Authors: M.C. Beaton
‘Sit down, Officer. Wait till I turn the television off. Right. Now, what do you want to know?’
Hamish sat down and looked around the living room as he did so. He found it surprising. He would have expected it to be sparkling clean, but it was messy with discarded magazines and newspapers.
The fireplace was full of ash.
‘I gather that Mrs Gillespie could be a bit of a bully.’
‘Yes, she was, but she got nowhere with me with that sort of behaviour. I kept after her and made sure she did her job properly.’
‘When was she last here?’
‘Five days ago.’
‘Did you guess she might have been blackmailing people?’
‘No, I did not. Of course, she wouldn’t try anything like that with me. I would have gone straight to the police.’
‘Were you surprised to learn she had been murdered?’
‘Yes, I was. I mean, this is Braikie.’
‘There have been murders here in the past.’
‘It was probably some traveller, one of these New Age people.’
‘We don’t get the New Age people up here,’ said Hamish. ‘The locals are liable to chase them off with shotguns.’
‘Well, ever since they built the new motorways, all sorts of weird people come up from the cities.’
‘Did Mrs Gillespie ever talk to you about the other people she cleaned for?’
‘I do not tolerate gossip. Besides, when she was here, I was usually out and about. I do a great deal for the church.’
Hamish persevered but could not get any useful information out of her. As he was rising to leave, he noticed a framed photo on a side table. It was of a very beautiful young girl, standing by
the wall of some seafront, her long black hair blown by the wind. ‘Your daughter?’ he asked.
‘I do not have children. Believe it or not, that was me as a young lassie.’
In the small hallway just before the front door was a hat stand of the old-fashioned kind with a mirror and a ledge in front of the mirror. Hamish noticed that both the mirror and the ledge were
dusty. He estimated they hadn’t been cleaned for some time.
He decided to return to Lochdubh and collect his pets and then go to Strathbane and read the report on the late Mr Fleming’s death. There seemed to be a board meeting going on inside his
head. One voice was wondering whether Mrs Styles was as innocent as she would like to appear, another querying the death of Bernie Fleming, another wondering whether Elspeth was romantically
involved with Luke Teviot, and suddenly another little voice asked whether Mrs Gillespie had left a will.
Hamish collected Lugs and Sonsie and drove quickly to Strathbane. At police headquarters, he sat down and switched on the computer and searched until he found the report of
Bernie Fleming’s death. He read it and reread it but it seemed an open-and-shut case. Accidental death.
He went up to the detectives’ room and found Jimmy Anderson just leaving. ‘I’ve been checking up on Bernie Fleming’s death,’ said Hamish. ‘Nothing there that
I can see. Did Mrs Gillespie make a will?’
‘Yes, I phoned round every solicitor in Braikie until I got the right one. She left everything to her husband. Oh, and one other thing. She left a sealed packet of mementoes to be given to
her friend, Mrs Samson.’
‘He won’t have given it to her,’ said Hamish. ‘I mean, he’ll have to wait for the outcome of the police inquiry.’
‘As a matter of fact, he gave it to her this morning. She called at his office in a cab. He said he didn’t see the harm in it because it wasn’t money. He’s a bit young
and naïve.’
‘We’ve got to get to Mrs Samson fast!’
‘Why?’
‘Don’t you see? Mrs Gillespie might have left her copies of the stuff she was using to blackmail people. We’ve got to get to her as quickly as possible. I’ll drive.
You’ve been drinking already.’
Hamish put on the siren as they raced toward Braikie. ‘You don’t think anything could happen to her this early?’ asked Jimmy, looking nervously back at
Hamish’s wild cat, Sonsie.
‘Even if she’s all right, we need to know what was in that package,’ said Hamish. ‘Oh, damn it. Sheep on the road. Get out and chase them, Jimmy.’
‘Chase them yourself. I’m your superior officer. I don’t chase sheep.’
Hamish stopped the Land Rover, and Jimmy watched, amused, as Hamish, his arms going like a windmill, sent the sheep scurrying off into a nearby field.
Hamish heaved a sigh of relief when he at last gained the shore road leading into Braikie. He screeched through the town, the siren blaring, and up to the villas where Mrs Samson lived.
His heart sank when he turned into her street. Outside her house, it was chaos as the local fire brigade battled with the searing flames that were engulfing the house.
‘Is she in there?’ cried Hamish, leaping down from the Land Rover.
