M. C. Beaton

by Death of a Poison Pen

  They fell silent when they saw him. He asked them all if they could think of anything, any small thing, that might help to solve the murders. Startled faces looked at him. Shocked voices exclaimed that they had heard Freda Mather was a murderess. Hamish’s news that Freda had nothing to do with the murders sent them all scurrying off.

  “Are you sure Miss Beattie never said anything to you about why she left Perth?” Hamish asked Mrs. Harris.

  “Just that she had been unhappy at home and that her parents were awfy strict. Maybe you should try Billy again. He’s still out on his rounds but he should be back any minute. He starts around six in the morning with his deliveries. He drives his van in round the back.”

  Hamish left and went up a lane at the side of the post office and waited patiently in the yard at the rear.

  After a ten-minute wait, the post office van came into the yard. Billy climbed out and greeted Hamish with, “I shouldn’t feel happy about that wee lassie’s death, but to tell the truth, it’s a weight off my mind. I thought that bastard Blair would never give up suspecting me.”

  “I’m afraid whatever policeman has been gossiping around Braikie is wrong, Billy. Freda took her own life and I’m willing to bet anything she had nothing at all to do with the murders.”

  Billy sat down suddenly on an upturned crate. “Will this all never end, Hamish? It’s a misery at home with herself nagging me from morn till night. Now Amy’s gone, life looks awfy bleak.”

  Hamish pulled up another crate and sat down next to the postman. “Are you sure, Billy, she never gave you a hint of why she left Perth?”

  “Well, she would talk a lot about how strict her parents were. Things like that.”

  “What about old boyfriends?”

  “No, never.”

  “Was she frightened of anyone?”

  “She was frightened of the poison-pen writer.”

  “Why frightened, Billy? People were angry and upset, but frightened?”

  “Our affair meant a lot to her, as it did to me. She said, ‘If she takes this away from me, there’ll be nothing left.’”

  “Wait a bit. When she was talking about the poison-pen writer, she said ‘she’?”

  “I never gave it much thought. I mean, we all thought it must be some woman. I mean, it’s hardly the thing a man would do.”

  “But there was a case recently of a man in England who was exposed as a poison-pen writer and the story was in the Scottish papers.”

  “I don’t remember that.”

  “Billy, I want you to think and think hard. Go over all the conversations you had, and if you can remember the slightest thing, let me know.”

  “But what would that have to do with the death of Miss McAndrew?”

  “Some way they’re tied together.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Chapter Nine

  Man is neither angel nor beast; and the misfortune is that he who would act the angel acts the beast.

  —Blaise Pascal

  At the end of a long day, Hamish returned to his police station. He checked on his sheep and locked his hens up for the night. There was a fox roaming around and Hamish knew if he saw it, he would take his shotgun and blast the animal to kingdom come. He was always amazed at the bleeding hearts of townspeople who would step on a cockroach but went all sentimental over Mr. Foxy. Had they ever been at the receiving end of the cruelty of a fox, who would kill lambs and hens and leave them bleeding, not killing for food but for the sheer hell of it, perhaps it would have changed their minds—although he doubted it. There existed in the British Isles a large body of people who neither knew much about nor understood wild animals, the sort of people who would shake their heads and say, “Animals are better than people any day,” by which they meant that they demanded unconditional love from dogs and cats but found humans too difficult.

  He had been turned off animal documentaries on television because they always gave animals pet names, saying, “Here comes Betty,” and on the screen limps an antelope, say, which has been rejected by the herd, and ten to one it is going to be eaten before the end by some other creature that Hamish cynically thought the film makers let out of a cage to speed up the process. Then there is little Jimmy, the baby turtle, just born and struggling towards the ocean, and Hamish always knew that little Jimmy was not going to make it. Some marauding seagull would get him. So in all, he found an animal documentary as much fun as a snuff movie.

  He went indoors and made himself some supper and was emotionally blackmailed into sharing it with Lugs, who whined and rattled his bowl, although he was sure Angela had fed the dog earlier.

