Death of a Maid

by Beaton, M. C.

  He knocked on the door of Mrs Forest’s cottage and waited. He was about to turn away when the door opened and a bent, elderly woman stared up at the tall constable. She put a liver-spotted hand to her chest, her old eyes widening with alarm.

  ‘It’s nothing serious,’ said Hamish soothingly. ‘I’ve just got a few wee questions to ask about Mrs Gillespie.’

  ‘You’d best come ben.’

  She stood aside. Hamish walked past her. She shut the door. ‘To your left,’ she said.

  Hamish walked into a low-ceilinged room. She settled herself in a chair by the fire and pointed to a chair opposite her. Hamish sat down and held his cap between his knees.

  ‘I believe Mrs Gillespie used to work for you.’

  ‘Only for a short time. I moved here mainly to get away from her.’

  ‘Why?’

  She clasped her hands together tightly. ‘Do I have to tell you?’

  ‘I will try to keep anything you tell me in confidence. She was blackmailing you, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Yes. I suppose she was.’

  ‘Please tell me what it was about.’

  ‘I was in Glasgow during the war. I got pregnant by an American serviceman. Lovely man, but he got killed in action. It was considered a sin in those days. My parents had me locked up in a hostel for unmarried mothers. My baby, a boy, was taken away for adoption, but, at that time, I was kept on in the home, doing laundry, scrubbing, things like that. It was inhumane. I escaped one day with two of the other women, and we went straight to a newspaper office and told them everything that was going on. They splashed the story, and the place was closed down. I kept the newspaper cutting, and the Gillespie woman found it. I had a wee collection of china figurines. She demanded them and said if I didn’t give them to her, she would tell everyone my secret. I loved those figurines. I told her I was going to the police. She panicked and said she had just been joking. I sacked her and told her if I heard one murmur of my secret in Braikie, I would go to the police. She left me alone after that, but the very sight of the woman turned my stomach, so I sold up and came here. Does this need to come out?’

  ‘No,’ said Hamish, ‘I’ll make sure it doesn’t. But murder is murder. I can’t see you having the strength to brain her with her bucket, but have you any idea who might have done it?’

  ‘I really don’t know. But to be honest, if I did, I don’t think I would tell you. She got what she deserved.’

  When Hamish left, he wandered up the main street to a café and ordered a mutton pie and chips. Someone had left a newspaper on the table open at an article about poor diet.

  He promised himself to start eating fruit and vegetables as he washed down the pie with strong tea. Then when he finished, he went back to Lochdubh, hoping there might be something in Terry’s investigations to give him a clue.

  Terry had left the police station, but there was a neat pile of printouts beside the computer.

  Hamish gave his pets water and then settled down to read. The forensic report stated that there were no prints on the handle of the bucket: it had been wiped clean. And that was that. No tyre tracks, no hairs, no threads of cloth, nothing. He was not surprised. He remembered all the police cars arriving. He remembered pointing out the signs of a scuffle in the gravel and Blair ignoring him and walking all over the evidence with his big boots. The autopsy report was what he expected. Her death had been caused by a massive blow to the head which had crushed her skull.

  As yet, there was no autopsy report on Mrs Samson. He turned to the various interviews of the suspects. He sighed. There seemed to be nothing there more than he had found out already.

  It was dark outside, and the rising wind soughed round the building. He leaned back in his chair.

  At least a good picture of the late Mrs Gillespie was beginning to emerge. The reason for her blackmailing activities was power rather than money. How she must have enjoyed getting something as simple as free cream cakes!

  His thoughts moved to Elspeth. Would she really marry that reporter? Did it matter? He thought ruefully that he had had ample time in the past to propose marriage to her himself. Was he playing dog in the manger?

  He switched on his answering machine. He did not expect any messages from Blair. Puffed up with the idea of a documentary on him, Blair would do anything he knew to keep him in the background. There was a brief one from Jimmy. ‘We don’t seem to be getting anywhere with this, Hamish. Any suggestions? Found anything out?’

  Then there was one from Priscilla Halburton-Smythe. ‘I’ve been reading about the murder, Hamish. I haven’t heard from you in ages. How are you getting on? Give me a ring if you’ve got the time.’

