M.C. Beaton - Death of a Charming Man

“What’s it about?”

“Is he here?”

“No, he’s somewhere up your part of the world. Oh, I suppose you know that. He’s our landlord.”

“And when did you see him last?”

She crinkled her brow and then shouted over her shoulder, “Cove!”

A squat bald man, or, as Hamish supposed one would have to say these days, one of the follicly disadvantaged, hove into view.

“This man’s from the police,” she said. “He’s asking about Peter.”

“Good God, woman. When will you ever learn? Some fellow turns up on the doorstep and claims to be a policeman and you don’t even ask to see any identification.”

“Well, I did, so get stuffed,” she said, throwing Hamish a conspiratorial wink. Clive made a disgusted sound and walked away.

“Brownie points to me,” she said cheerfully. “Never let the bastards get the upper hand, husbands, I mean.” She cocked her head to one side. “He’s gone upstairs. Come down to the kitchen and have a cup of coffee. You’ve come a long way, so it must be important. Although I didn’t ask you for any identification, I trust you not to be the rapist of Hampstead Heath, although,” her eyes slanted mockingly at him, “on the other hand, this might be my lucky day.”

Hamish followed her downstairs to a cheerful kitchen hung with a couple of braces of pheasant and a hare. “Early for the pheasant, not October yet,” said Hamish.

“Oh, them? They’re stuffed. Got a tot of twee friends who go in for exotic cooking. When they see the game hanging up, they never guess what I’m serving them came from the restaurant up the road. Got to keep one’s end up. Clive is with the Beeb.”

“The Beeb?”

“The BBC.”

“What does he do?”

“He produces a programme called ‘Culture For Everyman.’ He loves it. He gets to patronize the great British public once a week. How do you like your coffee?”

“Just black with a spoon of sugar.”

“Right you are. I’m Jill Cadden. I’m in films.”

“I didn’t think there was a film industry left in Britain,” commented Hamish.

“Well, it’s a small experimental company. We’re politically motivated.”

“Tell me about Peter,” said Hamish. “I mean, don’t you see him to give him the rent?”

“No, we pay him by standing order. Goes from our bank to his every month.”

“How much does he charge?”

“Thirteen hundred a month.”

“ Pounds !”

“Hardly be dollars or Deutschmarks, would it? And that’s pretty reasonable for this size of house and garden in this neck of the woods.”

“Wouldn’t it be cheaper to buy a wee place and pay the mortgage?” asked Hamish curiously.

“You see, it…” Jill looked at him with amusement. “How do you ever get to the point, copper? Or does life move slower in Sutherland? What’s Peter been up to?”

“He was living in the village of Drim up on the northwest coast. He left and put his cottage up for sale. But no one saw him leave. Then a woman’s been found dead. It’s been said it wass the accident,” said Hamish, becoming worried again as in his mind’s eye he saw Betty Baxter’s ungainly dead body sprawled on the cruel rocks, “but I am not so sure.”

“You’re thorough, I’ll say that,” said Jill, handing him a cup of coffee. “It seems you think that Peter had something to do with this woman’s death or that he has been killed himself.”

“Something like that,” said Hamish. “What did you think of Peter?”

A shuttered look came down over her eyes. “All right. Bit lightweight. Not much there. What you see is what you get.”

“Would you say he was manipulative?”

“We only rented the house from him. We didn’t go into any deep psychoanalysis.” Her voice was tetchy.

“Any family? This is his house, not a family home?”

“Yes, it’s his house. He has a sister somewhere, I believe.”

“He never said anything about his family? Where they lived, where he went to school?”

She yawned. “We weren’t buddies. He’s just a landlord, that’s all.”

Hamish could get little out of her but he left with a feeling that Jill had been subject to Peter’s philandering tactics, he would need to wait and see if Rory had found anything on the newspaper files.

As he walked up and away from the Vale of Health, he began to worry whether he had merely used this investigation I as an excuse to run away from Priscilla. He sometimes wondered which one of them was really at fault. He debated whether to call in at New Scotland Yard and ask if they had anything on Peter Hynd on their files. But Scotland Yard would phone Strathbane to check his credentials and then he would be on the carpet for trying to play the part of private detective in London.

♦

Priscilla drove down to the police station. This quarrel was silly. Sophy Bisset was a very pushy sort of girl and Hamish was putty in the hands of pushy girls. She must put the treacherous thought that Hamish Macbeth was putty in the hands of any female out of her mind. The police station was locked up and a notice on the door referred all inquiries to Sergeant Macgregor at Cnothan for the next three weeks. Where had Hamish gone? She had never known him to take a real holiday, apart from that free one at the health farm, which had ended up in a murder inquiry anyway.

His parents! He was bound to have gone to Rogart to spend some time with his family. She drove to Rogart and received a noisy welcome from Towser. Mrs. Macbeth shook her head and said Hamish was off investigating something, that was all she knew.

So Priscilla stayed for tea and left saddened by the fact that Hamish’s name and her marriage prospects were not mentioned, although the air had been thick with unasked questions.

As she drove home, she began to become angry with him. How dare he go off like that without even calling on her? Yes, they had had a row. All couples had rows. But he should have understood that she could not just pack up, just like that, and go with him on holiday. Wherever he was, she sincerely hoped, and from the bottom of her heart, that he was missing her like hell and having a dreadful time.

♦

Hamish made his way along to Bernie’s Bistro. He was wearing his civilian outfit of sports jacket, corduroy trousers, checked shirt, and tie. He wondered uneasily whether he should have put on a dark suit, the one he kept for church services, funerals, and weddings. He pushed open the door of the restaurant and went in. He saw Rory right away. He was sitting at a corner table wearing jeans and a pullover over a T–shirt, so formal dress did not seem to be the order of the day. “I’m waiting for Mandy,” said Rory. “The girl from the Sun . She’s late, but then she always is.”

Hamish sat down and looked eagerly at his cousin. “Find out anything?”

“Nothing much. One little snippet. There’s a fashionable London night-club called Tarts. Heard of it?”

“No.”

“Never mind. Home to the glitterati. There was a scene there two years ago. A young starlet got drunk and tried to set the place on fire. Police called. Her escort was one Peter Hynd, described as an Old Westminster and socialite. Might be your man. No photo.”

“What’s an Old Westminster?”

“Former pupil of Westminster School, down by the Abbey. Expensive fees. Brightest and best. Highest academic rating in the country. Goes back to the time of the founder, Queen Elizabeth the First. Former pupils, Christopher Wren, Philby, and Peter Ustinov. You got a photo of this Peter Hynd?” Hamish shook his head.

“Well, trot down there tomorrow and ask the registrar. The office is in Little Dean’s, off Dean’s Yard. Find the Abbey and you can’t miss it. Oh, here’s Mandy.” A phimpish girl in a short leather skirt and suede jacket bad just come in. She had short spiky hair, a turned-up nose, and a wide mouth.