Beth was ready with a sharp answer, but I had had enough. ‘We have a business to run,’ I said. And, as we moved towards the door, I added, ‘You should be able to manage without us now.’ It was unfair of me, perhaps, but I had had a bellyful of the police and it would have taken a more angelic man than me not to crow, just a little.
Chapter Twelve
For several days, nothing whatever was to be learned except for guarded statements from the police to the media that they were following up a fresh line of enquiry and that an arrest was expected daily. It was the statement which comes off the rubber stamp during every murder case, but this time we knew that it could be true.
Then a letter arrived for Hannah from a solicitor. True to his type, Dougal Webb had never got around to taking out an insurance policy, which would have cost him serious money. But he had made out a valid will, using a will form from the Post Office, and had deposited it with the solicitor named as his executor. He had kept his word and left his car to Hannah along with a modest legacy in cash. So, eventually, the Lotus came to lend a little class to our gravel and Hannah, who had been taught to drive in our car by Daffy but had never before driven anything much faster than a bicycle, began collecting speeding tickets as though they were trading stamps and motor-minded boyfriends as though they were given away with a pound of tea.
Detective Inspector Ewell called to see us while we were still agog at the news of Hannah’s good fortune. He was accompanied by Detective Sergeant Bremner, who seemed strangely unwilling to make eye contact with any of us. They accepted tea in the sitting room with Hannah and Beth and me.
‘This is in confidence for another day or two,’ Ewell said. ‘But we know fine that you can keep a confidence and you’ve never been noted for talking to the press. We owe it to you to let you know how it worked out. The signs are that it’s all over.’
‘You got your search warrant, then?’ Beth said.
‘With that videotape, there was no doubt of it. And it paid off handsomely. I’ll let Sergeant Bremner tell you about it.’
He looked benignly at the Sergeant, who flushed. I realized suddenly that this visit was no mere courtesy but was intended to rub the Sergeant’s delicate nose in the mess that had been in the making.
‘Blood was found between the tiles in the kitchen at Marksmuir House and also in Sir Ian’s vehicle,’ said the Sergeant. She spoke woodenly and if her teeth were not gritted they were very close to it. ‘The same blood group as Mr Webb and we’re in no doubt that it will prove to have been his when the DNA tests are finished. Fibres found in Webb’s car match the cloth of Mr Pratt’s coat. An examination of some disturbed ground resulted in the unearthing of a knife-handle belonging to the blade found in Mr Webb’s body.’
She paused. ‘Go on,’ said Ewell. The Sergeant sighed.
‘Sir Ian and Mr Pratt made formal statements after cautioning. Each was adamant that he had not been on Gifford Hill for years or, in Mr Pratt’s case, ever. But the soil, seeds and pollen on Gifford Hill are a unique mix and we have a soil scientist prepared to prove in court that that’s where the dirt we found in the welts of Mr Pratt’s shoes and Sir Ian’s shooting boots came from.
‘Faced with this evidence, each changed his story and tried to blame the other. Between the two versions, we can put together the truth. Mr Webb came up to Marksmuir House. It was Sunday, the housekeeper’s day off, and the two men were catering for themselves in the kitchen. Webb said that he had the videotape. He then offered to buy Mr Pratt’s camcorder and Sir Ian’s big four-by-four, for sums which we can assume were paltry. Both men had been bitten once before. Tempers flared. What was being asked from Mr Pratt was the lesser demand, but he was less able than Sir Ian to foot the bill.’
‘If he’d paused for a moment,’ said Detective Inspector Ewell, ‘he might have realized that the videotape would be far more damaging to Sir Ian, who could well have afforded to foot both bills. In fact, Mr Pratt’s only sin had been to distribute the tape showing his own heroism and suppress that part showing Sir Ian’s appalling carelessness. But Pratt realized that if his patron was knocked off his pedestal he too would suffer. He became furious and struck the fatal blow. We know it from the spots of blood on the sleeve of his coat. Go on, Sergeant.’
