M.C. Beaton: Death of a Gentle Lady

“I don’t know,” said Hamish. “Stunned, I guess.” Dr. Forsythe got out of her car. “Where’s the body?”

“Down in the cellar. I’ll take you there,” said Hamish. “Did she have any scratches on her face?”

“Too much blood,” said Hamish. “Why?”

“Despite being in the water, Mrs. Gentle had fragments of skin under her fingernails. I’m working on the DNA.”

“Do you think Irena killed her and then struck herself on the head with a hammer in a fit of remorse?”

“Don’t be cheeky, Hamish. I only meant that there’s hope the person who killed her might be on the DNA database.”

“Here’s the cellar,” said Hamish. “You’ll find Bruce down there.”

“Sober, I hope.”

“For the moment.”

♦

Hamish went back and joined Jimmy. “What’s odd,” he said, “is that on a table in the cellar is a bottle with two glasses. Almost as if someone had lured Irena down there, given her a drugged drink, and then bashed her head in.”

“What? On the morning of her wedding? Mrs. Gentle said she went out for a walk.”

“Have you checked the phone records?”

“Yes. That phone call to Mrs. Gentle came from a call box in Lochdubh. Any strangers in Lochdubh?”

“I suppose there are visitors up at the Tommel Castle Hotel.”

“Her family are due to arrive today,” said Jimmy. “What a mess. You’d best get down to Lochdubh and ask around. Put a sign on that phone box and some police tape around it until the forensic people see if they can get anything off the receiver. Then check who’s staying at the hotel.”

“Can’t I wait for the pathologist’s report? You’re not Blair.”

“Well, just till then.”

♦

They waited a long time while the sky grew darker and sheets of rain began to sweep across the landscape.

At last Dr. Forsythe came up from the cellar. “She was struck a heavy blow to the head with a blunt object. I’ll have a better idea of what sort of object when I get the body back to the lab. I can’t tell the time of death until then, either, but from the state of the corpse it does look as if she was killed on the day of her wedding.”

“But the only person in the castle then was Mrs. Gentle,” exclaimed Hamish. “Could a wee woman like that have had the strength to get that body in the trunk?”

“I’ll need to check the toxicology. There were traces of vomit in her mouth. Whoever put the body in the trunk then jumped up and down on it to cram it in. Her ribs are broken. At the moment, mind you, that’s just a guess.”

“Off you go, Hamish,” said Jimmy.

Hamish turned to go and then stopped, poised on one foot like a heron.

“What now?” asked Jimmy.

“Can you let me know what Mrs. Gentle’s background is?” asked Hamish. “I mean, her maiden name, who she was married to, all that?”

“Look, I’ll drop in on you later.”

♦

As Hamish hung a sign on the phone box saying it was not to be used, he noticed that the light inside the old-fashioned red box had been smashed. He put police tape around it. When he started, there hadn’t been a soul on the waterfront, but when he finished he found that a small crowd had gathered. Archie Maclean, the fisherman, was there. “We’re right sorry to hear about your poor fiancée,” he said.

“How did you find out?”

“Gamekeeper Diarmuid heard it frae his cousin in Braikie who got it frae Ellen, the cousin’s sister, who got it frae – ”

“Oh, all right, Archie. It’s a sad business. Did any of you see any strangers in the village yesterday?”

Mrs. Wellington, the minister’s wife, volunteered that several guests from the hotel had been seen in the village buying postcards. “Would you like my husband to have a word with you, Hamish? You must be grieving. The police should have more sensitivity than to put you on this case.”

“I’m better working,” said Hamish.

“We felt a bit mean, taking all our presents back,” said Mrs. Guthrie, one of the villagers. “So Mrs. Wellington told us to put them on display in the church hall and you can pick out what you need for the station.”

Hamish looked at the kind, concerned faces and turned abruptly away, a lump in his throat. “Very kind,” he said hoarsely, and hurried off to the police station.

“Near tears, the poor soul, poor soul,” said Jessie Currie. There was a murmur of sympathy.

Hamish got into the Land Rover. He felt very low. He had a guilty feeling of relief that Irena was dead and could not come back into his life to threaten him. He also felt guilty over the villagers’ warmhearted sympathy.

♦

Priscilla Halburton-Smythe received another phone call from her father. “You’ve had a lucky escape, my girl,” said the colonel. “Hamish Macbeth has murdered that fiancée of his.”

“What?”

“Some reporter’s just told me. She’s been found dead in a trunk in the cellar of that folly the other woman was living in, the one who ended up at the bottom of the cliffs. Who else would want rid of her but Hamish? Folks say he looked relieved when she didn’t turn up on his wedding day.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Hamish wouldn’t hurt a fly. If everyone is saying what you’re saying, he’ll need some support. See you soon.” And, deaf to her father’s protests, she rang off.

♦

Elspeth Grant was summoned to the newsroom. “Get yourself up to Lochdubh fastest,” said the news editor. “Bodies all over the place. One at the foot of the cliffs and now the fiancée of that copper has been found murdered.”

“Hamish Macbeth?”

“That’s the man.”

♦

Mr. Johnson, the hotel manager, welcomed Hamish cautiously. “I’ll give you a cup of coffee before you start questioning the guests. But don’t go upsetting them, mind? And do you have to bring those weird animals with you? Go and put them back in your vehicle. That cat of yours is enough to scare a man to death.”

“She’s just a pussycat,” said Hamish crossly, but he put the dog and cat in the police Land Rover, leaving the engine running and the heater on.

He was just about to sit down in the manager’s office when Mr. Johnson said, “I’d better go out to the car park. Someone’s running their engine. Maybe I’ll wait a minute and see if they drive off.”

“That’s mine,” said Hamish sulkily.

“Whatever for? Oh, I know. The beasties have to be kept warm. Hamish, they are animals. They come supplied by the good Lord with coats. Go and turn that damn engine off.”

Hamish stalked out and returned shortly. “You’re a hard man,” he said, picking up his cup of coffee.

“And you’re a softie. I’ve got news for you.”

“About the murders?”

“Not them. Wait a bit, murders! I thought there was only the one.”

“My fiancée who turns out to have been a Russian has been found in the cellar of the castle in a trunk with her head bashed.”

“I am so sorry. You must be feeling awful. Did you love her very much?”

“Something like that,” said Hamish hurriedly. “What news?”

“Priscilla phoned to say she’s coming up, and your friend Elspeth Grant has booked a room. She’s lucky we had one left. The press are booking in as hard as they can.”

“It’ll be grand to see them,” lied Hamish, who did not wish any more complications in his already complicated life. It would soon come out that Irena had been a hooker, and he knew that would shock the villagers.

“I thought your fiancée was Turkish.”

“So did I,” said Hamish. “I’m afraid she tricked me.”

“You can’t have been very close then. You’re usually awfully sharp.”

“There was the rush getting the necessary permission to marry her,” said Hamish.