by M C Beaton
She turned and sprinted for police headquarters. As she arrived, panting and breathless, Superintendent Peter Daviot was just coming down the stairs. Now Mary should have reported to the desk sergeant who would have taken the matter higher, but she was too desperate to get Hamish into trouble to bother about the niceties of police procedure. Daviot had been looking for Blair without success. He had Hamish’s report in his briefcase. He had phoned the forensic department to learn they had not started to examine the car because Blair had told them the matter was not urgent.
He listened in amazement to Mary’s story. One of his officers was howling drunk in one of Strathbane’s sleaziest pubs.
“We’ll use my car,” said Daviot. He was always worried about the police force’s public image. He prayed one of the local reporters would not decide to visit the pub before he got there, the super being rather naive about the press and not knowing that if the papers wrote stories about every roistering copper, there would be little room on their pages for anything else.
He entered the pub just as Hamish was entertaining the company with a rendering of “The Rowan Tree.” Daviot stopped short, listening to the mellow voice soaring in the well-known sentimental ballad. Several of the drunks were crying.
Hamish finished his song to noisy applause and shook his head when they demanded more. Then he saw the super and walked forward with a smile which quickly faded as he saw P.C. Graham’s avid face behind the super’s shoulder.
“Evening, sir,” said Hamish mildly. “Did you get my report?”
“Yes, thank you,” said Daviot. “It should have gone to Blair, you know.”
“I sent him a copy as well,” said Hamish. “How did you know I was here?”
“P. C. Graham was most concerned about your behaviour. She said you were drunk.”
“I wonder why,” said Hamish pleasantly.
“I suppose because you are not in uniform and singing in a low pub.”
“This pub,” said Hamish firmly, “was on my beat. You are very concerned with police image, sir, and I think you will agree that if you get along with the local community, then people are more likely to come to you in time of need.”
“Just so,” said the super. “Just what I always say.”
“You will also agree that it iss verra important to get the facts right before troubling anyone. P.C. Graham should hae asked me a few questions. That way, she would hae found there iss no reason for me to wear uniform when off duty and that I wass not drunk.”
“You mean, she did not speak to you?”
“Not a word.”
Daviot swung round. “Get back to your beat, Officer,” he said sternly to P.C. Graham, “and then come and see me tomorrow.”
“Aye, that’s right,” said one of the locals, peering over the super’s arm. “Tell Typhoid Mary to get the hell oot.”
P.C. Graham threw Hamish a venomous look before she left.
“Come out to the car, Hamish,” said the super. “I can’t talk in here.”
Hamish waved goodbye and followed Daviot out.
In the car, Daviot opened his briefcase and took out Hamish’s report. “You say here that Mrs. Baird had employed a private detective agency to find out about these men?”
“Yes,” replied Hamish, “but I couldnae find any sign of it, nor of that book she said she was writing.”
“And what did Blair say to that?”
“He didnae seem interested,” said Hamish, wondering at the same time why sinking the knife in Blair’s fat back should make him feel so mean.
“Very well. Go back to Lochdubh and leave the matter with me. It is entirely your own fault, Hamish, that you are not in charge of this case. You have avoided promotion deliberately. I am not complaining. Good village policemen are hard to find. On the other hand, I think it is time you took a good look at yourself. You should be thinking of marriage, for example.”
“I always wonder why detectives get married,” said Hamish. “I mean, they’re hardly ever home and the only friends they have outside the force are villains.”
“A good, sensible wife would make allowances. It’s time you settled down. I know my wife got some nonsense into her head that you might marry Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, but I said to her you would be better off with some strong village girl to look after you and iron your shirts.”
“I am a dab hand wi’ the iron myself,” said Hamish defensively.
“Well, you’ll just need to go back to your regular duties and assist the detectives when and where they need you. You are a sore disappointment to me, Macbeth.”
And by that loss of his first name, Hamish knew the super was indeed angry with him.
But Daviot had given him a lot to think about. Blair would be back in Lochdubh on the morrow, throwing his weight around, and making life hell for everyone in general and Hamish Macbeth in particular. But to join the detectives, to live in Strathbane, thought Hamish as he drove slowly along the waterfront at Lochdubh. Would no one ever understand the happiness and contentment of the truly unambitious man?
Priscilla certainly did not. And there, as if his thoughts had conjured her up, standing outside the police station under the blue lamp, was Priscilla.
He jumped down from the car. “When did you get back?”
“Today,” said Priscilla. “Any chance of a cup of tea?”
Hamish led the way into the kitchen. He suddenly remembered that once when she had been in love with a yuppie called John Harrington, Priscilla had been a whole week in Lochdubh before she had thought to call on him.
John Harrington had been arrested for insider trading. Did Priscilla visit him in prison?
“See anything of that Harrington fellow?” he asked after he had made a pot of tea and they were sitting at the kitchen table.
“No, I can’t. He was out on bail and he skipped the country.”
“There was nothing about it in the papers,” said Hamish.
“It was in the English editions. They probably didn’t bother in Scotland.”
The bell went at the front of the station. “Aren’t you going to answer it?” asked Priscilla.
