by M C Beaton
“So much for her hating romances,” commented Hamish.
“She seemed to have an obsession about them, “said Harriet. “She cornered me and asked me to go for a walk with her, and then, as soon as we were walking along the beach, she started to grill me about how much romance writers made. I said there were romance writers and romance writers, you know, from the trash to the really top-level stuff. First-time authors in Britain often get as little as two hundred pounds a book. She said—let me think—she said that surely America was the market. What about New York publishers? I said I thought it was possible for a first-tune author to get a lot of money, provided the book was a block-buster. I got the strange-impression she had written one, but when I asked her, she denied it with her usual sneers.”
“We’ve got nothing else to go on.” Hamish sat and thought hard. “Look, do you have a New York agent?”
“Yes, and a very good one.”
“Would he know if there was a block-buster in the offing, say, one with a background of Glasgow? What eke do we know about Heather? She claimed to have been brought up in the Gorbals, that horrible slum, or it was when she was growing up. See if there’s any hint of a book. It’s a bit farfetched. But if Heather had actually pulled it off and was due a large sum of money, which her husband would inherit, then Diarmuid might find it worthwhile to push her off that crag after breaking her neck.”
“So back to Diarmuid. Are you sure…?”
“No, I am not letting my dislike colour my judgement this tune. Could you phone your agent?”
“All right,” said Harriet. “So long as Jane gives me permission.”
When they arrived back at The Happy Wanderer it was to find the place wearing an ah- of mourning caused more by Jane’s desire to get rid of her guests than by Heather’s death. It was a new Jane, tight-faced and brisk. She snapped at Harriet that, yes, she could use the phone in the office provided she paid for the call.
Hamish waited anxiously in the deserted lounge. The other guests were hiding in their rooms, either to pack, but mostly, he guessed, to keep out of Jane’s way.
Harriet emerged from the office, her face shining. “Where can we talk?”
“Television room,” said Hamish. “I don’t think there’s anyone in there.”
They walked in together. For once the television set was silent. “My agent says there’s a block-buster all right, but he doesn’t know who it’s from or what it’s worth, or what it’s about. But it might just have a Scottish background. He says he’ll ask around. I’ve to phone back in a couple of hours.”
Elated, Harriet gave Hamish a kiss, but he was too absorbed in this new information to take much notice of it.
The next two hours seemed to drag past. They sat and watched a rerun of a Lassie movie without either of them seeing much of it, Then Harriet rose and went to phone her agent again.
“Come with me, Hamish,” she said. “Let’s see what he has found out.”
Hamish waited, tense, while she spoke to her agent again. Finally she put down the phone and took a deep breath. “Oh, Hamish, he found out the publisher and editor responsible for this book, but in fairness he cannot be expected to be told the details of a book not yet published. Butget this! The word is that the advance was half a million dollars!”
Hamish performed a mad, erratic sort of Highland fling round the room while Harriet called the New York publisher and got through to the editor who was handling the book. Hamish stopped his cavorting and listened. He quickly gathered that the editor was amazed (hat a stranger should ask such questions about an unpublished book. He grabbed the phone and introduced himself. “I am a policeman investigating a death in Scotland,” he said. “The name of the dead woman is Heather Todd. Is that, by any chance, the name of the author?”
“No,” said the editor reluctantly.
“I can at least tell you that much. Heather Todd is not the name of the author.” Hamish thanked her nonetheless, and said he would be most grateful if he could call again. She agreed and he sadly put down the phone.
“Damn,” he said. “I’m now sure there’s something there. Damn. If only I could get to Glasgow.”
“We’re leaving tomorrow. We could go together,” said Harriet eagerly.
“I’ll need to find out if one of my relatives can put me up,” said Hamish cautiously. “My mother’s from Glasgow.”
“Be my guest,” said Harriet. “I’ll get us both hotel rooms.”
“But hotels are awfy expensive,” protested Hamish.
“Don’t worry. I’m enjoying this. Say yes, Hamish. You wouldn’t want the murderer to get away with it, now would you?”
