Death of a Maid (8 page)

At last, Eileen returned with a large deed box.

‘I think you’ll find everything is in there,’ said James.

‘Did she have an accountant?’ asked Hamish.

‘Not as far as I know. She wouldn’t need one. She probably never paid taxes. She must have earned very little cleaning houses.’

‘She had a tidy sum of money. Didn’t you look?’

‘No, why should I? As far as I was concerned, she was eccentric, and if she wanted to go on paying me to keep all her papers, I was quite happy.’

Hamish wrote out a receipt, thanked him and left, clutching the box. He decided to look at the contents first before turning them over to police headquarters.

Elspeth and Luke had begged the use of a desk in the
Highland Times,
the local newspaper with an office in Lochdubh, and were busy filing a joint story.

‘Are you sweet on that copper?’ asked Luke when they finished.

‘Of course not,’ said Elspeth. ‘I knew him when I used to work up here.’

Luke studied the smoke rising up from his cigarette and drifting over the No Smoking sign on the wall. ‘I thought you were. There was a sort of atmosphere.’

‘Get this straight,’ said Elspeth angrily. ‘Hamish Macbeth was once engaged to Priscilla Halburton-Smythe. Her parents own the hotel we’re staying at. He never got over
her.’

‘Dumped him, did she?’

‘No, strange to say,
he
dumped
her.’

‘So why . . .?’

‘Leave it, Luke.’

In the police station office, Hamish opened the box and began to go through the contents. He found the deeds to the house, electricity and gas bills up to the previous month,
and a bank book showing the amount of money he already knew about from the printout. But no blackmailing material.

He phoned Jimmy and told him of the find and said he would deliver the box to police headquarters. ‘Don’t bother,’ said Jimmy. ‘I’ll come over and collect it. If I
don’t get some time away from Blair, I’ll strangle him.’

Hamish went along to the general store and bought a bottle of whisky. Angela Brodie, the doctor’s wife, was buying cat food.

Her thin face lit up when she saw Hamish. ‘How are things going, Hamish? We hardly see you these days – that is, unless you want to offload your animals on to me.’

‘Sorry I’ll be round soon. How’s the writing going?’

‘Slowly and painfully’ Angela had won a literary award for her first novel. ‘Getting that award didn’t give me confidence. It did the opposite. I feel I can’t match
up to the first book. If this murder case you’re on ever gets solved, would you read some of it for me? Tell me what you think?’

‘I’m no literary critic.’

‘But you’re a reader.’

‘All right.’

‘What’s the whisky for?’

‘Jimmy Anderson,’ said Hamish. ‘I’d better feed him as well.’

‘I wouldn’t bother,’ said Angela, who knew Jimmy of old. ‘Whisky is food as well as drink to that man.’

Hamish returned to the police station, where he cooked up some venison liver for the dog and cat before making himself a sandwich and a cup of tea. He had just finished eating when Jimmy
arrived, cursing the solicitor for not having told them about the papers he was holding.

‘And he gave me the impression that the package was left for Mrs Samson in the will. Anything blackmailable in there?’ he asked.

‘Nothing. Sit down and I’ll get you a dram. The bank book’s interesting. The cash payments started two years ago – at first just a few modest payments in her current
account, then they begin to increase. Maybe she hinted at something and one of them cracked and paid her money and she realized she was on to a good little earner. I think she was blackmailing more
than one person. I think she was blackmailing several. We’ll need to dig into the backgrounds of everyone she cleaned for.’ Hamish poured a measure of whisky into a glass and put it on
the kitchen table next to Jimmy.

A particularly thunderous roar of wind shook the police station. ‘I don’t know how you can bear that wind,’ grumbled Jimmy. ‘We’re protected by the surrounding
buildings in Strathbane, but up here, the noise wears a man down.’

‘The gales are getting worse,’ said Hamish. ‘And the waves are getting higher. I hope I don’t live to see Lochdubh washed away.’

‘Dead-alive hole,’ said Jimmy callously. ‘Wouldn’t be any great loss. Now, let’s start with Professor Sander.’

‘What did you make of him?’ asked Hamish.

‘Prissy little man. Furious with us for asking questions.’

‘What’s he a professor of?’

‘Was. Retired. English was his subject. He produced a popular biog called
Byron: The Tortured Years.
Did well. Hasn’t done anything since. Never married.’

‘Might be an idea to check the Sex Offenders Register.’

