found it a bit dull but maybe that’s just me. I like stories, and that stream-of-consciousness business bores the pants off me. I’ll lend it to you.”

“Can’t be bothered. Well, I’m off.”

Hamish hovered in the doorway wondering whether to dare ask her to look after the dog and cat, but then decided that if he was simply going to search around the moorland and the foothills, he could take them with him.

The balmy weather had ceased, and Sutherland was gearing itself up for the long northern winter. Hamish hurried back to the police station, knowing he had better set off quickly – the sun went down at four in the afternoon.

♦

Once the animals were put in the Land Rover along with lunch packed for all of them, Hamish drove up into the hills and along heathery little-used tracks, stopping occasionally at outlying crofts to ask if they had seen any campers.

He stopped for a picnic lunch. After his pets had been fed, he put them in the Land Rover and decided to roam across the moorland on foot before the light faded.

But all was peaceful and quiet apart from the sad piping of the curlews. Soon the shadow of the mountains fell over the landscape. He returned to the Land Rover, got in, and stared out at the fading countryside. His ruse was not working. There had been no more attempts on his life.

Back to Lochdubh, where a letter was lying on the doormat. He walked in, sat down, and opened it. It was from Elspeth. ‘This is just to say goodbye,’ she had written. ‘Let me know if anything happens. I’ve been called back but can come straight back up again if you’ve got any news. Elspeth.’

He looked at it sadly. No ‘Love, Elspeth,’ not even ‘Best wishes, Elspeth.’

Did he really want to marry her now? And why did he nurse that odd hankering for Priscilla? Why did he keep hoping that one day she would thaw out and become as passionate as the woman of his dreams?

The kitchen door opened and the fisherman Archie walked in. “We was coming back this morning, Hamish,” he said, “and I got a good look at thon folly from the sea. There’s a big chunk o’ the cliff has fallen and it’s perched there like a toy castle balancing on someone’s outstretched hand. It’s now only got the lip o’ the cliff to support it.”

“I’ll phone up Andrew Gentle and warn him,” said Hamish. “Sit down, Archie. Want some of that wine?”

“Na. I don’t know how thae actors survive on that bitter stuff. I thocht yours had gone off but they had some at the rehearsal and it was like drinking acid. I’ll take a dram.”

Hamish poured him a measure of whisky and then, after some hesitation, poured one for himself.

“You know what puzzles me, Archie?” said Hamish. “Everyone up here knows everyone else’s business. All I want to know is if someone’s seen a tall strange woman about, and no one’s seen anything at all.”

“Gamekeeper Geordie saw Priscilla and thon Irishman having a picnic,” said Archie. “You chust going tae stand by and let that happen? They was up by the Beithe Burn.”

“Archie, Priscilla can do what she likes.”

♦

When Archie had left, Hamish found Andrew Gentle’s card and phoned to warn him about the perilous condition of the castle.

“There’s nothing I can do about it,” said Andrew testily. “I am sure if the damn thing falls into the sea, the insurance company will put it down to an act of God. I’ll come up in the spring, hire an architect, and see if anything can be done.”