M.C. Beaton - Death of a Scriptwriter

“Get Jamie in here,” Harry ordered Sheila.

They waited in silence until Jamie came in. With a certain amount of relish, Fiona described the reason for Angus’s visit.

Jamie went off into full rant. “How dare you!” he gasped. “That was my script and no one else’s. I gave up that class because they were a bunch of losers. I was wasting my time and talent on a bunch of no-hopers and wannabes. Och, I remember this Stuart Campbell. Useless wee faggot.”

Angus punched him on the nose, and Jamie reeled back, blood streaming down his face. “Get the police!” howled Jamie, and Fiona picked up the phone.

♦

Hamish Macbeth, arriving half an hour later, listened carefully, trying to sort out accusations from the babble of voices that greeted him. Jamie’s voice was loudest, “I’m charging this bastard with assault!”

“Wait a bit,” said Hamish soothingly. “Now Mr. Harris, as far as I can make out, the situation is this. You found a script of Football Fever amongst your dead friend’s effects and came to the conclusion that he had written it.”

“I know he wrote it,” said Angus. “It was his style.”

“Charge him,” said Jamie.

“In a moment,” said Hamish mildly. “We’ll deal with this business o’ the script first. I’ll phone Glasgow police and we’ll take the matter from there. It should be easy to find someone who was at that class.”

The anger drained out of Jamie. “Let’s just leave it. I’m sorry I called Stuart a faggot. I don’t feel like wasting my time appearing in a sheriff’s court. I’ve got work to do.”

“But I think the matter should be investigated,” said Fiona sweetly. “Plagiarism is a serious business.”

“You bitch!” snarled Jamie. “You’ve just got it in for me because you’re out of a job.”…

“Now I’ve met you,” said Angus to Jamie, “I can’t believe for a minute that you wrote anything as intelligent and amusing as Football Fever . You’re a dead man.”

“I’ll look into it,” said Hamish. “Although I gather the provocation was great, Mr. Harris, don’t go around hitting people.” He turned to Harry Frame. “I’ll let you know what I find out.”

♦

Over in Lochdubh, Dr. Brodie received a distress call from the minister’s wife at Cnothan. “It’s Miss Martyn-Broyd. She’s wandering around shouting something about killing someone, and our Dr. MacWhirter is on holiday.”

Dr. Brodie drove over to Cnothan. The first person he saw in the bleak main street was Patricia, striding up and down, clenching and unclenching her fists.

The doctor got out of the car. “Miss Martyn-Broyd? I’ll just be getting you home.”

“Leave me alone,” grumbled Patricia.

“This is a disgraceful way for a lady to behave,” said Dr. Brodie.

She looked at him in dazed surprise and then began to cry. “Get in the car,” ordered the doctor.

He drove her back to her cottage. He had called there once before when the local doctor had been on holiday. Patricia had thought she was suffering from a heart attack, but Dr. Brodie had diagnosed a bad case of indigestion.

“Sit down,” he ordered when they were in her cottage, “and tell me from the beginning what’s put you in this state.”

Patricia began to talk and talk. She showed him the book jacket. She told him about her horror at seeing Penelope Gates on the set and finished by wailing, “I’ll be a laughingstock. I’ll kill that man Gallagher.”

“You’ll only be a laughingstock if you march about Cnothan speaking to yourself,” complained Dr. Brodie. He noticed that Patricia was calm and reasonable now.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Have you any friends up here?” asked Dr. Brodie.

“I know people in the church.”

“I meant real friends. A shoulder to cry on.”

“There is no one here I can relate to,” said Patricia with simple snobbery. “They are not of my class.”

“I would drop that old·fashioned attitude and get out and about a bit more or go somewhere where you think you’ll be amongst your own kind. I’m not giving you a sedative. I don’t believe in them. But if it all gets too much for you again, I want you to phone me or come to my surgery in Lochdubh and talk it over. There is nothing like talking in a situation like this.”

♦

When Dr. Brodie drove back into Lochdubh, he saw Hamish Macbeth strolling along the waterfront and hailed him.

“What’s this I hear about Patricia going bonkers?” asked Hamish.

“News travels fast in the Highlands,” said the doctor. “The poor woman had a brainstorm because of the savaging of her work.”

“I don’t like this film business at all,” said Hamish. “I want it to work for the people in Drim – they could do with the money – but there’s a bad feeling about the whole thing. I found out that Fiona woman, the producer, got fired because of Jamie Gallagher, the scriptwriter, and now there’s a young man from Glasgow who says that Jamie pinched his friend’s script for Football Fever and used it as his own. There’s already been violence. The young man, Angus Harris, punched Gallagher on the nose. Och, I’m worrying too much. Maybe it’s chust the way TV people go on!”

∨ Death of a Scriptwriter ∧

4

I passed through the lonely street. The wind did sing and blow. I could hear the policeman’s feet. Clapping to and fro .

—William Makepeace Thackeray

Major Neal, with true Highland thrift, was eating his lunch at the television company’s mobile restaurant set up in the forecourt of the castle. It was another sunny day, and everyone seemed in good spirits. A week had passed since all the fuss from Patricia and Angus Harris.

Fiona King came in and collected a plate of food and joined him. “Everything all right?” asked the major.

“It’s all going splendidly because Jamie’s taken himself off somewhere,” said Fiona. “Harry’s furious because he wants some changes to the script and Jamie didn’t say anything about leaving.”

“Anything to do with that chap who says his friend wrote the script of Football Fever .”

“Could be. I wish he would stay away forever. If I had my way, I’d have another scriptwriter brought in. His stuff’s pretty lifeless. I don’t like this commune business, although Harry’s all for it. There’s something so trite about it all. Have you seen Ballykissangel on television?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s Celtic whimsy, Irish Celtic whimsy at that, but it’s guaranteed to run forever. It’s soothing, it’s funny and it’s nice.”

“I thought niceness wasn’t your forte,” said the major, his eyes twinkling. “I’ve heard some of your remarks about Sunday night viewers.”

“I’ve changed,” said Fiona. “I want a success. Besides, there’s something about it up here. The quality of life.”

“It’s a sunny day,” said the major cautiously, “and even Drim seems like a nice place. But there are a lot of passions and rivalries here. It can be a difficult place to live in, particularly during the long dark winter.”

Fiona shuddered. “Don’t remind me of the winter. I thought we were all going to die. Pity Jamie recovered from hypothermia. He’d been drinking a lot, and that put him in a worse state than Sheila or myself.”

“Have you heard any more from Miss Martyn-Broyd?”

“No, thank God. Writers are tiresome creatures.”

“I thought you’d been fired.”

Fiona sighed. “This is supposed to be my last day.”

Harry Frame’s large bulk darkened the doorway. “We really need to find out where Jamie’s gone and get him back,” he said. “I’ve put Sheila on to it.”