  No, thought Hamish. I’m not going down that road again. I was all excited when I thought she was coming back to live here, but she only stayed for a short time and I barely saw her. He fought down that old treacherous feeling of longing. He realized the next message was from Shona Fraser.

  ‘We’re not going to go on with the documentary on Detective Chief Inspector Blair. I’ve been doing research on you, and I guess you acted stupid to get out of the television thing. But I’ve found out something interesting. I’ll call at the police station at nine this evening and let you have it.’

  Oh, dear, thought Hamish. A Blair with fame snatched from him would be in a filthy mood and would soon be on the phone to vent some of his spleen on one local constable.

  Hamish typed out a report of everything he had learned that day including his views that Mrs Gillespie had only wanted power not money and might have contrived to win prizes at bingo by blackmailing Miss Creedy He explained that it would account for the lack of any large sums being drawn out of the suspects’ bank accounts. Then he sent it on to Jimmy.

  He glanced at the clock. Seven-thirty He took the dog and cat out for a walk and then returned to the station and took a venison stew out of the freezer and heated it up on the stove. Then he divided it equally among the three of them.

  He went through to his living room and lit the fire. He switched on the television set and then surfed the channels until he found a fictional programme on forensic investigation and settled down to watch. One minute he was marvelling how these forensic researchers could visit the scenes of crimes without any protective clothing whatsoever, shaking long hair and DNA all over the place and trudging around dead bodies in uncovered shoes, when he fell asleep.

  He woke abruptly and looked at his watch. Ten o’clock. He wondered if Shona had called and he hadn’t heard her. But he knew that in the past no matter how heavily he slept, a knock at the door always awoke him.

  He stretched and yawned. Maybe she had changed her mind.

  Archie Maclean, the fisherman, swallowed the last of a cup of extremely strong tea and went up on deck. He was wearing a tracksuit under his oilskin. He kept clothes on board, for he knew his bullying wife expected him to go to sea in his suit and collar and tie. ‘You’re the skipper,’ she always said, ‘and should look the part.’

  His boat, the Sally Jane, bucketed through the increasingly high waves as she headed out from the loch towards the Atlantic. The earlier clouds which had threatened rain had disappeared, and a full moon rode the skies.

  They were nearly at the entrance to the loch when Archie, who was about to go up to the wheelhouse and take over, spotted a rowing boat cresting a wave. Why it had not been overturned was a miracle. He nipped up to the wheelhouse and said to his mate, Harry, ‘There’s a wee rowboat in the water. Pull her ower and let’s have a look.’

  Harry reduced the speed. Archie unhitched a pair of binoculars and then let out a hiss of alarm. ‘There iss some cheil lying in the boat. Pull alongside.’

  He ran back to the rail and called to the other three men who made up his small crew. ‘Get a grappling iron and pull her in.’

  It was a difficult job with the waves heaving the Sally Jane up and down. ‘Bring a light,’ shouted Archie.

  A grappling iron was attached to the rowing boat. Archie
shone a powerful torch down into it. A young girl lay sprawled in the bottom facedown.

  ‘Bang goes a night’s fishing,’ said Archie. ‘There’s blood on the back o’ her head. I’ll phone Macbeth.’

  Hamish Macbeth stood on the harbour, waiting for the fishing boat to come in. In the distance, he could hear police sirens. He was wearing the blue forensic suit all police officers were now expected to wear when inspecting a crime. He felt guilty about it. He had worn it when he had been cleaning out the hen run on a wet day. It had subsequently fallen off a hook on the back of the kitchen door, and Sonsie had slept on it.

  He thought miserably of forensic programmes he had watched on television. ‘Ah, I have one hair here!’ some forensic scientist would say triumphantly. God only knew what they would find if they ever took away his protective clothing for examination.

  The sirens sounded nearer. Lights were going on in the cottages along the waterfront.

  Elspeth woke up suddenly in her room at the hotel. She heard the wail of the sirens as police cars sped past and down the hill to Lochdubh. She went out of her room and hammered on the door of Luke’s room.

