M.C. Beaton - Death of a Scriptwriter

“At around six in the morning on the day of the murder you were spotted by the tramp Scan Fitz, heading for Drim. I think you found by accident that other path up the mountain. You would want to avoid the main path, too many people coming and going.

“Sound carries verra clearly up there. You heard the instruction to Penelope to stand on that outcrop of rock. You were hidden underneath. When you knew she was in position, you stood up and grasped her ankle and jerked her over your head, and she went flying down the mountain. You escaped in the thick mist, got in the car, drove around and finally went to the Sutherland Arms Hotel for lunch. Then you returned the car to Ludlow.”

Lovelace opened his mouth to say something, but Daviot held up a warning finger. All looked at Patricia.

“What a load of rubbish,” she fluted. “Yes, I did borrow a car, but I was so dazed and unhappy, I did not know what I was doing that day. Yes, I may have gone near Drim, but I did not go up on that mountain.” She spread her hands in an appealing gesture and looked at Lovelace. “Have I not endured enough?”

She might get away with it, thought Hamish, and even if it cost him his job, she would not get away with it. He would need to confess about those two threads of cloth.

He said instead, “You were seen going up the mountain on the day Jamie Gallagher was murdered. I chust found that out today. A crofter saw you and didn’t think anything of it at the time, thinking you were part of the TV crew.”

“You’re lying,” said Patricia flatly.

Too right, thought Hamish dismally. But he looked straight at her and said evenly, “I am only glad you will not profit from your crimes because after you are charged with these murders, the sales of your books will be immense, and all over the world, too. You will be a truly famous writer, and that is a distinction you do not deserve.”

Patricia stared at him.

Lovelace stood up. “This is enough,” he said. “1 have heard about you, Macbeth, and your behaviour has been disgraceful. Breaking into this poor woman’s cottage – ”

“I did it,” said Patricia.

Everyone froze except Hamish, who felt himself go almost limp with relief.

She gave a shrug and said in an almost merry voice, “It was justice, don’t you see? They were killing Lady Harriet, so they both had to go. I do not regret it. You are right. I did not mean to kill that Gallagher man. But I did not lurk around waiting until they all had left. I was late. I thought they were all still up there and that perhaps I could get them to change their minds. But there was no one there. I wandered about. And then I saw Jamie, sitting on the edge of the heather in front of the scree. After that I do not know what happened until he was dead at my feet and I was standing with a bloody rock in my hand. I hurled it away as hard as I could. I do not regret it.

“Penelope Gates was everything I hated, crude and vulgar and vicious. She had to go. I do not regret her death, either.”

“But two murders!” exclaimed Daviot.

“But they were guilty of infanticide,” said Patricia with a sort of dreadful patience. “They killed my child. They were killing Lady Harriet.”

Lovelace charged her with the murders. She kept looking at Hamish. When Lovelace had finished, she said, “Hamish, will I be really famous?”

“Yes,” he said sadly. “Very famous indeed.”

“Then that’s all right,” she said briskly, getting to her feet. “Shall we go?”

“Wait a minute,” said Hamish as she was being led out. “Patricia, why did you ask for my help to clear your name?”

“Oh, I thought you were the only person I had to fear,” said Patricia with a little smile. “These other gentlemen are so stupid. It worked for a bit, didn’t it?”

“Yes, it worked,” said Hamish. “And did you really lose your memory?”

“No, I did not. I simply became weary of the act and decided to find it again. I wrote about an amnesia case in one of my books and had read a great deal on the subject, enough to trick the psychiatrist. How did you guess it was me?”

One more lie wouldn’t matter, thought Hamish. He hoped they would forget about that crofter he said had seen Patricia on the mountain.

“It was Detective Jimmy Anderson who suggested that you might have used another car.”

“How odd,” said Patricia. “I would have thought him as stupid as the rest.”

She was led out.

Daviot remained behind with Hamish. “Good work,” he said. “This lets Blair off the hook, and I’m glad of it. He’s a good man and probably thought she had done it all along.”

Hamish groaned inwardly, but better Blair than Lovelace.

“I shall be glad to return Lovelace to Inverness,” went on Daviot. “He ruffled too many feathers at Strathbane, ordering policewomen to do his shopping for him. Not on, in these liberated days.”

“I had best go and get an official statement from that man who lent her the car,” said Hamish.

“Yes,” said Daviot absently. “This is all going to make us look a bunch of fools with the press.”

“In what way, sir?”

“Well, saying Josh Gates murdered Jamie Gallagher. Bad press, that.”

“But the murders are solved, and you’ve got them off your back.”

“True. You should consider a move to Strathbane, Hamish.” Hamish, not Macbeth. He was definitely in favour.

“No, sir. I am quite happy where I am. It was Jimmy Anderson who put me on to it.”

“Then why did he not do it himself?”

“He might be frightened he would get into trouble with Lovelace. If you will forgive me for speaking freely, sir, that man does not like initiative.”

“It will be good to have Blair back.”

A man who disliked initiative just as much as Lovelace, thought Hamish.

“We should not be sitting here,” said Daviot. “I’d best get the forensic team over here.”

“Why don’t you go ahead, sir,” said Hamish. “The door was open, but I see there’s a key on the counter there. I’ll lock up and wait outside for the forensic team.”

“Very well.”

Hamish followed him out and stood waiting until Daviot’s car had roared off into the distance. Then he went into the bedroom and carefully took the tweed suit off the bed and hung it back in the wardrobe.

Then he sat down to wait for the forensic team. He had plenty of time to reflect on his own stupidity. Patricia had initially got away with both murders through sheer luck. Different car or not, Ludlow could have come forward and told the police. But Hamish had not suspected her, something in Patricia’s loneliness of spirit striking a chord in his own. And he had been flattered when she had asked him to help her. She must have been very confident that, owing to the mist and the different car, no one would recognise her. But thanks to her rudeness to one tramp, which had made him remember her vividly, she had been recognised.

He stretched and yawned. Sergeant MacGregor was welcome to Cnothan. What a dump!

The forensic team arrived, and Hamish thankfully left. He went in to Cnothan and took a statement from Mr. Ludlow and then made his escape. As he drove down into Lochdubh, a shaft of sunlight was breaking through the grey clouds. Priscilla was coming home. The world was righting itself.

At the police station, he typed up his reports, took off his uniform and put on casual clothes and went out for a stroll.

Mrs. Wellington, the minister’s wife, bore down on him like a tweedy galleon under full sail. “Shocking news,” she boomed.

“Yes, I wouldnae have believed a lady like Miss Martyn-Broyd could have committed two murders,” said Hamish.

She looked at him in amazement. “What are you talking about?”