‘When they realized that Webb was dead,’ Sergeant Bremner resumed, ‘they put the body in Sir Ian’s car, the one that Webb fancied so much, and scrubbed out the kitchen. Around one in the morning, they went out together, Sir Ian conveying the body and Mr Pratt driving Mr Webb’s Lotus. They left the Lotus at Cupar station, then drove to Gifford Hill and carried the body up to the bonfire site.’
‘And they broke into Dougal Webb’s cottage hoping to recover the tape,’ I said.
Ewell nodded. ‘Probably both of them, but we’re sure of Sir Ian. We already had a fingerprint which now proves to be his.’ The Detective Inspector got to his feet, so the Sergeant followed suit. ‘I felt that we owed you a word of thanks,’ he said briskly, ‘and also an apology. I’m afraid that we gave you a hard time.’
‘None of your doing, I’m sure, Mr Ewell,’ Beth said.
I glanced at the Sergeant. She looked as though she had bitten into a wormy apple. The Inspector had noted it too but he was merciless. ‘We’re very grateful,’ he said warmly.
‘And no doubt you’ve had pats on the back from upstairs,’ I suggested.
He managed a faint smile. ‘Some of us have,’ he said. ‘Come, Sergeant.’
*
When the case came to the High Court, it was over almost before it had begun. In the eyes of the jury, the evidence was conclusive. Defence counsel struggled to argue that blackmailers were fair game and in season, but the fact that money, however little, had been offered rather than demanded rather clouded the issue with the jury. Pratt, the dealer of the blow, was sent to where he would have a captive audience for his pontificating. Sir Ian, as an accomplice after the fact, received a lesser sentence; but his ambitions were in tatters and he was disgraced.
In the meantime, more events had overtaken some of the other participants.
A second case was dealt with in a lower court by the sheriff. Mrs Macevoy was charged with harbouring a prisoner on the run, or some such wording. Her plea that she went in terror of her husband and had acted under duress held little water, since she had continued to deny his presence until the moment the officers lifted the hatch in the floor, but it must have had some effect with the judge because she was treated leniently. She was sentenced to do a hundred hours of Community Service, ministering to the residents in a home for the elderly and the mentally handicapped. It was generally believed that she would much rather have gone to prison.
When he went back to his ship, Jimmy Dundee left his mother better provided for. He also gave her a wad of tickets in the National Lottery and only a month later one of them brought her a one-third share in a roll-over jackpot. She continues to live quite happily in her cottage, but as soon as it became clear that Sir Ian would never return to Fife she bought Marksmuir Estate for a price which must have had the thrifty gentleman grinding his teeth. But long-standing habits are hard to break. Every afternoon she spends at work in the big house, although her Jimmy has left the sea and now, as well as living in the house, runs a business in garden supplies from the gardens and outbuildings. He is often to be seen with Hannah, driving the Lotus at a rather more sober pace than hers.
Quentin Cove’s misdeeds were never brought home to him, except that Rex paid him a visit after which the two men, both somewhat battered, adjourned to the nearest pub and got drunk together. Daffy never quite forgave Quentin for the death of Mim, but we never found another supply of dog-food as good and as convenient as his and with Daffy’s agreement we became his customers again. When Hebe produced another throwback to Champion Clunie of Netherbrae, Quentin was on the doorstep long before the pup was weaned, brandishing a fistful of twenty-pound notes. The two get on well together. So far, he has not managed to make her up to Cha
mpion, but at least having a goal is good for him.
Quentin has one other ambition. He would dearly love to add the Marksmuir land to Ardrossie and with that in mind pays court to Elsie Dundee. But he does not have it all his own way. Jack Gilchrist, among others, is a rival for her hand. She has not been such an object of desire since Sir Ian first tumbled her on the dining room table.
Mrs Dundee and her son have never forgotten what little help I was able to give them. Or perhaps they think that they are buying my silence. But the sporting rights to Marksmuir land are let to me for a peppercorn rent. And that is what I call a happy ending.
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