M.C. Beaton: Death of a Poison Pen

So Hamish told him how he had come to believe that Miss McAndrew might be the poison-pen writer and how he had found stationery which matched the paper used by the poison-pen writer in her desk.

“As you know by now, you were right about Miss Beattie’s death. It’s estimated the murder took place on the Saturday evening, maybe somewhere between nine and ten,” said Daviot.

“Aye, and I’m wondering why I wasnae told that the findings were in when I phoned this morning,” said Hamish.

Blair scowled at the sky. He had been passing by when he heard the girl taking Hamish’s call and had told her to say that nothing had been discovered yet. Blair was jealous of Hamish and was always afraid that this peculiar policeman might one day decide not to sidestep promotion, move to Strathbane, and replace him.

“I don’t know how that happened,” said Daviot. “I think the best idea is for you to question people in Braikie and try to find out whether anyone was seen going up the stairs to Miss Seattle’s flat. When we’re finished here, I’ll have some men released to help you.”

“I take it that countermands Mr. Blair’s order?”

“What order?”

“I was told to go back to my sheep, sir.”

Blair forced a jolly laugh. “The trouble wi’ you Highlanders,” he said, “is that you cannae take a joke.”

“There you are, Macbeth. Now off you go.”

Another car screeched to a halt, and Elspeth and Pat Mallone got out. “And get rid of those press,” ordered Daviot.

Hamish went up to Elspeth. “She’s dead, isn’t she?” she asked.

“I’m supposed to get rid of you,” said Hamish. “Follow me to Braikie and I’ll tell you about it, but mind, you didn’t hear it from me.”

They went into a dingy pub in Braikie called the Red Rory. In a puritan place like Braikie, thought Hamish, it followed that any drinking establishment should be as grim as possible. They ordered soft drinks and sat down at a table by the window.

Hamish explianed what he had found out.

“A double murder!” Pat’s Irish eyes gleamed with excitement. “I never thought I’d find such excitement up here.”

“Where are you from?” asked Hamish.

“Dublin.”

“And what brought you here?”

“I saw Sam’s advertisement in the National Union of Journalists magazine and applied.” He grinned. “I think I was the cheapest he could get, and I didn’t have any experience in newspapers. I had been an advertising copywriter since I left university. Mind you, when I saw Lochdubh and the Highland Times , I thought, what a dump. I can’t live here. But then Elspeth walked in.” He smiled blindingly at her. Elspeth looked vaguely out of the grimy bar window.

“So you have the facts,” said Hamish. “But don’t quote me, not even as a source. Go out there and get quotes from the townspeople and quotes from Strathbane. Now I’m off to see what I can find out.”

♦

“Are you sweet on him?” asked Pat after Hamish had left the pub.

“The only thing I’m sweet on,” said Elspeth coldly, “is this story. Why don’t we finish our drinks and see what we can find out so that we can print the stuff without betraying that Hamish told us.”

“Okay. It’s going to be a long day. Why don’t we have dinner at the Italian’s tonight? Come on, Elspeth. You’ve been good taking me around and showing me the ropes. But we’ve got to relax sometime.”

Elspeth suddenly smiled. Why not? she thought. It wasn’t as if Hamish Macbeth had shown any desire for her company recently.

“Fine. Let’s get on.”

Pat grinned happily. He tried to remember whether the restaurant had candlelight. Candlelight was so romantic.

♦

Hamish went first to see Mrs. Harris, who had found Miss Beattie’s body. “It’s yourself again,” she said, opening the door to him. “Why are all the polis swarming all ower the place?”

“Can we go inside? I’ll tell you about it.”

She lived in a flat above the shops near the post office.

She led the way into a neat parlour where a budgie sang in a cage by the window and a large fat cat purred in front of the peat fire. “Sit down,” said Mrs. Harris. “I’ll get some tea.”

Hamish sank down in a comfortable, battered armchair by the fire. The cat purred, the clock on the mantel ticked, and he felt suddenly weary of the whole business.

He half closed his eyes and thought hard. Miss Beattie, the postmistress, had been murdered. Who better to have guessed the identity of the poison-pen writer than the postmistress? But Miss McAndrew had been killed, and not in a planned and calculated manner, as in the murder of Miss Beattie, but by a frenzied stabbing. He felt he could now be looking for two murderers.

Mrs. Harris came back in, carrying a laden tray. Hamish jumped to his feet and relieved her of it. “Just set it on the table by the window,” she said.

“You shouldnae ha’ gone to all this trouble,” said Hamish, looking down at plates of cakes and scones and a large pot of tea.

“It’s not often I get the company, and now herself has gone, there’s really nobody.” A tear rolled down Mrs. Harris’s withered cheek and she wiped it away with a corner of her flowered apron.

She poured tea. Hamish drew up a chair at the table. She sat down to the left of him, twisting her apron in her hands.

“Don’t you have any family?” asked Hamish gently.

“My husband died twenty years ago. I never had the weans. My sister’s gone as well.”

Hamish made a mental note to find out if there was some sort of old folks’ club in Braikie and then asked, between bites of scone, “Did Miss Beattie ever hint to you that she might have guessed the identity of the poison-pen writer?”

She frowned in thought. “Wait a bittie. When you made that speech at the community hall, she says to me as we left, ‘It’s all very well being asked to do your civic duty, but what if you’ve only got a suspicion and some poor respectable body is going to end up grilled by the police and maybe lose her reputation for nothing?”

“Well, I didn’t think that much of it at the time because folks were guessing all over the place. I thought her question was…was…”

“Academic?”

“Aye, just a theory.”

“When did you last see her before you found her dead?”

“Outside the post office. She was locking up. Afore she left, she says, “Come round tomorrow and I’ll give you some of my cakes.” She had a rare light hand.”

“What of yourself? Did you ever have any suspicions about anyone?”

She shook her head. “To tell the truth, I got fair sickened wi’ all the accusations flying around. Why all these questions and why all the polis?”

“We like to be thorough,” said Hamish. He couldn’t really tell her that her friend had been murdered until after the official announcement. She would find out soon enough, he thought.

“Did Miss Beattie have any relatives?”

“She had a sister, down in Perth. I think she’s on her way up to the procurator fiscal’s in Strathbane.” Scotland has a system based on Roman law, and the procurator fiscal is the coroner and public prosecutor of a Scottish district.

Hamish finished his tea and stood up. “I’ll be back to see you as soon as I have any news.”

Another tear rolled down her cheek. “What’s to tell? She took her ain life. I didnae know she was that unhappy. She should ha’ told me.”

Hamish longed to tell her the truth, that her friend had not committed suicide, but still dared not tell her anything before it was all made official.

He left and went straight to the schoolhouse. It was an old–fashioned Victorian building of grey stone. He entered and wandered along a dingy corridor looking for a door marked head teacher, or headmistress or headmaster. He came to a door with a pane of frosted glass in it bearing the legend ‘Head Teacher’ in black painted letters. He knocked and a masculine voice said, “Come!”