Hamish Macbeth 09 (1993) - Death of a Travelling Man

by M C Beaton

  “How do you know?” said Priscilla huffily.

  “Because…” He grabbed her by the arms in a fierce grip. “Listen!” he muttered.

  “Only the wind,” whispered Priscilla, “I don’t hear anything exactly. I feel something coming.”

  “‘By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way…’”

  “Shhh!” He put a hand over her mouth.

  Priscilla eased away from him and brought out the little tape recorder, switched it on and handed it to him.

  Hamish stiffened like a hunting dog. His whole attention was focused on the packing case, whose light-brown sides glimmered faintly in the half-dark.

  Then he let out a long ‘aaaah’ of satisfaction.

  “Stay here,” he whispered. He walked slowly to where the bent figure was tearing the rocks out of the packing case.

  “Cheryl Higgins,” he said. “I charge you with the murder of Sean Gourlay.” He shone a powerful torch full in her face.

  “You’re daft,” she snarled. “Sean was hiding something here and he’d taken some o’ ma things, and I remembered he might hae put them here.”

  So, thought Hamish bleakly, she could well stick to that story and look horrified and surprised when the contents of that bag were revealed.

  He looked at her in sudden hatred and the lie sprang easily to his lips. “It won’t do, Cheryl,” he said. “Bert Luscious spoke before he died. He said he’d stood in for you on the night of the murder.” And with the inspiration of the desperate, Hamish added, “and you promised him that scooter of yours if he did it.”

  She backed away from him, a slight figure in black leather, her long hair whipped this way and that by the wind. “You’ll never get me in prison,” she said viciously. “Not for that bastard. I told Sean I wus pregnant and he said, “Here’s money. Get rid of it.” I kep’ the money and got it done on the National Health. Bastard.”

  “So you killed him,” said Hamish.

  “I didnae mean tae,” she said, sounding suddenly weary. “I came back to see him. Johnny and the others said they would keep quiet. Sean loved me once. I drove the scooter from Strathbane and left it up on the moors and crept down into the village. There were some men at the bus and I waited, lying in the grass until they went away. Then I went in. Sean had got the sledgehammer because he said there was a gale blowing up and he was going tae put ropes ower the bus. I picked up the sledge. “Going to help me?” he said with that laugh, the way he had laughed when he told me to get rid of the baby. Oh, God, he’d said he loved me and would always look after me.” Her voice broke on a sob. “So I smashed him and smashed him until there was nothing left that would attract a woman again.”

  “What is here,” asked Hamish, “that would incriminate you and not in the bus?”

  “You didnae know,” she marvelled. “You set me up and I fell for it. I hid the money and drugs for him and my fingerprints are all ower the stuff. And you didnae know. You’re a bastard! I thought once you got my fingerprints on the stuff, you’d never leave me be. And I wanted the money and I wanted that video from the bus he was blackmailing those village women with. I was going to make them suffer.”

  Hamish stepped forward. “If you will accompany me to the police station, I—”

  “NO!” she howled, a great scream which rose above the wind.

  She whipped around and set out over the field like a deer. Hamish sprinted after her, caught his foot in a rabbit hole and went sprawling. Cursing, he got to his feet and ran on, deaf to Priscilla’s cries behind him. The moon had risen and he could make out Cheryl’s slight figure as it flew across the fields towards the quarry. As he pounded after her, he suddenly wondered if she knew about the quarry, she had always gone for walks around the village, and stopped, cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted a warning.

  But she went straight on, straight to the edge and straight over.

  Panting, he ran up and knelt down at the edge of the cliff over the quarry. The moon was shining on the spreading ripples on the water.

  He hurtled down the bank at the side to where the waters of the old quarry were on a level with the ground, kicked off his shoes, laid the tape recorder on the shore and waded in. He dived and dived, groping desperately among the tentacles of the slimy weed which covered the bottom. From above the quarry came the sounds of voices.

  He was nearing the end of his strength when his searching hands located a body tied tightly in the embrace of the weed. He surfaced, gulped air and dived once more, this time with his clasp-knife in his hand. He cut the body free and dragged it to the surface.

