M.C. Beaton: Death of a Poison Pen

At last he was summoned up to Daviot’s office. “We have a handwriting expert who will see you this evening at seven. You will find him over in the forensic laboratory on the Scotsdale Road. You did bring the file of letters with you?”

“Yes, sir,” said Hamish. “What’s the man’s name?”

“Mr. Glass. Ask for Mr. Roger Glass.”

“Any news of the autopsy?”

“Sinclair is still working on it. We should have a result by tomorrow. You’re going to look very silly if it turns out to be plain suicide.”

“I’ll take that chance, sir.”

Hamish went back to the police canteen to pass the time. He collected a tray containing egg and chips and tea and made for a table by the window.

He looked down into the street outside before he sat down. Across the road stood a shocking-pink Robin Reliant. I wonder what Iain is doing in Strathbane, thought Hamish, and then put it out of his mind.

♦

Outside, Jenny decided to give up waiting for Hamish Macbeth. Robin Reliant enthusiasts were constantly knocking on her window to get her attention so that they could reminisce about the glories of their youth when they had owned such a car.

She glanced at her watch. If she was going to buy clothes, she’d better get a move on. She parked the car in a multi-storey in the centre which was built over a shopping arcade. In the arcade were several shops selling sporting goods, but they all seemed dreadfully expensive and she had no desire to buy clothes she would not be likely to wear again. Somehow the nonappearance of Hamish Macbeth had made her decide to stay on a bit.

At the end of the arcade, she found a store called Murphy’s, full of cheap clothes and surprisingly cheap woollens. She bought two sweaters and a warm pair of wool trousers and an anorak. Then she moved to the shoe department and tried on shoes until she found a serviceable walking pair. On to the underwear department to purchase several pairs of white cotton briefs. I may look like a frump, she thought, but I’ll be a comfortable frump.

She went into the toilet in the car park and changed her clothes and then surveyed herself in the mirror. The anorak, a garment she had once sworn never to be seen dead in, was cherry red. One of the new sweaters she had bought and now put on was lambswool and a dull gold colour. The trousers were dark brown and the flat shoes, brown.

Jenny walked to her car with a new feeling of freedom. Everything felt amazingly comfortable.

Her only regret was that her new anorak clashed violently with the colour of her car, but with an odd feeling of belonging, she headed out of Strathbane and took the road to Lochdubh.

♦

At seven o’clock precisely, Hamish was ushered into Mr. Glass’s office. He had expected to meet a scholarly man wearing an old tweed jacket and thick glasses. Instead, he found himself looking at a man about his own age, mid-thirties, with sandy hair and a round cherubic face, wearing an open-necked checked shirt and jeans.

His voice, in contrast to his appearance, was dry and precise. “You have the letters? It is Hamish Macbeth, is it not?”

“Yes, it is. I have the letters here.”

“It will take me some time.”

Hamish sighed. “It’s an urgent case. Can’t you at least try to give me some analysis of the type of person who wrote the letters?”

“I’ll do my best. You’ll find coffee in the pot over there. Help yourself.”

Mr. Glass sat down and opened the file. Hamish poured a cup of coffee, sat down in a chair in the corner of the cluttered office, and tried to be patient.

At last he said, “How can you really tell a person’s character from their handwriting?”

“Attitudes and feelings influence the formations of handwriting. Handwriting is a sort of mental photograph of what’s going on inside you.”

“What if someone deliberately disguised their handwriting?”

“Makes it a bit harder. But the real traits of character have a way of showing through.”

Silence again while Hamish fidgeted. There was a large plain clock on the wall, like the clocks you sometimes still see in Highland school classrooms. It had a loud tick-tock which seemed to get louder as the minutes dragged by.

“Ahum,” said Mr. Glass.

“You’ve got something?” asked Hamish eagerly.

“Too early.”

Hamish’s patience gave out. “Look, man, one woman’s dead and that woman was a postmistress and it’s my guess it was murder and there’ll be others if you don’t get a move on. Give me an idea!”

“All right.” Glass capitulated. “See this letter to a Mrs. Wellington accusing her of having an affair with you?” He looked up at Hamish and a little gleam of malice darted through his eyes.

“Aye. You would pick that one. Go on. I’m looking.” Hamish bent over him.

“As far as I can see, she has made no effort to disguise her handwriting.”

“She? You’re sure?”

“Pretty sure. She suffers from a low opinion of herself and never really feels safe.”

“I’m not surprised the biddy doesnae feel safe, writing letters like that.”

“No, that’s not what I mean. She is always frightened of people finding out what her character really is like so that then they won’t like her. She is often depressed. See how the lines of her writing descend and how the letters turn back? Look at the low f-bars. She wears a mask the whole time.”

“Like the Phantom of the Opera?”

“No, no. She assumes a role, possibly that of a strong, confident woman, and has probably been playing that part all her life.”

“She’s old?”

“I think so. She has an overstretched personality. Because she thinks so little of herself, she tries to achieve more than she is capable of.”

“So even though she may be retired, she may have worked at something. I mean, not married and had children and been a housewife?”

“I can’t go as far as that. You’ll need to give me more time.”

“Phone me at Lochdubh when you’ve got something more.”

♦

The following morning Hamish telephoned headquarters but was told that the results from the pathologist would not be ready until later that day.

There was a knock at the door. He opened it and recognised Jenny. The day was crisp and clear and she was dressed in her new ‘sensible’ clothes.

“What is it?” asked Hamish. He was anxious to get off to Braikie.

Jenny blinked. She had forgotten to come armed with an excuse. She thought of one rapidly.

“It’s very remote up here,” she began, batting a pair of eyelashes, heavy with waterproof mascara, at him.

“So?”asked Hamish.

“I wonder if it’s safe for a woman on her own to travel around?”

“Safest place in the world. Now, if you don’t mind…”

Jenny’s face reddened. “Are you usually so rude to visitors?”

Hamish took another look at her. She was very pretty. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve got a case that’s worrying me. Look, I’ll take you for dinner tonight.”

Jenny brightened. This was more than she had hoped for. “Where?”

“That Italian restaurant on the waterfront. At eight this evening? I should be free then.”

“Lovely. I’ll look forward to it.”

As she walked off, Hamish shook his head. A pretty girl lands on your doorstep, he chided himself, and you practically tell her to get lost.

Jenny had left the door open. He went to close it and found Elspeth standing there, staring up at him. He had not heard her arrive. But Elspeth always seemed to materialise .

“What now?” he asked.

“The handwriting expert. Did you see him?”

“Yes. Oh, come in. I’m trying to get off on the road to Braikie, but maybe it would be a good idea for you to hear what the man said.”