M.C. Beaton - Death of a Nag

“Give me her address and I’ll call if I can,” said Hamish.

Miss Gunnery stood up and took an old magazine and tore off a strip of the margin and wrote ‘Mrs Agnew, 42, Andover Terrace, Cheltenham’ on it and passed it to Hamish.

He suddenly felt exhausted. He gave her an abrupt ‘Goodnight’ and strode out without waiting to see whether she followed him or not.

♦

Hamish had told Deacon that he would leave at seven in the morning but he actually left at six, frightened that he might find Maggie Donald waiting for him on the doorstep at seven.

It was with a feeling of relief that he drove off from Skag and took the long road south. The motorways farther south made it a relatively easy journey and it was late afternoon when he arrived in Worcester, finding a bed-and-breakfast place on the London road. Although he was tired after his long drive, he washed and changed and phoned around for the cheapest car-rental place he could find, eventually settling for a doubtful firm called Rent-A-Banger. The couple who ran the bed and breakfast were elderly and with a refreshing lack of curiosity as to why a Scottish policeman would wish to leave his Land Rover in the street at the back of their house while he rented a car. The house was dark and old–fashioned, but his room was comfortable.

He picked up an old Ford Escort from the rental firm and headed out on the Wyre Piddle Road towards Andrew’s home. It was only when he was on his way there that he began to feel rather silly. All around Worcester there were pubs and restaurants, not to mention all those in the town itself. This was not the far north of Scotland. There were hundreds of places where a couple could meet. Andrew’s home was called High Farm. As he approached, he saw that it had indeed been at one time a farmhouse but was now a private dwelling, the outbuildings converted to stables and garages. He could see it all clearly from the road. He pulled into the side and wondered what to do. It was then he saw a tall, powerful-looking woman with white hair emerge and get into a Range Rover and drive off. There was something about her features that made him sure that this must be Andrew’s mother. After she had gone, he continued to study the house. He noticed a burglar alarm box on the wall of it and wondered whether the place was really wired up or if it was just an empty box to deceive burglars. It was in that moment that he realized that all the while he had subconsciously been planning to break in. Ignoring the warning voices in his head, which were screaming at him that it would mean the end of his lowly career as constable of Lochdubh if he were caught, he drove a little along the road until he came to a side road. He drove up it, parked the Ford close in under an overhanging hedge, and then strolled back. There was no one around. The house was large. They might have a servant who lived in. But the place had the deserted blind air of a house when no one is at home. To be on the safe side, he rang the bell and waited. There was no reply. Looking all about him to make sure no one was watching, he ambled around to the back of the house, which was two-storeyed and of red brick.

There was a one-storey extension on part of the back of the house. He peered in the window. It was an extension to the kitchen area. He backed off and looked up and then a smile curved his lips. For above the flat roof of the extension was an open window with two cats lying on the sill. He thought briefly of Miss Gunnery and sent up a silent prayer of thanks to all cat lovers. Still, he had better move fast. The very fact that she had left a window open for the cats meant she did not mean to be away long.

He climbed nimbly up the drain-pipe on to the flat roof and gently shooing the cats inside, quietly raised the window and eased himself in over the sill.

He found himself in an upstairs corridor. He opened one door. Box-room. He shut it and tried the next. This was obviously Andrew’s bedroom: photographs of army groups on the walls, older photographs of university days, Rugby-team photographs. But Hamish was looking for letters.

There was a desk by the window. He carefully sifted through tax accounts and various bills, replacing every bit of paper exactly as he had found it. Night was falling. It would soon be dark here compared to the north, where it would still be light. He quickened his search, not wanting to be forced to switch on a light.

He let out a click of exasperation. There were no private letters at all, only business letters. There were no photographs apart from the ones on the walls. He turned away from the desk to a low bookshelf and carefully took out book after book and shook it, hoping that Andrew had hidden a photograph or letter in one of them, but there was nothing except the occasional bookmark.

Perhaps he had a study downstairs, thought Hamish, another desk where he kept more personal things. He made his way quietly downstairs. He opened the door of a small but pleasant sitting room. Here were family photographs in silver frames. There were various groups. Andrew at school, Andrew at university, Andrew at Sandhurst, and so on.

And then he heard a car driving up. He made a dash for the door, tripped over a cushion which he hadn’t seen lying on the floor, and measured his length on the carpet. He scrambled on his hands and knees behind the sofa, cursing silently. Mrs Biggar, Andrew’s mother, for it must surely be she, obviously moved very quickly, for she was inside the house and inside the sitting room only moments after Hamish had heard the car arrive. He lay behind the sofa, and sweated. He heard her cross to the fireplace. The fire must have been already made up, for soon after the striking of a match, he heard the crackle of burning wood. He hoped she would leave the room, but the sofa creaked as she sat down on the end of it.

And then the telephone in the room rang loudly, making him start.

He heard her answer it, heard her say sharply, “Andrew?”

There was a silence. Hamish desperately wished he could hear what was being said at Andrew’s end of the line.

Then Mrs Biggar said, “Another murder! Andrew, this is dreadful, dreadful. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Another silence, then Mrs Biggar said, “I wish to God you had never become involved with that woman.”

A faint noise came from the other end of the line, Andrew protesting or explaining.

“You should have told the police,” complained Mrs Biggar. “What if anyone saw the pair of you? No, don’t tell me about discretion…”

“Where? Well, that old cat Harriet Gourlay saw you in that Chinese restaurant in Evesham for a start. It’s all most unlike you. And now you see what comes of knowing those sort of people. They’re always beating each other up or murdering each other.”

Another long silence. She said in a softer voice. “I know you don’t want me to come up, but if you need a lawyer or anything, you must let me know…”

“Right, phone me at this time tomorrow if you can. Goodbye, darling.”

The receiver was replaced.

Go away, prayed Hamish silently. Oh, please, go away!

He heard her moving about the room and pressed his thin body even closer to the back of the sofa. And then one of the cats strolled round the back of the sofa. It climbed on to his chest and began kneading its claws into his sweater.

He glared at the cat, willing it to go away, but with the cat’s genius for loving where it is not wanted, it transferred its affections to his chin by butting its furry head against it. Its fur tickled Hamish’s nose. He felt a sneeze coming and twisted his body round to dislodge the cat. To his relief he heard Mrs Biggar leave the room. He took a swipe at the cat and missed. It pranced away happily. He heard a faint clatter of dishes in the distance. He eased himself to his feet. He went through the open door of the sitting room and into the hall. To his immeasurable delight, the door stood open. He slipped outside. Then he stopped. He could not risk her seeing him walking away from the house. He turned about and rang the bell.