M.C. Beaton - Death of a Poison Pen

Jenny looked at him cautiously, wondering how he hoped to get a job on a national when he had been fired by a local paper. The only boyfriends Jenny had ever been able to keep were the few that had scrounged off her. Not only did she earn a good wage but she had a modest income as well from a family trust.

“I’ve a better idea,” said Jenny. “You’ve got a month. If we could find out who the murderer is, you would have a great story and could send it direct to the nationals. Then you would be sure of getting a job. I’ll help you.”

“What can we find out that the police can’t?” demanded Pat sulkily.

“I’ve got a lead.”

“What?”

She told him about Joseph Cromarty threatening to kill Miss McAndrew. “You could start there. Look! The sun’s shining now.”

Pat’s mind worked quickly. He would appear to go along with her plan, casually ask for her home address before she left, and then just turn up on her doorstep. Better look enthusiastic.

“That’s a grand idea.” He stood up. “I’ll get to work right away.”

But when he drove down from the hospital and entered the main street, it was to find it swarming with press. The landslide must have been cleared quickly. He went to the pub instead where he knew some of the other reporters would be. Perhaps he could pick their brains and find out how to get a job on a national.

♦

Hamish was weary by the time the day was over. Blair had ordered him home, his superior anxious to get rid of this policeman who had a nasty knack of taking any glory away from him.

He fed Lugs and then made his own supper. He wanted permission to go to Perth but was sure he would not get it. Miss Beattie was the key to all this. Of that he felt sure. His shoulder ached from the effort of righting Jenny’s car and fighting with the force of the waves. He could persuade Dr. Brodie that he needed a day off.

“Lugs,” he said.

The dog cocked his heavy head on one side and looked up at him with those odd blue eyes.

“Fancy a trip to Perth?”

∨ Death of a Poison Pen ∧

8

What’s gone, and what’s past help

Should be past grief .

—William Shakespeare

Hamish called on Dr. Brodie at breakfast time the following day and secured a line to say he was suffering from exhaustion. He had debated whether to leave Lugs with Angela, but that would be a way of telling the good doctor that he was lying and wanted an excuse to go off somewhere.

“I’d planned to take you anyway, I suppose,” said Hamish as Lugs sat proudly beside him on the passenger seat. “But behave yourself! No wanting to stop for a walk every fifteen minutes.”

He heard a rap on the window and rolled it down to face the gimlet eyes of the Currie sisters. “Aren’t you coming to the kirk this morning?” asked Jessie.

“Not today.”

He began to roll up the window but heard Jessie shout, “You could do wi’ some spiritual help. You’ve begun talking to yourself. We saw you!” Hamish motored off.

As he drove over the humpback bridge, he noticed that the River Anstey was in full spate from the storm, although the weather had calmed down considerably. The sky above had a fresh-scrubbed look. He rolled down the window again and breathed in the scents of pine and wild thyme. He felt his spirits lift. It was good to be getting away.

He was halfway on the road south to Perth when he suddenly thought of that poison-pen letter, the one found lying on the floor under Miss Beattie’s body. They had all assumed it came from Miss McAndrew. But why would Miss McAndrew accuse Miss Beattie of being a bastard when it was plainly not true? He swore under his breath. What if, for some reason, someone wanted them to think it came from the usual source? Someone had definitely wanted them to think Miss Beattie had committed suicide. He decided to phone the handwriting expert when he got back.

Perth lay dreaming in the sunset, south of the craggy peaks of the Highland line. The River Tay curved through the town, gleaming silver. He stopped the police Land Rover on the outskirts and let Lugs out for a run while he consulted a map of the town that he kept with a pile of others in a cardboard box in the back. Mrs. Dinwiddie lived on a new housing estate, just outside the town and just off the A9. As he headed in that direction, he now wished he had phoned her first. She might be away for the day.

But Mrs. Dinwiddie was at home and she welcomed him warmly. “My husband’s gone to visit his elderly father,” she said, “so we should have some peace and quiet. The police returned my sister’s papers to me yesterday and I was just going to get in touch with you.”

She led Hamish into the kitchen. “Tea?”

“Grand. Thanks.”

“Is that your dog out in the car? I don’t mind dogs.”

“I’ll bring him in,” said Hamish gratefully. “I forgot his water bowl and he’ll be thirsty.”

When they were all settled, Hamish with a mug of tea and Lugs with a bowl of water, Mrs. Dinwiddie left the kitchen and came back with a pile of papers. “I’ve been through them myself,” she said. “Nothing much but bills and bank statements. No letters at all.”

“What about photographs?”

“She had some of those.”

“May I see them, please?”

She left and came back with a battered-looking photo album. Hamish opened it up. There were photos of Highland games and photographs of the post office and one of Billy fishing. Nothing exciting. Ever hopeful, he turned over the last blank pages of the album. In the back was a dusty plastic envelope of photos.

He opened it and began to look through them. There was a photo of two little girls. He held it out to Mrs Dinwiddie. “That’s me and Amy when we were small,” she said.

Then a photo of a severe-looking couple. “Our parents,” said Mrs. Dinwiddie.

There were more photos of Amy and her sister, some when they were older, some in high school uniform.

And then there was one of Amy Beattie with a group of bikers. At that stage of her life, she had thick black hair and a roguish expression. She was wearing tight jeans and a leather jacket. “I wonder they let her out of the house dressed like that,” said Hamish, showing the photograph to Mrs. Dinwiddie.

“Oh, she used to buy clothes she liked and hide them under the bed. She would change into them somewhere outside. Then Mother found out about her wearing them and the house was searched. My parents had a ceremonial burning of them in the garden. Poor Amy cried and cried.”

“The fellows in this picture, do you recognise any of them?”

Mrs. Dinwiddie pointed to a handsome young man who was sitting astride a motorbike, smiling at Amy Beattie. “That’s Graham Simpson. He was at school with Amy. I think they used to be close, he and Amy – well, as close as we could get to any boy with our parents always watching us.”

“Do you know if he’s still in Perth?”

“Yes, someone told me about him. He’s manager of the Scottish & Regional Bank in Turret Street. But what can he have to do with Amy’s death?”

“I don’t know. Maybe someone found out something about her background she didn’t want anyone to find out.”

“That would explian suicide, but not murder.”

“I’d like to see him just the same. Can I keep this photograph? I’ll give you a receipt and send it back to you.”

“Keep it as long as you like.”

“Where is the church you used to go to?”

“Down by the river. Harris Street.”

Hamish left with Lugs and got into the Land Rover and looked up Turret Street on his map of Perth. Once there, he went into the bank and asked to speak to the manager. The teller gave him an anxious look. Hamish was in uniform. “Nothing wrong, is there?” she asked.