M.C. Beaton - Death of a Poison Pen

“Don’t you want to know what I’ve got?” asked Hamish.

“I’ll approach this with a fresh mind, laddie. Get off with you and talk to folks in the shops around the post office and people in the flats above. They might have seen something.”

Hamish felt sure he was being sent off to cover ground that had already been covered, but he knew it was useless to protest. He walked off.

He decided to look for the layabout youth of Braikie. There were police all over the place and they would concentrate on the residents around the shops. He wandered along the main street until he saw a group of pallid youths admiring one of their fellows’ motorbikes. They showed signs of dispersing rapidly when they saw him approach, but he hailed them with, “I just want a wee word.”

He was always amazed at how unhealthy some of the young men of the Highlands could look. In some cases, it was drugs, but it was mostly a combination of bad diet and lack of exercise.

“Miss Beattie has been murdered,” he said, no longer seeing any reason to keep it quiet.

There were startled cries and they clustered around him, their eyes shining with excitement. “Will the telly be here?” asked one. “Will we get our pictures on the telly?”

“I should think they’ll be along any minute,” said Hamish. “Now, she was found dead last Sunday, so someone may have called on her on the Saturday evening. Were any of you passing the post office? Did any of you see anyone going up the stairs to her flat or even loitering about?”

They all shook their heads, and then a little voice from the back of the group piped up: “I saw someone.”

They parted to reveal a small boy with a white face dotted with freckles and a mop of hair as red as Hamish’s own.

“Och, Archie,” jeered the one with the motorbike. “You’re aye making things up.”

“But I did,” he protested.

“Come here, Archie,” said Hamish. He led the boy a little away and took out his notebook. “What is your full name?”

“Archie Brand.”

“And where do you live?”

“At 6 Glebe Street.”

“What time would this be?”

“Around nine. The night Miss Beattie was murdered.”

“And what were you doing at that time of night? Glebe Street is at the far end. How old are you?”

“Ten. I was going to the chip shop.”

“Right, Archie, now think carefully. What or who did you see?”

“It was a young fellow. I couldnae see clear, for the street light was out. He was wearing black clothes. He had wan o’ thae baseball caps pulled down low.”

“And what was he doing?”

“Just standing outside the post office, looking up and down, and when I came towards him, he turned and looked in the window.”

“So you didn’t see his face.”

“No, sir.”

“What age?”

“Maybe about ma brither’s age. About seventeen.”

“Tall?”

“Not as tall as you.”

Hamish turned and surveyed the group. “Is your brother there?”

“Yes, he’s the wan wi’ the motorbike.”

“About his height?”

“Just about.”

Hamish wrote five foot eight in his notebook. “Slim, fat, medium?”

“I couldnae be sure. He’d wan o’ thae puffy jackets on. I walked on towards the chippy and I turned back once, but he’d gone.”

“Anyone else around?”

“No, the street was empty. There wasn’t even anyone in the chip shop.”

“This could be vital evidence,” said Hamish solemnly. “I may be calling at your home later.”

In the distance, the school bell shrilled. “You’d best be getting back to school,” said Hamish, closing his notebook.

“Do I hafftae? I mean, this murder and all. Don’t I get a day off?”

“Run along,” said Hamish. The boy reluctantly trailed off in the direction of the school followed by the jeers of the gang headed by his brother.

Hamish walked back to the post office and studied the shops opposite. Some of them obviously used the upstairs of the premises, but above what was once a dress shop and was now an ironmonger’s, he could see curtains at windows. He crossed the road and went up the stairs to the flats above. What had once been a dentist’s surgery had the name of a law firm on the door. He remembered the murder of the dentist. There had been an old man living at the top of the stairs then. Hamish wondered whether he was still alive.

He mounted another flight of stairs and knocked at the door at the top. The door opened and Hamish thought he recognised Fred Sutherland. He was wearing a dressing gown, striped pyjamas, and a flat cap. “Fred?”

“No, that was my cousin. I’m Jock. Fred left me the flat. Come ben. Terrible business. Two murders.”

“Who told you?”

“Joe Cromarty, the ironmonger. He came up a few minutes ago and says to me that Miss McAndrew’s been murdered and that poor Miss Seattle was murdered as well.”

Hamish reflected bitterly that the whole of northern Scotland must know about the murders. Gossip in the Highlands spread as rapidly as fire in the heather after a dry summer.

“Would you like some tea?” asked Jock.

“No, I just want to ask you a few questions. Miss Beattie was killed sometime on Saturday night.” Hamish crossed to the window. “You can get a good look across the street to the post office. Did you see anyone or anything? Might be around nine o’clock.”

“I can’t remember the time. I’d been to that meeting o’ yours in the community hall. Wait a bit. I did look across because Miss Beattie always left her curtains drawn back and if she saw me at the window, she’d give me a wave. But the curtains were drawn tight. She did that if she was entertaining someone.”

Hamish looked at him sharply. “A man?”

“One night I saw a man’s back at the window and he disappeared into the room and Miss Beattie then drew the curtains.”

“What age of a man?”

“I couldnae right say. I just caught a wee glimpse of his back, and the window’s small and cut off the top of his head.”

“But did you get an impression of his age?”

“The shoulders were pretty broad and a bit rounded. Wearing a dark suit. Couldnae tell you his age.”

“You didn’t see anyone loitering in the street?”

“I didn’t look down. Then I made myself a cup of tea and watched the telly.”

“Did you know Miss McAndrew?”

“I met her a few times. There’s an old folks’ club at the community centre. She would come there sometimes. She was promoting a reading and writing class for the elderly. Waste of time. In our day, no child in the parish left school without being able to read and write. Bossy woman. All teeth and dyed-blonde hair.”

“You didn’t like her?”

“Nobody did.”

“I always got the impression she was well respected.”

“Och, you know what parents are like in Scotland. She managed to get good grades, and as long as she got good grades for the kids, the parents didn’t really care what she was like.”

“I gather Mr. Cromarty had a row with her.”

“Och, him? Nothing in that. He shouldn’t be running a shop. He’ll have a row with everyone.”

“I’d better speak to him. If you hear anything, phone me at Lochdubh.”

Hamish went out into the street and walked into the ironmonger’s shop. He had expected to see a thuggish man behind the counter, but there was only a small man with thick horn-rimmed glasses and a shock of brown hair. He was wearing a brown cotton coat over his suit.

“I’m looking for Joseph Cromarty,” said Hamish.

“That’s me.”

“I am Hamish Macbeth, constable at Lochdubh.”

“I heard you at the community hall. What’s all this about two murders?”