M.C. Beaton - Death of a Scriptwriter

“I was just about to put on my dinner. Want to join me? It’s only chicken casserole.”

“If you’re sure…That would be nice.”

“All right. We’ll have coffee first…So Jamie’s conveniently dead and everyone is happy. Fiona’s kept her job and Angus Harris has come into money and Penelope Gates has lost a husband she didn’t much like anyway. How’s Penelope bearing up?”

“Remarkably well,” said Sheila dryly. “In fact, she’s becoming a bit starry.”

“Meaning?”

“She’s beginning to queen about a bit. It’s odd, that. When Jamie was alive, she was very pleasant and subdued and only really came to life on the set. A hardworking actress, not all that great, but she has the looks. Now she seems to fly off the handle over every little thing and has to be coaxed back into a good temper.”

There was a silence while the kettle boiled. Hamish put instant coffee in two mugs and then carried them to the table and sat down next to Sheila.

“So were you surprised when you found out the murderer was Josh?” he asked.

Sheila took a sip of coffee and wrinkled her smooth brow. She was a very pretty girl, reflected Hamish, and almost immediately, Down, Hamish, you’ve had enough rejections to last you a lifetime!

“I was,” said Sheila. “Just a feeling.”

“Why?” asked Hamish curiously.

“Well, the only proof it was Josh was the blood on his hands.”

“I thought of that,” said Hamish. “He could have been skulking about up on the mountain and found Jamie dead. The body had been turned over.”

“Did they ever find out what struck him?”

“A rock. They found infinitesimal traces of rock in his skull. But all the murderer had to do was throw it away. Just below that bit of heather where he was lying is a whole expanse of scree. If the rock had been hurled down there, well, it could be anywhere.”

“Did they look?”

“Yes, they had a team o’ coppers crawling over the mountain like ants.” Hamish suddenly froze, his mouth a little open.

“What’s the matter?” asked Sheila sharply.

“I’ve chust remembered something,” he muttered. He could feel sweat trickling down from under his armpits. “Excuse me,” he said.

He went through to the bathroom and stripped off his shirt and sponged himself down, then went through to the bedroom and put on a clean shirt. What sort of policeman was he? He had put all the bits and pieces he had picked up off the heather into his backpack and, after finding the body, had forgotten all about them. The plastic bag he had put them in and the cellophane packet with those two threads of cloth were still in the backpack, which he had thrown in the bottom of the wardrobe. When Jimmy had called to tell him that the case was all wrapped up, he had forgotten all about them. He should have handed them over to the forensic team when he left the mountain.

He returned to the kitchen. “I’ll chust put the casserole in the oven and we’ll move to the living room. It’s hot in here.”

Sheila looked curiously at him as she sat down in the living room. “Are you sure you haven’t had a shock?” she asked. “Was it something I said?”

“No, no, I chust remembered I had a report to type up.”

“Am I holding you back?”

“Och, I can do it tomorrow.”

There was a knock at the kitchen door. Hamish went to answer it. The Currie sisters pushed past him and went straight through to the living room.

“We didn’t know anyone was here, didn’t know anyone was here,” said Jessie, who had an irritating habit of repeating everything. “We dropped by to bring you a lettuce from the garden, the garden. And this is…?”

“Miss Sheila Burford, who is with the television company,” said Hamish. “Sheila, the Misses Currie, Nessie and Jessie.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Sheila, recognising the two who had stared at her so fiercely on her arrival at the police station.

“Is there any trouble at Drim?” asked Nessie.

“Trouble at Drim,” echoed Jessie.

“No, this is just a social call.”

“Is there any news of Miss Halburton-Smythe coming up here soon?” asked Nessie.

“I have not heard from Miss Halburton-Smythe,” said Hamish stiffly.

“Such a beautiful girl,” said Nessie.

“Beautiful,” said Jessie.

“Was engaged to Hamish here, but he didnae appreciate her.”

“Appreciate her.”

“And went to foreign parts.”

“Foreign parts.”

“To hide a broken heart.”

“Broken heart.”

“Havers!” shouted Hamish, exasperated. “I thank you kindly for the lettuce, but I am chust about to prepare dinner.”

“We’re going, going,” said Jessie huffily.

Hamish ushered them out.

“Sorry about that,” he said.

Sheila grinned. “Who is this Miss Halburton-Smythe? Anything to do with the Tommel Castle Hotel?”

“Her father owns it, we were engaged once, didn’t work, end of story. I’ll get the food.”

When they were seated in the kitchen with the stove now damped down and the door and window open to the evening air, Sheila said, “It amazes me that it hardly ever gets dark up here.”

“The nights are beginning to draw in all the same,” said Hamish. “In June it’s light all night.”

“At least we’ll be finished and out of here by the winter,” said Sheila with a reminiscent shiver.

“It wass unusual, all that snow,” said Hamish, but thinking uneasily instead of that plastic bag at the bottom of his wardrobe. His accent, as usual, increased in sibilancy when he was upset. “To get back to Penelope Gates, she’s employed by the television company. Why doesn’t the director or whateffer chust tell her to do her job and cut the histrionics?”

“She’s the star of the show, and stars, however small they might be, can rule the roost.”

“Is she on anything?” asked Hamish, remembering the pot-smoking Fiona. “Uppers or anything?”

“No, I think she was kept down by Josh, and now he’s gone, she’s bursting out all over the place.”

“In every sense of the word, I suppose,” said Hamish. “Unless the naughty scenes have been cut.”

“No, they’re still in. She seduces the chief inspector tomorrow. They’ve built a bedroom set in the castle, four-poster and all that. But it’ll be away from the eyes of the villagers.”

“A good thing, too,” said Hamish. “The minister would have something to say about it.”

“I gather the minister’s wife, Eileen, is making a film of her own.”

“That crushed wee woman! I don’t believe it.”

“Fact. One of the village women told me. Eileen wrote a play when she was at university. They’re performing that, and Eileen’s filming it with her camcorder.”

“And what does the minister have to say?”

“He seems pleased. He doesn’t like us TV people being back, but Fiona gave him a generous donation to the church. This chicken is very good. Just as a matter of interest, what’s Patricia doing?”

“She’s writing again.”

“Where was she on the day Jamie got killed?”

“Out walking, she says.”

“I had her down as the murderess,” said Sheila. “She was so outraged. She’s got a medieval kind efface. I could imagine her being quite ruthless.”

“If she was ruthless,” said Hamish, “she would have found some hot-shot lawyer to try to break the terms of her contract.”

“You may be right.”

Hamish surveyed her. “You definitely don’t think Josh murdered Jamie.”

“I’m fantasising,” said Sheila. “Read too many detective stories. I suppose the police know what they’re doing.”

Hamish said nothing, but he wondered whether Strathbane police, because of pressure from the media, had not jumped too thankfully to the easiest conclusion.