M.C. Beaton - Death of a Maid

When Mary Cannon’s face loomed over the garden hedge, he felt a stab of irritation at having his lazy day interrupted.

He got to his feet. “Come round to the kitchen door and don’t lecture me. It’s my day off.”

When Mary entered the kitchen, she said placatingly, “It’s my day off as well. I thought I’d see how you were getting on.”

“Fine. What about you?”

“Not bad. I’m enjoying being in Inverness now. Not so many chauvinist pigs around.”

“Tea? Coffee?”

“Tea, please. Do you always keep that stove on? It’s warm today.”

“I haven’t had a bath yet, and the back boiler heats the water. Saves a fortune on electricity bills. Did you see my new Land Rover? I’m right proud of it.”

“Very fine.”

“You know,” said Hamish, lifting down the teapot from a cupboard, “I still feel silly being tricked by Gloria. How was I to know she’d slip Rohypnol in my drink?”

“Look at it this way,” said Mary. “It was the last thing you would expect to happen to you in the north of snowbound Scotland. No one would have believed that Freddie Ionedes would dare to show his face anywhere in the country. All that rubbish about we look after our own. Probably Crystal told him if he didn’t finish you off, she’d talk about that other murder. As it was, of course she did. Imagine! A Labour MP, Mr. Sorley, man of the people, frequenting an expensive knocking shop like that? His wife was shattered.”

“She didnae get a chance to tell the paper she was standing by her man,” said Hamish cynically. “They aye do that.”

“She’s not too badly off. She’s married again. What about you? Still single?”

“Aye, and determined to stay that way.”

“Did that reporter get married?”

“I don’t know.”

Hamish filled the teapot and put mugs, sugar, and milk on the table.

“I could find out for you.”

“Let it be.”

“You know, I often wonder about that packet Mrs. Gillespie left for Mrs. Samson. I suppose we’ll never know what became of it now.”

♦

In his bedroom in a suburb of Toronto, Robert Macgregor, a lanky teenager, was clearing out his room. His father had said he’d take his belt to him if the mess hadn’t been cleared up by the time he got home.

Robert stacked old magazines and posters into rubbish bags. He fished under the bed and took out a supply of pornographic magazines to get rid of before his father arrived for the evening inspection.

He opened one of them for a last look, and a packet fell out on the floor. He picked it up. He’d need to get rid of it. He remembered that last year he had been sent down to the mailbox to collect the mail. There had only been this packet. He had tripped on the road back up the drive, and the packet had fallen in a puddle. Terrified of getting into a row, he had shoved the packet up under his sweater and then had shoved it inside that magazine under his bed.

From the address on the back, he knew it was from his great-aunt in Scotland, Flora Samson. He opened it up to see if there was any money in it, but it was only letters and a few photographs. There was a letter in spidery writing. It said, “My dear niece, I want you to keep this safe for me and post it back to me when I tell you to. Your loving aunt, Flora.”

He stuffed it into one of the rubbish bags. He remembered his mother had gone over for the funeral. His great-aunt was dead now, so it was probably not important anyway.