M.C. Beaton - Death of a Poison Pen

“No, no,” said Hamish soothingly. “I just want a wee word with him.”

He waited. The teller returned and said, “Follow me,” and ushered him in through a heavy mahogany door.

The man who rose to meet Hamish bore little resemblance to the carefree, handsome biker in the photograph. He was tall with thinning hair, a heavy red face, and a thick body.

“Sit down,” he said. “What’s this about? No one been fiddling the accounts, have they?”

“No, nothing like that. I am Police Constable Hamish Macbeth from Lochdubh. You will have read about the murder of Miss Beattie.”

“Yes, indeed. Dreadful business, but what’s that got to do with me?”

“Sometimes if I can find out more about the murder victim, I can sometimes find the murderer,” said Hamish. He drew out the photograph and handed it over. “This is you, isn’t it?”

“Michty me, so it is. And Amy.”

“Were you Miss Beattie’s boyfriend at one time?”

“Hadn’t a chance. Her parents were that strict. We were able to see each other for a bit and then they started locking her up at home, and Mr. and Mrs. Beattie came round one evening to see my parents. They called me a limb of Satan and my father threw them out of the house.”

“She left Perth suddenly, I believe. Do you know the reason for it?”

“The reason was her parents. I guess she couldn’t stand them anymore.”

“But time heals wounds, and yet Miss Beattie did not even attend their funerals.”

“You’d have to have known them. Right pair of scunners. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” He half rose.

Hamish surveyed him. “You seem in a hurry to get rid of me.”

“It’s not that. I have an appointment with someone. They should be here any moment.”

“One more thing. The other young men in the photograph. There are three of them. Can you tell me if I can contact them?”

“I shouldn’t think so. I only remember one of them and that’s Peter Stoddart and he went to Australia.”

“Why can’t you remember the names of the others? I find one can usually remember the names of friends of one’s youth.”

“Peter was my friend. The others, as I mind, were just visiting the town from down south.”

♦

Hamish left with an uneasy feeling that the man had been lying to him. But he drove to Harris Street and parked outside the church. The congregation were just leaving and the minister was standing on the church porch. He was an elderly man. Hamish could only hope he had been minister at the time Mr. and Mrs. Beattie were alive.

“Might I be having a word with you?” he asked. “I’m investigating the murder of Miss Beattie. Do you remember her parents?”

“I became minister here after Miss Beattie left home. But, yes, I remember Mr. and Mrs. Beattie. Come along to the manse. It’s a bit chilly here.”

Hamish followed him to the manse next door. The minister led him into a gloomy Victorian kitchen. “Sit yourself down and I’ll make some tea. My wife died last year and I’m still not very domesticated but I do my best.” Hamish waited patiently while the minister made tea and put the teapot, milk and sugar, cups, and a plate of digestive biscuits on the table.

“Did you ever hear any talk of why Miss Beattie left home?” asked Hamish.

He shook his head. “I am not surprised she left home. However, I heard some talk from some parishioners that she was a wild girl and from others that she was disgracefully bullied. The Beatties were very strict, very strict indeed. They saw sin everywhere. They were even having their doubts about me. They considered me too lenient with the youth of the parish. They did not seem to understand that life had moved on since the days of their youth. I am afraid it is only the middle-aged and elderly that attend my church these days. I cannot go out and terrorise young people into attending, which is what the Beatties wanted me to do.

“I am sure Miss Beattie left home because she could not stand the harsh discipline anymore.”

Hamish asked him some more questions, but it all seemed very simple. There had been nothing more dramatic in Amy Beattie’s past than a pair of insufferably bullying parents.

As he drove back north, he reflected that the handwriting expert would hardly be available on a Sunday, so he went to police headquarters. He hoped Jimmy Anderson was not still up in Braikie, but he found him in the detectives’ room typing up reports.

“Hamish!” said Jimmy with a grin. “Heard you were sick.”

“Between ourselves,” said Hamish, “I’ve been down to Perth. I had a hope that there might have been something in Miss Beattie’s background that might give me a clue, but I can’t seem to think of anything. But an idea occurred to me: What about that letter that was found with Miss Beattie’s body? I mean, the poison-pen letter.”

“What about it?”

“I mean, it turned out to be a load of rubbish. She wasn’t a bastard. Was it the same handwriting as the others?”

“Cost you a double whisky.”

“Och, all right. If a gannet could drink whisky, it would be just like you.”

Jimmy booted up his computer. Hamish sat down next to him, obscurely thankful that Jimmy did not smoke. Hamish had given up smoking a while ago, but the occasional yearning for a cigarette never seemed to go away.

At last Jimmy said, “Here it is. The letter was sent to Roger Glass, thon handwriting expert. He said it was the same handwriting as the others.”

“Now, that’s odd.” Hamish leant back in his chair. “I have a feeling that the murders were committed by lucky amateurs. I mean, we’re not dealing with hit men here. But why leave a letter they were sure we would find out didn’t contain anything like the truth?”

“Don’t ask me, Sherlock,” Jimmy was beginning, when Hamish disappeared under the desk.

Jimmy swung round just as Detective Chief Inspector Blair lumbered into the room. “I’m off to Braikie,” he said, “and you’re coming with me.”

“Just finishing up here,” said Jimmy. “I’ll be right behind you.”

“Get a move on, then.”

“I thought you didn’t work on Sundays.”

“The boss is terrified by all the press coverage and says we’ve got to work until we find someone. Hurry up!”

Jimmy nodded. He waited until Blair had left and then said, “You can come out now.”

Hamish groaned as he unwound his lanky form from under Jimmy’s desk. “I’d better wait until I’m sure the old scunner is on the road. Then I’ll get to Lochdubh fast in case he decides to drop in.”

“Don’t forget you owe me a whisky.”

♦

At the Highland Times , Elspeth was starting to read through a pile of national Sunday papers. She turned to the Sunday edition of the Bugle , wondering if they had used her colour piece. She flipped over the pages and then she found it. She stared at the large byline as if she could not believe her eyes. “Pat Mallone,” it said.

She remembered Pat telling her he had taken the liberty of sending off her article. He must have erased her name and put his own on, and once the article had gone he had put her name back on it.

Sam was having a day off and had gone to visit relatives in Alness. She picked up the phone and dialled the Bugle and asked to speak to the editor of the Sunday paper, only to be told he was never at work on Sundays. Elspeth then got through to the news desk of the daily and told them that the article featured under Pat Mallone’s byline was actually her own and her editor could confirm it. “Don’t worry,” said a voice from the news desk. “We’ll let him know.”

“What was that about?” a colleague asked when he put the phone down.