Death of a Gentle Lady (12 page)

“I won’t be there,” said Priscilla. “I’m going off for a picnic with Hamish and I’m going to put the whole thing out of my mind until this evening.”

“You can’t do that. I am the producer and I am ordering you to be at the hall!”

Priscilla stood up. She wavered. Then Harold put an arm around her waist and said softly. “I know you fancy me, darling, and that’s what’s making you nervous. Once this play’s over, we’ll have fun.”

“I’ve never encouraged you,” said Priscilla.

“Oh, yes you have. I saw you trying to make me jealous by flirting with that Irishman.”

“Get this straight,” said Priscilla, her eyes like chips of ice. “I’ve never fancied you, nor will I ever.”

“You’re nothing but a prick tease.”

“And you’re nothing but a prick,” said Priscilla. “Get yourself another Lady Macbeth.”

She headed for the door. He caught her arm and twisted her round, his eyes blazing. “You can’t do this to me!”

Mr. Johnson appeared flanked by the chef, Clarry, who was wielding a meat cleaver.

“Miss Halburton-Smythe,” said Mr. Johnson, “I believe Hamish is waiting for you.”

Harold released her, his face flaming with rage.

“What’s up?” asked Hamish as he climbed into the passenger seat of Priscilla’s car after lifting Sonsie and Lugs into the back.

“I’m not going to be playing Lady Macbeth,” said Priscilla. “Harold
ordered
me to stay for the rehearsal today.”

“You can see his point,” said Hamish awkwardly. “Or was there anything else?”

“Yes, he got frisky.”

“Oh, dear. Then who is going to play Lady Macbeth?”

“Angela has been understudying.”

“Poor Angela.”

“Hamish, I have just endured a rather nasty scene. Don’t mention that damn play again!”

The day was blustery but fine as Priscilla negotiated the zigzag road down to Grianach.

“It’s beautiful, Hamish. That’s a good natural harbour. Good protection. The waves out there look enormous.”

Priscilla parked by the harbour. Hamish let the dog and cat out and stood breathing in the clean, salty air. James Fringley came striding forward to meet them.

“I thought I told you never to come here again,” he said.

“This is Miss Priscilla Halburton-Smythe,” said Hamish. “Priscilla, Mr. James Fringley, who handles the sales of the stuff. Priscilla here is anxious to give you an order for goods for her hotel gift shop.”

James smiled. “If you just walk up to the house with me, Miss Halburton-Smythe, I can show you a range of goods.”

“You wait here, Hamish,” said Priscilla.

Hamish sat down on a bollard and looked out over the glittering water. The light’s too bright and sharp, he thought. A big storm is coming. While he sat there, a few of the locals appeared, saw him, and sheered away.

Pity, he thought. I could get to love this place almost as much as Lochdubh. How far away it is from the cities, the drugs, and the crime.

He turned his dinner with Anna over in his mind. There was something about the woman that repelled him. It was as if some inner kernel of her was as cold as ice. He had met Russians before, all sorts of warm, jolly people. Still, to have risen to the rank of inspector must mean she had to be very tough indeed.

Hamish suddenly wanted a cigarette. He wanted to sit smoking and staring out to sea. But he had given up some time ago. I would be stupid to start again. Just the one, he thought. He rose and went into the village shop and said to the troll behind the counter, “Ten Bensons, please.”

A flood of angry Gaelic erupted from the man, which Hamish translated to mean that if he didn’t get out of the shop he would be hit on the head with an axe.

He retreated to the harbour. The craving had gone and he gave a sigh of relief. To think he had nearly blown it.

Priscilla came back with a delighted James Fringley. “Business is over, Hamish. I think we should go up into the hills for our picnic.”

As she drove off, Hamish asked, “Where’s the goods?”

“He’s bringing it over tomorrow. That stuff will sell like hotcakes. I’m even going to put an ad in the
Highland Times.
Christmas is coming, and people will be looking for presents.”

They picnicked on a flat rock in a hollow protected from the wind high up on the moors.

Hamish, watching Priscilla as she efficiently laid out the picnic, thought that she was, for him, rather like cigarettes. Just when he thought the craving had gone, back it would come. He longed to take her in his arms but dreaded rejection. He forced himself to chat lightly about this and that until the yearning went away.

When they arrived back at the hotel, Hamish asked, “Will you be watching the performance?”

“No, I’m going off to London. I’ll tell Mr. Johnson about Fringley bringing the stuff for the gift shop.”

“You seem to be able to come and go with that job of yours.”

“I take contracts, Hamish. That’s the blessing about being a computer programmer. I’ll start another contract when I get back.”

Hamish was torn between relief and sadness that she was going. Without Priscilla around, he could really concentrate on the case.

He decided to call on Angela and see if she was ready for her big part. He found her in her kitchen, sitting in front of her computer as usual.