Hamish shook his head. “It’ll be the press. Let them go and bother Alison. So you’re up for the summer. How are things at home?”
“Not very good. Daddy’s blood pressure is dangerously high. Brodie says he’s got to go on a diet, but Daddy says that’s a lot of rubbish. You can’t tell him anything. Something’s worrying him badly. Mummy says he won’t talk about it and just snaps that there’s nothing up.”
“You look tired,” said Hamish, studying her.
The beautiful oval of her face looked as flawless as ever, but her mouth drooped at the corners and her eyes were weary and sad.
Priscilla shrugged. “It wasn’t a very good homecoming, which is why I am here. I felt in need of a friend. What’s all this about Maggie Baird dying? Everyone thinks you a fool for saying it was murder. Tell me about it.”
So Hamish did, ending up with, “Of course, it can’t really be classified as murder since she died of a heart attack, so whenever we find out who rigged the car, he or she will be charged with manslaughter, but everyone knew about her weak heart, so to my mind, it’s murder.”
“And the obvious suspect is Alison.”
“Yes, it seems as if she inherits the lot. Money’s usually the root of all murders, or passion, but the guests seem a weak, mercenary lot. Maggie told them she would give her money to the one she married and that she didn’t expect to live long. Mind you, in that case, why didn’t whoever wait till she changed her will? But I can’t see Alison doing it.”
“Why not?”
“That one would dream about killing Maggie, but never actually do it. Or if by any remote chance she did, she would use poison. It’s more of a man’s murder. Crispin Witherington would know all about car engines. I’ll find out about the others.”
The kitchen door opened and Alison Kerr walked in. “Oh!” she said, looking at Priscilla i
n dismay. Priscilla half rose to leave, saw the look in Hamish’s eye, and sat down again, putting an affectionate hand on Hamish’s arm.
“Hamish!” said Alison, taking a chair on the other side of Hamish and gazing into his eyes. “You have to do something. The press keep badgering me. They ring the bell and shout through the letterbox. What am I to do?”
“You get Mrs. Todd to move into one of the spare bedrooms,” said Hamish wearily, “and you get her to answer the door, and before you do that, you shut the gates to the house and don’t open them unless you want to drive out.”
“But you have to come up and tell these reporters they are trespassing!”
“I cannae do a thing. There are no laws of trespass in Scotland. You’ve got four men in the house. Can’t one of them cope?”
“Peter’s been marvellous. He brought me down here. He’s waiting outside. He knew the press would be coming so he parked his car outside, a little down the main road. So we crept out through the garden when the press weren’t looking.”
“Did ye no’ think of just walking through them and saying ‘No comment’? Obviously not. Get Mrs. Todd. She’ll handle them.”
“But I can’t pay her to stay all night!”
“You phone the solicitors in the morning,” said Hamish patiently, “and make sure you inherit. If you do, you ask them for what money you need. You could even put a down payment on a car.”
“A car! Oh, Hamish, you are clever,” said Alison, throwing her arms around him, all her anger at his previous cruelty forgotten.
“Yes, yes,” said Hamish testily, unwinding her arras from about his neck. “I would appreciate it, Alison, if you would phone me next time you want to come here. As you can see, I am entertaining company.”
Alison blushed. Priscilla gave her a cool look and said, “Your friend must be wondering what’s keeping you.”
“I’m going,” said Alison crossly. “You don’t own Hamish, you know.”
“My, my. Isn’t money the wonderful thing,” said Hamish as Alison went out, slamming the door behind her. “The worm’s beginning to turn.”
“I don’t like that girl one bit,” said Priscilla.
“Och, she’s all right. She’ll soon be married to another car.”
Alison tried to remind herself on the road home that she should be grieving for Maggie, but she could not feel particularly sad. How much had Maggie left? Thousands! And a car! A darling little car, all her very own.
“We’ll look through her papers as soon as we get back,” said Peter with a smile. “I know what you’re thinking about. You want a car of your own.”
“Oh, Peter, you’re sometimes so perceptive, you scare me,” breathed Alison.
Alison had not searched for the will before, feeling it would be just too vulgar and insensitive. But she and Peter went straight to the study as soon as they got in and began to search through the desk. Alison was beginning to despair when Peter found it in the very front of the top drawer where it suddenly seemed to materialise in that irritating way that things do when you want them desperately – as if the household imps had got tired of the game of hide and seek and decided to let you find whatever it was you were looking for.
Alison opened it up. Her own name seemed to leap up at her and then she read on, frowning.
“What is it?” asked Peter. “Hasn’t she left you anything?”
“Yes, but this is a new will. This is a copy. She must have stopped off in Inverness on her road home and made out a new one. Listen! She says that if I die, the money and the proceeds from this house and her place in London are to be divided equally among the four of you, “the only men who ever really loved me,” that’s what she says.”
Peter looked at her thoughtfully. “Then you’d better just hope that one of us isn’t the murderer,” he said.
Alison did what Hamish had suggested. The lawyers said their Mr. Brady was on his road to see her and she could make any arrangements with him. But, yes, they would most certainly advance her any money she wanted.