‘We screwed up in Scotland, remember? About six thousand sex offenders before 1997 weren’t put on the list. Still, it’s worth a look.’

‘Which university was he at?’

‘Strathbane.’

‘Hardly an academic place. I believe they even give degrees in car maintenance these days.’

‘Blair’s got a team of coppers out ferreting around. No one saw anyone near Mrs Samson’s house before it went up in flames. But the fire chief thinks the fire started at the
back door, and anyone could get to that over the fields.’

‘Arson?’

‘Not sure yet. Takes ages.’

‘Where’s Mrs Samson going to stay?’

‘They’re putting her up at the old folks’ home, High Haven, for the moment. She can’t buy anything else until she gets the insurance money.’

‘I forgot to ask the solicitor how large the package was,’ said Hamish. ‘She was carrying a large handbag. If she’s still got the stuff and if it contains blackmail
material, her life could be in danger.’

‘Why worry?’ asked Jimmy. ‘One blackmailer less would please me.’

‘Aye, but it would be another murder to solve. Did you interview any of the folk she cleaned for?’

‘Apart from the professor, I went with Blair to interview Mrs Fleming. Blair was all over her. He told me afterwards she was like a fairy.’

‘She’s a fairy who threw a vase at me,’ said Hamish. ‘She lives quite near. She could have nipped over the garden fence and poured petrol through the back
door.’

‘Then there’s Mrs Styles, the one that Blair fell foul of. What about your Mrs Wellington?’

‘Mrs Gillespie found out that the minister delivered an old sermon one Sunday and hinted that it would be awful if folks found out. Got nowhere with that. Mrs Barret-Wilkinson, now. She
interests me. I’ve a feeling she’s playing the country lady. But she’s the one that lives furthest away.’

‘We’ve run a police check already on all of them,’ said Jimmy, reaching for the whisky bottle. ‘Nothing there.’

‘I wonder if any of them got into the local newspaper over anything,’ said Hamish. ‘Maybe I’ll walk along and have a look. No, you are not getting any more whisky, Jimmy,
and take that box of stuff over to police headquarters.’

‘Here’s lover boy,’ said Luke.

Elspeth looked up and flushed slightly as Hamish walked into the newspaper office.

‘I need your help,’ said Hamish.

‘And we need yours.’ Luke was sitting next to Elspeth, and he draped a long arm around her shoulders. ‘We just filed a story, but it’s very thin.’

‘You’ll get what I’ve got when I get it,’ said Hamish. ‘Elspeth knows that. All right. It’ll soon come out, so you can have this, only don’t quote me.
Mrs Samson collected a packet from the solicitor. Mrs Gillespie had left it with him, saying she wanted it posted to Mrs Samson. The solicitor phoned Mrs Samson, who took a cab round on the day of
the fire and picked up the package herself. Now, if Mrs Gillespie was a blackmailer – and that’s sheer speculation, although she had more in her bank account than a cleaner should have
– someone might have thought Mrs Samson now had incriminating papers and set her house on fire. The solicitor is a Mr James Bennet. I’ll give you his phone number. Phone him for
confirmation, and then about the blackmail business put it down to “sources” in Braikie. Oh, and ask the solicitor what size the package was. Mrs Samson says she never even looked at it
and it was in the house when it burned down, but she could be lying and it could be in the large handbag she was carrying.’

‘Great stuff,’ said Luke. ‘I’ll get on to it, Elspeth, if you help the copper here with what he wants.’

‘What is it you want, Hamish?’ asked Elspeth, shrugging Luke’s arm off her shoulders.

‘I want to check the newspaper files to see if any of the suspects ever did anything worth a mention.’

‘You don’t need me,’ said Elspeth. ‘You need Terry the Geek. Terry!’

A thin young man with a bad case of acne and hair as red as Hamish’s came to join them from the back of the office.

‘This is Terry,’ said Elspeth. ‘Mrs MacKay’s boy. He’s organized the whole system.’

‘I didn’t recognize you,’ said Hamish. ‘It seems the last time I saw you, you were just a lad.’

Terry grinned sheepishly. ‘How can I help you?’

‘I’ve some names I want you to look up,’ said Hamish. ‘I want to see if any of them appeared in the newspaper at any time.’

‘Come over to my computer, and I’ll search for you.’

‘I can’t see how it can work,’ said Hamish. ‘I mean, won’t it be a long job of trawling through paper after paper?’