“What’s this?” asked Hamish. “I thought you would be walking up and down, feverishly remembering your lines.”

“I’m not going, Hamish.”

“Why?”

Angela sighed and pushed a lock of hair away from her thin face. “I just don’t want to do it. It’s Harold. Why should I bother to help him out when he was so rude to me?”

“How rude?”

“I went up to the hotel yesterday to talk to him about writing. He said to me loftily that he couldn’t be bothered wasting the time to talk to me. He said if I was having difficulties, I should wait for inspiration. So when he came tearing down here to tell me to play Lady Macbeth, I told him I hadn’t the time because I was waiting for inspiration. I suggested
he
get inspired and find someone else.”

“Unlike you to be so harsh.”

“Hamish, I have met many writers at writers’ conventions and not one has blethered on about inspiration. It’s hard work, and you just sit down and do it. Every writer knows that.”

Hamish scratched his fiery hair. “Angela, don’t you feel you might be letting the rest of the folk in the village down? They’re all so excited about being in a play.”

“Yes, I was struck by guilty conscience, so I phoned him and said if he was absolutely stuck, I would do it. He said harshly he had someone and hung up on me.”

“I wonder who it could be?” marvelled Hamish. “No one else has had time to learn the lines.”

“Maybe he’s got some actress up from London. Anyway, I’m still mad at him.”

“Writing seems to have stiffened your spine,” said Hamish. “The old Angela could be bullied into doing anything for anyone. Even your kitchen’s still clean!”

“Well, you know how it is. I think I am a real writer at last. I sit down at the computer and am overcome by a burning desire to defrost the fridge.”

“Keep at it. I’ll be going to the play tonight. What about you?”

“I can’t now, Hamish. What if it’s a dreadful failure and everyone blames me for letting them down?”

“I’m sure the ambitious Harold will have found someone.”

Chapter Twelve

The glass is falling hour by hour, the glass will fall forever But if you break the bloody glass you won’t hold up the weather.

—Louis MacNeice

The wind had roared away earlier and now mist was creeping up the loch, making the dark evening even darker. Hamish was glad they had a calm night for the performance because he had checked his barometer and the glass was falling.

He walked along to the church hall. He wondered whether the murderer would try to kill him again.

People were streaming out of cottages, and the air was full of excited chatter. I don’t like Harold, thought Hamish, but he’s certainly brought a bit of excitement to the village.

The men had all put on their best suits; some of the women were even wearing their church hats. Hamish was in casual clothes and wondered whether he should go back and change but decided against it.

The seating was on a first-come, first-served basis, and he could only get a seat at the back of the hall.

He studied his programme. Priscilla was still listed as playing Lady Macbeth.

The hall was full. He recognised people from other towns and villages in Sutherland. The play had been well advertised in all the local papers.

The school orchestra were murdering the “Toreador’s March” from
Carmen
. Too ambitious, thought Hamish.

At last, they screeched off into silence and the curtains parted. The Currie sisters and Mrs. Wellington, barely recognisable in their costumes and make-up as the three witches, began, “When shall we three meet again / In thunder lightning or in rain? Or in rain?”

“That’s our Jessie,” murmured a woman in front of Hamish.

The play proceeded, the lines of Shakespeare sounding odd. Hamish wondered idly whether he had wanted his characters to speak in Scottish accents.

It was amateur, very amateur. Macbeth stumbled over his lines. Matthew, playing Banquo, made a wild gesture and his kilt fell off, revealing a natty pair of boxer shorts decorated with red hearts. The audience cheered. Just when it looked as if the production would degenerate into farce, Lady Macbeth made her entrance.

Hamish sat up straight and peered over the heads of the villagers in front of them. She was tall with long red hair. She began to speak. It was a deep husky voice, mesmerising, her lines spoken with passion. The effect on the audience was electric.

It was only after half an hour that Hamish realised that Lady Macbeth was not being played by a woman but by Harold Jury himself.

No one bothered about the stumbling actors surrounding Harold. He held the audience from beginning to end, and when he walked forward to take his curtain call and whipped off his wig, there were cries of amazement followed by resounding cheers.

Hamish slid out of the hall and returned to the police station. He needed to think. They had been looking for a woman. What if the murderer had been someone dressed up as a woman?

It couldn’t be Harold because he was a well-known author. Surely Harold had been properly checked into. Or had he?

The police, including himself, had not asked where he was on the days of the murders.

He decided to go to Strathbane in the morning and consult Jimmy. But Blair would be there, demanding to know what he was doing.

Was Harold one of those multitalented people? He had acted like a true professional. What size were Harold’s feet? Surely not size seven. He was a tall man. He had been wearing a long gown covering his feet.

