Death of a Maid (5 page)

‘Bugger off, Arnold Schwarzenegger,’ she screamed.

Hamish stood outside her gate and thought hard. He could not get over the fact that there had been no incriminating papers or letters in Mrs Gillespie’s home. If she had
been blackmailing her clients, surely she would have kept letters or something. But where?

He looked thoughtfully at the villa next door to the right. A lace curtain twitched.

He walked up to the door of the villa. There was no bell. He rapped with the old-fashioned brass ring set into the oak panels and waited. Shuffling feet approached the door on the other side,
and then it was swung open.

‘Mrs Samson?’ asked Hamish.

‘Aye, come ben. You’re here about the murder. Wipe your feet.’

Mrs Flora Samson was old and stooped. Pink scalp shone through her wisps of grey hair. Her elderly face was set in wrinkles of discontent. She wore very thick glasses, which magnified her eyes
so that they looked like the eyes of an old witch asking the children if they would like some gingerbread.

Her living room was crammed with photos in frames. They seemed to be everywhere. The furniture was Victorian and draped with yellowing lace antimacassars. A stuffed owl on a bamboo table stared
out of its glass case with baleful eyes. In another glass case mounted on the wall, a stuffed salmon swam endlessly against a badly painted backdrop of reeds and river. A coal fire was smouldering
in the fireplace, occasionally sending out puffs of grey smoke. The room smelled strongly of lavender air freshener, which did not quite cover up the underlying smell of urine and unwashed
armpits.

‘You’ve come about the murder. Sit down,’ said Mrs Samson.

‘How did you hear about it?’

‘It was on the telly a quarter of an hour ago. The telly’s in the kitchen. I don’t often watch it, mind, but I keep it on for the sound.’ The faint noises of laughter and
cheering filtered through from the kitchen. A game show, guessed Hamish.

‘I have been interviewing Mrs Fleming,’ said Hamish. ‘I have to establish alibis for this morning for everyone Mrs Gillespie cleaned for. Did you see Mrs Fleming go out this
morning?’

‘Aye, she took her lads to school, then herself came back. Poke the fire, laddie. It’s right cold in here.’

Hamish picked up a brass poker by the hearth and poked the fire and then backed off as smoke poured up into his face.

‘Och,’ he said crossly, ‘you need your chimney swept.’

‘Sit down and mind your own business.’

‘Did she go out again?’ asked Hamish.

Mrs Samson’s face seemed to swim through the layers of smoke. ‘She might ha’ done. I had to go to the you know what. It’s up the stairs and man, at my age, it’s
like climbing Everest. It’s the arthuritis. Takes me ages.’

‘We feel that Mrs Gillespie might have been a blackmailer,’ said Hamish.

Mrs Samson’s eyes gleamed with malice. A spurt of flame rose from the smoking fire and shone red on the thick lenses of her glasses. ‘So she might have killed him, after
all.’

‘Who?’

‘Her man, Bernie Fleming. Why would a fit man like that fall down the stairs? He wasn’t fond of a dram, either.’

Hamish was beginning to hate her, but gossip was invaluable.

‘Were they a happy couple?’

‘Not a bit of it. I could hear them fighting.’

‘What? From a villa next door?’

‘In their garden in the summer when I was taking the air, I heard them. She screamed that she was sick of cleaning and polishing and that he never took her anywhere. Soon as he was dead,
she sold all his stuff, all the furniture, and got all modern put in.’

‘I noticed the stairs,’ said Hamish. ‘They’re steep and of polished wood. A man could easily slip.’

Mrs Samson snorted. ‘In his day they were thick carpet, top to bottom.’

‘How do you know? Had you been in their house?’

‘No, but Mrs Gillespie told me.’

‘Did she now? Friendly with her, were you?’

‘Herself would drop in now and then for a wee bittie o’ a chat. Not many’ll spend time with an auld woman.’

‘Did she say anything to lead you to believe that Mrs Fleming might have murdered her husband?’

‘No, but I have my suspicions.’

‘Did she talk about her other clients?’ Hamish consulted his list. ‘Professor Sander, Mrs Styles, Mrs Wellington and Mrs Barret-Wilkinson?’

‘Och, just a few wee remarks, like Mrs Wellington was a slave-driver and Mrs Styles wasn’t as saintly as she liked to make out. Never said anything about the other two.’

