M.C. Beaton - Death of a Poison Pen

Had Pat had the instincts of a real reporter, he would have guessed that something else must have happened to cause this mass exodus.

Instead, he sat sipping his drink and hoping that Jenny was finding out something useful from Hamish Macbeth.

♦

Hamish Macbeth rarely lost his temper, but he found rage boiling up when he reached Braikie. Blair was determined that Freda had murdered both Miss Beattie and Miss McAndrew and that was that. The note saying ‘I did it,’ was proof positive. In vain did Hamish argue that she probably meant that she was about to commit suicide and did not want anyone else blamed. How could such a wee lassie, he shouted, have the strength to hoist up Miss Beattie, take that video, and frenziedly stab Miss McAndrew to death?

Blair’s eyes gleamed with malice. “How dare ye speak to your senior officer in such a way?” he shouted. “You’re suspended until further notice. I’ll be having a word wi’ Daviot.”

Hamish drove back to Lochdubh, cursing himself. He should have let it go. On the other hand, why should poor Freda Mather’s name be blackened?

He let himself into the police station, feeling weary. At least he would get a good long night’s sleep.

♦

Hamish was awakened at nine the following morning by a banging on the front door. The villagers only ever came to the kitchen door. He wrapped himself in a dressing gown and wrenched open the front door. The hinges were stiff with disuse.

Superintendent Peter Daviot stood there. “Sir!” said Hamish.

“I would like a word with you, Constable,” said Daviot.

“Come ben,” said Hamish. “I’ll put on a pot of coffee.”

Daviot shrugged off his dark cashmere coat and hung it on the back of a chair while Hamish busied himself making coffee. Lugs was still asleep, lying on the end of Hamish’s bed.

“I take milk and two sugars,” said Daviot. Hamish carried two mugs of coffee over to the table.

“I hear from Mr. Blair that he has suspended you,” said Daviot. “What prompted you to shout at a senior officer?”

“Freda Mather was an unfortunate girl,” said Hamish wearily. “She had been bullied by Miss McAndrew and now I am sure she was recently being bullied by Mr. Arkle, Miss McAndrew’s successor. I am perfectly sure the ‘I did it’ on the suicide note simply meant she wanted people to know she had committed suicide and no one was responsible for her death. She was looking after her mother, who is not well and will probably now have to go into a home. I know the press have been hounding you, sir, for a result, but I cannot believe that such as Freda was responsible for these murders. Has a statement been issued to the press?”

“Only that she committed suicide. We are awaiting forensic reports and pathology reports.”

Daviot studied Hamish. He had been relieved and delighted when Blair had given him the news that both murder cases had been solved. But the news that Hamish Macbeth had been so furious that he had verbally attacked a senior officer worried him. The superintendent felt comfortable with Blair, who was a member of the same Freemasons’ lodge as himself and who never forgot to send Mrs. Daviot flowers on her birthday. He was not so sure of Hamish, who had sidestepped promotion several times and had unorthodox ways.

But Hamish Macbeth had a knack of solving crimes, a knack that seemed to elude Blair.

Sunlight was streaming in the kitchen window and an early frost was melting from the grass outside. He felt he suddenly understood, and not for the first time, why this odd policeman was so attached to his police station.

“If not Freda,” he said, “who?”

Hamish ran his long fingers through his fiery red hair. “There’s someone in Braikie with a secret, a secret so important to them that they would kill rather than let it come out. I think Miss Beattie knew that secret and I think Miss McAndrew did as well. One or other of them, or both, decided to speak about it and that’s why they were killed.”

“Could this Freda Mather not have at least been part of it?”

“I chust cannae believe it.” The sudden sibilance of Hamish’s accent showed how upset he was.

“I tell you what I am going to do,” said Daviot, “because we need every man on this case. I will wait here while you get your uniform on and then you will follow me to Braikie. You will apologise to Mr. Blair for your insolence and then you will go to the school. I gather from your reports that you have already interviewed the schoolteachers. I want you to talk to them again.”

“Right you are, sir.”

Hamish went through to the bathroom and hurriedly washed and shaved before getting into his uniform. An apology to Blair was worth keeping the case open and stopping the detective chief inspector from blackening Freda’s name. He went into the office and phoned Angela Brodie and asked her if she would come and collect Lugs and look after the dog.

Then he set off for Braikie, following the superintendent.

As he drove along the coast road, he marvelled that the sea should be so calm, with only bits of flotsam and jetsam strewn across the road as a reminder of the ferocious storm.

Blair was standing outside Freda’s house. He looked tired and unshaven. His heavy face darkened when he saw Hamish Macbeth arriving.

“I think we should keep Macbeth on the case,” said Daviot. “He knows the locals better than anyone. You have something to say, do you not, Constable?”

Hamish stood before Blair, his face the very picture of contrition. “I am right sorry I shouted at you, sir,” he said. “Please accept my apology.”

Blair opened his mouth to blast Hamish, but Daviot said quickly, “Good, that’s settled. Get off to the school, Macbeth.”

Suppressing a grin, Hamish drove off to the school. To his surprise, he saw Pat Mallone driving away from the school with Jenny beside him and wondered what they had been doing.

♦

Pat Mallone was elated. He had a decent story at last. He forgot that the whole thing had been Jenny’s idea. Jenny had said that maybe Freda had committed suicide because she had been bullied. There was a lot of bullying went on in schools. To humour her, he had gone along with her idea and had struck gold. They had caught the teachers as they were arriving at the school and they had talked freely about how Freda’s mother was a demanding tyrant and how Mr. Arkle had made the girl’s life hell. Pat and Jenny had tried to interview Mr. Arkle, but he had snarled at them and rushed off into the school.

Pat also ignored the fact that it was Jenny’s sympathetic manner which had elicited the quotes. Bullied to death. What a story!

Back at the Highland Times , Sam listened to his account. “Great stuff,” he said. “Write up a piece for us and get it off as well to the nationals and the agencies.”

Jenny sat down beside Pat at his desk. When she saw what a bad typist he was, she said, “I’ll type. You dictate.”

By altering a lot of Pat’s clumsier sentences, she felt it was a good article. It only showed what Pat could do with a strong woman to help him. Jenny’s spirits had risen and she dreamt of a great and successful future for both of them.

♦

Hamish guessed that Pat and Jenny had spiked his guns. A furious Mr. Arkle refused to let him speak to the teachers. When Hamish told him that he would arrest him and charge him with obstructing the police, Arkle relented. But when Hamish interviewed the teachers, all were wishing they had not criticised their head teacher, so they did not mention his treatment of Freda but confined themselves to comments that they believed Freda’s mother to be demanding and difficult.

For want of a better idea, he decided to have another go at Joseph Cromarty. He found the truculent ironmonger in his dark shop. The sun now only shone on the other side of the street. The nights were drawing in fast. Soon the sun would rise at ten in the morning and set at two in the afternoon. Winter was one long dark tunnel in northern Scotland.