M.C. Beaton: Death of a Gentle Lady

The police now believed that the fake Ayesha had stolen the passport and run away from whoever was keeping her. Because of the Tahirs’ conviction that the men with her back then had looked like Russian mafia and had been talking in Russian, and because she had now left her clothes behind, it looked as if she might have been snatched – or murdered. Her photograph would appear in the local Turkish papers. Istanbul police had a copy and were checking at the Pera Palace Hotel to see if anyone knew anything about the missing girl.

“I think she was blackmailing Mrs. Gentle,” said Hamish.

“Why?”

“Mrs. Gentle gave her ten thousand pounds cash as a wedding present, she said. Now, one minute Ayesha’s sitting here weeping and telling me that Mrs. Gentle has given her notice, and the next minute she’s telling me that Mrs. Gentle is not only giving her money but hosting the reception.”

“Her passport?” asked Jimmy. “Did you find it?”

Hamish rose and took a bottle of whisky down from a cupboard. With his back to Jimmy, he said, “No.”

“You know,” said Jimmy, “I wouldnae mind a black coffee with my whisky.”

“The electric kettle’s broken,” said Hamish.

“You never used it. Light the stove. It’s cold in here.”

Hamish blushed. “Can’t. The chimney’s blocked. The sweep’s coming the morrow. Help yourself to whisky. I’ll chust put some o’ these trout out in the freezer. You’ll stay for dinner?”

“No, I’d best be getting back.”

Hamish went out to the shed where he kept the chest freezer. As soon as he had gone, Jimmy took the cleat and lifted the lid of the stove. He felt inside. His hand touched something. He lifted it out. Ayesha’s passport. “Oh, Hamish,” he muttered. “What have you done?”

Hamish came back and stiffened when he saw the passport lying on the table.

“Sit down, laddie,” said Jimmy grimly, “and spit it out. No lies this time.”

Suddenly weary and ashamed, Hamish sat down at the table and began to tell his story, leaving nothing out.

“You see,” he said finally, “they’ll examine that visa and check with the authorities. They’ll realise it’s a forgery and start looking around for highland forgers. They’ll get to Peter, and he’ll sing like a canary to shorten his prison sentence. Not only will my police station go, but my job as well.”

“But why, Hamish? Why did you do it?”

“It was a quixotic gesture. She was so beautiful that all I could think about besides saving my home and animals was letting folk know I wasn’t a failure in love. What a mess. I suppose you’d better do your duty.”

Jimmy took a gulp of whisky.

Then he rose and took the passport. He lifted the lid of the stove and dropped it in. He picked up a packet of firelighters, extracted one, ignited it with his lighter, and dropped it in on top of the passport.

“Now we’re partners in crime.”

“Thanks, Jimmy. I don’t know how…”

“Forget it. Let’s suppose she had something on Ma Gentle. So Gentle kills the girl. What does she do with the body? Ayesha, or whoever she is, is a great big girl. Mrs. Gentle is a wee old woman. Say she hit her hard. With the reception and the house full of people, it would need to be down in the cellar or in one of the upper rooms. Look, I’m off-duty tomorrow. Put me up for the night and we’ll go over, all innocent like, and ask if we can see her room. Mrs. Gentle can hardly refuse. If she follows us around and looks nervous, say, we might get an idea she’s guilty of something.”

♦

Mrs. Gentle opened the door to them the next morning, looking flustered. “What is it? You can’t come in. I’ve got some women from Braikie clearing up the mess.”

“We’ve found out that Ayesha had stolen someone’s identity,” said Jimmy. “We would just like to look in her room to see if we can find any clues to who she really is.”

“Oh, very well. Follow me.” The sounds of energetic cleaning met their ears. “I’ll be glad when the house is clean again. I spent all day yesterday recruiting women to do the job.” Mrs. Gentle walked up the stairs ahead of them, her back erect. A faint smell of lavender perfume drifted back to them.

Mrs. Gentle pushed open a door at the top of the house. “This was her room,” she said.

“Was?” repeated Hamish. “Do you think she’s dead?”

“Of course not. If you remember, she was to leave here for good on the day of her wedding.”

Hamish and Jimmy walked in. Jimmy turned round to where Mrs. Gentle was hovering in the doorway. “You can leave us,” he said.

She hesitated a moment and then went slowly away down the stairs.

It was a turret room. Very little furniture. A narrow bed stood against one wall, an old-fashioned wardrobe against another. There was a round table at the window with three hard-backed chairs; on the table was a small television set. No books, no pictures, and no framed photographs.

Hamish opened the wardrobe. There was only one garment, a black fur coat. “Jimmy, is this mink, would ye say?”

Jimmy felt the fur. “Aye, it is that. Imagine leaving that…maybe she was frightened of animal rights people.”

“We don’t get them up here,” said Hamish. There were three drawers at the foot of the wardrobe. He knelt down and opened them. In one he found three sweaters and in another silk underwear, not of the sexy type but knitted silk, the kind used by sportsmen and -women when they were out shooting on the moors. The bottom drawer was empty. “It probably got cold up here,” he said. “I noticed that there isn’t any central heating. She’s got money, our Mrs. Gentle, but it’d take an awful lot to get central heating into this folly. The fireplace is blocked up.

“I tell you, Jimmy, it’s weird. There’s nothing personal either here or in her suitcases. I mean, no letters, no jewellery, no photographs.”

“If she turns out to be some sort of Russian tart,” said Jimmy, “it stands to reason she wouldnae have anything like that.”

“But even tarts have friends, family, someone,” said Hamish. A buffet of wind rattled the windowpanes. He crossed to the window and looked down. “It must have been like an icebox up here last winter,” he said. “Why did she stay? Why wasn’t she down in one of the cities looking for a rich protector?”

“Probably because of that stolen passport,” said Jimmy. “And if she was a dolly for the Russian mafia, she might have been scared of a dose of radiation in her tea.”

“I shouldnae think they’d bother,” said Hamish moodily. “Whoever her protector was, he’d just move on to the next good-looking girl. Now, if anyone wanted to get rid of a body around this castle, where would they dump it?”

“Easy. Over the cliff she goes.”

“I was afraid you’d say that. I’d best get back and pick up my climbing gear.”

♦

As they drove back, Jimmy said, “You shouldnae be hoping to find a body, my friend.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know what’s happened to your wits these days. You’d be first suspect.”

“Not me. I was with you and then at the registry office in Inverness.”

“Aye, but if the procurator fiscal got evidence that she’d been killed during the night, where would that leave you?”

“Maybe Mrs. Gentle got rid of her. There’s something not right about that woman.”

“Havers! That wee woman?”

“Do you know, I ran her name through the police computer. Nothing. I wonder what her maiden name is.”

“Can you see an elderly lady taking on a big strapping Russian lassie? And then getting the body out of the castle and over the cliffs?”

“Look at it this way. Maybe our Russian went out for a walk and was standing on the cliffs. What with the noise of the sea and the wind, she wouldn’t hear anyone creeping up behind her. One good shove and down she goes.”