Death of a Poison Pen

by Beaton, M. C.

  For one brief moment, Angus was speechless. No one had ever demanded a present back. ‘Get out of here, lassie,’ he roared, ‘and don’t come back again. A bad thing’s going to happen to you, but because of your rudeness and meanness, I am not going to tell you. Shove off!’

  He loomed over her. Jenny, suddenly terrified, shot to her feet and ran round him to the door. She jerked it open and hurtled out. Clouds were racing across the sky. She reflected that surely nowhere else in Britain could you get four changes of climate in one day. A rainbow arched over the black and stormy waters of the loch and she found herself wondering, ridiculously, why it did not bend under the ferocity of the wind.

  Would something bad happen to her? Or had he just been mad because she’d asked for her chocolates back?

  Mentally trying to shrug off a feeling of foreboding, she gained the waterfront and got into her car. Now for Braikie. She was just moving slowly along the waterfront when Iain Chisholm came running out of his garage, waving his arms for her to stop. Jenny jerked to a halt and wound down the window.

  ‘Going far?’ asked Iain.

  ‘Just over to Braikie.’

  ‘There’s a bad storm coming up. That car’s only a three-wheeler. It could be blown over when you reach the shore road. I could put something heavy in her as ballast.’

  But Jenny, still frightened by the seer, was anxious to get away. ‘I’ll be all right,’ she said crossly. ‘If the wind gets too strong, I’ll just pull over.’

  She let in the clutch and drove off before Iain could say anything else.

  As she drove up out of Lochdubh, at the top of the first hill, a great gust of wind and rain made her hang on grimly to the steering wheel as the car bucked and rocked, but soon she was down the hill on the other side, driving between great banks of gorse. I’ll be all right when I get to Braikie, she told herself. As she drove slowly now towards the coast road, the sky was black and the thin single-track road in front of her twisted and glistened like a giant eel. She negotiated a hairpin bend and cruised down on to the shore road. Monstrous waves were pounding the beach. I’ll be all right, I’ll be all right, she told herself fiercely. Just a little way to go and I’ll be in the shelter of the houses. She was halfway along the road when with a great roar, the wind hit the car and blew it over on its side. Struggling to unfasten her seat belt, she realized her arm was broken. Helplessly, she lay there against the door of the car, praying for help to come along. Then she realized she was listening not only to the roar of the wind but to the roar of the waves. A huge wave struck the little car and drove it into a ditch. She screamed from the pain in her arm and fainted.

  From his croft high up above the shore road, a crofter, Duncan Moray, saw what was happening and picked up the phone and called the police. He was old, in his eighties, and did not feel strong enough to go to the rescue himself.

  Jenny came out of her faint. Another wave pounded down on the car. The sea was coming right across the road. She could only hope the tide would turn and leave her, miraculously, still alive. Oh, God, she was going to die here in this ridiculous car in the wilds of the northernmost part of the British Isles, and all because she had been jealous of Priscilla.

  And then she thought she was hallucinating because through the window of the passenger side, above her head, she saw the face of Hamish Macbeth. But he turned out to be real, because he wrenched open the passenger door. ‘There’s another big wave coming,’ he said. ‘Come on, take my hand.’

  ‘My arm’s broken,’ said Jenny. ‘My right arm.’

  ‘Give me your left hand. Quick!’

  But another wave struck, drenching Hamish and flooding the car. ‘Do you want to die?’ roared Hamish as the wave retreated. He leant in and put his arms round her waist and began to pull her upwards. ‘Here’s the ambulance,’ he said. He shouted over his shoulder, ‘Come on, boys, or she’ll have us all drowned.’ He let Jenny go, and she fell backwards with a moan. She felt the car rock and then it was pushed upright. Another wave struck it and she could hear yells and curses from outside. Then the door was opened and two ambulance men eased her out. They lifted her bodily into the ambulance and slammed the door.

  The ambulance moved off, the driver swearing as a wave struck his vehicle. The ambulance man inside with Jenny said, ‘I would put a splint on that arm now, but it isn’t safe with us rocking like this. Didn’t you hear the warnings not to go out?’ But Jenny had fainted again.

