M.C. Beaton: Death of a Gentle Lady

Hamish hurried back to the hall. He knew there was to be a buffet supper afterwards, the Italian restaurant having generously offered to contribute it.

The actors were still in costume. Harold had his wig on again and was in the middle of an admiring throng.

Willie Lament was serving out plates of food. He hailed Hamish. “Wasn’t Harold a real Oliver?”

“ Olivier ,” corrected Hamish automatically.

“Have some chicken and penne,” urged Willie.

“Not now,” said Hamish. Willie looked at Hamish in surprise, wondering what was causing him to turn down a free meal.

If only I could see under Harold’s dress and get a look at his feet, thought Hamish.

He turned back. “Any wine, Willie?”

“Aye, look, bottles of the stuff. Help yourself.”

Hamish poured himself a plastic cup of red wine and headed in Harold’s direction. Harold saw him approach and smiled, his eyes glittering in his stage make-up.

“Here’s our local bobby,” he said.

“I thought you were chust grand,” said Hamish. He stumbled, and his cup of wine shot over the skirt of Harold’s costume.

“You clumsy oaf!” yelled Harold.

“Really, Hamish,” complained Mrs. Wellington. She took a paper napkin and began to dab at Harold’s long velvet skirt.

“It’s all right,” said Harold, rapidly recovering from his outburst. “Red skirt, red wine, no damage done.”

But that skirt still remained over his shoes.

“I’m right sorry,” said Hamish. He pulled his notebook out of his pocket. “I’d like it fine if you could give me an autograph.”

“Certainly,” said Harold.

Hamish dropped his notebook. He crouched down and stumbled forward, knocking Harold over.

People rushed to help Harold to his feet.

“I’d better go,” babbled Hamish. “I’m a menace.”

“That you are,” boomed Mrs. Wellington.

Hamish fled the hall. His heart was beating hard. When Harold had tumbled over, it was revealed he was wearing a pair of women’s shoes with low heels – and Hamish was willing to bet they were size seven. One thing was for sure: Harold had small feet.

He went back to the police station, got into the Land Rover, and headed off through the night to Strathbane. Jimmy lived in a flat near the police headquarters.

Hamish mounted the stairs and rang the bell. Jimmy answered the door, his eyes bloodshot and a strong smell of whisky emanating from him.

“Hamish! What’s up?”

“Let me in, Jimmy, and I’ll tell you.”

♦

Jimmy listened carefully and then said, “I’ll put some coffee on. I need a clear head.”

He went off to the kitchen and came back with two mugs of black coffee.

“Now, let me get this straight,” he said. “You see Harold Jury acting as Lady Macbeth. He’s got small feet. So you immediately decide that he might be a murderer. He’s a fairly well-known author, Hamish.”

“Not that well known. He was only nominated for the Booker.”

“What are you getting at? That he might not be Harold Jury? He was interviewed by Strathbane Television, and no one popped up to say that man is an impostor.”

“Humour me, Jimmy. I daren’t go down to London again. Phone the Met in the morning without Blair hearing you and get someone to go round to his flat and check with the neighbours for a description.”

“No need for that. There’s probably a photograph of him on the Internet.”

Jimmy switched on the computer. Hamish waited anxiously. “Here we are. It’s Harold all right.”

“Let me see.”

“There he is at the awards ceremony.”

“It’s hard to tell from that photo,” said Hamish. “Looks the same. Hey, look at his feet. Can you enlarge that?”

“Sure.”

“See!” said Hamish, practically quivering with excitement. “Normal large feet.”

“You mean our Harold may have stolen the real Harold’s identity?”

“Could be.”

“Look, Hamish, I’ll go to the hotel in the morning and take his fingerprints. If he is who he says he is, we’ll look right fools. Also, I’ll need a right good excuse to ask for his fingerprints. If he refuses and phones Strathbane, and I have to explain your mad idea, I’ll get a rocket for going along with it.”

“I tell you what, I have the fingerprint kit. I’ll get the manager to tell me when he’s out of his room. I’ll lift a print and bring it over to you.”

“Don’t get caught, whatever you do. I’m sobering up and the soberer I get, the dafter your idea seems!”

♦

Hamish barely slept that night. He headed to the hotel first thing in the morning and went into the manager’s office, carrying his fingerprint kit in a bag.

“You’re up early,” said Mr. Johnson.

“I’ve a favour to ask. I want to get into Harold Jury’s room while he’s out.”

“He’s out all right. He left in the middle of the night. Asked the night porter for his bill and cleared off.”

“Get me to that room before the maids clean it! And give me a description of the car he was driving and the registration number.”

The hotel room was neat and tidy, and the bed had not been slept in. Hamish took out his fingerprint kit and began to dust the surfaces. He swore under his breath. Everything seemed to have been wiped clean.

Where in a hotel room would even a careful villain forget to wipe? He went into the bathroom and carefully dusted the handle of the cistern on the toilet with aluminium powder. “Bingo,” he muttered. “One perfect print.”

He carefully peeled it off, rushed out, and headed to Strathbane after calling Jimmy.

A thinner, whiter Blair came lumbering up while Jimmy and Hamish were searching the fingerprint database. “Whit’s up?” he demanded.

Jimmy explained hurriedly. “Havers,” said Blair. “Get back to your village, Macbeth.”

“Anything the matter?” Daviot loomed up behind them.

Jimmy explained again while Blair silently fumed over his superior’s habit of gliding silently into the detectives’ room.

“Got it!” cried Jimmy. “Look at this!”

Up it came on the screen. Real name, Cyril Edmonds. Charged in 1999 with sending a letter bomb to his ex-fiancee. Served eighteen months.

“We’d better get the Met round to Harold Jury’s address to see what happened to him,” said Hamish.

“I set up roadblocks when you phoned, and the trains and airports are being watched,” said Jimmy. “We sent out a description of his car and the registration number. The very fact that he wiped his fingerprints off everything in the room he could think of damns him.”

“You should have reported to me first,” howled Blair. “There wasn’t time,” said Jimmy. “You were out.”

“I’ll go and search up in the hills,” said Hamish. “If he’s clever, he’ll find a place to hide out until he thinks the hunt is dying down.”

♦

All day long Hamish searched and questioned people in the outlying crofts, but the man he now knew as Cyril had disappeared into thin air.

He had left his pets with Angela before he started his search. She was so shocked when she learned the real identity of ‘Harold’ that she did not protest.

The wind was beginning to rise as he wearily returned to the police station. His barometer had not lied. He knew from experience that a nasty storm was coming. He decided to relax and have a cup of tea before going to pick up Sonsie and Lugs.

He opened the kitchen door, and stiffened.

“Who’s there?” he called.

Cyril Edmonds walked into the kitchen from the living room. He was holding a gun.

“You’re a bastard,” hissed Cyril. “I could have got away with it if it hadn’t been for you.”

“I think you are the one who is the genuine bastard,” said Hamish. “Was Margaret Gentle your mother?”