  A little group of villagers, who had been alerted by Priscilla’s cries for help, stood silently huddled together on the beach. He laid Cheryl down. Dr Brodie came hurrying up as Hamish was trying to revive the girl and pushed him aside. He felt Cheryl’s pulse and then slowly shook his head.

  “She’s dead, Hamish. Nothing can be done for her now.”

  Ian Gunn, the farmer, drove up in his old rusty Land Rover. Cheryl’s body was lifted into the back and the doors slammed on it. “Take it to the surgery and the ambulance from Strathbane will collect it,” said Dr Brodie. Ian nodded, climbed into the driving seat and drove slowly off, but the field was bumpy and he hit a rock and Cheryl’s body jerked up in the back of the Land Rover, and for one horrible moment her white face, lit up by the moonlight, stared back at the watchers through the back windows.

  Hamish gave a shiver. “We should have closed her eyes,” he said wearily. “Why did we forget to close her eyes?”

  §

  Dawn was breaking. Hamish had changed into dry clothes. Detectives Jimmy Anderson and Harry MacNab were sitting in his living room facing him. Priscilla sat beside Hamish on the sofa. In his bedroom, Willie slept on, as he had slept during the whole business. “So, Hamish,” said Anderson, “you’ve got it sewn up nicely. And you’ve got her confession on tape! Good man. Where is it?”

  “It iss where I left it,” said Hamish slowly. “It iss by the old quarry.”

  “No, it’s not,” said Priscilla cheerfully. “I picked it up.” She opened her handbag and drew out the tape recorder.

  Hamish gave her an agonized look. On that tape was Cheryl’s voice not only admitting to the murder but talking about the drugs and money and the video. “Chust leave it be, Priscilla,” he said quickly. “I’ll type it up, Jimmy, and let you have it.”

  “No, let’s hear it now,” said Anderson. “How does it work? I was never any good wi’ gadgets.”

  “Simple,” said Priscilla, seemingly oblivious to Hamish’s warning look. “You just press this button here.”

  Hamish covered his face with his hands as Cheryl’s voice sounded into the room. The tape ran on to the bit about Cheryl confessing to smashing Sean and then there was Hamish’s voice saying she should accompany him to the police station and Cheryl shouting ‘No!’ and then nothing but the sound of Hamish running and panting and then his shouting a warning about the quarry.

  Hamish slowly took his hands down from his face. Priscilla was sitting there calmly, as cool as a lettuce in a tailored green dress. The whole piece about the drugs, the money and the video had miraculously disappeared from the tape.

  “Well, I must say you did a grand job, Sergeant,” said Anderson. Hamish glanced at him. Could it be his imagination, or had Anderson become more pompous in manner and heavier in figure? Was the mantle of the repulsive Blair about to fall on his shoulders? “Of course,” went on Anderson, “I consider it my duty to put in my report that the case could’ve maybe been solved earlier if you had not decided to investigate the Strathbane end on your own.”

  “That’s unfair,” said Priscilla.

  “A good detective is always honest in his report,” said Anderson.

  The telephone rang in the police station and Hamish went through to answer it.

  “When I’m Detective Chief Inspector, MacNab,” said Anderson, “I’ll be keeping Macbeth up to the mark. So he tricked that
girl into a confession, but it’s most irregular.”

  Hamish came in with a smile on his face. “I’ve got the grand news,” he said. “That was Turnbull from Strathbane. He forgot to tell you last night that Blair is recovering. He’ll soon be back on the job.”

  Anderson seemed to dwindle in size to his former thin shape. “Pillock!” he said. “Here, Hamish, hae you any whisky?”

  “A good copper does not drink on duty,” said Hamish primly.

  “Come on, Hamish, I’m off duty as from now.”

  “Particularly,” went on Hamish, “a good copper who plans to put in a bad report about me.”

  “Did I say that?” Anderson looked wounded. “There’ll be nothing but praise.”

  “In that case,” said Hamish, “I seem to mind I have the bottle somewhere.”

  Chapter Ten

  Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,

  Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.

  —John Howard Payne

  Anderson and MacNab had finally left, Cheryl’s body had been taken to Strathbane, and Hamish, supplied with black coffee by Priscilla, had typed up his report.