  Jenny recovered consciousness as she was being lifted down into a wheelchair. She was soaked to the skin and shivering with cold and shock. In the hospital, an admissions clerk said sourly, ‘It’s a shame to give up a bed for a mere broken arm. But we’d better get these wet clothes off her and take her along to X-ray.’

  Jenny could not possibly feel like a heroine. She felt like a badly behaved child and she also, superstitiously, felt that Angus had put a curse on her.

  Fortunately for Jenny, by the time she was put into a hospital nightgown and robe after a nurse had sponged her down and administered strong painkillers, she looked remarkably pretty again, and a susceptible doctor insisted that, after her arm was set, she be kept in for the night and allowed to go home in the morning.

  Her first visitor was Elspeth. ‘I’d like to put a piece in the paper about your accident,’ said Elspeth.

  ‘I feel such a fool,’ said Jenny. ‘Everyone will think I’m a fool.’

  ‘No, they won’t. Everyone knows you aren’t used to the weather up here,’ said Elspeth soothingly, although she was thinking of how tired she was of idiots who would not respect the dangers of Highland weather – climbers who had to be rescued at great expense and who then sold the stories of their ordeals to the tabloids and never thought of giving any money to Highland Rescue, whose members had risked their own necks to save them.

  ‘I’ll send a photographer round to take a picture of you when I can find him. You’ll look really pretty.’

  Jenny told her story, omitting the fact that Iain had tried to warn her, not guessing that Elspeth would hear of Iain’s warning before the day was out.

  Jenny also omitted the fact that Hamish Macbeth had been first on the scene.

  ‘You haven’t mentioned Hamish,’ said Elspeth.

  Somehow Jenny resented Hamish for having caught her out in her lies and having not found her attractive enough.

  ‘Oh, well,’ she said sulkily, ‘it didn’t seem necessary. The ambulance men got me out.’

  ‘I met Hamish before I came here,’ said Elspeth. ‘The poor man was sitting in the mobile police unit with only a small towel to cover his modesty while he tried to dry his clothes at a two-bar electric heater.’

  ‘I must get the names of the ambulance men,’ said Jenny, deliberately ignoring the subject of Hamish Macbeth. ‘I must thank them.’

  Elspeth closed her notebook. ‘Well, that about wraps it up. There are more exciting stories up here than you’d get on the streets of London.’

  ‘I thought Pat would be covering this.’ Jenny took out a small mirror from her handbag on the bed and studied her appearance.

  ‘I’m sure he would have. He wasn’t in the office when I left. Sam was phoning him. He had slept in.’

  ‘But he should be here soon?’

  ‘I don’t see why,’ said Elspeth. ‘I’ve got the story.’

  After she had left, Jenny applied some make-up and brushed her hair. It was awkward with the plaster cast on her arm. Her next visitor was Hamish Macbeth, wearing an old pair of trousers, short in the leg, and a long Fair Isle sweater.

  ‘Sorry about my appearance,’ he said. ‘I had to borrow some clothes. My uniform dried but it was so encrusted with salt I had to take it to the dry cleaner’s.’

  ‘What about Iain’s car? Was anyone able to rescue it?’

  ‘We didn’t even try. It’s insured. I phoned Iain and he said it would be a write-off anyway so to let the sea do its worst. I see you’ve got the screens around your bed. You’re not that ill,
are you?’

  ‘It’s a good way of not having to talk to the other patients.’

  ‘Oh, you should try, lassie. You might hear some gossip.’

  ‘I’ve given you enough help,’ said Jenny pettishly.

  ‘Suit yourself. I chust called round to see you were okay,’ said Hamish, turning to leave, the sudden sibilance of his accent showing he was annoyed with her.

  But after he had gone, Jenny thought that perhaps she was being silly. She had risked life and limb to see if she could find out anything about the murders. She stretched out her good arm and drew aside the curtain. She stared in surprise at the girl in the bed next to her. It was Jessie Briggs, the former favourite of Miss McAndrew.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ asked Jenny.

  ‘Got pumped out,’ said Jessie in a weak voice.

  ‘Drugs?’