  He then went through to the office and switched on the computer and began to go through his reports. Archie had said he had seen someone possibly aged seventeen lurking near the post office. But he had not seen the person’s face and seventeen would seem old to Archie, so it could have been anyone.

  There was a knock at the kitchen door and he heard Elspeth’s voice calling out, “Hamish, are you there?”

  “I’m in the office,” he shouted back, “but I’m busy.”

  Undeterred, Elspeth strolled into the office. “Hard at work, copper?”

  “Aye, I’m going over my notes, so I haven’t time to talk.”

  “Why don’t we go over them together? I might see something you’ve missed.”

  “I doubt it,” said Hamish crossly.

  “Come on, Hamish. Even if I make a stupid suggestion, it might spark an intelligent one.”

  “Oh, all right. Sit down and keep quiet.”

  Elspeth pulled up a chair beside him and sat quietly while he scrolled through the notes on the computer screen. He reached the notes he had typed in after his visit to Perth. “I haven’t sent this stuff over,” he said, “because I didn’t get anywhere and I wasn’t even supposed to be there.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Elspeth. “This Graham Simpson said that Peter Stoddart was in Australia. Now, that name rings a bell. Let me think.”

  Hamish waited patiently.

  “I know. Moy Hall, outside Inverness. I was covering the fair there a year ago. I’m sure a chap called Peter Stoddart won the clay pigeon shoot.”

  “Could be lots of Peter Stoddarts.”

  “But we got a photo of him.”

  “Let’s go along to that office of yours and see if you’ve still got the photo in the files.”

  As they walked into the newspaper office, Sam waylaid Elspeth, saying, “Don’t you think I should give Pat another chance? He did a good story on the bullying.”

  “I haven’t had time to tell you,” said Elspeth, “but that colour piece in the Sunday Bugle was mine. He put his byline on it instead of mine.”

  Sam sighed. “Oh, well, in that case he can leave at the end of the month. What are you doing here, Hamish?”

  “Detecting.”

  “If you come up with anything that would make a story, let me know.”

  Elspeth went to the filing cabinets where the photographs were stored. “We’ve had so many dizzy village girls helping out with the filing, God knows what it’ll be under.”

  She tried under “Moy Hall.” Then under “Clay pigeon shooting.” No success.

  “Can you remember the headline?” asked Hamish.

  “It was something daft. Sam does the headlines. Oh, I remember: FASTEST GUN IN THE NORTH.”

  “Try under ‘F.’”

  “Really, Hamish!”

  “You ought to know how the locals think.”

  “Okay, Sherlock. Here are the F’s. Gosh, you’re right. I’ve got it.”

  Elspeth pulled out a photograph.

  “Let’s take it over to the light,” said Hamish. He fished in his inside pocket and pulled out the photograph of Amy Beattie with the bikers.

  In Elspeth’s photograph, a burly man stood holding up a silver cup. His hair was white. Hamish looked from Elspeth’s photograph to the one in his hand.

  “I swear they’re one and the same pe
rson,” he said. “Can you fish out the article? There would be a caption under the photograph.”

  “We still keep back copies of the paper in bound volumes. You’ll need to help me. They’re through in the storeroom.”

  Hamish walked with her through to a room at the back of the building where the bound volumes of the paper were stored. Elspeth scanned the spines. “It’s that one. Up on the top shelf,” she said.

  Hamish reached up and lifted it down. They carried it to a table. Elspeth opened it and flipped through the August editions of the newspaper until she found the right one. “Here we are! Right on page one.”

  They both bent over the paper, their heads together. The caption under the photograph read: “Winner of the clay pigeon shoot at Moy Hall, Mr. Peter Stoddart of Perth.”

  “Where in Perth?” demanded Hamish.

  “I might have put it in the article,” said Elspeth. “Ah, here it is. Peter Stoddart, plumber, of 58 Herrich Road, Perth.”

