M.C. Beaton - Death of a Macho Man

♦

He spent the next day making various calls on people in the village, drinking endless cups of tea, listening to gossip, but the verdict was always the same. Someone from outside must have done it. He was relieved that no one seemed to have heard any gossip about Lucia and then wondered if he had been too soft on that pair. That prim Willie Lament was still madly in love with his beautiful wife was evident. Would Willie crack out of his cleaning and orderly encased shell and commit murder?

He went reluctantly along to the restaurant. Willie was cleaning the brass rail which ran along the front windows and whistling to himself.

But his face darkened when he saw Hamish and he said, “I hope this is a social call.”

“No, it’s not,” said Hamish crossly. “I wass that upset that you and Lucia were fighting that I couldn’t think clearly. I want to know if you visited Randy at any time. I want to know if you threatened him.”

“Well, I didn’t.”

Willie was a bad liar. “You did!” said Hamish. “My God, if Blair gets to hear this. You silly wee man, what did you do?”

“Mind your own business.”

“Put down that rag and stop polishing and listen to me,” howled Hamish. “If Blair gets wind o’ the fact that you threatened Randy – and you cannae lie to me, Willie, you did, I can see it on your face – you’ll need a friend.”

Willie suddenly sat down at a table and covered his face with his long, thin, bony fingers. Hamish sat down opposite him. “You willnae tell Lucia?” said Willie at last.

“I’m not so worried about Lucia as about you. Out with it it.”

“I went to see him,” said Willie from behind the shield of his hands.

“When?”

“The evening of the day afore the murder.”

“And?”

“I told him if he ever went near Lucia again I’d break him in half.”

“Go on. Take your hands away from your face!”

Willie slowly lowered his hands. To Hamish’s dismay, Willie’s eyes were shining with tears. “He just laughed and laughed. He said awful things about Lucia. That she was hot for it and she’d be back. I tried to punch him and he just swung me round, got me by the scruff of the neck and threw me out. I’ve never been so humiliated in ffl my life. I shouted I’d kill him.”

“It’s a mercy nobody saw you or heard you.” Willie let out a broken little sob. “Only Geordie Mackenzie, and he won’t be saying anything.”

“Geordie! What was he doing?”

“He was walking past. I didnae think to ask him what he was doing, I was that upset. He made me feel more of a wimp than ever because he said he wasn’t going to take any more rubbish from Randy. I said, ‘The big ape’ll massacre you,’ and he said something about a man with brains could always get even with a man who was only brawn.” Hamish leaned back in his chair, digesting this new information. He had discounted little Geordie, had never even considered him. What a mess! He had initially thought that Randy was only dangerous as a man who bragged too much in the bar. Now all these nasty episodes were surfacing. He had humiliated Geordie, Annie, Andy, Willie and Archie, and probably Rosie Draly.

“But I didn’t kill him, Hamish,” said Willie. “I just didnae have the guts.”

“I’m beginning to think it took guts not to kill Randy,” said Hamish moodily. “If we could get something on the man, on his background, anything to move the suspicion away from Lochdubh. What’s Blair doing? He’s probably put up the backs of the Glasgow police so much they’re dragging their heels. I’ll have another word with you, Willie, but I won’t be saying anything to Blair unless I absolutely have to.”

Hamish went along to the bar in search of Geordie Mackenzie. The retired schoolteacher was drinking whisky and water and chatting to a group of fishermen. Hamish tapped him on the shoulder. “Outside, Geordie.”

Geordie looked up at him nervously but he obediently put down his drink and followed Hamish outside. “Walk away with me a wee bit,” said Hamish. “I want a private chat.”

Geordie brightened visibly and trotted eagerly after Hamish, like a small terrier trying to keep pace with an afghan hound.

“You need my help solving this case?” he panted.

“Aye, you could say that.” Hamish stopped by the harbour wall. Neither man noticed the rain. The short period of sunshine was forgotten and so both had settled back into living with the rain and ignoring it. It was what the Irish with their usual talent for euphemism would call ‘a nice, soft day.”

Drizzle was blowing in from the Atlantic, veiling the hills and forests across the loch. The air smelted of a mixture of pine and tar, wood-smoke and fish.

“This’ll do,” said Hamish, resting one arm along the wall.

“Now, Geordie, what’s this hear about you saying you could get even with Randy? You said something like that to Willie Lament.”

“He’s got no call to shoot his mouth off,” said Geordie angrily. “I’m disappointed in you, Hamish. A man of my intelligence could be of good help to you in finding the murderer.”

“Aye, well, a man of your intelligence should know that the police most certainly want to talk to everyone who had anything to do with Randy, and that means people who threatened him in particular.”

“It was just words,” said Geordie sulkily.

“I think you had something in mind. Come on, Geordie. What was it?”

“I’m good at accents,” said Geordie. “When he was drunk, Randy’s voice became Scottish and I recognized a Glasgow accent. I’ve got a wee bit put by. I was going to hire a private detective in Glasgow to find out all about him.” I’ Hamish looked at him with interest. “But you didn’t?”

“I didn’t have the time. Someone killed him, and good riddance,” he said venomously, “and I hope you never find out who did it!”

“Was that why you offered to help me with the case?” demanded Hamish. “So that you could make sure I didn’t find anyone?”

“Och, no,” said Geordie. “You do twist a man’s words.”

“You twist them yourself. You must have hated the big man.”

“Here now. It’s no use trying to pin it on me,” said Geordie, getting flustered.

“I’m simply trying to get at the truth,” retorted Hamish drearily. If you would all realize in this village that if you didn’t do the murder, then you’ve nothing to fear. If you think of anything, come to me.”

Geordie brightened. “I’ll look around and keep my ear to the ground,” he said. “But I think a woman did it.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The chloral hydrate. That’s a woman’s trick.”

“Not necessarily. A man, a small man, a weak man would just as easily have wanted a quiet and silent Randy to shoot.”

♦

He made his way up to Tommel Castle in the rain, which increased from a drizzle to a downpour. The castle, floodlit against the dark sky, loomed up as if under water. The windscreen wipers were barely coping with the flood. As soon as he had stopped outside the castle, Priscilla darted forward to join him. “What a night!” she gasped, shaking raindrops from her hair. “At least there will be no wandering poacher to see us.”

They drove to Rosie’s cottage. “Did you make sure she had left?” asked Priscilla.

“I phoned at regular intervals this evening, but there was no reply.”

“How are you going to break in? If you smash the windows, that’ll cause a fuss.”

“I’ve got a wee gadget for picking locks.”

“And where did a respectable policeman get this wee gadget from?”

“Fergie, over at the ironmonger’s in Cnothan, made it for me. He’s fair fascinated wi’ lock-picking. People who forget their keys and can’t get into their houses always come to him. I hope it’s an easy lock, mind. If she’s got a dead bolt or any thing like that, I’m stuck.”