  He came back into the living room and sat down with a sigh. “What a night! Now, tell me how on earth you managed to doctor that tape.”

  “Easy. The minute I heard Cheryl was dead, I ran back to the castle with it. Someone had found it on the shore and I grabbed it and said I’d give it to you. I simply cut that bit out of the tape and then spliced it together again.”

  “How did you know how to do that?”

  “Oh, some friend showed me how some time ago. You’d better get to bed, Hamish.”

  “Not yet. I’ve got to get that stuff up from under the packing case and I’ve got to erase the video. Are you awfully tired, or can you get the three women here?”

  “Yes, but what about Willie?”

  Willie was up and crashing dishes around in the kitchen to show his displeasure. He had learned of the solving of the murder from Priscilla as soon as he had got up and had come to the conclusion that Hamish had deliberately been keeping him out of the investigation.

  Hamish went through to the kitchen. “Look, Willie,” he said, “most of the investigations took place in Strathbane, where I shouldn’t have been. I couldnae risk getting the both of us in trouble.”

  Willie was polishing dishes in the sink with a little mop. He hunched his shoulders and did not reply.

  “It’s no’ as if you’ve shown any real interest in police work,” said Hamish, exasperated.

  “I would ha’ shown interest enough with any encouragement,” said Willie. “You wanted all the kludos for yourself.”

  “If you mean kudos, I did not. Take a walk, Willie I really need to talk to Priscilla in private. Take the morning off.” His voice grew wheedling. “Mr Ferrari may not know the case is solved and he’d be right happy to hear about it.”

  “I suppose it’s ma duty to tell him,” said Willie reluctantly, “seeing as how the auld man said you were trying to pin the murder on him because he’s a foreigner.”

  “Havers. But run along and tell him and don’t come back until lunchtime.”

  Willie removed his apron. “I’ll come back when I feel like it, sir.”

  When he had gone, Hamish returned to Priscilla and said, “That’s got rid of him. Go and get the women here and I’ll get that bag up from under the packing case.”

  Hamish went up to the field and looked about to make sure no one was watching before he took the rocks out of the packing case and shoved it aside. He took the metal box out of the bag and then replaced it with some of the rocks.

  Mrs Wellington, Jessie Currie and Angela Brodie were sitting in the living room when he returned.

  “Do the police know?” asked Mrs Wellington, her face a muddy colour. “Miss Halburton-Smythe would not tell us anything.”

  “Only we know, us here in this room,” said Hamish. He opened the box. “All the money Sean got from you will not be here, for I’m sure he spent a lot of it, but I’ll leave it to you to divide up what’s here, and Angela, you’d best put those packets of morphine back in the surgery.”

  The three women looked at him without moving.

  “Oh, the video,” said Hamish. “Here it is.” He put a couple of fire-lighters on the fire, lit them and then threw the video on top of them.

  Priscilla slid quietly out of the room.

  Jessie, Angela and Mrs Wellington watched solemnly until the video disintegrated into a black molten mess.

  “Now let’s get to the money,” said Mrs Wellington with a return of her usual bossy manner.

  §

  Willie Lamont was met at the kitchen door by Lucia. She was carrying a sack of rubbish. “I’ll take that,” said Willie. “You should not be carrying heavy loads like that.”

  He walked round to the back of the restaurant and heaved the sack into the large rubbish container.

  “You will make some lady a good husband, Weellie,” teased Lucia.

  He turned and looked at her. The wind of the night before had calmed down to a light breeze. Tendrils of hair were blowing about her pretty face. He heaved a great sigh.

  “Hamish Macbeth has the right of it,” he said sadly. “I’m an auld woman, always fussing ower the housework. What woman would want a man like that?”

  Lucia looked at him, wide-eyed. “Do you mean, if you were married, you would still be doing the housework?”

  “Aye, that’s a fact, Lucia. I’d always be there, fussing and cleaning.”

  Her eyes began to glow. She thought back on her young life in the village in Italy with her seven little brothers and sisters, a life of perpetual cleaning and drudgery. She raised her red hands and looked at them, turning them this way and that, and then she put them gently on Willie’s shoulders.

