Death of a Maid (6 page)

‘That’s better.’ He sighed. ‘What have you got?’

Hamish described everything he had found out.

‘So,’ said Jimmy, ‘the main thing is the missing papers or letters. Safe-deposit box?’

‘Oh, my, I forgot about that one.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ve a feeling she wouldn’t leave them there and that the manager would have told you if she had a safe-deposit box. Maybe she bought some sort of
lock-up.’

‘Or she might just have buried them in her garden.’

‘There’s an idea. I’ll get the men on to it.’

‘How did you get on with Mrs Styles?’

Jimmy poured himself more whisky. ‘That was quite a scene,’ he said. ‘Blair tried to bully her, and she tore into him and called him a disgrace. She said he was not a
Christian. He was that furious, he was going to take her in for questioning. She phoned Daviot and said she was putting in a complaint for police harassment. Daviot pulled Blair off and suggested
it would be better if the questioning was left to Hamish Macbeth. Of course, Blair agreed, hoping that Mrs Styles would put in a complaint about you.’

‘I’ll try her first thing in the morning.’ A sharp bark sounded from outside the door. Hamish opened it, and Lugs and Sonsie slouched in.

‘This is interesting, the bit where that old neighbour told you that Bernie Fleming might have been murdered. How would Mrs Gillespie know? No proof.’

‘She might have been cleaning at the time. Say Mrs Fleming lost her temper and gave him an almighty push. What about the professor, now?’ asked Hamish. ‘Silly pompous wee man
that he is.’

‘Blair toadied to him, so we didn’t get much. He was never married. Doesn’t seem to be gay. Blameless, boring life, if you ask me.’

‘Someone as arrogant as he is wouldn’t have gone on putting up with such as Mrs Gillespie for long.’

‘Could be,’ said Jimmy. ‘But by all accounts the woman was a bully. Blair’s a bully and look at the way he arse-licked the old boy. Maybe she treated him well. Anyway,
now that our esteemed leader thinks you have the right touch, you’ll be able to have a talk with him yourself.’

The kitchen door opened, and Elspeth walked in, followed by Luke Teviot. ‘I’m off,’ said Jimmy. ‘How’re things in the big city, Elspeth?’

‘Not as exciting as here. You’ve got a murder.’

‘Ask your boyfriend about it,’ said Jimmy, and made his escape

‘Boyfriend?’ asked Luke.

‘He was just joking,’ said Elspeth quickly.

Luke sat down at the kitchen table. ‘Got an ashtray in here?’

Hamish took out an ashtray from one of the cupboards and put it on the table. Luke lit a cigarette. Hamish had given up smoking a long time ago and was annoyed to find himself longing for
one.

Elspeth and Hamish sat down and surveyed each other warily. Elspeth had had her frizzy hair straightened, and Hamish was not sure whether he liked it or not. She was also dressed smart-casual
rather than in the usual assortment of charity shop clothes she used to wear.

‘You made it here fast,’ said Hamish. ‘You’ve both been sent to cover the murder?’

‘No, we’re here on holiday together.’

‘So you’re an item?’

‘No,’ said Luke, and ‘Yes,’ said Elspeth, both at the same time.

Luke noticed that Hamish now seemed amused and relaxed where a moment before he had been stiff and angry.

‘The thing is,’ said Elspeth, ‘that we could both end up having a paid holiday. The news desk is keen on this.’

‘Why?’ asked Hamish curiously. ‘You’ve got murders damn near every day in Glasgow. This is chust one auld woman who got bashed with her bucket.’

‘Because we happen to be up here, and a murder in the Highlands is considered more interesting, so what can you tell us?’

‘Elspeth, you know the ropes. You’ll both need to go to Strathbane and get the official statement. I cannae tell you anything other than the fact that, yes, she was murdered when she
was leaving Professor Sander’s house in Braikie. I found the body.’

‘Why were you there?’ asked Elspeth.

‘Chust happened to be passing.’

‘You’re lying, Hamish.’ Elspeth’s silver eyes were fixed on his face. ‘We’ve been to view the scene of the crime. The prof’s house is at the end of a
cul-de-sac. Bessie, the maid at the hotel, told me you’d won the services of Mrs Gillespie in a raffle. You went to see her. What about? There’s a rumour flying around that she might
have been a blackmailer. Did she ferret among the police papers?’