Hamish hurried back to the hall. He knew there was to be a buffet supper afterwards, the Italian restaurant having generously offered to contribute it.

The actors were still in costume. Harold had his wig on again and was in the middle of an admiring throng.

Willie Lamont was serving out plates of food. He hailed Hamish. “Wasn’t Harold a real Oliver?”

“
Olivier
,” corrected Hamish automatically.

“Have some chicken and penne,” urged Willie.

“Not now,” said Hamish. Willie looked at Hamish in surprise, wondering what was causing him to turn down a free meal.

If only I could see under Harold’s dress and get a look at his feet, thought Hamish.

He turned back. “Any wine, Willie?”

“Aye, look, bottles of the stuff. Help yourself.”

Hamish poured himself a plastic cup of red wine and headed in Harold’s direction. Harold saw him approach and smiled, his eyes glittering in his stage make-up.

“Here’s our local bobby,” he said.

“I thought you were chust grand,” said Hamish. He stumbled, and his cup of wine shot over the skirt of Harold’s costume.

“You clumsy oaf!” yelled Harold.

“Really, Hamish,” complained Mrs. Wellington. She took a paper napkin and began to dab at Harold’s long velvet skirt.

“It’s all right,” said Harold, rapidly recovering from his outburst. “Red skirt, red wine, no damage done.”

But that skirt still remained over his shoes.

“I’m right sorry,” said Hamish. He pulled his notebook out of his pocket. “I’d like it fine if you could give me an autograph.”

“Certainly,” said Harold.

Hamish dropped his notebook. He crouched down and stumbled forward, knocking Harold over.

People rushed to help Harold to his feet.

“I’d better go,” babbled Hamish. “I’m a menace.”

“That you are,” boomed Mrs. Wellington.

Hamish fled the hall. His heart was beating hard. When Harold had tumbled over, it was revealed he was wearing a pair of women’s shoes with low heels—and Hamish was willing to bet they were size seven. One thing was for sure: Harold had small feet.

He went back to the police station, got into the Land Rover, and headed off through the night to Strathbane. Jimmy lived in a flat near the police headquarters.

Hamish mounted the stairs and rang the bell. Jimmy answered the door, his eyes bloodshot and a strong smell of whisky emanating from him.

“Hamish! What’s up?”

“Let me in, Jimmy, and I’ll tell you.”

Jimmy listened carefully and then said, “I’ll put some coffee on. I need a clear head.”

He went off to the kitchen and came back with two mugs of black coffee.

“Now, let me get this straight,” he said. “You see Harold Jury acting as Lady Macbeth. He’s got small feet. So you immediately decide that he might be a murderer. He’s a fairly well-known author, Hamish.”

“Not that well known. He was only nominated for the Booker.”

“What are you getting at? That he might not be Harold Jury? He was interviewed by Strathbane Television, and no one popped up to say that man is an impostor.”

“Humour me, Jimmy. I daren’t go down to London again. Phone the Met in the morning without Blair hearing you and get someone to go round to his flat and check with the neighbours for a description.”

“No need for that. There’s probably a photograph of him on the Internet.”

Jimmy switched on the computer. Hamish waited anxiously. “Here we are. It’s Harold all right.”

“Let me see.”

“There he is at the awards ceremony.”

“It’s hard to tell from that photo,” said Hamish. “Looks the same. Hey, look at his feet. Can you enlarge that?”

“Sure.”

“See!” said Hamish, practically quivering with excitement. “Normal large feet.”

“You mean our Harold may have stolen the real Harold’s identity?”

“Could be.”

“Look, Hamish, I’ll go to the hotel in the morning and take his fingerprints. If he is who he says he is, we’ll look right fools. Also, I’ll need a right good excuse to ask for his fingerprints. If he refuses and phones Strathbane, and I have to explain your mad idea, I’ll get a rocket for going along with it.”

“I tell you what, I have the fingerprint kit. I’ll get the manager to tell me when he’s out of his room. I’ll lift a print and bring it over to you.”

“Don’t get caught, whatever you do. I’m sobering up and the soberer I get, the dafter your idea seems!”

Hamish barely slept that night. He headed to the hotel first thing in the morning and went into the manager’s office, carrying his fingerprint kit in a bag.

“You’re up early,” said Mr. Johnson.

“I’ve a favour to ask. I want to get into Harold Jury’s room while he’s out.”

“He’s out all right. He left in the middle of the night. Asked the night porter for his bill and cleared off.”

“Get me to that room before the maids clean it! And give me a description of the car he was driving and the registration number.”

The hotel room was neat and tidy, and the bed had not been slept in. Hamish took out his fingerprint kit and began to dust the surfaces. He swore under his breath. Everything seemed to have been wiped clean.