Mr. Brady arrived and read out the contents of the will to a stunned audience. For Maggie had been worth over a million pounds in investments and property. “No wonder,” said Peter dryly, when the lawyer had left, “that they were so keen to lend you money.”
Mrs. Todd agreed to live in. She demanded three hundred pounds a week. Alison blinked slightly at that but readily agreed to pay her. The terror of the press receded. Mrs. Todd gave them all a piece of her mind and then firmly locked the main gates in their faces.
And while all this was going on, Hamish was dealing with a new superior. Blair had been taken off the case, although detectives MacNab and Anderson had been left on it. This detective chief inspector was called Ian Donati. His parents had come from Italy and settled in the Highlands. He was thin and sallow with clever black eyes and a lilting Highland voice. A Highland Italian, thought Hamish, thank God, having all the average Scotsman’s respect for Italians.
Donati produced Hamish’s report and questioned him closely. “As you seem to have a record for solving murders, I think it would be better if you accompanied us to Baird’s house and sit in while we interview everyone all over again,” said Donati. “Forensic men were working all night on that car to come up with the same results as your local mechanic.” His manner was polite and impersonal.
Before they went into the bungalow, Anderson drew Hamish aside. “Why did ye land poor auld Blair in the shit?” he asked. “Blair’s a good steady worker.”
“I thought you didnae like the auld scunner!” exclaimed Hamish.
“I’d rather hae him than Donati.”
Hamish grinned. “Your common nose has been put out o’ joint. Donati’s too classy for ye. No swearin’, no slacking off, no boozing.”
“Well, he shouldnae give himself airs. His folks own a restaurant in Strathbane.”
“And your dad spent most of his life on the dole. You’re an awfy snob, Anderson. That man’s a breath o’ fresh air to me. Come on.”
The guests and Alison and Mrs. Todd did not like Donati. They found his quiet, dry manner and probing questions terrifying. Hamish watched and listened. Without quite saying it, Donati seemed to lay the cold facts out before the four guests: all were reported to be in need of money and were prepared to marry a woman that none of them had professed to like anymore. They all secretly blamed Alison for having dished the dirt on them to the police, not knowing it was Mrs. Todd who had told the police in no uncertain terms that she had overheard each of the men saying that Maggie had changed a lot and all for the worse.
The four men then gave their fingerprints and signed their statements and were told they could leave any time they wanted provided they let the police know where they could be contacted. But all said they had taken leave from work and would stay. It was obvious to Hamish that Alison was to be the new target for their affections and perhaps Peter Jenkins had been clever at getting in first.
But Peter Jenkins thought that Alison might be capable of falling for, say, the pop singer and shrewdly thought that Alison clung to him because, until the reading of the will, he had been the only one to be particularly nice to her.
He was therefore relieved when Alison the next day asked him shyly if he would drive her down to the solicitors so that she could pick up a cheque from them. He readily agreed. Alison, desperate to buy a new car right away, did not even want to wait until the cheque cleared so Peter said he would put a down payment on a car for her and she could pay him as soon as she got the money. Alison spent a happy afternoon at a showroom out on Inverness’s industrial estate looking at and trying out cars. To Peter’s surprise, she fell in love with a bright red mini, the cheapest new car in the showroom. Made bold by Alison’s timidity, he got the salesman to phone the solicitors and found to his relief that the showroom would accept Alison’s cheque right away and cash it as soon as the lawyer’s cheque cleared, for Peter knew he had very little left in his personal account.
Tha
t evening, it was Alison who was the centre of attention and she blossomed under it, convincing herself that her personal charms were the reason for all this sudden adoration.
And while they all fussed over Alison and paid her compliments, Donati was sitting with Hamish Macbeth in the Lochdubh police station. An efficient man, he had phoned Scotland Yard when he had first been put on the case, directly after Daviot returned from the pub after speaking to Hamish. He had asked Scotland Yard to phone all the private detective agencies in London. Scotland Yard had quickly found the right one and had faxed the agency’s report to Strathbane.
“And here it is,” said Donati, still with that precise, dry manner. “I’ll run through it for you. Crispin Witherington is in bad trouble. Financially, I mean. He’s been in trouble in the past. He was at the centre of an investigation into stolen cars a good time ago. He was making money hand over fist. Although nothing could be proved against him, it’s my guess he went straight and, not being a good car salesman or a good manager, proceeded to lose money.
“James Frame is another steady character. From research into Maggie Baird’s background, it seems she often moved about that half-world of the west end of London frequented by rich criminals, drinking with the Kray brothers, that sort of thing. Oh, he knows cars. He worked, get this, at one time for Witherington. Nothing ever pinned on him. That gambling club’s been raided several times for drugs but nothing ever found.
“Peter Jenkins. Good family. Educated Westminster and Christchurch, Oxford. Not a good degree. Fourth in history. Did what ex-public school boys with iffy degrees in history do – joined an advertising agency as a copy writer. Worked up to the management side. Got inheritance. Started his own firm. Did well for a bit, mainly owing to brilliant partner who recently pulled out and went into separate business and took some of the best accounts with him. Needs money or firm will fold. No money left in the family. Only child, parents dead, rich uncle was the last hope.