‘That’s enough,’ said Hamish sharply. ‘Look, Elspeth, I’ll do a deal wi’ ye. Go to police headquarters. Get a statement from them. Do it by the book. But
there’s one thing I’ll tell you: if she was a blackmailer, I can’t find a letter or even bills in her house – not a bit of paper. She may have hidden them somewhere. You
find out where, and I’ll give you what I’ve got.’

‘You’re on. Not like you not to offer us some refreshment, Hamish.’

‘I’m tired, and Jimmy’s drunk all the whisky. Off with the pair of you.’

Outside the police station, Luke said, ‘That policeman’s keen on you. And what about you? Why did you let him think we were an item?’

‘Stop asking questions. There’s a good restaurant along here. I’m hungry.’

Elspeth stalked off. Luke watched her, amused, and then followed after her.

Before visiting Mrs Styles the following morning, Hamish decided to call in at the bakery in Braikie to have a talk with Mrs Gillespie’s friend Queenie Hendry. He
remembered Queenie as soon as he set eyes on her. He had interviewed her once before when he was tracking down a murderer. She was a pleasant-looking middle-aged woman with neat grey hair and a
rosy-cheeked face. He found it hard to believe that she should have had anything in common with the late Mrs Gillespie.

‘Can I be having a word with you?’ he asked.

‘It’ll be about Mavis,’ she said. She turned to her assistant. ‘Alice, mind the counter.’

Queenie raised the counter flap and walked through. ‘It’s a terrible business,’ she said. ‘Poor Mavis.’

‘I gather you were a friend of Mrs Gillespie.’

‘Yes, we often had a chat together after I’d closed up the shop. My, the poor woman did love cream cakes.’

‘Did you ever get the impression – now, think carefully – that she might be a blackmailer?’

She turned a little pale.

‘Look,’ urged Hamish. ‘She’s dead. If you know anything at all, please tell me.’

‘If I tell you, you’ll report me to the council,’ she whispered.

‘Come outside,’ said Hamish. ‘We need a private chat.’

They walked together outside the shop. The wind had died down, and the day was warm and sunny.

‘I’ll do you a deal,’ said Hamish. ‘Whatever you tell me, I won’t report you to the council.’

She hugged herself with strong arms across her white-aproned chest.

‘It’s like this. I had this plague o’ mice. Had a job getting rid o’ the things. The shop was quiet, and I happened to tell Mavis about it. “Let me see,” she
said. “I’ve a fair way with the mice.”

‘I led her through to the back. I switched on the light, and there they were, mice scampering all over the place. To my horror, she took out a wee camera and started snapping off pictures.
Then she said, “Now, Queenie, I think the health and safety people at the council would be interested in these photos.” I told her the exterminator was coming in the morning, but I know
there’s this bastard on the council who loves making life a misery for shopkeepers. She said she wouldn’t do anything about it as long as she could have a box of cream cakes every day.
That wasn’t enough. She insisted she was my friend and kept dropping in for a chat. She frightened me.’

‘You should have come to me,’ said Hamish. ‘I’d soon have shut her up. I’ll need to ask you what you were doing yesterday morning.’

‘I was in the shop all morning. I can tell you which customers came in, and Alice was with me the whole time.’

‘Did it never dawn on you that if she was blackmailing you, she could have been blackmailing others?’

‘No. She never asked for money. Just cream cakes.’

Hamish thanked her and told her if she could think of anything else or had any idea who else Mrs Gillespie might have been blackmailing, to let him know.

As he drove off to interview Mrs Styles, he glanced in his rear-view mirror and noticed a small car following him with Shona Fraser at the wheel. He stopped, got out as she parked behind him,
and went to speak to her.

‘You should be with the detective chief inspector,’ he said.

‘He does nothing but shout at people. I thought I’d catch up with you. I’m sure you’re the better story.’

Hamish leered down at her. ‘Aye, that would be grand. I can chust see myself on the telly. Which would you say wass my best side?’

‘Forget about that. Where are you going?’

‘I’m going up to the Gordons’ farm to check their sheep papers are in order. Checking sheep papers is a right important thing.’

‘But what about the murder!’

‘The sheep papers may not be important to you,’ said Hamish, whose face reflected nothing more than amiable stupidity, ‘but they’re life and death to some folk. Now, let
me tell you all about sheep. I haff the rare knowledge of the sheep.’

‘Got to go,’ said Shona hurriedly.

Hamish watched, amused, as she drove off. Then the smile left his face as he continued to drive towards the home of Mrs Styles. The fact that Mrs Gillespie could go to such lengths to blackmail
Mrs Hendry – and for cream cakes! Gluttony, malice, control, and bullying. No wonder someone murdered her!

