M.C. Beaton - Death of a Scriptwriter

“Someone or other,” said Hamish vaguely. He longed to ask her where she was on the day of the murder but did not dare go that far for fear she would complain to Harry, who would promptly complain to Lovelace. “How are you enjoying Patricia’s book?” he asked instead.

“It’s a bit old·fashioned, even for the sixties. More like a between-the-wars detective story. It doesn’t have the pace of a Christie or the brilliance of a Sayers, but it’s all right, a bit dull.”

“I’ve never read it.”

She smiled and handed over the manuscript. “You can have this. Now if you’ll excuse me…?”

“Grand talking to you.”

Hamish watched her leave the dining room. Bessie brought his trout, which he picked at while his mind raced. Forget the murder of Jamie. Here was a good motive for the murder of Penelope.

He finished his meal, told Bessie to take his bill to Mr. Johnson and went out. Sheila Burford was just coming into the reception area. She saw him and coloured slightly.

“I’m very sorry I stood you up, Hamish,” she said. “Something came up.”

But Hamish no longer saw her as an attractive girl but as a possible source of information. “Come into the bar,” he urged. “I want a wee word with you.”

“Just a short time, then,” said Sheila reluctantly. Using a funeral as an excuse, she had gone down to Glasgow, where she had registered her own film and television company. Then she’d taken Eileen’s cut and edited film with her own name on it as producer to Scottish Television. She was still waiting to hear what they thought of it.

She said she only wanted a glass of tonic water, and Hamish had the same, just in case the dreadful Lovelace came in and caught him drinking whisky.

“So what do you want to talk about?” she asked.

“Mary Hoyle.”

Sheila looked at him in surprise. She had somehow expected Hamish to ask her out again.

“What about her?”

“Did you know she was after the part of Lady Harriet before Penelope got it?”

“No, but I can see why she would expect Harry to give it to her.”

“Her being the better actress?”

“Well, no, because she hadn’t had any significant work for some time, and she and Harry used to live together.”

Hamish’s eyes gleamed. “There’s a thing. I wonder where she was on the day of Penelope’s murder.”

“You mean Mary Hoyle would come all the way up from Glasgow on the off chance of bumping Penelope off, that she would climb up the mountain on a misty day and just happen to pull Penelope over!”

The excitement left Hamish’s hazel eyes. “Now you put it like that, it does sound daft. Still, I’d like to know where she was on the day of the murder.”

“You’re a policeman. You ask her.”

“I cannae. That beast Lovelace might get to hear of it, and I’m off the case. You couldnae ask her yourself?”

“Just like that!”

“You could chust sort of sneak it into the conversation. I know, you thought you saw her in Drim on that day. Please.”

“I’ll try,” said Sheila doubtfully.

“And you’ll phone me?”

“Oh, all right.”

“You won’t forget?”

“Okay, okay, I’ll ask her. Now can I go to bed?”

Hamish stood up. “I’ll wait to hear from you tomorrow. Don’t let me down.”

♦

When Hamish got back to the police station, he felt restless. He decided to take The Case of the Rising Tides to bed.

It was certainly soporific reading. But he managed to get halfway through it before he finally fell asleep, the papers scattered around the bed.

♦

Sheila almost forgot Hamish’s request, but the following day during a break in the filming, Harry instructed her to take a cup of coffee to Mary’s caravan.

She almost felt like refusing and saying she was not a waitress, when she saw a way of asking that question for Hamish.

Mary Hoyle was creaming her face when Sheila knocked and entered the caravan. “Good, put it down there,” said Mary without turning around.

“Something’s been puzzling me,” said Sheila.

“What?” said Mary absently.

“I think I saw you in Drim on the day of Penelope’s murder.”

Mary threw a soiled tissue into the wastepaper basket and turned round. “What’s your name?”

“Sheila Burford.”

“I wish Harry would employ sensible, intelligent girls instead of little tarts who are all bust and no brains. You are mistaken. I was not in Drim on the day of the murder.”

“Where were you?”

“Do you know who you are speaking to? Get out of here and find something to do. That is, unless you are expected to do anything other than allow Harry and the other men to gawp down your cleavage.”

Sheila, who was wearing a low-necked blouse, turned and left the caravan. Damn them all. If only she could sell that film of Eileen’s.

She took out her mobile phone and called Hamish Macbeth.

“Thanks, Sheila,” said Hamish when she reported the conversation.

Sheila remembered how nice Hamish was compared to the people she was working with. “I’m really sorry I stood you up, Hamish. I tell you what, I’ll take you for dinner on Wednesday evening at the Napoli. It’s a firm date.”

“Grand,” said Hamish. “I’ll be there.”

He rang off and stared into space while his mind raced. If only he could get down to Glasgow and start ferreting into Mary Hoyle’s movements on the day of the murder. Perhaps he could phone in sick. Perhaps –

There was a knock at the door.

Hamish opened it.

The sun was shining once more. A tramp squinted up at him. “Any chance of a cup of tea?”

Hamish beamed.

“Come in, Scan Fitz,” he said. “You’re chust the man I want to see.”

∨ Death of a Scriptwriter ∧

9

Did ye not hear it? – No;’t was but the wind, Or the car rattling o’er the stony street .

—Lord Byron

“This is verra good of you, Officer,” said Scan, eating biscuits and drinking tea.

He was an old bearded man with young-looking, light grey eyes in a tanned and wrinkled face. His clothes smelled of peat smoke and heather, but nothing more sinister. Scan was a clean tramp.

“As a matter of fact, I’ve been looking for you,” said Hamish.

“It wisnae me that took Mrs. Hegarty’s knickers off the washing line, whateffer she might say,” said the tramp, looking frightened.

“Relax, Scan,” said Hamish, “Nothing criminal. Now, have you heard about the murders?”

“Over at Drim. Aye.”

“There’s one thing I want to know. There’s a writer called Patricia Martyn-Broyd. You probably don’t know her…”

“I know everyone,” said the tramp. His eyes ranged round the kitchen. “I’m still a wee bit hungry.”

Hamish went to the freezer and took out a plastic bag of stew. “I’ll heat this up for you.”

“Verra kind, I’m sure.”

“Now, Scan, while the stew’s heating up, tell me how you know Patricia, the writer woman.”

“I called at her cottage…oh, maybe a few months back.”

“I didnae know you had been up here that long. Where were you before that?”

“Down south, but it iss not the same as the Highlands.”

“So tell me what happened when you called at the cottage.”

“I asked her for a cup of tea and a bite and said I could do some odd jobs for her in return. Herself looked down her nose and said, “Be off with you or I’ll call the police.””

“So you know what she looks like,” said Hamish eagerly. “This is what I want to know. On the day of the murder of that actress, Patricia said she was in a state and chust driving about. She has a white Metro. Did you see her anywhere?”