Where in a hotel room would even a careful villain forget to wipe? He went into the bathroom and carefully dusted the handle of the cistern on the toilet with aluminium powder. “Bingo,” he muttered. “One perfect print.”

He carefully peeled it off, rushed out, and headed to Strathbane after calling Jimmy.

A thinner, whiter Blair came lumbering up while Jimmy and Hamish were searching the fingerprint database. “Whit’s up?” he demanded.

Jimmy explained hurriedly. “Havers,” said Blair. “Get back to your village, Macbeth.”

“Anything the matter?” Daviot loomed up behind them.

Jimmy explained again while Blair silently fumed over his superior’s habit of gliding silently into the detectives’ room.

“Got it!” cried Jimmy. “Look at this!”

Up it came on the screen. Real name, Cyril Edmonds. Charged in 1999 with sending a letter bomb to his ex-fiancée. Served eighteen months.

“We’d better get the Met round to Harold Jury’s address to see what happened to him,” said Hamish.

“I set up roadblocks when you phoned, and the trains and airports are being watched,” said Jimmy. “We sent out a description of his car and the registration number. The very fact that he wiped his fingerprints off everything in the room he could think of damns him.”

“You should have reported to me first,” howled Blair.

“There wasn’t time,” said Jimmy. “You were out.”

“I’ll go and search up in the hills,” said Hamish. “If he’s clever, he’ll find a place to hide out until he thinks the hunt is dying down.”

All day long Hamish searched and questioned people in the outlying crofts, but the man he now knew as Cyril had disappeared into thin air.

He had left his pets with Angela before he started his search. She was so shocked when she learned the real identity of “Harold” that she did not protest.

The wind was beginning to rise as he wearily returned to the police station. His barometer had not lied. He knew from experience that a nasty storm was coming. He decided to relax and have a cup of tea before going to pick up Sonsie and Lugs.

He opened the kitchen door, and stiffened.

“Who’s there?” he called.

Cyril Edmonds walked into the kitchen from the living room. He was holding a gun.

“You’re a bastard,” hissed Cyril. “I could have got away with it if it hadn’t been for you.”

“I think you are the one who is the genuine bastard,” said Hamish. “Was Margaret Gentle your mother?”

“Worked that out as well, did you?” sneered Cyril. “Do you know what she did?”

“Why don’t you sit down and tell me?” suggested Hamish.

“You mean why don’t you sit down and talk while you think of a way to disarm me?”

“I’m genuinely curious. You are one verra clever man.”

Cyril’s eyes glittered. “Yes, I am, amn’t I? I planned this revenge for a long time. Do you know what she did, my precious mother? She’d got pregnant by some lowlife that frequented the nightclub where she worked. Abortions were expensive in those days. She worked as long as she could and then stayed with a barmaid from the club down in the East End. The barmaid wanted a baby so as soon as I was born, I was handed over. No adoption papers. The barmaid and her nasty husband who couldn’t have children were to bring me up as their own. Well, right after that, the barmaid became pregnant and had twins. I was forgotten after that. He beat me regularly. When I was thirteen, he let his homosexual brother have the care of me and the abuse started. But I got the brother to pay for my education, I got as much as I could out of him, and then I killed him and dumped his body in the Thames.

“I joined an agency and began to get bit parts in films and television. I hadn’t any formal training but I was damn good.

“All I ever thought of was getting even with her. I read about her marriage. I stalked her. I wanted some identity to adopt to finally track her down and not be suspected. I’m not homosexual, but there is a type of homosexual that is easily gulled. I picked up Harold Jury in a pub. He begged me to move in with him. He had a nice flat and lots of money. He had a private income from a trust, which allowed him to ponce about as a writer. Ideal. I chose him because we looked a good bit alike.”

“Where did Irena come in?”

“I studied the comings and goings at the castle. When Irena went out one day on her own to shop, I followed her and struck up a conversation. She hated Mrs. Gentle, she said. I asked her why she didn’t leave, and she confessed to having a stolen passport. Said she was afraid her old Russian protector would send the boys to hunt her down. We spent a lot of time together. She agreed to help me. I said I would, in return, help her get a visa. She was flirting with Mark Gentle and that worried me a bit. Then she phones me one day and says she’s going to marry you. I was terrified she would betray me.

“I told her to meet me down in the cellar and we’d have a celebration drink before she went off to be married. She’d given me a key and she’d found out where the back stairs were.

“She came down to the cellar, saying, ‘Hurry up. I’ve got to change for my wedding.’”

The wind howled and shrieked around the police station.

“I’d got a bottle of sherry and two glasses laid out. She was in such a hurry that she gulped down a glass of sherry without even noticing that I wasn’t drinking. I’d drugged the sherry. She turned to leave and collapsed on the floor. I hit her on the head with a hammer. Then I carried the body over and shoved it in that trunk and piled the others on top of it.”