M.C. Beaton: Death of a Poison Pen

“Don’t what?”

“I mean, I don’t think it’ll blow over, sir . It’s been going on for some time. My concern is this: If we don’t track down this poison-pen letter writer soon, he or she, instead of wild accusations, might hit on a truth that someone doesn’t want known. Braikie’s a very churchy place. Everyone prides themselves on their respectability. It could be that one of these letters could drive a man or woman to suicide.”

Daviot looked at the tall policeman with the flaming-red hair. He knew that when it came to cases, Hamish Macbeth often showed remarkable powers of intuition.

“Type up a report and give it with the petition to Helen.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Hamish made his way up to the detectives’ room where Detective Jimmy Anderson sat with his feet up on his desk.

“I was just thinking of going out for a dram,” he said when he saw Hamish.

“Give me a minute, Jimmy,” said Hamish. “I’ve got to type something out for Daviot.”

“So what’s so important the big cheese has to see it himself?”

Hamish told him as he switched on a computer.

“Hardly earth-shaking stuff, laddie. Tell you what. I’ll be along at the Wee Man’s. Join me when you’re finished.”

No one could remember why the nearest pub, the Fraser Arms, had been nicknamed the Wee Man’s.

Jimmy left. Hamish rapidly typed up his report and nipped up the stairs to where Helen, Daviot’s secretary, gave him a sour look.

“Working on the Sabbath, Helen?” asked Hamish.

“If you have something for Mr. Daviot, leave it with me and do not waste my valuable time.”

Hamish gazed on her fondly. “You know something, Helen? You’re right ugly when you’re angry.” And then he scampered off before she could think of a reply.

♦

Despite Jimmy’s urging, Hamish would only drink mineral water at the pub. He often wondered why Jimmy had never been done for drunk driving. He set off again, stopping outside the town to give Lugs a walk on the heather. As usual, when he approached Lochdubh, his spirits lifted even though the day was darkening. Mist was rolling down the flanks of the mountainsides, and thin black fingers of rain clouds were streaming in from the west on a rising wind. The crisp feel of the day had gone and he could feel a damp warmth in the air blowing in from the Gulf Stream.

He parked outside the police station and went into the kitchen – and glared at the figure of Elspeth Grant, sitting at his kitchen table.

“How did you get in?” he demanded.

“You left the door open,” said Elspeth. “An open invitation.”

“Well, next time, wait until I’m at home.” I’ll need to keep remembering to lock the door, thought Hamish. He was so used to leaving it open while he went to feed his hens and check on his sheep that he often forgot to lock it when he was out at work.

“How did you get on with the petition?”

“I gave it to Daviot. He says he’ll see what he can do.”

“It’ll be too late,” said Elspeth, looking at him with her silver eyes.

“I think he’ll get moving on it.”

“Oh, Hamish, you know what the red tape is like. They’ll pass memos back and forth and it’ll take weeks.”

“Well, let’s see how it goes.”

There was a knock at the door. Hamish opened it and found an attractive face staring up at him. Jenny Ogilvie held out one small hand. “I would like to speak to Hamish Macbeth.”

“I am Hamish Macbeth.”

He was surprised to see disappointment flash across her large brown eyes. The pair surveyed each other.

Jenny was disappointed. Gone was the craggy Highlander of her dreams. She saw a tall, gangling, red-haired man with hazel eyes and a gentle face. Hamish, for his part, saw an attractive girl with black curly hair, large eyes, and a curvaceous figure. She was dressed in a smart skirt and jacket and flimsy high heels.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

“I’m a tourist here,” said Jenny, “and I arrived yesterday. I don’t know this neck of the woods and I wondered if you could tell me good places to visit.”

“Come in,” said Hamish.

He introduced Jenny to Elspeth. “Sit down,” said Hamish. Both regarded each other with the wary suspicion of cats. “Drink?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Jenny here is a tourist and wants to know where she should visit,” said Hamish, lifting down a bottle of whisky and glasses. “Elspeth here is our local reporter. She’ll help you out.” Elspeth glared at Hamish’s back.

Lugs, roused from slumber by the sound of voices, came up to the table, put a large paw on Jenny’s leg, and drew it downwards, leaving white ladders on her tendenier tights.

Jenny squeaked with alarm and drew her legs under the table. “Come here, Lugs,” ordered Elspeth. “Good dog. Settle down.” She turned her clear gaze on Jenny. “If you really want to sightsee, you’ll need a car. Do you have one?”

“No, I did the last of the journey by taxi, a chap called Iain Chisholm.”

“I think you’ll find he has a spare car to rent, and his prices are low.”

“Thank you. I’ll try him in the morning.”

“Mostly, people who come up here are walkers, hill climbers, or fishermen. They have some sort of hobby. But if you drive around, there’s some wonderful scenery. Where are you staying?”

“Sea View.”

“You’re right next to the Highland Times offices. Drop in tomorrow morning and I’ll give you some maps and tourist brochures.”

Hamish joined them at the table and poured whisky into three glasses. “Do you drink it neat?” asked Jenny.

“Aye, but I can put water in it if you like.”

“It’s all right,” said Jenny quickly, not to be outdone by Elspeth. Was Elspeth his girlfriend? If she was, then her plot was doomed from the start.

“So what made you decide to come this far north?” asked Hamish. His Highland voice was soft and lilting. Jenny began to understand a little of why her friend Priscilla appeared to be so fascinated with this man.

“I came up from London. Just felt like getting as far away as possible.”

“Broken heart?” asked Elspeth.

“No,” said Jenny crossly.

Elspeth finished her whisky and stood up. “I’d best be getting along.” She walked to the door and then turned and said to Jenny, “Good hunting, but you’ll find the prey is difficult to catch.”

Jenny’s face flamed. “What do you mean?”

“Just a Highland expression,” said Elspeth, and she went out and closed the kitchen door behind her.

“I’m sorry I butted in on you and your girlfriend,” said Jenny.

“Just a friend. So what do you do in London?”

“I work for a computer company.”

“And what’s the name of it?”

Jenny looked at him, startled. She worked for the same company as Priscilla. “I work for Johnson and Betterson in the City,” she said, inventing a name.

“Ah. If you’ve finished your drink, I’ll walk you back. Lugs needs some exercise.”

Lugs needs to be put down, thought Jenny, standing up and ruefully looking down at the wreck of her tights.

Hamish opened the door. The rain still hadn’t arrived, but he could sense it coming.

They walked together along the quiet waterfront. “I hope you won’t be too bored here,” said Hamish as they approached Sea View.

Jenny stopped suddenly and stared.

“What’s the matter?” asked Hamish.

He looked and saw Jessie and Nessie Currie, the local twin spinsters, the minister’s wife, and Mrs. Dunne, standing together at the gate of the boarding house. Mrs. Dunne was holding up a piece of Jenny’s underwear, a black silk thong. “Now, what in the name o’ the wee man would you say that was?” she was asking.