  Hamish closed the book, lifted it up, and put it back on the shelf. “I’ve got to get to Perth tomorrow,” he said. “That bank manager said this Stoddart was in Australia. Why would he lie?”

  “You’ll maybe find out he went to Australia and came back again. Go and see him first before you start accusing the bank manager of anything.”

  “I’ve got to get to Perth without Blair knowing anything. If I tell him, he’ll tell me I’m wasting my time and if I’ve got any suspicions, to tell the Perth police. Och. I’ll chust go. With luck he’ll think I’m somewhere around Braikie making enquiries.”

  “But what’s so important about all this, Hamish?”

  “I’ve got to find out what drove Miss Beattie away from her home.”

  “That’s easy. Her parents.”

  “Maybe. I’ve got to try anyway.”

  Hamish set off with Lugs beside him early the next morning. It was a dismal day with a fine drizzle smearing the windscreen. This time, he was not wearing his uniform. He shouldn’t have been wearing it the last time, he thought. He could have been spotted by some Perth policeman. Of course, some Perth policeman could easily spot the Land Rover, but he felt less conspicuous walking around in civilian clothes. He decided to try to find Peter Stoddart and tackle him first.

  Again, outside Perth, he stopped by the road, walked Lugs, and consulted his map of Perth. Then he set off again, hoping that Stoddart worked from home.

  Herrich Road was in a fairly new housing development on the outside of the town. He located Stoddart’s house and went up and knocked at the door, which was answered by a tired, faded-looking woman.

  “I am Police Constable Macbeth,” said Hamish. “Is your man at home?”

  “Aye, come in. What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing to worry about. I just wanted a wee talk with him.”

  She ushered him into what she called the lounge. Hamish sat down on a cream wool-covered sofa and looked around. The room smelled of disuse. How odd, he mused, that in this modern day and age so many houses in Scotland kept a room for “best.” What a waste of living space.

  The door opened and the man from the photograph walked in. “What’s up?” he said. “You lot were round last month to check the guns and the gun cabinet.”

  “Nothing to do with that,” said Hamish soothingly. He took out the photograph he had got from Mrs. Dinwiddie. “Is that you?”

  “Aye, so it is. I loved that bike.”

  “You’ll have read about the murder of Miss Amy Beattie?”

  “I did that. Bad business. But what’s it got to do with me?”

  “I’m trying to find out why Miss Beattie left Perth.”

  “Oh, that’s easy. I remember it fine. It was those parents of hers. They found she’d been sneaking out to meet us and locked her up in her room after they’d burnt her clothes.”

  “Was she your girlfriend?”

  “Not me, laddie. She and Graham were pretty thick. But it didnae last long.”

  “Have you ever been to Australia?”

  Stoddart looked puzzled. “No, why?”

  “Someone said you had.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Oh, just someone. I’ll maybe let you know later. Nothing to worry about. What was your impression of Miss Beattie?”

  “She was a wild one. Up for anything. I ’member when Graham’s folks were away for a week. Graham was on his own so he threw a party. We all got awfy drunk and Amy was dancing on the coffee table. It was a glass one and it broke. Graham was in such a state. He and Amy started shouting at each other and it got a bit nasty, so we all left them to it.”

  “Who were the others?”

  “Some bikers from down south and the local girls they’d picked up.”

  “Thank you,” said Hamish. “I would appreciate it if you did not tell anyone of this visit.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m working undercover,” said Hamish desperately. But his lie appeared to satisfy the plumber.

  As Hamish was driving towards the bank, his radio crackled and he heard a voice hailing him. He cursed and switched it off. His absence had been noted, but he did not want to turn back now.

  “I want that bastard found . . . now!” Blair howled to Jimmy Anderson. “He’s probably still in his bed. He’s not answering his radio. Get over to Lochdubh and see if you can find him.”

  “Why me? Can’t you send one of the policemen?”

  “No, you’re so pally with him, you can go.”

