M.C. Beaton: Death of a Gentle Lady

“He’ll get over it. He’ll soon be back on the drink again and his old grumpy self.”

“The trouble is, he’s even grumpier sober. I’d better get off and leave you to your chores. I just called in to see how you were.”

♦

Hamish worked on the roof, replacing slates that had been blown off in the storm. Then he decided to walk along and visit Angela.

It was one of those white days in the Highlands, veiled behind thick misty cloud. Although the day was quite bright, no sun shone. The waters of the loch had subsided into a glassy calm as if the storm had never existed. The little whitewashed cottages along the waterfront looked as trim as ever, and columns of peat smoke rose from chimneys straight into the white sky.

Two seals floated on their backs in the loch, the idle flapping of their flippers sending out little ripples over the calm. A lot of the old people still believed that the dead came back as seals.

Hamish paused at the stone wall over the beach and watched them. It wouldn’t be a bad life, he thought. Just float around and catch fish. He thought maybe he’d take a boat out later and catch some fresh mackerel.

♦

Angela looked pleased to see him and anxious to hear all the details of the death of Cyril. As Hamish talked, it all seemed very far away – the image of the castle tumbling into the sea like something remembered from a film at the cinema.

When he had finished talking, Angela said, “Poor Harold Jury. The sales of his last book have rocketed. Maybe that’s the writer’s recipe for success. Die violently. Did the press bother you much?”

“No. They were mostly up taking pictures of where the castle went over and going to press conferences in Strathbane.”

“I saw one of those conferences on television. Blair was talking to them and taking all the credit.”

“He aye does that.”

“Doesn’t it make you mad?”

“Not really. The powers-that-be always begin to believe Blair solved any case that I might have had a hand in. It’s better that way. Too much exposure and they really would drag me off to Strathbane. It’s hard to believe that things are back to normal. It seems as if I’ve been frightened for quite a long time.”

“You never go on like a frightened man.”

“Oh, it’s the grand thing to be frightened. Keeps one’s wits sharp.”

♦

Blair was thinking about Hamish Macbeth and wondering how to get rid of him. Murder was out of the question. There must be some way he could get him pounding the beat in Strathbane, just an ordinary copper. Then he thought, if Hamish went missing, after a decent period they might sell that station of his. But how to work it so that no suspicion fell on himself was difficult.

He was leaving police headquarters with Jimmy to investigate a warehouse down at the docks where a tip-off had told him that there were drugs stored, when a prostitute called Ruby McFee was being marched into the station by WPC Aileen Drummond.

Blair knew Ruby of old. She was in her forties and suffering from the wear and tear of pounding the streets in all weathers looking for punters. She was a blowsy woman with a round red face and thick blonde hair showing black roots. Her eyes were small and bloodshot.

“Caught again, Ruby,” said Blair.

“Bugger off,” she said.

Blair shrugged and went on out of headquarters.

The tip-off turned out to be rubbish, and the rest of the day was spent in various routine enquiries. Blair finally settled in his flat in front of the television set that evening with a cup of tea. But there was nothing on the box he wanted to see. He switched it off and turned his mind to the problem of Hamish Macbeth.

God to Blair was a sort of senior detective who sat somewhere up there, looking remarkably like Blair himself. He put one hand on his Bible and prayed for a solution to his problem.

All at once, a splendid idea entered his mind.

♦

Ruby emerged from the sheriffs court in the morning to find Blair waiting for her.

“Whit now?” she demanded truculently.

“I’ve a proposition for you,” said Blair.

“I don’t give free blow jobs any mair.”

“It’s not that. Get in the car.”

He drove her rapidly out of town and up into the moors. Then he stopped the car. “There’s a lot of money in this for you, Ruby, and no hard work.”

“So what is it?”

“I’ll tell you.”

♦

Hamish returned to the police station that evening after having treated himself to a meal at the Italian restaurant. His phone rang.

A woman’s voice said, “I’ve had a burglary. I’m at Rhian Cottage on Sheep Road, the other side of Cnothan. I’m that distressed. Come quickly.”

“What is your name?” asked Hamish.

“Just come!” she screamed, and hung up on him.

Hamish sighed. Surely it could wait until the morning. He glanced at the clock. It was still only nine in the evening.

He decided to get it over with. Leaving his cat and dog, he set out on the road towards Cnothan. The earlier cloud had cleared, and frost was glittering on the heather at either side of the road.

He drove through Cnothan, remembering that Sheep Road was really just an unsurfaced track. He knew there was no sign on the road, and he couldn’t remember anyone living there. When Cnothan had been added to his beat, he had memorised every road in the neighbourhood.

He bumped along the track. His headlights picked out a dilapidated cottage at the very end. Anything stolen from a dump like that, thought Hamish, can’t really be worth stealing.

As he switched off the engine and climbed out, a woman came out to meet him. She was wearing an old-fashioned pinafore and had her hair covered in a headscarf that shadowed her face.

“I’m glad you’ve come.”

Hamish walked towards her. “When did this happen?”

“I was owerin Strathbane and just got back. Come in and see what the bastards have done. They’ve trashed the place.”

She held open the door. Hamish walked in. He found himself in a room, empty except for a table and two chairs. “What…?” he was beginning to say when a savage blow struck him on the back of the head and his world went black.

♦

Angela Brodie opened the door the next morning. Lugs and Sonsie stared up at her.

“This is too much,” complained Angela. “Come along. I’m taking both of you home.”

She marched along to the police station and knocked on the door. There was no answer. She felt for the key in the gutter and opened the door. “In you both go,” she ordered.

But the animals stood there, staring up at her. Perhaps Hamish was still asleep. Angela walked into the bedroom. The bed had not been slept in. Then she remembered she had not seen the police car.

She returned to Hamish’s pets and tried to drag Sonsie inside by his collar, but the wild cat hissed furiously, the fur on her back standing up.

Angela backed off. She walked back home. Both of them followed her. She dived into her cottage and shut the door on them.

An hour later, she opened the door. They were still there, and it was beginning to rain. “Oh, come in,” she said. “But don’t you dare frighten my cats!”

Throughout the day, Angela kept returning to the police station. At last she phoned Strathbane but was told that as far as they knew Hamish had not gone out on any job.

She kept the dog and cat for the night and tried again in the morning. To her relief, she saw Hamish’s Land Rover parked at the side. Once more she knocked and got no reply. Once more she went in and found the station empty.

Angela went into the police office, found Jimmy Anderson’s mobile phone number, and called him.

“Probably poaching,” said Jimmy, “but I’ll drop over later.”