M.C. Beaton: Death of a Gentle Lady

The air was full of shrieking wind, a hellish noise, as if all the devils from hell had been let loose. He reached the entrance to the drive. A small moon raced out from between the ragged black clouds.

The tower was being buffeted by great waves, huge waves, dashing up the side of the cliff and as far as the top of the building. He could dimly make out a light in the tower window and Cyril’s car parked in front. Cyril had gone to earth in Irena’s old room.

As Hamish struggled forward against the wind, he felt the ground beneath his feet tremble.

Some instinct called to him to stop. Some voice in his head was calling “Danger!”

But another voice in his head was calling out, too. “Are you going to let him get away with it?”

He took another step forward.

Arid then even above the noise of the storm, he heard a great rumbling and threw himself flat on his face, his hands clutching at the tussocky grass.

He raised his head and, by the light of the racing moon, watched in horror as the whole castle began to slide into the sea while the clifftop crumbled under the battering of the waves. For a brief second, he saw Cyril silhouetted against the window, and then he was gone – gone down with the castle into the depths of the raging sea.

Now the waves were dashing up, trying to eat away more of the land.

Hamish got shakily to his feet. The air was full of spray. He headed back the way he had come, propelled this time by the wind at his back.

When he reached the Land Rover, he found that the radio wasn’t working, and he could not get a signal on his mobile phone. For the first time, he realised he was soaking wet. He had left the station wearing only a sweater and trousers.

He reversed away from the fallen tree until he could turn around and headed back to Lochdubh.

He reached the shelter of the police station and rushed to phone Jimmy. Jimmy’s voice was faint and crackly, but he said he would be at the police station as soon as possible.

Hamish changed into dry clothes. He took down a bottle of whisky from the kitchen cupboard and put it on the table with two glasses. He checked the stove thoroughly before he lit it in case Cyril had left another bomb in there.

Half an hour later, Jimmy came crashing in.

“Two police cars blown over in the hunt,” he said. “You said something about the bastard having fallen into the sea.”

Hamish told him about the end of the castle. “He was here before that, trying to kill me.” Hamish went on to outline all that had happened while Jimmy opened the whisky bottle and helped himself.

“I thought Blair would have been here organising things,” said Hamish.

“We couldn’t rouse him. His phone was switched off,” said Jimmy. “Well, thank God he’s gone and truly dead. Save the taxpayer a lot of money. No trial. You’d better write down a full statement, Hamish. Before you called, the Met checked on Harold Jury. He’s dead. I wonder where our Cyril got that gun?”

“Do you know,” said Hamish, “that if Cyril had never become so determined to put on that production of Macbeth , we’d never have got him? Or if he hadn’t had such small feet, I might never have guessed it was him.”

“It’s no use phoning air-sea rescue in this storm. Well, I’d better get the men up there anyway and see what I can do. You stay here, Hamish, and get to work on that report.”

When he had left, Hamish went through to the police office and started typing. It took him two hours to write a carefully detailed report. As he typed, he reflected that Mrs. Gentle had made herself look guilty. She had decided not to hire a wedding car because she was regretting the expense and planned to drive Irena in her own car. She stopped the caterers going to the cellar because she thought they might pilfer a few bottles. When he had finished, he sent it off to Strathbane, went through to his bedroom, and fell into bed, fully clothed and down into a dreamless sleep, forgetting for the first time that his pets were not with him.

♦

He woke next morning to the crash of the cat flap. He got out of bed to face the reproachful eyes of two animals. He filled their water bowls and then went to shower, shave, and change into his uniform.

He then loaded his pets into the Land Rover, noticing that the waterfront was covered in pebbles, seaweed, and driftwood, hurtled ashore by the storm. The weather had made another of its mercurial changes. The sun shone down from a clear sky.

Hamish drove up to where the castle had been. Scores of Crime operatives were there in their blue coveralls, hovering uselessly on the cliff’s edge.

Blair was standing there with Jimmy and Andy MacNab. Jimmy hailed him. Blair turned his back as Hamish walked up.

“You can take a look over the edge,” said Jimmy, “but the sea’s still too rough for anyone to go down there. We’ll need to wait until low tide. It’ll take ages to find the body between the ruin of the castle and the fact that the whole of the clifftop went down with it. Come to think of it, to get to the pillock’s body will probably take more money than if there had been a trial.”

Hamish approached the cliff edge and ducked under the police tape. “Careful,” shouted a policeman. “It’s still not safe.”

Hamish gingerly approached the edge, lay down on his stomach, and looked over. Below, a mass of stones, earth, and grass was being pounded by the waves.

He eased his way back again and stood up and went to join Jimmy. “Can’t we just leave him there? It’s going to be difficult to get to him. There was a bit of a beach at low tide, but I don’t know whether that will be still there.”

“We’ll see what we can do. Here’s our lord and master.”

Daviot strode towards them. “I read your report, Hamish,” he said. “That was good work.”

Blair stared at his feet, scowling horribly. He hadn’t had a drink in what seemed like ages, and the craving was strong. He felt that without Macbeth around, he would be restored to the full dignity of his position. It was humiliating for a detective chief inspector to be outclassed by the village bobby.

Hamish Macbeth was behind all his troubles. Hamish Macbeth was the reason he drank.

There must be a way to get rid of him.

∨ Death of a Gentle Lady ∧

13

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!

What dangers canst thou make us scorn!

Wi’ tippenny, we fear nay evil;

Wi’ usquebae, we’ll face the devil!

—Robert Burns

Three days afterwards, the body of Cyril was found washed ashore in a cove north of the castle. The experts judged he must have thrown himself clear when the castle began to fall into the sea.

“That’s saved us a lot of money,” said Jimmy, relaxing in Hamish’s kitchen. “It’s nice to get back to normal: drugs, prostitution, and gang fights. What will you be doing?”

“Getting around to repairing the storm damage,” said Hamish. “There are a few tiles off the roof. The henhouse needs fixing.”

“Have the press gone?”

“Thank goodness, yes, apart from a bloke from one of the Sundays, planning an article on Save Our Coastline. Won’t make any difference. They don’t care much in Edinburgh or London about what goes on in the very north.”

“Did that girlfriend of yours come back up?”

“If you mean Elspeth, she iss not my girlfriend, and she iss mad at me because I didn’t give her the story.”

“She’ll come round. She always does. Has Blair been to see you?”

Hamish looked alarmed. “No. Why?”

“He’s been trying to reform me. I thought he might have a go at you. He says drink is the devil’s tool. He rants at me, clutching a large Bible. I think he’s losing it.”