M.C. Beaton - Death of a Travelling Man

“I told my wife what he had said and she agreed that was the case. I suggested we pray together and then she began to laugh at me in a terrible parody of Sean’s laughter and told me not to be such an old fool. Later that evening, I heard the back door slam and was sure she had gone back to him again. Perhaps Sean was in love with her. Mrs Wellington can be a very seductive woman, although she is not aware of it.”

Hamish thought of the large and tweedy Mrs Wellington and blinked.

“Your wife has not been honest with me,” he said. “Look, put all the stuff away, lock up and give me the keys. Get your wife out of bed.”

But by the time everything was put away, Hamish had decided to leave interviewing Mrs Wellington until the morning. He said he would call for her and take her along to the police station. If he interviewed her now, he would find it hard to get her alone without the minister. Although his loyalty to the three blackmailed women had been badly shaken, he still did not want to speak to her in front of her husband and so reveal to the minister that his wife was a thief.

Willie was asleep in his room by the time Hamish got home. He went to bed but did not undress. He lay on top of it, with Towser at his feet, worrying. Evidence was piling on evidence and he was keeping it all from Strathbane.

He fell into a heavy sleep at dawn and awoke at nine o’clock, all the worries pouring back into his brain. His one thought was to see Priscilla before he interviewed Mrs Wellington.

“You cannae go out like that,” said Willie reprovingly from the kitchen sink. “You’ve no’ shaved and you look as if you’ve slept in your clothes.”

“Haven’t time,” said Hamish. “Look after Towser for me.”

He drove up to the castle. Priscilla was in the office, working at the computer.

“Hamish! What has happened?” she cried. “You look awful.”

The door of the office opened and her father came in and bristled at the sight of Hamish.

“Shouldn’t you be about your duties, officer?” he barked. “I don’t want you coming in here and keeping my daughter from her work.”

“I’ve nearly finished,” said Priscilla. “Go away, Daddy.”

“Show a bit of respect for your father,” raged the colonel. “You used to be such a sweet child and you’ve changed since you came under the pernicious influence of this layabout.”

He stormed out.

“Rats,” said Priscilla, switching off the computer. “Now he’ll be in a foul mood all day. You smell awful, Hamish: Have you started smoking again?”

“No, I was at Mulkn’s bar last night, and there was enough smoke in there to make an old–fashioned London fog.”

“Of course, some normal people change their clothes from day to day,” said Priscilla sweetly. “You’d best come upstairs to my quarters, Hamish, or Daddy will be back to make trouble.”

She led him up to the top of the castle, where she had turned two servants’ rooms into a bedroom and sitting room for herself.

Hamish looked around appreciatively. The small room was bright with chintz and flowers and the windows were open to let in the heavy, warm air blowing in off the Gulf Stream. He settled down and told her everything that had happened.

“You are in a mess,” commented Priscilla.

“Do you think I should tell Strathbane?”

“My common sense tells me you should tell them everything as quickly as possible, my emotions tell me to keep it all quiet for a bit longer. You’re going to have to start questioning everyone all over again. Do you remember when Sean was popular in the village? And then, when he was killed, no one had a good word to say for him? Look at it this way. I think he only directly affected the Curries, the Wellingtons, Cheryl and Angela. But sooner or later that odd sort of Highland telepathy in this village beamed in on the nastiness of the real Sean. Besides, they’re quite happy to tolerate some layabout on the dole. They don’t like it when the layabout seems to have money to throw around the place on gifts from this shop and meals at the Napoli. So if any man or woman had been up at that bus on the night of the murder as well as Mrs Wellington, who’s going to tell you? Your suspects are desperate to have the murder solved in the hope that their own activities might be covered up, but the villagers would protect one of their own, even if they suspected that person of murder. Mrs Wellington was at the bus. Maybe she saw someone else that evening.”

Hamish passed a weary hand over his unshaven face. “You’re right. I’d better go.”

“Wait and have some coffee and I’ll go and borrow an electric razor for you. You’ve got red bristles.”

When she handed him a mug of coffee, Hamish looked at the television set and video in the corner and then at the various remote controls on the table. “I thought you only needed one control,” he said, picking one of them up.

“We’ve got satellite TV now,” said Priscilla. “I’ll leave you to play with it while I get you that razor. Press 5 on this one and that’ll get you satellite TV and then press the various channels on this other one.”

Hamish idly switched through the channels, finally ending up with a music one. A thin girl was gyrating to a thudding beat. She was wearing a brief black leather bikini and thigh-length leather boots. “All I gotta say is, screw you, baby,” she sang.

“Is that supposed to be sexy?” Hamish asked Priscilla as she came in and handed him a razor.

“Not to you,” laughed Priscilla. “That’s Jonathan Carty.”

“Are you telling me that’s a bloke?”

“Yes, a transvestite.”

“But he’s got boobs!”

“Silicone injections, Hamish. The marvels of modern science.”

“Tcha.” He switched it off.

“Don’t worry, Hamish. The moral revolution’s coming. Reaction will set in and even mild womanizers like yourself will be regarded as evil beasts.”

“I am not the womanizer,” said Hamish. “Where’s the bathroom?”

“Along the corridor and on your left. Have a bath while you’re at it. I left one of Daddy’s clean shirts on the chair in there for you.”

“He’ll kill you!”

“I really don’t take any notice of his rages any more,” said Priscilla. “If someone’s always raging about something or another, one ceases to listen.”

Hamish bathed and shaved and felt considerably better. He said goodbye to Priscilla and drove to the manse and collected Mrs Wellington despite protests from the minister. Instead of going to the police station, he drove up on the moors and parked off the road on a heathery track.

“Willie’s at the station,” he said, “and I’m still trying to protect you, but I don’t know how long I can go on doing it. I want the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Now, you were at the bus on the night of the murder. When exactly?”

“Nine o’clock,” she said in a dull voice.

“Why did you go?”

“I pleaded with him to give me that video. He asked for a thousand pounds. I began to cry. I begged him. I said I could not possibly get that amount of money and he…he laughed at me. I was only there for a few minutes. I realized it was hopeless, so I left. My husband grabbed me outside. He demanded to know what I had been saying, why I had been there, but I could not tell him. Then he returned to the manse later and said Sean had told him I was worried about losing my faith. For one wild moment I felt hope. Sean had not betrayed me. Perhaps he would relent. And then I realized that of course he would not tell my husband the truth while there was still hope of getting money out of me for his silence.”

“And you went back out again? Where? Back to the bus?”

Mrs Wellington hung her head. “I couldn’t go back. There were men there.”