“All right.” Hamish capitulated. “If you’re sure.”
♦
The guests assembled on the wind-swept jetty at dawn the following day. “Going to be a rough crossing,” volunteered John Wetherby, practically the first words he had said to anyone since lane’s outburst. Jane had run them all to the jetty in relays and had left without say ing goodbye to any of them.
Hamish saw Angus Macleod walking up the jetty and went to meet him. “I’ve been thinking,” said Hamish, “when you went to get Jessie Maclean, was mere any other passenger?”
“No, only herself,” said Angus.
“I don’t suppose you do these passenger trips often. I mean, the islanders will usually waft for the ferry.”
“Aye, that’s right. The only private passenger I’ve had was that sulky bitch o’ a maid from the hotel.”
“When was that?” asked Hamish sharply.
“Och, when I wass going to pkk up that Jessie female at Oban. The maid heard I wass going and asked me to take her across.”
“What did she look like?”
“Red hair and a fat face.”
Hamish walked back to join Harriet. “Do you remember the first time we went to the bar in Skulag?” he asked.
Harriet nodded.
“Do you remember that maid at the hotel? She was just about to come down the stairs when she saw us and darted back.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Get a good look at her?”
“Good enough. She was fet with red hair. Why?”
“I thought I was on to something for a moment. When Angus went over to pick up Jessie, he took that maid across to Oban. I was hoping for a moment it might have been Jessie herself, trying to fool us.”
“But it couldn’t have been Jessie, even a Jessie in disguise,” said Harriet.
“Why?”
“Because immediately after Heather was found dead, Diarmuid phoned Jessie in Glasgow.”
“Aye, I’m grasping at straws. Here comes the ferry.” Hamish pointed out to sea, where a small boat was bucketing through the waves.
“And here comes Jane,” cried Harriet.
The jeep drove onto the jetty and Jane climbed out. She was wearing a pair of jeans which looked as if they had been painted on, high-heeled sandals, and a low-necked blouse worn under a short blue jacket.
She approached the shivering group with hands outstretched. “My dear friends,” she cried, “I could not possibly let you go like this. I have been in communion with my inner being and found peace. I do not bear any resentments, even to you, Hamish Macbeth. Let us all shake hands and part friends.”
Only John Wetherby made a sound of disgust. Sheila hugged Jane to her maternal bosom and thanked her for her hospitality with tears in her eyes. Diarmuid shook hands with Jane but did not raise his eyes to her face. Jessie gave her a firm handshake and the rest followed suit.
“I’ll stay if you like,” said John Wetherby harshly.
“I’ll be all light,” said Jane, the smile of rather fixed serenity she was wearing fading, to be replaced by a puzzled look. “Why?”
“I’ve got two more weeks’ leave and I can’t stand the idea of you being here on your own.”
“All right then,” said Jane, a genuine smile illuminating her face.
“Oh, dear,” said Hamish, watc
hing the odd couple walk off together to the jeep. “I hope I’m not barking up the wrong tree.”
The ferry bumped against the jetty and bucketed up and down as they walked on board, carrying their luggage. Hamish and Harriet stood side by side at the rail, watching fish and lobsters being loaded on. “Where’s Geordie with his load, I wonder?” said Hamish.
“Here he comes.” Harriet pointed. The Fiat truck was racing down the village street. It hurtled onto the jetty. They could see Geordie’s face behind the wheel contorted with fear.
The truck kept on going, plunged over the corner of the jetty, missing the end of the ferry, and sank into the sea like a stone.
Hamish ran down the gangplank, tearing off his coat as he went. He was about to plunge into the sea when Geordie’s head appeared above the waters, bobbing like a cork. He swam to the iron ladder at the side and crawled up it, dragged the final few rungs by helping hands.
“What happened?” demanded Hamish.
“He tried tae kill me,” said Geordie. “But I got the better o’ him. Himself’s dead now.”
“Was your truck insured?” asked Hamish.
“Tae the hilt, man,” panted Geordie. “lae the hilt. I’ll hae a bran” new beastie soon enough.”