  Cursing Hamish under his breath, Jimmy drove to Lochdubh. He knocked at the kitchen door of the police station and shouted at the windows.

  “It’s no use raising a fuss.” Jimmy swung round. He recognised the minister’s wife, Mrs. Wellington.

  “Where’s he gone?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Mrs. Wellington. “But I was up early and saw him driving out of Lochdubh.”

  No point in asking in which direction, thought Jimmy. There was only one road out of Lochdubh.

  “You’re not the only one looking for him,” said Mrs. Wellington. “Sergeant MacGregor over at Cnothan is in bed with the cold. His wife phoned me. She said there’s been a burglary at the grocer’s and Hamish has got to cover for him.”

  Annoyed as he was with Hamish, Jimmy saw a way of getting his friend off the hook. He thanked Mrs. Wellington and phoned Blair.

  “Macbeth has been dragged off to cover a burglary at Cnothan. MacGregor’s sick.”

  “Oh, all right. But he should have reported to me first.”

  Now, thought Jimmy, all I have to do is to keep phoning Hamish and hope he answers. He’d better get to Cnothan fast before that grocer calls headquarters. Then he thought, Cnothan isn’t far. I could nip over there myself to soothe them down. But, by God, Hamish had better pay me in whisky for this.

  When Hamish presented himself at the bank, the teller who had gone in to see the manager reappeared, looking flustered.

  “I’m afraid Mr. Simpson isn’t in today.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “Where are you going?” she shrieked.

  Hamish went straight to the bank manager’s door and opened it. Graham Simpson leapt to his feet. “You’ve got no right to barge your way in here.”

  “And you have no right to lie to the police. Sit down. I’ve a few questions for you regarding Amy Beattie. You lied to me.”

  “I did not,” blustered the bank manager.

  “You said that Peter Stoddart went to Australia when he’s right here in Perth.”

  “Is he? Someone must have told me he had gone to Australia.”

  “Havers. You had an affair with Amy Beattie, didn’t you?”

  “Oh, well, it isn’t a crime. I had a party one night at my house. We all got a bit drunk and Amy damaged a table. We had a row and then made up. We were both very drunk.”

  Hamish sat down and surveyed him. He suddenly remembered that poison-pen letter that had been found by Miss Beattie’s body, which read: “I have proof t
hat you’re a bastard. Your father never married your mother and I’ll tell everyone.”

  He had never been able to see the point of that letter. Miss Beattie’s parents were married. But what if that letter had been sent to someone else, and that someone else had been so frightened that it had led to murder.

  In a level voice, he asked, “So when did she tell you she was pregnant?”

  “I’m a respectable man,” he began.

  “Forget it. You can stay a respectable man unless you go on blocking my enquiries.”

  Graham Simpson bowed his head. Hamish thought he wasn’t going to say anything, but at last he said in a low voice, “What a mess. She somehow managed to get a note to me three months later. She said she’d been missing her periods. She said her parents would kill her. I thought about it for a week and worried about it. Then I told my parents. They said I had to marry Amy, do the decent thing. I was going to go round there, but her parents arrived at our home and started shouting that Amy had run away and where was she? We couldn’t help them. Another week went by and I plucked up courage to go and call on them. They said they had a letter from Amy saying she never wanted to see either of them again. Her parents said they had struck her name from the family Bible and she was no longer any daughter of theirs. I never heard from Amy again.”

  “Are you telling me the truth this time?”

  “I swear to God. This could ruin me if it gets out.”

  “If you didn’t kill anyone, it’s certainly not going to ruin you. How could an affair with a girl all those years ago ruin you?”

  Hamish left the bank and climbed into the Land Rover. He took out his mobile phone to check for messages. There was a text message from Jimmy Anderson. It read: “Get your arse over to Cnothan fast. There’s been a break-in at the grocer’s.”

  Like Jimmy, Hamish saw a way of covering up his visit to Perth. He switched on the blue light and the siren, no longer caring if the Perth police saw him, and broke the speed limit all the way north to Cnothan.