  ‘Naw, he left me. The boyfriend. Told him to give me a bottle of whisky as a farewell present and I drank it along with a lot of aspirin. Didn’t want to live.’ Large tears ran down her pallid face. She wiped them away with the back of her hand. ‘I would ha’ succeeded in killing myself if that interfering auld biddy from next door hadn’t peered in the window and seen me lying on the floor and called the ambulance.’

  ‘You should be grateful to her. She saved your life.’

  ‘So what!’

  ‘Listen, did you phone AA?’

  ‘Oh, them. I phoned them the once. I told them it was all Miss McAndrew’s fault I was in this state and some woman says to me, she says, “Nobody makes you drink. It’s not as if she held you down and poured it down your throat.” I said it was because she’d ruined my life. She says she used to suffer from self-pity as well and used to blame everyone for her drinking. I told her to go and shove her head up her arse.’

  ‘Try them again and go along. What have you got to lose.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Who do you think murdered her?’

  ‘How should I know? One o’ the teachers. She made their life hell. Joseph Cromarty, the ironmonger. He hated her. I passed them in the street not long afore she was killed and he was shouting at her that she was a disgrace and he was glad she had retired. He said if she’d stayed on, he would have murdered her.’

  ‘Joseph’s a decent man,’ said an old lady in the bed opposite.

  ‘Shut up and mind your own business,’ snapped Jessie.

  Jenny gave the old lady a weak smile.

  Jessie lay back on her pillows and closed her eyes, just as Jenny’s next visitor came in – Iain Chisholm.

  ‘How’s your car?’ asked Jenny.

  ‘Och, I’ll be getting herself out at low tide. I did try to warn you.’

  ‘I’m awfully sorry,’ said Jenny. ‘Hamish said you’re insured.’

  Iain silently cursed Hamish Macbeth. He’d come to the hospital hoping to get a cheque from Jenny.

  ‘Well,’ he said huffily, ‘so she is. But that was a rare car. Not many of those around nowadays.’

  He looked so angry that Jenny said quickly, ‘Maybe I can rent something else from you. I should still be able to drive.’

  ‘I have a wee Morris Minor. But I will need to be charging you more for the rental, seeing as how you are the bad risk.’

  ‘Like how much?’

  ‘A hundred and twenty-five pounds a week.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’ Jenny copied Jessie and lay back on her pillows and closed her eyes while she privately resolved to go down to Strathbane and rent something modern.

  She kept her eyes firmly closed until she heard Iain leave.

  Elspeth met up with Pat Mallone in the main street of Braikie. A savage gale was whipping rubbish down the street from overturned dustbins. Her face was soaked with rain and flying salt spray blown in from the sea. ‘Let’s get inside somewhere,’ shouted Pat, ‘and compare notes.’

  They went into the dingy pub. Most pubs now supplied coffee but not this one. They ordered soft drinks and went to a corner table. ‘I was up at the school,’ said Pat, ‘trying to get a word with the teachers, but that head teacher, Arkle, turned me away before I could speak to anyone. What about you?’

  ‘I’ve been interviewing Jenny. Quite a good local story.’

  ‘What’s this about?’ asked Pat.

  Elspeth knew the town had been buzzing with the rescue of Jenny Ogilvie and wondered, not for the first time, how a reporter like Pat Mallone could miss stories that were right under his nose. As usual he had slept late, and she guessed that he had rushed up to Braikie, gone to the school and been turned away, and had not tried to do anything else but look for her to see if he could save himself some work. She told him about Jenny’s rescue.

  ‘I’d better go up to the hospital and see her.’

  ‘Why? I’ve already phoned over the story.’

  ‘We’re pals. I’d better go now.’

  Elspeth glared after his retreating back. Pat had been quite keen on her, she thought sourly, before Jenny came along. Still, as far as Hamish Macbeth was concerned, Jenny wasn’t a threat. It had been mean of Jenny not to give Hamish any credit for her rescue. Elspeth grinned as she thought of the story she had phoned over, which would go out in the weekly paper under Sam’s headline: LOCAL HERO.