‘Can’t get near the place to find out,’ said a fireman. ‘Stand back.’
Hamish made a run for the front door, but before he could reach it, the glass-paned door exploded and a great sheet of flame burst out, driving him back.
Blair arrived and demanded to know what was going on. Hamish told him that Mrs Samson had collected a package from the solicitor that morning.
‘So,’ explained Hamish, ‘someone knew about that package, and someone must have been frightened that it contained blackmailing stuff. If she made one phone call, we can trace
it.’
Out of the corner of his eye, Blair saw Shona arriving and said quickly, ‘You’d better get back round all the suspects again and find out where they were.’
Hamish took one last look at the blazing house before he turned away. Old Mrs Samson could not possibly be alive in that inferno, and whatever papers she had received from the solicitor would
have gone up in flames with her.
Hamish decided to begin at the beginning and go back and see Mrs Barret-Wilkinson. He was driving through Braikie’s main street when at first he thought he saw a ghost.
The elderly figure of Mrs Samson was looking in the window of the bakery. He screeched to a halt. Lugs let out a sharp bark of protest. Hamish jumped down from the Land Rover.
‘Mrs Samson,’ he cried. ‘Do you know your house is on fire?’
‘What!’
‘It’s in flames. I’d better take you back there. The firemen think you’re still inside.’
She put her hand to her chest, and he supported her, frightened she would faint. Then he helped her up into the Land Rover. She huddled in the passenger seat, muttering, ‘Oh, my
house.’
‘Was it insured?’ asked Hamish.
‘Aye.’ A little colour began to return to her cheeks. ‘I’ll maybe be able to get myself a nice wee bungalow, everything on the one floor.’
Hamish drove up to the burning villa. Elspeth saw him arrive and whipped out a camera and began to take photographs as Hamish helped the old lady out of the Land Rover.
Blair came hurrying up. ‘Who’s this? I told you to get out there and interview folks.’
‘This is Mrs Samson,’ said Hamish. ‘She was fortunately out shopping when the fire started.’ Hamish turned to the old lady. ‘Mrs Samson, the solicitor gave you a
packet of papers left you by Mrs Gillespie. Do you by any chance have them with you?’
She shook her head. ‘I never even opened the packet. Mrs Gillespie told that solicitor it was just old mementoes – photos and letters. I thought I’d give them to her
stepdaughter, Heather.’
‘And did you?’
‘I hadn’t the time. I left them on the table in the hall.’
Hamish looked gloomily at the blazing house.
‘You!’ snapped Blair. ‘Stop standing there gawking like a loon. Get to work. We’ll look after Mrs Samson.’
Behind Blair’s back, Jimmy mimed drinking motions which Hamish interpreted to mean that he would be over at Lochdubh at the end of the day.
Most of the time, Hamish was used to the winds of Sutherland. But as he got out of the Land Rover in front of Mrs Barret-Wilkinson’s house, he felt the increasing
strength of a gale and sighed. Calm days were a brief respite from the yelling and screech of the Sutherland winds, and this one was already beginning to howl like a banshee.
He clutched at his cap as he rang the bell. He waited. No reply.
He retreated and drove down to Mrs Beattie’s shop. ‘Have you seen Mrs Barret-Wilkinson this morning?’ he asked.
‘No, it’s been right quiet. Awful that, about Mrs Samson’s house.’
‘How did you hear? Do you know Mrs Samson?’
‘Never heard of her, but my niece in Braikie called me a minute ago. Burnt to a crisp, the old lady was,’ added Mrs Beattie with gloomy relish.
‘She’s fine. She was out when the fire started,’ said Hamish.
‘There’s a mercy. I see you looking at the sausage rolls. I just made them this morning.’
‘I’ll take six,’ said Hamish.
Outside, he let the dog and cat out for a run and then fed them two sausage rolls each. He put them back in the Land Rover, climbed in himself, and settled down to have a lunch of sausage rolls
and coffee. He had filled up a thermos flask before he left that morning. Rain smeared the windscreen. Outside, the waves were rising – sea loch waves – angrily racing in rapidly one
after the other, while out in the Atlantic, the gigantic ones pounded the cliffs.
He drove back to Mrs Barret-Wilkinson’s house and waited. He was just about to give up when she arrived in a four-wheel-drive vehicle. She looked startled to see him and then angry.
‘I have nothing more to say to you,’ she shouted against the wind.