  He opened it and stood looking blearily down at her. His eyes were bloodshot, and he smelled strongly of booze.

  ‘I’ve heard lots of police cars going past,’ said Elspeth. ‘Come on. Get dressed!’

  Luke groaned. After an unsuccessful evening trying to get Elspeth into his bed, he had resorted to comfort from a bottle of whisky.

  ‘You go,’ he said. ‘I’ll follow you down.’

  ‘We’ve only got the one car!’

  ‘I’ll wake someone up and take one of the hotel cars.’

  Luke retreated into his room and shut the door. Just five minutes more sleep, he thought. He fell facedown on the bed, not waking until the morning.

  The fishing boat came nearer. Jimmy shivered. ‘Did Archie say who it was?’ he asked Hamish.

  ‘He chust said a wee lassie. Oh, God, Jimmy, I chust hope it isnae who I think it is.’

  ‘That being?’

  ‘Shona Fraser. She phoned earlier and said she had something to tell me. She said she would come to the police station, but she never arrived.’

  A woman police inspector was waiting, flanked by a woman police sergeant.

  ‘Look at them,’ said Jimmy. ‘It’s all this political correctness. The whole Northern Constabulary will soon be filled with damn women.’

  ‘If it iss Shona,’ muttered Hamish, ‘what could she have found out that I couldn’t?’

  ‘Beats me. Amazing if it wasn’t Blair who killed her. He was flaming mad when he was told that the television documentary was cancelled.’

  ‘Where is the auld scunner?’

  ‘Probably nursing a hangover. Here comes trouble!’

  Hamish walked forward. ‘You! Macbeth!’ barked Police Inspector Mary Gannon. ‘Go and knock on doors and see if anyone heard anything.’

  Hamish trudged off. The pity of it was, he thought, that the hotel on the harbour had been boarded up for years. The pub beside it still closed at eleven o’clock in the evening. There was no cottage looking directly on to the harbour.

  The lights were on in Patel’s store. Patel was the epitome of the Indian businessman. He knew that crowds of people even in the middle of the night meant a good sale of sandwiches and hot coffee.

  Hamish pushed open the door and went in. Mr Patel was just carrying a plate of sandwiches through from the kitchen at the back.

  ‘What’s going on, Hamish?’

  ‘A dead body in a rowing boat. Archie caught it when he was out at the fishing. Did you see anyone at all? I would guess down by the harbour or approaching the police station. It’s a young lassie. I can’t see anyone going to the trouble of putting a dead body in a rowing boat and floating it out to sea. My guess is that the girl was hit from behind with a hard enough blow to kill her. Then she was toppled over the sea wall but fell into one of the rowing boats. The murderer went down the stairs but maybe heard someone coming and slashed the painter so that the boat drifted off. The tide would be on the turn.’

  ‘I didnae see anyone, Hamish. Coffee? I’ve made some fresh.’

  ‘No, I’d better get on with it.’

  Hamish opened the shop door and looked outside. Mary Gannon believed in blanket coverage. Policemen were knocking at doors all along the waterfront.

  Where was Shona’s car? That is, if the dead girl was Shona.

  Then he recognized it. It was parked a little away from the police station. His heart sank. Had he been so heavily asleep that he had not heard her knock?

  He took out his torch because the car was parked between two street lights and in the shadow. He shone the torch around it and then saw a tyre lever lying on the ground.

  Hamish picked it up gingerly with one gloved hand and walked over to where Mary Gannon was directing operations.

  ‘I found this, ma’am,’ said Hamish. ‘There’s blood on the end of it, and I think this is the murder weapon. I found it beside that television researcher Shona Fraser’s car. She left me a message saying she was going to call on me this evening because she had some information for me. Shona Fraser was supposed to be doing research for a documentary on Detective Chief Inspector Blair. Oh, here comes Mr Blair.’

  ‘Go over to the forensics’ van and get yourself an evidence bag and seal this and mark it.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  As Hamish moved off, he heard Blair saying, ‘I’m in charge here.’

  Then came Mary’s frosty reply: ‘Everything is in hand.’