Hamish suddenly longed to get out of the smoky room. He got to his feet. ‘I’ll be off, then. I may want another word with you. I think Mrs Gillespie may have been blackmailing her
employers.’ He turned in the doorway. ‘Did Mrs Gillespie have any friends?’

‘I think she sometimes talked to Mrs Queenie Hendry, her what has the bakery in the main street.’

Hamish’s mobile phone rang as he was leaving the house. It was Jimmy. ‘Blair says you’re to get over to the daughter’s. No one’s broken the news
to her yet.’

‘What’s up with her father? Surely he’ll have phoned her by now.’

‘We’ve just left Mr Gillespie. He says it would sound better coming from the police, don’t ask me why. Here’s her address. The Nest, Shore Road, one of those bungalows.
You’d think people like that lived in mansions the way they won’t give a street number. How’re you doing?’

‘Got a lot, but I’ll tell you in private this evening. I don’t want Blair crashing around at this point.’

As Hamish drove along the shore road, the wind screamed and buffeted at his vehicle, and ahead he could see the first waves crashing on to the road. The Nest had a sign in pokerwork outside the
gate, which swung and creaked in the wind on two thin iron chains. He wondered whether Heather Gillespie would be out at work, if she did work, but as he opened the gate, he saw a slim figure
heaving sandbags in front of the door.

‘Miss Gillespie?’ Hamish suddenly wondered whether Heather Gillespie was married.

She turned around. Her eyes sharpened in alarm when she saw his uniform.

‘May we go inside?’ asked Hamish, holding on to his cap against the screeching wind. She silently led the way.

Another living room, this one sparsely furnished in assemble-it-yourself table and chairs. Hamish recognized them, having seen them offered in a DIY shop in Inverness. The room was very cold.
The fireplace had been sealed off. An unlit two-bar electric heater stood in front of it.

Heather Gillespie was very thin but with a large heavy head covered in a shock of ginger hair. Her eyes were her finest feature, being large and silvery grey. The colour of Elspeth’s eyes,
thought Hamish, and suddenly wondered whether she had arrived yet.

‘I have bad news,’ said Hamish. ‘I am afraid Mrs Gillespie is dead.’

‘A stroke?’ demanded Heather.

‘No, I am afraid herself was murdered.’

She turned very pale. ‘Can I get you something?’ asked Hamish.

‘No, no. It’s the shock. How? When? Where is my father?’

‘Mrs Gillespie was murdered this morning outside the home of Professor Sander. Someone struck her down. Your father has been told the sad news. For some reason, he thought the news would
sound better coming from the police.’

‘Dad’s not a well man. I can understand that. I’d better go to him.’

‘Do you know of anyone who would wish your mother harm?’

‘Just about everyone.’

‘Miss Gillespie . . . it is
Miss
Gillespie?’

‘It is now. I was married, but after the divorce, I reverted to my maiden name.’

‘May I sit down for a minute?’

She indicated the table at the window, and both of them sat down. Beyond the window, the sea tumbled and roared with increasing frequency.

Hamish took out his notebook. ‘What was the name of your ex?’

Tom Morrison.’

‘Where can I find him?’

‘In Braikie. He runs the local garage.’

‘Any children?’

‘No. Look, what’s this got to do with my mother’s murder?’

‘I wass chust wondering,’ said Hamish, the sibilance of his accent showing he was becoming nervous, ‘whether your mother had anything to do with the break-up of your
marriage.’

A fat tear ran down Heather’s cheek, followed by another and another until she was sobbing helplessly. Hamish saw a box of tissues on the coffee table. He fetched it and put it down beside
her.

She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Then she said in a low voice, ‘Ma told me that Tom was having an affair with Bertha Maclean, the local tart. I challenged him, and he said Ma was a
nasty auld liar. I followed him one night and saw him go up the stairs to her flat. That was enough for me, and I filed for divorce. After the divorce, I met Bertha in the street and had a go at
her. She said she had breast cancer and a few of the villagers had been helping her out. Tom had called round to fix a few things in the flat for her.

‘I asked Tom about it, and he said Bertha at first didn’t want anyone to know she had cancer and had sworn the few people helping her to secrecy. I shouted at him that he could have
told me. He said he was sick of living with a woman who was so much under her nasty mother’s thumb and he could kill the old bitch. He said Ma had told him that I was sick of being married to
him. Of course, I denied it, but the damage had been done. I’ve barely spoken to my mother since.’

‘But she isn’t really your mother, is she?’

‘No, but my own mother died when I was three years old, and I got in the way of calling her Ma.’