‘Not a bit of it,’ said Terry proudly. ‘I’ve organized it by names, places and subject.’

‘Let’s start.’ Hamish sat down beside him in front of a computer. ‘Mrs Fiona Fleming, formerly Mrs Bernie Fleming.’

Terry’s long bony fingers flicked over the keys. ‘Do you mind being called Terry the Geek?’ asked Hamish. ‘Highland nicknames can be a bit cruel.’

‘I take it as a compliment. Anyway, this lot in Lochdubh couldn’t tell one end of a computer from another.’

‘Some of them got computers when they were all trying to write books.’

‘Aye, but the novelty soon wore off and highland lethargy settled in. Here we are. Her husband fell downstairs. Verdict: accidental death.’

‘I know that one. Anything else?’

‘Seems to be all.’

‘What have you got on Mrs Mavis Gillespie?’

‘Wait a bit. Oh, here’s something. Last year she was down in Strathbane shopping. Speeding car mounted the pavement and nearly killed her. She jumped back just in time.’

‘Let me see.’

Terry angled the screen towards Hamish. Hamish looked at the date. The incident had taken place in August the previous year when he was off on a fishing holiday.

Mrs Gillespie had been waiting to cross the road at the junction of Glebe Street and Thomson Street. She had leapt back just in time. She said she was so shocked that the make of the car
hadn’t registered with her. She said it was large and black. Police decided the driver had probably been drunk, for who would want to kill Mrs Gillespie?

‘I’ll get the police reports on that,’ muttered Hamish.

‘Here’s something else,’ exclaimed Terry. ‘She was at the clay pigeon shoot down at Moy Hall, outside Inverness. That was January this year. She said a bullet whizzed
past her, missing her by centimetres.’

Hamish studied the report. The police did not seem to have taken any action whatsoever.

‘That seems to be all,’ said Terry.

So that might explain why she turned the papers or whatever she had over to Mrs Samson, thought Hamish.

She thought her life was in danger! She wanted to leave some proof of the reason for it behind.

Hamish suddenly realized that he had not seen Matthew Campbell, the local reporter who was married to Lochdubh’s schoolteacher. ‘Where’s Matthew?’ he
called over to Elspeth.

‘On vacation,’ she called back. ‘He’ll be furious at missing all this.’

‘But we’re not, are we, darling?’ said Luke, and kissed her on the cheek.

Hamish turned back to Terry, his accent suddenly more marked. ‘Chust let us get on with this. Whit about Professor Sander?’

But apart from a short paragraph two years ago saying that the professor had given a lecture on Byron at the Braikie high school, there was nothing else. Mrs Styles was mentioned various times
in connection with church works, and there was nothing at all on Mrs Barret-Wilkinson.

Hamish thanked Terry. He stopped beside Elspeth. ‘A wee word wi’ you in private.’

‘Okay, we’ve just finished.’

They walked together outside. ‘Is that your fellow?’ shouted Hamish, but the screaming gale whipped his words away.

By unspoken consent, they hurried along to the local bar. ‘What?’ demanded Elspeth when they were inside. ‘No, I haven’t time for a drink. What is it?’

‘Is that your fellow?’

‘What’s it got to do with you?’

Hamish suddenly felt silly. ‘Chust wondered.’

‘Then go on wondering,’ said Elspeth, and shot out of the door.

Hamish saw Archie Maclean, the fisherman, sitting at a table beside the peat fire.

He bought himself a tonic water and went to join him.

‘Wimmin trouble?’ asked Archie.

‘No, it iss chust this case I’m working on.’

‘You know,’ said Archie, ‘I haff been thinking. It iss all around the village that the auld woman, Gillespie, might ha’ been a blackmailer, but I haff the ither
idea.’

‘That being?’ The high colour caused by Elspeth’s last remark was slowly subsiding in Hamish’s face.

‘It iss this. It wass not the blackmailing at all, at all. It wass the cleaning.’

‘Cleaning?’

‘Aye. Now, look at my missus. She cleans and cleans and scrubs and polishes from sunrise to sunset and, man, I tell you, Hamish Macbeth, there haff been the times when I haff had the evil
thoughts.’

Hamish looked sympathetically at Archie in his tight suit. The locals said his wife even boiled his suits in the wash, and Archie always carried around with him an aroma of old-fashioned
carbolic soap and disinfectant.

‘Archie, there are times when we all feel like murdering someone, but we don’t do it.’