Hamish MacBeth 06 (1991) - Death of a Snob (13 page)

“No, Hamish,” said Harriet. “Look, Jane would never be involved in any murder. I’ve changed my mind about her. She couldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Oh, no? What do any of us really know about Jane? Everyone here only knows her slightly. Diarmuid’s had affairs before because Jessie told me. But just think. Jane is now rich. She’s attractive. Without Heather around, he can marry her.”

“But you have no proof,” wailed Harriet. “An overheard conversation is no proof. What are you going to do?”

“Shock tactics,” said Hamish. “Just wait and see.”

♦

Hamish waited until they were all gathered in the lounge after breakfast and then stood in front of the fire facing them.

“I think I have discovered why the murder of Heather Todd was committed,” he said.

There was a long silence and then a babble of outraged voices. “It was an accident,” snapped Jane. “You insensitive, posturing clod,” commented John Wetherby. “Really!” screamed the Carpenters.

Hamish held up his hands for silence. “Hear me out,” he said.

“The murder was committed by Jane Wetherby and Diarmuid Todd.” They gazed at him open-mouthed.

“It was all planned,” said Hamish. “All they needed was the opportunity. The stage had been set by having so-called attempts on Jane’s life. I was invited over to make everything more realistic. With everyone going for a walk on a wild day, Jane suggested that Heather take her coat so that she could claim, as she later did, that she, Jane, had been the intended victim, not Heather. Either Diarmuid followed Heather and murdered her, or he returned to the hotel and collected Jane and they murdered her together.”

Jane burst into tears and Diarmuid slowly rose to his feet, ashen-faced.

The others sat around stricken.

“I am afraid I hid in the lounge last night and listened to your conversation,” said Hamish. “I heard you, Jane, tell Diarmuid that no one must ever know what you had done.” He looked steadily at the weeping Jane.

Then Jane straightened and marched up to Hamish, proud bosoms jutting, head thrown back. “I know how it must look,” she said, “but you see…” She swung round and shouted at Diarmuid, “For goodness’ sake, tell him! Do you want to be tried for murder?”

Diarmuid just stood mere, looking miserable.

Hamish had an awful feeling that his beautiful love-triangle-murder theory was falling into ruins somewhere in his head. “You tell me,” he said to Jane.

Jane said loudly, “We couldn’t have done it. Either of us. We were in bed together. I was lonely. I needed someone. Then Diarmuid came back. He needed someone, too. He was dejected because his business had collapsed and Heather was treating him like dirt because he couldn’t finance her little salons any longer. We had just got dressed and were back in the lounge when you all came back. Don’t you see, dial’s what I meant when I said no one must ever know.” She rounded on John Wetherby. “You’re sitting there smirking; well, hear mis! This was the first affair I’ve had in years. I was never unfaithful to you. I only pretended to be to get revenge for your insults and slights and nasty remarks. And all that’s happened is that I’ve been to bed with some useless geek. I hate men!

“So did we bash Heather while pretending to look for her? No, we did not, for I wouldn’t go anywhere with Diarmuid, not ever again.”

John Wetherby came to her side and put an arm about her waist. “I‘ll sue this copper for harassment, Jane.”

“Piss off, all of you,” shouted Jane, her face contorted with rage. “There’s a ferry leaves tomorrow. Be on it. All of you!”

She stormed out.

Hamish stood silent, feeling like an utter fool. How could he have ever suspected Jane? Harriet had been right. It was his dislike of Diarmuid that had coloured his judgement.

Jane’s voice had held the ring of truth.

“Let’s get out of here.” It was Harriet at his elbow.

Sadly Hamish trailed out after her. The tide was out and they walked side by side over the hard white sand towards the sea. The sand was covered at low tide by an inch of water and the flat island soon disappeared behind mem, leaving them walking across a mirror of water. Large clouds sailed overhead and under their feet. The absence of any feeling of land or place gave Harriet a slight feeling of vertigo. They came to a stop and stood together.

“How weird this is,” said Harriet softly. “Standing in the middle of nowhere. In the cities there are lights and people and noise. No wonder poor Geordie is mad. I would go mad myself if I lived on this island for very long.”