  She decided to make her way to the community centre to see if Mr Blakey was available. As she went out of the pub, the wind seized her old fishing hat and sent it bowling down the street. Elspeth scampered after it, but another greater gust of wind sent it flying up over the rooftops.

  When she gained the shelter of the community centre, water was streaming down her face from her rain-soaked hair. Mr Blakey was mopping the floor. ‘A leak in the roof,’ he said mournfully. ‘I saw you last night.’

  ‘Before I speak to you, have you a towel or something I could use on my hair?’

  ‘Sorry, there’s just the hand drier in the toilet.’

  ‘That’ll need to do.’ Elspeth made her way across the hall and into the ladies’ toilet. She banged on the hand drier and crouched under it, occasionally reaching up to switch it on again after it had automatically switched off. At last she straightened up and fished in her capacious handbag for a brush and dragged it through her frizzy hair before going back into the hall.

  ‘I tried to see you earlier,’ she said. ‘I’m from the local paper. I thought this place would be full of reporters.’

  ‘I think it would have been, but there’s a landslide on the road. Two of them tried to climb over the hill and had to be rescued. But the tide’s turned and they think they’ll get the blockage cleared soon.’

  ‘You must have been very shocked by that video.’

  Mr Blakey sat down suddenly on a chair. ‘I’m frightened,’ he said. ‘It was such an evil thing to do, and why pick on the old folks?’

  ‘Has anyone told you or the police if anyone was seen in or around the community centre when the package was delivered?’

  ‘The problem is that I just found the package when I opened up. That would be around five o’clock. It could have been delivered anytime during the day.’

  ‘I saw you handing Hamish a note.’

  ‘Yes, that came with it. I told you about that. It simply said it was a video from Help the Aged.’

  ‘Typewritten?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, well, the police will be searching everywhere in Braikie for the typewriter that was used.’

  ‘What worries me, too,’ said Mr Blakey, ‘is that they’ll be too frightened to come back for another film show. They used to love them.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Elspeth’s busy mind was already forming an appeal. Maybe raise money for a proper screen and cinematography equipment. She asked him some more questions and then said she had to file a story. She went back out into the storm and located her car, stopping on the way to buy a rain hat and a towel.

  In the car, she once more dried herself and then took out her laptop, pushed back the driving seat to its limit to give her
self more room, and began to type busily. When it was finished, she sent it over and then phoned Sam, the owner and editor. She told him about her idea of an appeal to help the community centre. ‘Great,’ said Sam. ‘Where’s Mallone?’

  ‘I think he’s up at the hospital seeing Jenny.’

  ‘Didn’t you tell him you’d already done that story? And have you a camera? Harry can’t get through. There’s a landslide.’ Harry was the photographer.

  ‘Yes, I’ve got a camera.’

  ‘Then get a photo of Jenny and one of Hamish. Get as many photos of the locals as you can. That’s what sells this paper. And get Pat to take photos as well.’

  ‘I doubt if he’ll have a camera.’

  ‘I’m seriously thinking of sacking him, Elspeth.’

  ‘Give him a talking-to first.’

  ‘I already have. Doesn’t seem to make a damn bit of difference.’

  Elspeth rang off and located her camera. She drove up to the hospital. Pat was sitting on the end of Jenny’s bed, laughing and joking and eating most of the chocolates he had brought her.

  ‘Look what the cat dragged in!’ cried Pat.

  ‘Harry can’t get through, so I’m here to take a pic of Jenny,’ said Elspeth. ‘Have you a camera, Pat?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, after I take Jenny’s picture, you’d better come with me. Sam’s orders are that we’re to take as many pictures of the locals as possible and get their comments.’

  ‘Can’t you do that?’

  ‘It would be nice to have some help.’

  Elspeth took several photographs of Jenny and then said, ‘Come along, Pat.’

  ‘I don’t take orders from you,’ he muttered, but he bent and kissed Jenny on the cheek and reluctantly followed Elspeth out of the hospital. ‘I’ll follow you down into the town,’ he shouted above the roar of the wind.

  Elspeth set off and parked in the main street. But when she got out of her car, there was no sign of Pat Mallone. Wearily, she set off in the direction of the post office.