Hamish reflected that Mrs Gillespie must have been an evil influence, although Tom and Heather certainly did not seem to have trusted each other very much.

‘I’d better go and see Dad,’ said Heather.

‘I’ll help you with the sandbags first,’ said Hamish.

She looked at her watch. ‘It’ll be all right now. The tide’s on the turn.’

Elspeth Grant had unpacked her suitcase and was looking out of the window of the Tommel Castle Hotel down to where the little whitewashed houses of Lochdubh fronted the sea
loch. She opened the window and breathed in a great gulp of pine-scented air.

It was great to be back. There was a knock at her door. She opened it. Bessie, one of the maids, stood there, holding clean towels. ‘Welcome back, Miss Grant,’ she said.
‘You’ll be up here reporting the murder?’

‘Murder? What murder?’

‘Poor auld Mrs Gillespie. Someone brained her with her bucket.’

Elspeth suppressed a sudden mad desire to laugh. ‘Who was Mrs Gillespie?’

‘Herself was a cleaner, lived over Braikie way. You’ll be seeing Hamish?’

Before Elspeth could reply, Luke Teviot strolled in. ‘Hello, sweetheart,’ he said cheerfully. ‘What does one do for entertainment around here?’

Bessie’s eyes widened. She put the towels in the bathroom and then scurried off to spread the news around that Elspeth Grant had come up to the Highlands with a boyfriend.

The light was fading fast as Hamish walked into the garage run by Tom Morrison. There was a man in faded blue, oil-stained overalls bent over a car engine.

‘Mr Morrison?’

‘I’m just about to close up. What do you want?’

He straightened up. He was a short man with a square, pleasant face and a shock of black curly hair.

‘Have you heard about the murder?’ asked Hamish.

‘Aye, it’s all over the village.’

‘Tell me where you were this morning.’

‘You mean, you think I murdered the auld scunner? No, that I did not. I was right here. My assistant, Tolly, he was here the whole time. Folks came by for petrol from the pump. I can give
you their names.’

‘No, that’ll be fine,’ said Hamish, not only feeling sure Tom was telling the truth but also not wanting to waste valuable time going through his list of customers. ‘Tell
me about Mrs Gillespie. Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to murder her?’

‘My first thought,’ said Tom, wiping his hands on a rag, ‘is that it could be anyone. She was not liked. But murder! No, I can’t think of a person who would do that.
I’ve felt like it sometimes. She broke up my marriage to her stepdaughter. But it’s a lang, lang way between thinking and doing.’

‘Will you be getting back with Heather now?’ asked Hamish.

‘I don’t think so. She didn’t trust me, and when there’s no trust in a marriage, it’s no good.’

‘If there’s no jealousy in a marriage,’ said Hamish, ‘then there’s no love.’

‘I know you, Macbeth. You’re not married, so what would you know about it?’

‘A lot, believe you me. Now, I want you to think hard about who she knew and who she might have been blackmailing.’

‘Blackmail!’

‘Perhaps. There wasn’t a scrap of business papers in her home. Do you happen to know if she owned any other property?’

Tom shook his head. ‘Better ask Heather or her father.’

‘I will. I’ll come back tomorrow for a chat.’

Hamish drove straight to Lochdubh. Jimmy was waiting for him outside the police station. ‘I thought you’d have let yourself in like everyone else does,’ said
Hamish, unlocking the door. ‘You know where the spare key is kept.’

‘I just got here.’

Hamish let him in. Then he remembered his dog and cat. Where had they gone? The last he had seen of them was when they had headed off together.

The phone in the office rang, and he went to answer it. It was Angela Brodie, the doctor’s wife. ‘I saw your police car passing, and I’ve sent your animals home. They were
round here mooching food. I’ve fed them both.’

‘Thanks, Angela. I’ve got to rush. I’ll call on you tomorrow.’

When Hamish returned to the kitchen, it was to find Jimmy frantically rummaging in the cupboards.

‘The whisky’s in the oven,’ said Hamish.

‘What’s it doing there?’

‘Well, the locals come round and say, “What about a dram?” and if I want rid of them, I say I haven’t any. I’ve even known them to do what you were doing and start
searching the cupboards, saying they’re sure I have some and I’ve just forgotten where I put it.’

Jimmy retrieved the half bottle from the oven and took down two glasses from a cupboard.

Jimmy poured a large measure for himself and a small one for Hamish. He drained his glass and filled it up again.