Hamish darted back to the ferry and ran on board, picking up his coat on the way.
The gangplank was pulted up, the ropes released, and die ferry chugged out to sea.
“He shouldn’t have kicked it,” mourned Harriet.
“Havers,” said Hamish bitterly. “That brother o’ Angus’s tricked me and did a shoddy job.”
But Harriet said nothing. She leaned pa the rail and watched until the small figures gesticulating around Geordie slowly disappeared from view.
SEVEN
Vanity, like murder, will out.
—HANNAH COWLEY
Glasgow. Hamish was bewildered. He had not visited the city in years. Everything seemed to have changed. Landmarks he had known as a child were gone forever. What of St. Enoch Square, which was once commanded by the station hotel, the very epitome of Victorian architecture? All gone, down to the tin advertisement which used to be on the wall opposite the Renfrew bus stop: “They Come As a Boon and a Blessing to Men, The Pickwick, the Owl, and the Waverky Pen.” Now there was a large glass pyramid, very much like the one outside the Louvre in Paris, but housing a shopping centre covering the whole area of the square.
He and Harriet had left their bags in a small hotel in the Great Western Road and had taken a taxi to drive diem about the city. They dined in an Italian restaurant after their tour, Harriet saying they should have an early night and start their investigations in the morning. Diarmuid had hired a car in Oban and had gone, after all, with Jessie to Strathbane to make arrangements for Heather’s body to be taken south to a funeral parlour in Glasgow.
Hamish said good night to Harriet outside her hotel room. All of a sadden he found himself remembering that impulsive kiss she had given him and wondering if he could have another. But by that time, she had closed the door. He was strongly attracted to her, that he realised, and then, hard on that thought, he remembered Priscilla. He went to his own room and dialled the Tommel Castle Hotel.
To his amazement, he was told Priscilla was not back yet. He asked for Mr. Johnson and soon the hotel manager of the Lochdubh Hotel was on the line. “How’re you getting on?” asked Hamish.
“Just fine,” said Mr. Johnson. “Everything’s running like clockwork.”
“Not having any troubles with the colonel?”
“Och, no, I just get on with the work, Hamish, and ignore his tantrums. I’m thinking of working here permanently.”
“And what has Priscilla to say to that?”
“Actually, it was her idea. She phoned up at Christmas, worried about what was happening, and when I told her everything, despite her lather’s frequent interference, was running all right, she suggested I stay on. Suits me. The pay’s a damn sight better than at the Lochdubh. When are you coming back?”
“Shortly,” said Hamish. “I’d better phone Priscilla. Still at Rogart?”
“Aye, still mere and having a grand time, by the sound of it.”
Hamish then rang his mother and apologized for not having called sooner, and after asking about various members of the family, asked to speak to Priscilla. “I’m afraid you can’t,” came his mother’s voice. “She’s gone off tae the pub with your dad and his friends for a drink.”
Hamish briefly tried to imagine the elegant Priscilla propping up some Highland bar with his father and friends and found he could not.
“Where are you, son?” asked his mother.
“In Glasgow.”
“At Jean’s?”
Jean was Hamish’s cousin. “No,” said Hamish, “I’m at the Fleur De Lys Hotel in the Great Western Road.”
“What are ye doing there? It’s awfy expensive.”
“Och, it’s chust a wee place,” said Hamish, taking in the luxury of his bedroom surroundings for the first time and feeling like a kept man.
“No, no, I read an article aboot it,” came his mother’s voice. “How can you afford a place like that?”
Hamish found himself blushing. “It’s a long story, Ma. I’ll tell ye all about it when I get home.”
He talked some more and then rang off. He undressed, got into bed and lay awake for a long time, thinking about the case; and the more he thought about it, the more he decided it must have been an accident and that the weird atmosphere of Eileencraig had put ideas of murder into his head.
But in the morning, over breakfast, he found Harriet was anxious to start the investigations. “I mink we should call on Diarmuid,” she said. “Where does he live?”