Mrs Styles lived in a bungalow on the outskirts of the town. He cursed Blair as he walked up to the door. Blair would have left Mrs Styles with a dislike and distrust of the police.

Luke Teviot felt awash with tea. He found Elspeth’s idea of reporting in the Highlands very odd. Instead of going to interview the people for whom Mrs Gillespie had
cleaned, she had called on various homes between Lochdubh and Braikie, being welcomed by people she had known, drinking tea and gossiping. But he soon began to see that she was eliciting quite a
bit of information about the late Mrs Gillespie.

At last, Elspeth said, ‘We’re going to see a Mrs Samson. She lived next door to Mrs Fleming and seems to have been a friend of Mrs Gillespie as well as being a nasty
gossip.’

‘All right,’ said Luke, sending a lazy spiral of cigarette smoke up into the clear air. ‘But if I have to drink another cup of tea or eat another scone, I’ll
scream.’

Soon they were sitting in the smoky cavern of Mrs Samson’s living room. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ asked Luke.

‘Yes, I do,’ snapped Mrs Samson. ‘Do you know what that stuff does to your lungs?’

The fire belched out another cloud of grey coal smoke.

‘As I was saying,’ pursued Elspeth, ‘we are planning to write a nice obituary about your friend.’

Those eyes magnified by the thick glasses seemed to grow even larger as Mrs Samson gave a dry chuckle. Then she said, ‘You’ll have a hard time, lassie. Nobody liked her.’

‘But you were her friend.’

‘I liked her gossip. She knew something about everyone, even you, Miss Grant. She knew you were pining after that policeman but how he never got over Miss Halburton-Smythe.’

Luke raised his eyebrows in surprise. Elspeth said quickly, ‘Then obviously she often never got her facts straight. How did you both become friends?’

‘She came to my door one day. She asked to use the phone. I said I’d seen her with one o’ those mobile things, but herself said the battery was dead. I let her in. She made a
call from the hall to someone. She said, “I’m missing my wages and you’d better pay up.” That’s all I heard. Now I learn from that Macbeth policeman that she was a
blackmailer.’

‘When was this? When did she make that call?’ asked Elspeth.

‘Let me see. My memory isn’t so good. Maybe June last year.’

‘So you didn’t know her for long?’

‘No, but she was a fair gossip. That first time, she says to me, she says, your neighbour killed her husband. Did you know that? Well, I told her to sit down because I fair loathe that wee
scunner next door with her airs and graces. Always complaining. She said the smoke from my lum had messed up her washing.’

Elspeth wondered briefly how any smoke managed to get up the chimney, as most of it seemed to escape into the room.

‘How did Mrs Fleming’s husband die?’ asked Luke.

‘Fell down the stairs and broke his neck.’

‘And had Mrs Gillespie seen this?’

‘She didn’t say. She was always hinting at things. After she said that Mrs Fleming had murdered her husband, she wouldn’t be drawn on anything. Did she make a will?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Elspeth. ‘Why?’

‘Herself said she’d leave me something useful in her will.’

Elspeth was now longing to get to the house next door and interview Mrs Fleming, but she had to go on pretending she was writing an obituary. At last, they escaped.

‘Whew!’ said Elspeth. ‘I thought I’d choke to death. I wonder if she did make a will. Let’s try Mrs Fleming. Put that cigarette out, Luke. Haven’t you inhaled
enough smoke already?’

Mrs Styles was a formidable woman. She was built like a cottage loaf and had thick grey hair worn in a bun. She had a round face and large grey eyes. Her mouth was small and
thin. She was wearing a tweed skirt, crepe blouse and a long woollen cardigan.

She looked Hamish up and down and demanded, ‘What do you want?’

‘Just a wee chat.’

‘I don’t have time for wee chats. I have already complained about that man Blair and his manners.’

‘I have heard,’ said Hamish, ‘that you are an intelligent and perceptive lady. You seem to me the type of lady who might notice things other people do not.’

She hesitated, and then said, ‘You’d better come in.’

In the living room, a man was slumped in front of the television set. ‘Archie,’ said Mrs Styles, ‘you’d better leave us a minute.’

Her husband – Hamish assumed it was her husband – got up and shuffled out without a word. He was a small, stooped man wearing a suit, collar and tie but with battered old carpet
slippers on his feet.