M.C. Beaton: Death of a Poison Pen

“So,” began Elspeth, “I hear Mrs. Wellington got one of those letters.”

“How did you learn that?”

“She told Nessie Currie, who told everyone in Patel’s grocery. What on earth was in it?”

“Mind your own business.”

“All right, copper. What are you doing about these letters? They’re weird and wild in their accusations, but one day one’s going to hit the mark and there’ll be a death. Haven’t you asked for a handwriting expert?”

“Oh, I’ve asked headquarters, right enough, but it is always the same thing. Handwriting experts cost money. The budget is tight. It’s chust a village storm in a teacup and will soon blow over, that’s what they say.” Hamish’s Highland accent always became more sibilant when he was excited or upset. “So I sit on my bum collecting nasty letters.”

“There is something you could do and I’ll tell you if you make me a cup of tea.”

Hamish put the kettle on top of the stove and lifted down two mugs from the kitchen cabinet. “So what’s your idea?”

“It’s like this. Someone always knows something. You could call an emergency meeting at the community centre in Braikie and appeal to the people of Braikie to help you. I could run off flyers at the newspaper and we could post them up in shops and on lampposts. Someone knows something, I’m sure of that. Go on, Hamish. I feel in my bones that death is going to come and come quickly.”

Hamish looked at her uneasily. He had experienced Elspeth’s psychic powers and had learned that, at times, they were uncanny.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll do it. Let’s see. This is Monday. We’ll make it for next Saturday evening.”

“No, make it around lunchtime, say one o’clock. There’s a big bingo game on Saturday evening.”

“Okay. I’ll leave it to you.”

Hamish made tea. “What sort of person would you say was behind these letters?”

“Someone living alone, no family. Maybe someone retired who once had some power over people. Probably a woman.”

“There are an awful lot of widows and spinsters in Braikie.”

“Never mind. Let’s hope this meeting flushes something out.”

♦

After Elspeth had left, he noticed she had left him a copy of the Highland Times . Curiously, he turned to her astrology column and looked under ‘Libra.’ He read:

Romance is heading your way but it is a romance you will not want. You will suffer from headaches on Wednesday morning. You are not working hard enough. You are congenitally lazy, but remember always that mistakes caused by laziness can cause death.

Hamish scratched his fiery hair. What on earth was the lassie on about?

♦

On Saturday morning, Jenny Ogilvie looked out of the window of the bus that was bearing her northwards and felt she was leaving civilisation behind. She had flown to Inverness and caught the Lochinver bus. She had been told, however, that the bus to take her on to Lochdubh from Lochinver would have left by the time she arrived, but a local taxi could take her the rest of the way. Moorland and mountain stretched on either side. Foaming waterfalls plunged down craggy slopes. Red deer stood as if posing for Landseer on the top of hills as the bus wound its way round twisting roads, breaking sharply to avoid the occasional suicidal sheep.

She had decided to book into a bed and breakfast in Lochdubh rather than stay at the Tommel Castle Hotel, in case Priscilla might learn from her parents of her arrival. The bus finally ground its way down into Lochinver and stopped on the waterfront. It was a fine day and sunlight was sparkling on the water.

Jenny climbed stiffly down from the bus and retrieved her luggage. She took out her mobile phone and dialled the number of a taxi service in Lochdubh she had tracked down by dint of phoning the Sutherland tourist board. Better to have someone from Lochdubh to collect her than get a cab from Lochinver.

A pleasant Highland voice on the other end of the line informed her that he would be with her in three-quarters of an hour and if she sat in the café on the waterfront, he would find her.

Jenny went into the café and ordered a coffee, forcing her eyes away from a tempting display of home-baked cakes. It was all right for Priscilla, she thought bitterly. Priscilla could eat anything and never even put on an ounce, whereas she, Jenny, could feel her waistband tightening by just looking at the things.

She was the only customer in the café’. She noticed there was a large glass ashtray on the table in front of her. Jenny was trying to cut down on smoking, but she hadn’t been able to have one all day. She lit one up and felt dizzy, but after two more, felt better. The sun was already disappearing and the water outside darkening to black when a man popped his head round the door. “Miss Ogilvie?”

Jenny rose and indicated her luggage. “The cab is outside,” he said. “I would help you with your luggage, but my back’s bad.”

Hoisting her two large suitcases outside, Jenny stared in dismay at the ‘cab.’ It was a minibus painted bright red on the front, but because the owner, Iain Chisholm, had run out of paint, the rest was painted a sulphurous yellow. Inside, the seats were covered in brightly coloured chintz with flounces at the bottom of each seat.

Jenny heaved her luggage in the side door and then decided to sit up in the front with Iain and see if she could pump him for some information.

The engine coughed and spluttered to life and the bus started its journey out of Lochinver and headed up the Sutherland coast to Lochdubh. “I’m up from London,” said Jenny.

“Is that a fact?” said Iain, negotiating a hairpin bend. Jenny glanced nervously down a cliff edge to where the Atlantic boiled against jagged rocks.

“What’s Lochdubh like?” asked Jenny.

“Oh, it’s the grand place. Nice and quiet.”

“No crime?”

“Nothing much. Bit of a scare now, mind you. Some damp poison-pen letter writer’s on the loose.”

“How scary. Do you have a policeman?”

“Yes. Hamish Macbeth.”

“What’s he like?”

“A fine man. Solved a lot of crimes.”

“What’s such a clever copper doing being stuck up here?”

“He likes it and so do I,” said Iain crossly.

Jenny was dying to ask what Hamish looked like, but she didn’t dare show any more curiosity. Surely, someone who could attract such as Priscilla must be really handsome. He was probably tall and dark with a craggy Highland face and piercing green eyes. When not in uniform, he probably wore a kilt and played the bagpipes. Jenny clutched the side of the old minivan as it hurtled onwards towards Lochdubh, wrapped in rosy dreams.

♦

Earlier that day, Hamish addressed the inhabitants of Braikie in the community hall. “Some of you must know something – have an idea who is sending out these poisonous letters,” he said. He noticed uneasily that people were beginning to glare around the hall. “Now, don’t go leaping to conclusions because you just don’t like someone,” he said quickly. “Maybe if you all go home and think hard, you might remember” – he held up an envelope – “someone posting one of these in a pillar box. Just on the chance that our letter writer is here in this hall, I would caution you that when you are caught – and you will be caught, mark my words – then you will be facing a prison sentence. I am going to engage the services of a handwriting expert – ”

“What took ye so long?” demanded an angry voice from the front. “You should ha’ done it afore this.”

“I was told that because of cutbacks in the police budget, they were not prepared to let me hire one,” said Harnish. “On your way out, you will see a petition on the table at the door requesting the services of a handwriting expert from police headquarters. I want you all to sign it.”