M.C. Beaton - Death of a Poison Pen

“Not necessarily. You’re thinking of Miss McAndrew. A lot of people probably disliked her. Her recent crush on young Penny must have made a lot of parents feel that their own precious offspring was being passed over. You’re forgetting about Miss Beattie. I did manage to find out that everyone liked her.”

“Wouldn’t her affair have diminished her respectability?”

“No. Billy Mackay, the postman, is well liked. His wife is not.”

“Is there anything else you’ve found out about the villagers?” asked Hamish. “I mean, anyone who was acting suspiciously? Anyone on that road to Miss McAndrew’s?”

“Nothing, really. Oh, I forgot one thing. There’s an old folks’ club in Braikie.”

“I know,” said Hamish. “I’m taking old Mrs. Harris there on Friday, you know, the one who found Miss Beattie’s body. She’s lonely and needs to get out more. Also, I may pick up some gossip.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Elspeth.

Hamish looked at her with a flicker of annoyance in his eyes. Couldn’t she wait to be asked? But instead he said, “What do you know about the old folks’ club?”

“It’s maybe not much. But when Mr. Blakey was setting it up, he asked the Currie sisters for advice.”

“So?”

“Well, that means the Currie sisters will know a good bit about Braikie and the people in it.”

Hamish groaned. The Currie sisters were twin spinsters of the parish and never lost a chance to criticise him.

“I’ll see them tomorrow,” he said gloomily, “after I see Angus.”

♦

The weather of Sutherland had made one of its mercurial changes when Hamish left the following morning, with Lugs on the leash, to walk to the seer’s. The sun blazed down and the mountains soared up into a pale blue sky. He was halfway up the hill at the back of the village when he sensed someone following him and turned round. Jenny came up, her face scarlet with exertion. “What is it?” he asked impatiently.

“I just wanted to apologise again,” said Jenny.

She looked so pretty and so distressed that Hamish said, “That’s behind us now. I’m on my way to grill our local seer. Like to come and meet him?”

“Oh, yes, please. Can he really tell the future?”

“I doubt it. But he can be a good source of gossip. I’ve got fish for him. He aye likes a present.”

“Oh, I haven’t got anything.”

“I’ll say the fish is from both of us.”

Hamish cast a calculating eye down on the top of Jenny’s curls. Priscilla had said that people talked to Jenny. Once again, he thought she might come in useful.

And so it seemed. For Angus’s welcome was at first sour as he ungraciously received a present of two trout from Hamish. “Could you no’ bring anything better?” he complained. “My freezer’s full of fish.”

“It’s a present from both of us,” said Hamish, stepping aside and revealing Jenny.

“Come ben,” said Angus, suddenly expansive. “So this is the wee lassie I’ve been hearing about. The one who’s a friend o’ Priscilla.”

Now, how did he hear that? wondered Hamish.

Angus’s cottage parlour was as picturesque as ever with a blackened kettle hanging on a chain over a peat fire. Three high-backed Orkney chairs were grouped in front of the fireplace, and Angus waved them towards them.

“Tea?” he asked Jenny.

“Yes, please,” said Jenny, looking around with interest.

Angus shuffled off to his kitchen at the back, which Hamish knew was generously furnished with the latest kitchen gadgets, including a large freezer. He also knew Angus had an electric kettle in the kitchen, but, for visitors, he preferred to go through the business of unhooking the old kettle from the fire.

When they all had cups of tea in their hands and Lugs was stretched out in front of the fire, Hamish began: “Now, Angus, there is the question of these murders. Have you heard anything?”

Angus stroked his long grey beard. His eyes fell on Jenny, who was leaning forward eagerly. “I do not hear. I see things,” he said portentously. Jenny let out an excited little gasp, and Angus beamed at her.

“What do you see?” asked Hamish patiently. Angus closed his eyes. The old grandfather clock in the corner gave an asthmatic cough and then chimed the hours. Jenny decided that it was worth all the humiliation of being found out to be here and witness this. Hamish, however, was becoming bored and restless. He knew Angus was putting on his usual act and wished he’d get over it and get down to what he had really heard.

Angus opened his eyes. They were staring and unfocussed. “Oh, God,” he said in a low voice. “Old people. Old people fainting and screaming. Something horrible. Something evil.” Lugs gave a sharp bark.

“Who? What?” demanded Hamish.

Angus’s pale eyes now focussed on him. “I think I’ll go and lie down,” he said.

“That’s all?” Hamish looked at him in irritation. “Old people fainting and screaming?”

“Leave me alone, laddie, and take your young lady away.” The seer got to his feet and began to shuffle towards the back premises.

“But have you heard anything?” called Hamish.

Angus turned. “You’ll let that one” – he pointed at Jenny – “get away like all the rest. You’re doomed to being a lonely man, Hamish.”

“Come on, Jenny,” said Hamish. “What a waste of time and trout.”

Outside in the sunshine, Jenny clutched his arm. “I think he really saw something.”

“Och, he’s an old fraud.”

“Where are you going now?” asked Jenny, scurrying to keep up with Hamish’s long strides.

“I’m going to call on the Currie sisters. They might have heard something.”

“Can I come?” pleaded Jenny.

“I don’t see why not.”

♦

Unfortunately for Jenny, the Currie sisters had found out what thongs looked like. Dr. Brodie, aware of the strait-laced sensibilities of the villagers, confined the magazines in his waiting room to conservative publications like Horse & Hound, Country Life, Scottish Field , and People’s Friend . But Nessie Currie had been to the dentist’s in Inverness the day before and had perused the magazines in that waiting room. They were of the girlie variety, full of detailed descriptions of orgasms, how to get your man, and sexual practices which the Currie spinsters had naively believed belonged solely in the brothel. There were also advertisements of saucy underwear.

They were remarkably alike, thought Jenny as two pairs of beady eyes behind thick glasses focussed on her. She was unfortunate in that the Currie sisters never let a thought go unsaid.

“I would have thought it very uncomfortable to wear, to wear,” said Jessie, who, like Browning’s thrush, had an irritating way of saying everything twice over.

“Are you talking to me?” asked Jenny.

“Who else? Who else?”

“Couldn’t believe our eyes. Catapult, indeed,” said Nessie.

Jenny’s face flamed red.

“We saw it illustrated in a dirty magazine,” said Nessie. “You’ll damage yourself wearing something like that. You go down to Strathbane to the draper’s in the main street and get yourself some respectable knickers with elastic at the knee.”

“Could we get down to business?” said Hamish crossly. “I have two murders to solve.”

“So why aren’t you solving them?” demanded Nessie. “Instead of going around with young lassies.”

“Young lassies,” echoed Jessie.

“I have to ask everyone if they’ve heard anything,” said Hamish, who was used to dealing with the Currie sisters. “Now, did either of you know Miss McAndrew or Miss Beattie?”

“Both,” they chorused.

“So tell me about them.”