  “You have never tried to kiss me, Weellie.”

  He looked at her in surprise and then his eyes fell to that deliriously pouting mouth. He had dreamt of kissing Lucia, but always in some romantic setting, up on the heathery moors or out on a boat in the loch, but never had he imagined it as he was doing now, kissing her while the seagulls swooped and dived about the restaurant rubbish. He had never experienced anything like it. When he at last freed his mouth, he was trembling and tears were running down his cheeks.

  “Don’t make fun o’ me,” he said hoarsely.

  “I’ll never make fun of you,” said Lucia, kissing the end of his pointed nose. “Not even after we’re married.”

  “Married! You’d marry me? Oh, my heavens!”

  “But you’d better go and see Mr Ferrari and get his permission. Will we live in the police station?”

  “Will we, hell!” cried Willie. “I’ve got a tidy bit put by and we’ll get a nice house all to ourselves.”

  They went in to see Mr Ferrari, who listened to them impassively and then said, “Lucia, there are vegetables to prepare in the kitchen.”

  Then he sat down at a restaurant table and waved a hand to indicate that Willie should sit opposite.

  “Lucia is a good Catholic,” began Mr Ferrari.

  “I’m a Roman Catholic myself,” said Willie.

  “But I haven’t seen you at mass.”

  “A lapsed Catholic, but I can take it up agin,” said Willie eagerly.

  “And will you be able to support her on a policeman’s pay?”

  “Aye, I can that. I’ve got a good bit in the bank.”

  “How much?”

  “About fifty thousand pounds.”

  “What! How did you get that?”

  “I won one o’ thae competitions in the newspapers.”

  Mr Ferrari leaned back in his chair. “I hear the murder has been solved by Hamish.”

  “Aye,” said Willie bitterly, “and he did his best tae keep me out of it. Wanted all the glory for hisself.”

  “Do you like police work?”

  Willie looked puzzled. “I never really thought about it, to tell you th
e truth. Everyone says it’s a good job and you get respect.”

  “But not from Hamish Macbeth. Would you expect Lucia to work once she was married?”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Willie.

  The lizard eyes looked at him with calculation. “You would be a boon to this restaurant of mine, Willie. Girls like Lucia I can get, but I am old and need someone to manage the place. Luigi and Giovanni would not mind. They are no good with orders and bookkeeping and know it. What would you say if I asked you to leave your job and come into business with me?”

  Willie saw stretching out before him a life of endless cooking and cleaning and thought he might faint from excitement.

  “Oh, that would be grand.”

  “Then I suggest you tell that lanky drip of nothing called Hamish Macbeth the good news as soon as possible. He has done better for himself than he deserves.” Mr Ferrari leaned over and picked up a copy of the local newspaper. “He is, I see, engaged to Priscilla Halburton-Smythe.”

  “Oh, aye,” said Willie, “I knew that was on the cards.”

  §

  Priscilla had arrived back at the police station with bottles of champagne which she had bought at Patel’s. “I thought we would all celebrate the end of the nightmare,” she said, popping a cork. “Hamish, are you sure you didn’t let slip about any of this to anyone other than us?”

  “Of course not. Why?”

  “Mr Patel kept shaking my hand and saying, “Congratulations.””

  “He probably knows you were there with me when we caught Cheryl,” said Hamish.

  “That must be it,” said Priscilla doubtfully.

  Nessie Currie erupted into the room and glared at her sister. “So this is where ye are!” she cried. “And drinking champagne like the veriest whore. Shame on ye. Are ye not in enough trouble as it is? Are ye…?”

  Jessie smiled mistily at her sister over the rim of her champagne glass as Mrs Wellington interrupted Nessie’s tirade with a booming cry of “Hamish has burnt the video and you’ve got most of your money back.”

  Nessie sank down slowly into a chair and heard the whole story. “Oh, my,” she said weakly, “and here’s me ranting and raving. And of course there’s every reason why we should be drinking champagne on this happy day, Miss Halburton-Smythe. Yes, I’ll hae a glass and drink to your health.”