M.C. Beaton: Death of a Poison Pen

“I’m right sorry about that catapult of yours,” said Mrs. Dunne, coming in to take her empty plate away. “But it shows what a good-hearted girl you are to be thinking of your nephew.”

Jenny blushed and Mrs. Dunne smiled on her with approval. It showed modesty when a pretty girl like Miss Ogilvie could blush at a compliment.

“Sad, sad business over at Braikie,” she said.

“What’s that?”

“Poor Miss Beattie, her what ran the post office, hanged herself last night. They say it was because she got one o’ thae poison-pen letters.”

“I suppose Hamish Macbeth is dealing with it.”

“Aye, himself’s gone off to Strathbane to plead for one o’ thae handwriting experts.”

Mrs. Dunne bustled out and Jenny sat back in her chair and lit a cigarette. What a relief to see ashtrays everywhere. As the smoke curled upwards in the shafts of sunlight, she remembered how proud Priscilla had been about sharing investigations with Hamish. Wouldn’t it be marvellous to put Priscilla’s elegant nose out of joint by joining in one of these investigations herself?

She remembered that she was supposed to go to the Highland Times to pick up maps and tourist brochures. May as well. She would study a map and find the road to Strathbane and maybe bump into Hamish ‘by accident.’

Also, she needed some sensible clothes: flat walking shoes, trousers, and a warm weatherproof coat, all the essential items of clothing she had not brought. There was no point in wearing a siren’s wardrobe in the Highlands.

Ten minutes later she walked into the offices of the Highland Times . Elspeth and a very attractive young man were studying pull sheets of the paper.

“Oh, there you are,” said Elspeth. “Jenny, this is Pat Mallone. Pat, Jenny Ogilvie.” Pat had dark curly hair like Jenny’s, but his eyes were bright blue. “I’ve got the stuff on my desk,” said Elspeth. Jenny smiled bewitchingly at Pat Mallone, but he was watching Elspeth with a dopey smile on his face.

Amazing, thought Jenny sourly. Elspeth’s clothes were a disgrace.

Elspeth handed her some maps and tourist brochures. “I thought I might go to Strathbane first and buy some warm clothes and some walking shoes,” said Jenny.

“Good idea. You won’t get very far in those,” said Elspeth, looking down at Jenny’s flimsy high heels. “I thought all you London ladies had taken to wearing sensible shoes.”

Not if we’re trying to seduce someone, thought Jenny. “I forgot to pack any,” she said. “I left in such a rush. How do I get to Strathbane?”

“That’s easy. Go out of the village over the bridge and up past the Tommel Castle Hotel. A mile along the road you’ll come to a crossroads. One way leads along the coast to Lochinver, but take the one on the right that leads inland to Strathbane.”

“Isn’t it signposted?”

“Can’t remember.”

Jenny thanked her and walked along to Iain Chisholm’s garage. Iain was bent over the engine of an old Rover. She tapped him on the shoulder and he jumped and straightened up and banged his head on the underside of the bonnet.

“You fair gave me a start,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“I wondered whether you had a car I could rent.”

“You’ve come to the right place. I’ve got the very thing.”

“How much will it cost?”

“Twenty-five pounds a week.”

Jenny brightened. Amazingly cheap. “I’ll take it,” she said.

“Just you wait outside and I’ll be bringing her round the front.”

Jenny felt that she could actually get to like this place after all. The sun was glittering on the surface of the calming loch, and only the faintest of breezes now lifted her dark curls.

She heard the sound of an engine. Down from a lane at the side of the garage came Iain, driving a Robin Reliant, those three-wheeler cars, beloved by some and treated as a joke by many.

It was painted bright pink, not car paint, but with what looked like a flat emulsion.

“Haven’t you anything else?” asked Jenny as Iain stopped the car and got out.

“You can’t do better than this. Of course, you could be taking the bus to Strathbane to one o’ the big companies. They might charge you twenty-five pounds a day.”

Jenny looked at the car doubtfully. “Does it go all right?”

“Like a bomb.”

May as well take it, thought Jenny. It does look ridiculous, but no one up here knows me.

“All right,” she said. She took out her cheque book.

“Haven’t you got cash?” asked Iain.

Jenny fished out her wallet and extracted two twenties and a ten. Iain gave her a crumpled five-pound note as change.

She smoothed it out. “What sort of money is this?”

“It’s a Scottish five-pound note,” said Iain.

“I didn’t know you people had your own money,” said Jenny, as if talking to the member of some strange aboriginal tribe.

Iain shook his head as if in disbelief at her ignorance and handed her the car keys. “This one’s for the ignition and that little one’s for the petrol. You need leaded petrol.”

Jenny thanked him and got in the car. The seats, like the seats in the minibus, had been covered in loose chintz. “I feel like a travelling circus,” she muttered as she put the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life, but the needle on the dashboard showed that the car was nearly out of petrol. She switched off the engine and got out again. Iain came out of the garage. “What’s up?”

“Practically no petrol,” said Jenny.

“Och, well, wait there. I’ll get you a gallon. That’ll get you to the nearest garage. These Robins don’t use much.”

He went into the garage and came back with a gallon can, took the keys from her, and poured the petrol into the tank. He handed her the keys and said, “That’ll be five pounds.”

“What! That’s a disgraceful price!”

“Did nobody tell you that petrol was expensive up here?”

“Oh, very well.” Jenny took out the Scottish five-pound note he had given her and handed it to him.

He gave her a cheery wave as she drove off. The dogged pink car chugged along nicely, up and over the braes. She passed the Tommel Castle Hotel entrance and drove on to the crossroads and turned off for Strathbane. She had to admit that the scenery was worth the visit. What mountains! What majestic scenery!

But when she crested the top of the hill to give her a view of Strathbane, like Hamish Macbeth, she experienced a sinking of the spirits. How awful that such a rundown industrial slagheap of a place should be dumped among the finest scenery in Britain. She saw a small garage by the side of the road and checked the petrol prices. Iain had overcharged her, but not by much. Why did the Scots put up with it? The prices were higher than in England. She filled up the tank and went into the garage shop to pay.

A giant of a man loomed behind the counter. She handed him her credit card and felt relief when it was accepted. She had begun to think that maybe in these primitive parts they didn’t use credit cards. “English?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Jenny brightly. “I’m visiting.”

“You should stay in your own damn country.” Before Jenny could think of an angry retort, a little woman shot out of the back shop. “You behave yourself, Angus. I haff neffer heard the like. Go along with you, lassie, and welcome to the Highlands.”

She rounded on her giant of a husband. “And as for you, you great scunner, you get off tae yir bed and stop insulting the customers.”

Jenny fled. No, it had been a mistake. One more night and back to civilisation tomorrow morning.

♦

Hamish Macbeth kicked his heels in Strathbane police headquarters all day. He had left Lugs with Angela Brodie, the doctor’s wife, and hoped she wasn’t overfeeding the animal. Angela was apt to be absent-minded, so that every time Lugs rattled his food bowl, she thought she hadn’t fed him and would feed him again.