M.C. Beaton: Death of a Poison Pen

Hamish reached out a long arm and snatched it from Mrs. Dunne. “That is the makings of a catapult for Miss Ogilvie’s nephew. You should not be going through her things.”

“I didn’t,” protested Mrs. Dunne. She turned to Jenny, who was standing there wishing an earthquake would strike Lochdubh and bury them all. “It was lying in the corner of your room. I found it when I was cleaning. I didn’t know what it was and I thought it might have been left by the previous tenant.”

Hamish handed the thong to Jenny. She stuffed it in her handbag, marched past them, and went up to her room. She sank down on the edge of her bed and buried her head in her hands. This holiday had all been a terrible mistake.

♦

Hamish went back to the police station, mildly amused. From the washing lines of Lochdubh, he knew that the usual female underwear consisted of large cotton knickers with elastic at the knee.

When he walked into the police station, the phone in the office was ringing. He rushed to answer it.

It was Elspeth. “You’d best get over to Braikie,” she said. “Miss Beattie, who worked in the post office, has been found hanged. And there’s one of those poison-pen letters lying on the floor under her body.”

∨ Death of a Poison Pen ∧

Chapter

There are certain persons for whom pure truth is a poison .

—Andre Maurois

Hamish drove to Braikie through a rising storm. Rain slashed against the windscreen and great buffets of wind rocked the Land Rover.

He cursed police headquarters for their penny-pinching ways. He pulled up outside the post office. It was a sub post office and sold groceries as well. He knew Miss Beattie lived in a flat above the shop. A thin little woman was huddled in a doorway. “Are you Mrs. Harris who found the body?” asked Hamish.

“Aye, and a terrible sight it is.”

“What on earth were you thinking of to report it to the Highland Times and not to the police?”

“I could only get your answering machine,” she whined.

Hamish heard the distant sound of a siren. He had reported the death to the ambulance service and to police headquarters before he had driven off from Lochdubh. “You’d better show me where you found her.”

Mrs. Harris emerged from her doorway and led him to a lane at the side of the post office and pushed open a door, revealing a flight of stairs leading up to Miss Beattie’s flat.

He went first, saying over his shoulder, “I hope you didn’t touch anything.”

“I was that feart, I couldnae,” she said.

“How did you find her? Do you have a key?”

“No, but herself promised me some of her homemade cakes. I couldnae get a reply, so I went up the stairs and there she was. The door was open.”

When they got to the landing, Hamish ordered, “You stay there.”

He opened the door and went in. The light was on and Miss Beattie’s body hung from a hook in the ceiling. One of the poison-pen letters was lying on the floor. Hamish took out a pair of forensic gloves and slipped them on.

He read: “I have proof that you’re a bastard. Your father never married your mother and I’ll tell everyone.”

He looked up at the contorted face swinging above him. A window behind the body was open, sending it turning in the wind.

He heard the thud of feet on the stairs. He went out to meet the ambulance men. “I’m afraid there’s nothing you can do,” he said. “They’ll be arriving from Strathbane soon. I hope they’re not long. I want to get that poor woman’s body down.”

As they waited, he hoped Blair would consider a mere suicide beneath him. To his relief, when the police arrived, they were headed by Detective Jimmy Anderson.

The police photographer took pictures and then the ambulance men took the body down. Hamish cast his eyes around the room. There was no note that he could see, only that poison-pen letter on the floor.

The pathologist arrived and began his examination. Hamish scowled. Something was nagging at the back of his brain. Jimmy Anderson was reading the letter.

“For heaven’s sake,” he said. “The Highlands have aye been crawling with bastards and nobody gives a toss.”

Hamish wandered through to the kitchen. “Still, I suppose,” came Jimmy’s voice from the other room, “respectability to that poor biddy was her whole life.”

Hamish looked at the draining board beside the sink. Two cups and saucers were on the draining board. Two beads of water were on the draining board under them. He conjured up a picture of Miss Amy Beattie as he remembered her. A bustling, cheerful woman.

He went back in and said to the pathologist, “I can’t believe it was suicide.”

The pathologist, Mr. Sinclair, looked up at Hamish. “Poor woman. Clear case of suicide.”

“I don’t think so,” said Hamish slowly.

Jimmy Anderson swung round and glared at him. “Come on, Hamish,” he said. “What else could it be?”

“Murder.”

“Whit?”

Hamish said to Mr. Sinclair, “You might find she was drugged afore she was strung up.”

“And what makes you think that?”

“Okay, she stood on a chair or something, put the rope over that hook, and kicked the chair or whatever away. So where is what she was standing on?”

He went to the landing where Mrs. Harris was standing with a policewoman. “Mrs. Harris, are you sure you didn’t touch anything, move any of the furniture?”

“Me? Och, no. I telt ye, I was too feart.”

Hamish went back into the flat.

“What makes you think she was drugged?” asked the pathologist.

“Chust a hunch,” said Hamish, his Highland accent becoming stronger, a sign of his distress. “There are two cups on the draining board that have recently been washed. I knew Miss Beattie. She wasnae the sort o’ body to take her own life over a letter like that.”

“The forensic team’ll be here in the morning,” said Jimmy. “I wish you wouldn’t complicate things, Hamish.”

“I may be wrong,” said Hamish, “but it’s as well to make sure.”

♦

The police waited until the body was removed and the letter taken off to Strathbane by Jimmy. Then they sealed off the flat and left.

“I’m going to Strathbane in the morning,” said Hamish. “I’ve got to get to a handwriting expert.”

He drove back through the buffeting storm to Lochdubh. He realised he had not had any dinner but felt too tired to make anything other than a sandwich. He fried some liver for. Lugs, not seeing the irony that he would cook for his dog, no matter how tired he was, but not for himself.

♦

Jenny tossed and turned and the wind screamed and shook the boarding house. She felt she had come to some remote, pitiless, savage land. Waves on the sea loch outside were pounding the pebbly shore, adding to the tumult. Before she finally went off to sleep, she had decided to leave Lochdubh the following morning and get back to civilisation.

But when she awoke, sunlight was streaming in through a crack in the curtains and the wind had dropped. She struggled out of bed and drew back the curtains. Waves still chased each other down the long sea loch all the way from the Atlantic, but apart from that, there was no sign of the storm of the night before. She pulled up the window and leant out. The air was sweet and warm, as if the winds had blown away the earlier autumnal chill.

She decided to put off the idea of leaving. She went down to the dining room. Mrs. Dunne supplied enough breakfast to keep anyone from needing more food for the rest of the day. Jenny found that this morning her appetite was sharp, and she demolished a plate of eggs, bacon, sausage, and fried haggis with enjoyment. The tea, as usual, was delicious, not at all like tea in London. Must be the water, thought Jenny.