“Morris Mace, as I recall.”
She took out a street map and studied it. “Why, that’s just around the comer. We can walk there”
Morris Place turned out to be a small square of Victorian houses, mostly divided into flats, but Diarmuid, it transpired, owned a whole house. They rang the bell and waited.
After some time, Diarmuid opened the door. He was impeccably dressed in a pin-striped suit, white shirt, and striped silk tie.
“Going out?” asked Hamish.
“I was thinking about going down to the office,” said, Diarmuid, blocking the doorway, “although I’m pretty tired. I got back from the north in the small hours of the morning. What are you doing here?”
“We just wanted to ask you about Heather.”
He heaved an impatient sigh and reluctantly stood back, allowing them to enter. He then led the way to a sitting-room on the first floor. It was thickly carpeted and had a green silk-covered three-piece suite, both armchairs and sofa being ornamented with silk tassels. Heavy green silk fringed curtains were drawn back to let in the pale, grey daylight. A gas fire of simulated logs was flaring away on the hearth. In one corner of the room there was a bar. A low coffee-table stood in front of the fire, its polished oak surface protected with coasters depicting paintings by Impressionist artists. Diarmuid ushered them into chairs and then sat down, adjusting his handsome features into what he obviously considered, an expression of suitable grief.
Hamish’s first question appeared to surprise him. Was Heather writing a book? Diarmuid said no, although he added that she was always scribbling away at things. “If she had written a book,” said Diarmuid, “then she would have got Jessie to type it. Jessie typed all her letters.”
Hamish looked at him curiously. “Jessie was your secretary. Didn’t she resent having to work for your wife as well?”
“Oh, no, she’s a good girl, and besides, Heather paid her separately.”
“Where is she now?”
“At home.”
Hamish took out a small notebook in which he had written all the phone numbers and addresses of his suspects. “Would you mind if I used your phone and gave Jessie a call?”
“Help yourself,” said Diarmuid, jerking his head to a white-and-gilt model of an early tel
ephone which stood on a side-table by the window.
Hamish rang Jessie. When she answered, he asked her if Heather had ever asked her to type any pages of manuscript.
“No,” said Jessie harshly. “Anything else? I’m busy with the funeral arrangements.”
Hamish said no, nothing for the moment, and thoughtfully replaced the receiver.
There seemed to be nothing else to ask Diarmuid. Diarmuid appeared to have forgotten all about going to the office as he ushered them out.
“I feel like giving up,” said Harriet gloomily as they left Morris Place. “It’s such a long shot, Hamish.”
“I’d like to try that editor in New York again,” said Hamish. “I’ve got an idea.”
“Well, we can’t phone until at least three in the afternoon, when it’ll be ten in the morning in New York,” pointed out Harriet. “I’e got some shopping to do. I’ll meet you back at the hotel this afternoon.”
Hamish wandered about the city and then ate a solitary lunch, although his mind was not on what he was eating. Bits and pieces of scenes floated through his mind. Jane flushed and angry. John Wetherby electing to stay with Jane. The Carpenters, fat and miserable, trailing off to the station in Oban. Jessie, cool and competent, going off to hire a car in Oban. Diarmuid, relying on his secretary to do everything.
When Harriet came to his hotel room at three in the afternoon, Hamish began to speak immediately, as if he had been discussing the case with her all through lunch. “Look, what about mis? Heather actually succeeds in writing a blockbuster. Jessie types it and sends it off…but she puts her own name on it.”
Harriet looked doubtful. “Would such as Jessie recognise a block-buster? Then we’re back to means and opportunity. Jessie was not on the island when Heather was killed.”
“But Diarmuid was,” said Hamish. “That brief fling with Jane could have been a blind.”
“He’d need to have been awfully fast to follow Heather all’ the way over to the other side of the island, run all the way back, and then hop into bed with Jane,” pointed out Harriet, “Then striking her down in the dark when he was supposed to be searching for her—well, that’s hardly premeditated, and if there’s money for a book involved, her death would have to be worked out carefully beforehand.”