M.C. Beaton - Death of a Poison Pen

“We’ll find out,” said Hamish. “Are you going to be all right on your own?”

“Aye, I’ll be fine once I get into my flat and have my things around me.”

“People will be talking about nothing else in the morning,” said Hamish. “If you hear anything you think might interest me, phone me.”

“I’ll do that,” said Mrs. Harris.

When they dropped her off, Hamish got into the front seat of Elspeth’s small car. “Home,” he said.

“I thought the whole point of this was to talk to some of the old people and find out if they knew anything,” said Elspeth. “And what about the letter that came with the video? Mr. Blakey said something about a letter.”

“I’ve got to file a statement, and they can all wait. What was the point of the video? It didn’t show the murders.”

“It could be a warning.” Elspeth expertly swung the car round a startled sheep in the middle of the road. “Maybe someone tried to blackmail the murderer or murderers, someone who was in on it. He or they didn’t pay up. Maybe it was a warning that next time they’d show more.”

“This is the Highlands of Scotland!” shouted Hamish, exasperated. “Not some damn horror movie. Wait a bit. Horror movies. There’s something there. A child. What if a young child found that video and sent it to the community hall as a joke, not knowing that it was showing part of a real murder?”

“And typed the letter to go with it? Not likely,” said Elspeth.

“You’re right.”

“You know what this means?”

“What exactly are you getting at?”

“It means,” said Elspeth patiently, “that if whoever sent the video to the community hall was in on the murders but did not perform them, then that person is liable to find himself murdered.”

“Won’t wash. Whoever filmed the murder was as much a part of it as the man or men who strung Miss Beattie up. Someone’s looking at a long jail sentence.”

Elspeth suddenly swung the car to the side of the road and stopped. She darted out and was violently sick. Hamish climbed out and handed her a rather grubby handkerchief. “There, now,” he said gently. “It’s the shock.”

Elspeth choked and gasped and then handed Hamish back his handkerchief, unused. She took a small packet of tissues out of her pocket, extracted one, and dabbed her mouth. “Sorry, Hamish, it’s a nightmare.”

“It is that,” he said grimly. “Get back in the car, lassie, and I’ll drive.”

♦

Jenny and Pat Mallone were just finishing a meal at the Italian restaurant when Iain Chisholm entered. He bent his head over a table of diners and whispered urgently. There were cries and shocked exclamations. Iain left. The diners he had spoken to leant over to the next table and began to whisper. More cries of shock and alarm.

“Something’s up.” Pat got to his feet. “And I’m going to find out.”

He walked over to the diners Iain had first spoken to. Jenny watched. She couldn’t hear what they were saying because they were whispering. Finally, Pat came back. “I’d better get to the office,” he said. “You’ll never believe what’s happened now.”

“What?”

“A video was shown at the community hall in Braikie tonight. Someone had delivered it and said it was a short documentary from Help the Aged. It showed Miss Beattie hanging.”

“Gosh!”

“I’d better see Sam and get over to Braikie.”

“Can I come with you?”

“No, I’ll need to take a photographer with me.”

♦

When Pat got to the newspaper office, it was to find that Elspeth had already phoned over the story, and it had been sent off to the nationals along with library pictures of the community hall.

Pat chewed his thumb in vexation. At least the nationals would send their own reporters. Most of those reporters would rewrite Elspeth’s story and put their own names on it. He didn’t want Elspeth to get an offer of a job on a national newspaper before he did.

♦

Hamish worked late filing his report. Blair phoned back at two in the morning and told him to go to Braikie as early as possible and do door-to-door enquiries. Hamish set the alarm and tried to compose himself for sleep, envying Lugs, who was snoring at the end of his bed. But sleep would not come. He felt sure that somewhere amongst all the people he had interviewed lay a clue to the murders, a clue he had missed.

∨ Death of a Poison Pen ∧

7

O waly, waly, gin love be bonnie ,

A little time, while it is new!

But when ‘tis auld it waxeth cauld ,

And fades own’ like morning dew .

—Anonymous

The following morning, Jenny, wrapped in a rosy dream, ate her breakfast. Pat had told her his ambitions of being an ace reporter on a national newspaper and then moving on to television. Jenny was determined to return to London engaged to be married. Hamish Macbeth was proving too difficult and she obscurely blamed him for having caught her lying. But now, if she was married to a top reporter, that would be something to brag about. And it would mean no more disappointing affairs, no more going out on dates. She would be Mrs. Mallone. They would have a trim London house, somewhere fashionable, and she would see him off in the morning and then have nothing else to do but leave instructions for the cleaning woman. No more work. No more going to the office. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be married before Priscilla! I’ll make her my bridesmaid, thought Jenny. I’ll make her wear a yellow dress. Yellow was never Priscilla’s colour.

Now, what should she do with the day? Pat had phoned to say he would be spending the whole day in Braikie. She could go there herself and see if she could find out anything. Yes, that might be a good idea. If she was going to be Mrs. Mallone, then she should help her future husband in getting his first break. She could see it now. He would become a foreign correspondent for the BBC and she would go with him everywhere and become something of a celebrity. Of course, that notion rather spoiled the dream of having a lazy married existence at home. Suddenly, she remembered the seer’s prediction. He had been right! She would go and see him first.

Wasn’t one supposed to take a present?

She walked along to Patel’s store and bought a large box of chocolates and then set off up the hill to where Angus lived. The day was windy, with great gusts of wind that sent her staggering up the hillside. Seagulls were dotted about the sheep-cropped grass like the work of so many taxidermists, standing still, their tail feathers to the wind. Jenny did not know that this was a sign of worse weather to come.

She ploughed on upwards and arrived panting on the seer’s doorstep. She was raising her hand to knock when Angus opened the door. His eyes gleamed with delight when he saw the large box of chocolates. Angus loved sweets. “Come in, lassie,” he said. “I was expecting you.”

“You were?” Jenny felt a shiver of delighted apprehension.

She walked in, handing him the box of chocolates. Jenny was very fond of chocolates and hoped he would open the box and offer her one, but Angus asked her to be seated and bore the box off to the kitchen.

“Tea?” he asked on his return.

“Nothing for me,” said Jenny. “Did you hear what happened last night at the community hall?”

“Of course.”

“And you saw it all?”

For a moment, Angus looked startled. He remembered that something weird had happened when this girl had visited him with Hamish but could not remember what it was he had said. “Aye,” he said portentously, “I see in the future.”

Jenny wriggled with excitement. “So do you know who committed these murders?”