‘I have something to say to you,’ said Hamish. ‘We’d better go indoors.’
She reluctantly led the way
‘Now, what is it?’ she demanded, one hand on the mantelpiece. She was wearing a fishing hat and a waxed coat – suitable clothes, and yet they looked somehow odd on her.
‘Mrs Samson’s house has been burnt down.’
‘Who is Mrs Samson?’
‘A friend of the murdered Mrs Gillespie. I am asking everyone she cleaned for where they were this morning.’
‘I consider it an impertinence. Oh, very well, I was over in Strathbane, shopping.’
‘Where?’
‘Here and there.’
‘Did you buy anything? Have you any receipts?’
‘No, you tiresome man. I window-shopped. I did not see anything I liked.’
‘Did anyone see you? Did you meet anyone you know?’
‘No, no, and
no
! Now, leave me alone.’
Hamish turned in the doorway. ‘The one good thing about it is that Mrs Samson is alive.’
The wind gave a sudden eldritch scream. Had she turned pale? It was hard to tell in the gloom of the room.
‘Is she in the hospital?’
‘No, she was out shopping when her house went up.’
‘That’s good.’ As Hamish left, he turned once and saw her sinking down into a chair, her hat and coat still on.
Hamish decided he would need to visit that solicitor before interviewing anyone else. Someone knew very quickly that a package had been given to Mrs Samson. He phoned Jimmy on
his mobile and got the name and address of the solicitor.
He did a detour to Lochdubh and left his animals in the police station.
He negotiated the shore road into Braikie without any trouble because it was low tide.
The solicitor, James Bennet, had an office above a men’s outfitters in the main street.
Hamish climbed the stone stairs, opened a frosted-panelled glass door and went inside. A small girl was typing busily at a computer.
‘You’re to go right in,’ she said without looking up.
Hamish walked into the inner office. James Bennet looked up in surprise. ‘I’m expecting a Mrs Withers. Didn’t Eileen tell you?’
‘If you mean the wee lassie outside, she didn’t even look up,’ said Hamish. ‘But I’ve a few questions to ask you. If Mrs Gillespie left a package in her will for
Mrs Samson, why did you let her have it before this murder case is solved?’
Mr Bennet was a fairly young man with what Hamish’s mother would call ‘a nice wide-open face’. He was wearing a well-tailored Harris tweed suit. His black hair was neatly
barbered, and he was wearing spectacles. Hamish wondered if the lenses were plain glass to give the young man an air of authority, because he could spot no magnification.
James Bennet sighed. ‘I did not give away anything mentioned in the will. I already told the police this. The morning she was found murdered, Mrs Gillespie called and said she wanted me to
give the package to Mrs Samson. I told her to give it to the woman herself, but she said time was running out and she was rushed. I phoned Mrs Samson and asked her whether I should put it in the
post, but she said she would come round and collect it. She arrived the morning of the fire in a taxi, which she kept waiting, picked up the package, and went off again.’
Hamish sat down slowly in the visitor’s chair. ‘It seems to me,’ he said, ‘as if Mrs Gillespie thought her life might be in danger.’
‘Och, she was a weird woman, always hinting at things, the sort of “if you knew what I know” sort of thing without ever saying anything specific.’
Hamish suddenly struck his forehead. The young solicitor looked at him in surprise.
‘There wasnae a scrap of paper in her house,’ said Hamish, his accent thickening as it always did when he was angry or excited. ‘I mean, bank books, house deeds, bills, things
like that. Do you have them?’
James looked around his cluttered office. ‘Oh, yes, they’re all here somewhere.’
I’m losing my touch, thought Hamish. But he said angrily, ‘Why didn’t you inform the police?’
‘They didn’t ask me.’
‘I’ll need to take them with me.’
‘Have you a warrant?’
‘Don’t be daft, laddie, and waste my time. Hand them over.’
‘I’ll need a receipt.’
‘Of course, you’ll get a receipt.’
‘Eileen!’ called James.
His secretary came in. Her hair was gelled into spikes, and she wore a low-cut blouse exposing an area of freckled bosom. Although she was young, her face was already set in a sullen look. Her
make-up was as thick as a papier-mâché carnival mask.
‘Get the box with Mrs Gillespie’s papers.’
‘Okey-dokey.’
Hamish waited anxiously. The wind rattled the window-panes, and a smouldering coal fire in an old Victorian fireplace suddenly burst into flame.