M.C. Beaton - Death of a Scriptwriter

There was a tentative knock at the door. He sighed. Probably some local looking for gossip. But when he opened the door, it was to find Patricia Martyn-Broyd.

“I must speak to you, Hamish,” she said. There were black circles under her eyes, pandalike against the parchment of her old skin.

“Come in,” he said. “I was just preparing breakfast. Can I be getting you something?”

“I couldn’t eat a thing,” said Patricia.

“Sit yourself down anyway and have a coffee.”

Patricia waited while Hamish prepared two cups of coffee and then sat down at the kitchen table opposite her.

“I am in bad trouble,” said Patricia.

“Why? What’s happened?”

She looked at him impatiently. “I am suspected of murdering that creature.”

“That’s Blair’s way. He goes on as if he suspects everyone.”

“But don’t you see! I am the one with the strongest motive.”

“I don’t know about that. She had threatened to get Fiona King, Gervase Hart and Sheila Burford fired. And they were all up on the mountain with her. Also, Harry Frame let slip last night that there had been some change of mind at BBC Scotland and they wanted more of a traditional detective series, in which case Penelope and her beautiful body would not have been needed all that much. But then, I hardly think Harry Frame would shove her over a cliff to get rid of her. If you have not murdered Penelope Gates, then you have nothing to worry about.”

“I am not stupid!” said Patricia. “I came here to get your help and to get away from the press. I have no alibi, and that man Blair, under pressure from the media, is determined to make an arrest, any arrest. I want you, Hamish Macbeth, to find out who really murdered Penelope.”

“Why me?”

“I formed the opinion that you are not lacking in intelligence. From the church gossip at Cnothan, I discovered that you had solved crimes before, and all on your own initiative.”

“I will do my best, of course, to find out who did it,” said Hamish cautiously. “But I do not have the resources of Strath-bane.”

“Nonetheless, I am relying on you. I am not a poor woman. I can pay you.”

“That’s not necessary. May I suggest if you don’t want any breakfast that you go home and get some sleep?”

“I can’t with all those press around.”

“As you have pointed out, you’re not a poor woman. Take a room at the hotel. They’ll have the keepers posted at the gates to keep the press out.”

“I shall do that. Will you keep me informed of any developments?”

“I’ll tell you what I can, but I would suggest you try to remember where you were driving. Someone might have seen you.”

When she left, he fried himself some bacon and eggs. He did not have any newspaper delivered, usually buying one at Patel’s. The tabloids would be having a field day publishing naked pictures of Penelope. It was as well that husband of hers was dead.

The phone rang constantly in the police office, and each time the answering machine clicked on. Calls from the press.

Then a truculent call from Blair. “I know you’re there, you lazy Hielan hound. Pick up that writer woman and bring her back here. Move your arse.”

Hamish sighed. Poor Patricia. And yet why should he think poor Patricia? The woman was armoured in rigid pride. But she was also lonely and vulnerable under that carapace. He finished his breakfast, checked on his sheep and hens and set out to collect Patricia.

∨ Death of a Scriptwriter ∧

6

Nay, Nay! You must not hastily

To such conclusions jump .

—Lewis Carroll

“Don’t you want to get a lawyer?” asked Hamish Macbeth as he drove Patricia towards Drim.

“I hate lawyers,” said Patricia, stifling a yawn. “Oh, why did that wretched man want to see me now? I could have done with a few hours’ sleep.”

“Once your interrogation is over,” said Hamish, “it might be a good idea if you just get on with your writing and forget about the television thing. All this has been driving you frantic.”

“But not enough to murder anyone,” said Patricia sharply. “People of my generation do not murder.”

Hamish thought briefly of several well-known murderers of Patricia’s generation but refrained from telling her about them. He was glad of an opportunity to go to Drim again to see what he could find out.

But he found he was not being allowed to sit in on the interview with Patricia. “We’ve got enough people here,” snarled Blair.

Hamish wandered outside the castle. Sheila came up to him. Her bright blue eyes looked up into his own. “There’s something you should know,” she said in a low voice. “Let’s go somewhere private.”

They walked past various members of the television company, most of whom seemed to have mobile phones glued to their ears. “Do they need to use these phones so much?” asked Hamish curiously. “Mobile phone calls are expensive.”

“You know what we say in the business?” said Sheila wryly. “If we don’t use our mobile phones at least every fifteen minutes, our self-esteem drops.”

They walked towards the village. Various members of the press were circling around like jackals, cameramen lugged their equipment, television news crews had their vans parked along the road leading to the castle.

“What a circus,” said Sheila. “How long will they stay?”

“A few days,” said Hamish, “and then some other news will take them all away.” He looked around. “No one about. So what do you have to tell me?”

“Well, don’t let anyone know where you got this information from. Harry Frame called us all together and said none of us were to talk to the police or the press. We should all stick together.”

“So what’s your news?”

“Some of the crew were in the restaurant and heard Penelope telling Gervase she wouldn’t act with him any longer.”

“We know that.”

“But Gervase was heard threatening to kill her.”

They walked on in silence. Then Hamish said, “It might mean nothing at all. People get angry and say, “I’ll kill you,” quite a lot. She said she would get you fired. Did you threaten to kill her?”

“No, of course not…Oh, my God!”

“You did?”

“I had a row with her, and as I left her caravan, I shouted, “I hope you break your neck.” I was thinking about the shoot up on the mountain, which was scheduled for the following day.”

“I can’t help thinking about the first murder,” said Hamish slowly. “I’m uneasy about that.”

“You think Josh didn’t do it?”

“The only evidence is that blood on his hands. Blair was so keen to wrap the thing up that he didn’t look any further.”

“But I heard that Josh was shouting, “I’ll kill him,” by two policemen in St. Vincent Street in Glasgow.”

“That’s puzzling me. He sees a photo of his wife, naked, on the book jacket advertisement, and yet he says, ‘I’ll kill him.’”

“Jamie’s name was on the back of the book jacket as scriptwriter, I gather.”

“But why should Josh immediately decide that Jamie was to blame? What about Harry Frame?”

“We’ll never know.”

“Wait a bit. Can I use your mobile?” asked Hamish.

“I thought you had one.”

“But I can’t really charge for this call.”

She fished her phone out of her handbag and handed it to him. “Be my guest.”

Hamish sat down on a rock at the side of the road, and Sheila sank down into the heather beside the rock.

Hamish phoned directory enquiries and got the telephone number of John Smith’s bookshop. Then he phoned the bookshop, identified himself and asked to speak to the assistant who had served Josh.