  Blair: ‘This is a job for detectives, and you aren’t a detective.’

  Mary: ‘Are you questioning my ability?’

  Blair: ‘Och, no, sweetheart. Just you run along and get a cup of tea or something.’

  Mary: ‘Don’t patronize me!’

  Blair: ‘Look here, you boot-faced hag. You’ll stop getting your knickers in a twist and do what you’re told. God help the force the day the beaver patrol takes over.’

  Mary swung round to her listening sergeant. ‘You’ve heard all of this? Then type up a report, and I will deliver it to Superintendent Daviot in the morning.’

  Hamish, almost out of earshot, could hear the frightened Blair beginning to wheedle and beg.

  After he had delivered the tyre lever and was heading back, he found himself confronted by Elspeth.

  ‘What’s happened, Hamish?’

  ‘I cannae tell you wi’ all my masters looking on. Over there, that woman is Police Inspector Gannon. You’ll need to ask her.’

  Hamish went back to the car and began to search around it again. Then he shone his torch inside. A handbag was lying on the passenger seat.

  Mary Gannon came up behind him.

  ‘Her car?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘See if it’s locked.’

  Hamish tried the handle on the passenger side, and the door opened. ‘Her keys are still in the ignition,’ he said.

  ‘Bring that handbag into the police station, and we’ll look through it. I’ll tell forensics to tow this car away for examination. I will join you shortly. Don’t open the bag until I am there.’

  Hamish went into the police station. He stripped off the forensic suit, hung it on a peg behind the door, and lit the stove. He boiled up water for coffee and put sugar, milk, two cups and a plate of shortbread on the table.

  The kitchen door opened just after he had made the coffee, and Mary walked in. If it hadn’t been for her stern features, she would have appeared a motherly woman. She had a full face and brown eyes. Her figure was matronly. She took off her hat and rubbed her eyes. ‘Gosh, I’m tired.’

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Yes, just black.’

  Then Hamish realized Mary’s eyes were widening, and she was reaching for the canister of CS gas on her belt. He swung round. Sonsie was crouched there, staring out of yellow eyes.

  ‘Don’t!’ he yelled. ‘It’s my cat. Sonsie, go back to bed
.’

  The cat slouched off.

  ‘That’s a wild cat,’ said Mary accusingly.

  ‘It’s very domesticated,’ said Hamish soothingly. ‘Besides, they’re all hybrids now. I doubt if you could find a genuine wild cat in the Highlands.’

  Lugs pattered in, looked up at Mary out of his odd blue eyes, and walked out again.

  ‘Do you have a whole menagerie in this police station?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Hamish, pouring coffee. ‘Just the two beasts.’

  ‘Right, let’s get down to business. May I have a piece of shortbread?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  Mary tried to take a bite. ‘This is made of bricks.’

  Hamish flushed. ‘It wass made by my friend Mrs Brodie. Herself iss not very good in the cooking department.’

  ‘Okay We need fresh gloves.’ Hamish went through to a cupboard in the office and came back with a packet of latex gloves.

  They both put on a pair, and Mary opened the handbag. ‘Get some clean paper, and I’ll tip this lot out.’

  Hamish came back with sheets of computer printing paper. Mary gently turned the contents out on to the paper.

  There was the usual clutter one would find in any woman’s handbag: house keys, wallet, driving licence, two pens, comb, lipstick, strong mints, a packet of tissues, address book and notebook, one earring, and an invitation to the opening of a new restaurant in Strathbane.

  Mary looked at the driving licence. ‘Yes, it’s Shona Fraser. You look at the address book, and I’ll look at the notebook. Lock the door first.’

  Hamish raised an eyebrow. ‘I don’t want to be interrupted,’ she said. ‘Do it!’

  Hamish locked the door and returned to the table. ‘This is in shorthand,’ complained Mary. ‘I have speed writing, but I can’t read shorthand.’

  ‘I’ll read it,’ said Hamish.

  He quickly scanned through the contents. At first, there were enthusiastic notes about the proposed documentary and then comments such as, ‘I don’t think Macbeth is as stupid as he would like me to think. But Blair, now, is stupid.’