M.C. Beaton: Death of a Gentle Lady

He was not surprised to find that Jimmy had joined the revellers and was standing, grinning, and holding a large glass of whisky. There was a silence as Hamish walked in.

“Please leave,” he said. “This is a sad day for me, and you should not be celebrating.”

They slowly left, clutching wedding presents.

When the last one had gone, including Jimmy, Hamish said to Mrs. Gentle, “We need to have a talk before I contact police headquarters.”

“What about?” Mrs. Gentle’s usually dulcet tones were now harsh. “She’s run away rather than marry you. Accept it.”

“It’s not as easy as that,” said Hamish heavily. “I had a quick look through the suitcases she left with me. I found a wallet with ten thousand pounds in it.”

“Oh, goody. That’s mine and I want it back. I gave it to her as a wedding present.”

“Very generous.”

“I have been too damn generous. Look at my home! Food trodden into the carpets.”

“I do not think she would have run away and left all her things, along with the money,” said Hamish. “I am afraid I will need to keep your money until the enquiry is over.”

“What enquiry?” she screeched. “You stupid man. She ran away from you, that’s all.”

“When did you last see her?”

“This morning, early. She said she wanted to go for a walk before changing her clothes and leaving for Inverness. She never returned.”

“Did your daughter see her?”

“Sarah has gone off to London. I am here alone.”

There was a ring at the doorbell. “I’d better get rid of whoever that is,” said Mrs. Gentle. “Probably one of those villagers come to take their wedding present back. I’ve never seen such a load of rubbish. Six crystal butter dishes!”

She went out into the hall to answer the door. When she returned, she was followed by Superintendent Daviot and Detective Chief Inspector Blair.

“Hamish,” said Daviot, “this is a sorry business. It’s hardly a police matter, but if you like, we’ll check the ports and airports for you.”

“I’m afraid it is a police matter,” said Hamish. “She’s left all her belongings at the police station along with ten thousand pounds, given to her by Mrs. Gentle.”

“And her passport?”

“I’ll have another look. But I couldn’t find it,” lied Hamish. He was worried that if that visa was subjected to police scrutiny, the forgery might be discovered and Peter might be questioned.

“Where is she from?” asked Daviot.

“She said she was from Izmir in Turkey, and that her father wanted her to marry a local businessman so she ran away. The family name is Tahir.”

“Do you have a photograph of her?”

“I do.” Hamish took out his wallet and extracted a photograph. He had taken it outside the police station before he had tried to tell Ayesha that the wedding was off. It showed a laughing Ayesha, tall and beautiful.

“We’ll get this wired over to the police in Izmir. I’m very sorry for you, Hamish,” said Daviot. “Come along now. We’d best leave Mrs. Gentle in peace.”

♦

Back at the police station, Hamish found Angela Brodie, local author as well as doctor’s wife, waiting for him with his pets. She had promised to look after them while he was in Inverness and then to shut them up in the police station while she went to the reception. But word of the cancelled wedding had spread like fire in the heather, and so she had decided to keep the animals with her until he might return.

“Gamekeeper Jamie phoned me and said he had seen your car heading towards Lochdubh, so here I am to see if I can say or do anything to help you.”

“Nothing at all, Angela. Come ben and have a drink with me.”

After he poured whisky for himself and Angela, he said, “It’s odd. For some reason, Mrs. Gentle gave her a present of ten thousand pounds, and yet not so long ago Mrs. Gentle had told the girl she was fired. She’s left the money in one of her suitcases along with her clothes.”

“May I have a look? Maybe in your distress you missed something.”

“Go ahead. Her cases are in the bedroom.”

He sipped his whisky, calling himself all kinds of fool, aware the whole time of that passport lurking at the bottom of the stove.

Angela came back in. “It’s very odd, Hamish. Didn’t you notice her clothes?”

“Not particularly.”

“They are very, very expensive. For example, there are a couple of Versace dresses and an Armani jacket.”

“Maybe her family are wealthy. I’ve a bad feeling about this. Why didn’t she take her clothes? Why did Mrs. Gentle who wanted to fire her suddenly decide to give her a wedding reception and pay her ten thousand pounds?”

“I don’t believe she’s gone,” said Angela. “No woman would leave behind clothes like that, not to mention ten thousand pounds. She’ll turn up.”

“I hope to God I never see her again,” said Hamish bitterly.

“Poor Hamish, you have no luck with women. It’s cold in here. I’ll light the stove for you.”

“No!” yelled Hamish.

Angela, who had half risen to her feet, looked at him in surprise. “I’m sorry,” said Hamish quickly. “It’s been a bad day.”

“I’ll leave you. Don’t get plastered. You’ll only wake up in the morning with a hangover.”

♦

Hamish awoke the next morning with a feeling of bleak emptiness. Never before in his life had he felt such a fool. If there was anything sinister about the disappearance of Ayesha, then he had compromised the investigation by lying about her and hiding that passport. But if the police ever got their hands on that passport and sent it away from the incompetent forensic department at Strathbane to Glasgow, say, some eagle-eyed boffin might recognise Peter’s handiwork. He had been allowed two weeks’ holiday for his honeymoon. Because of Ayesha turning out to be such a blackmailer, he had cancelled any idea of it.

Blackmailer!

Had the girl found out something about Mrs. Gentle and been blackmailing her?

Hamish decided to get out of Lochdubh for the day, away from sympathetic callers. He loaded up the Land Rover with his fishing tackle along with his dog and cat and set off for the River Anstey. He didn’t have a fishing permit but knew that the water bailiff was lazy; he was sure he wouldn’t be discovered.

He returned in the evening with eight trout to find Jimmy Anderson pacing up and down outside the police station.

“Where have you been?” howled Jimmy. “It’s a murder hunt!”

♦

In the kitchen, Jimmy explained what had happened. Mr. Tahir had been located in Turkey, and yes, he had a daughter called Ayesha. But his Ayesha was married and living right there in Izmir. And she wasn’t the girl in the photo that had been wired to him. Mr. Tahir had shown the real Ayesha this picture, and she had recognized the woman.

This was her story. A few years before, the Tahir family had been dining at Istanbul’s Pera Palace Hotel. Ayesha had completed her studies at Istanbul and had just received her visa to go to London for her PhD. She had been celebrating with her family. At the next table was a party of thuggish-looking Russians, along with the girl from Hamish’s photograph. The Tahirs had been sure that these Russians were mafia, and they were sorry for the girl who, said Ayesha, was being treated like dirt. They thought she was a Natasha, the slang name for a Russian or Eastern European prostitute.

When the Tahirs returned to Izmir, Ayesha realised that her passport was not in her handbag. She thought it must have fallen out somewhere, but while applying for a new one and facing up to all the formalities of getting the visa again, she had fallen in love with a local man and decided to get married instead of furthering her education. So she put the passport right out of her mind.