“I think it hass affected my wits.” The sibilancy of Hamish’s accent showed how distressed he was. He hadn’t even phoned Priscilla, he had been so hell-bent on finding a murderer. Let it go, his mind told him, it was an accident. Let it go.

“Let’s go down to Skulag,” said Harriet.

They walked back together. A wind sprang up and began to ruffle tile surface of the water beneath their feet. They had reached the road and had gone a little way along it when an islander stopped his car beside them and offered them a lift. They gratefully accepted, remorseful Hamish glad of this sign of the islanders’ new tolerance for Jane; before Heather’s death, no one would have stopped to offer any guest from The Happy Wanderer a lift.

But to his fury, when they reached The Highland Comfort, the driver stretched out a dirty paw and said, “That’ll be twa pund and fifty pee.”

“Two pounds and fifty pence for what?” demanded Hamish.

“That’s whit ye’d pay for a taxi,” said the driver.

Harriet turned away as the normally mild Hamish Mac-beth told the driver what to do with his car and where to put it before joining her in front of the hotel.

“That was all I needed,” said Hamish angrily.

“Whisky’s what we need,” said Harriet bracingly. “I can’t drink any more of that gnat’s piss they call beer.”

When they were seated by the window in the bar, each nursing a large glass of whisky, Harriet looked at gloomy Hamish and said gently, “You mustn’t give up now. You were so sure it was murder.”

“Aye, but I’m right sorry about Jane. I cannae bring to mind a time before when I made such a fool of myself.”

“It’s the motive that ‘slacking,” said Harriet.

Hamish looked at her. “The motive usually lies in the person themselves. That is, the murderee. What are the usual motives? Passion and money, but usually money. Of course, there’s drink or drugs, but I think whoever it was put an end to Heather had all their wits about them. I cannae think what else I can do. I am sure that the clue to the whole business, lies somewhere in Glasglow. Talk to me about Heather.”

“There’s nothing more man I’ve already told you.” Harriet looked out at the jetty. Geordie’s truck was parked there, and as she watched, the small figure of Geordie came round the side of it and gave the truck a savage kick in the tyre. “Geordie’s just kicked his truck,” said Harriet. “He shouldn’t have done that.”

“You’re getting as bad as him.” Hamish cast an indifferent glance out of the window. “Go on about Heather.”

“Let me see. Oh, I know.” Harriet’s fece lit up. “You’H never believe this, but I came across her reading that romance of Sheila’s. She was so absorbed in it, she didn’t even notice me.”

“So much for her hating romances,” commented Hamish.

“She seemed to have an obsession about them, “said Harriet. “She cornered me and asked me to go for a walk with her, and then, as soon as we were walking along the beach, she started to grill me about how much romance writers made. I said there were romance writers and romance writers, you know, from the trash to the really top-level stuff. First-time authors in Britain often get as little as two hundred pounds a book. She said—let me think—she said that surely America was the market. What about New York publishers? I said I thought it was possible for a first-tune author to get a lot of money, provided the book was a block-buster. I got the strange-impression she had written one, but when I asked her, she denied it with her usual sneers.”

“We’ve got nothing else to go on.” Hamish sat and thought hard. “Look, do you have a New York agent?”

“Yes, and a very good one.”

“Would he know if there was a block-buster in the offing, say, one with a background of Glasgow? What eke do we know about Heather? She claimed to have been brought up in the Gorbals, that horrible slum, or it was when she was growing up. See if there’s any hint of a book. It’s a bit farfetched. But if Heather had actually pulled it off and was due a large sum of money, which her husband would inherit, then Diarmuid might find it worthwhile to push her off that crag after breaking her neck.”

“So back to Diarmuid. Are you sure…?”

“No, I am not letting my dislike colour my judgement this tune. Could you phone your agent?”

“All right,” said Harriet. “So long as Jane gives me permission.”

When they arrived back at The Happy Wanderer it was to find the place wearing an ah- of mourning caused more by Jane’s desire to get rid of her guests than by Heather’s death. It was a new Jane, tight-faced and brisk. She snapped at Harriet that, yes, she could use the phone in the office provided she paid for the call.

Hamish waited anxiously in the deserted lounge. The other guests were hiding in their rooms, either to pack, but mostly, he guessed, to keep out of Jane’s way.

Harriet emerged from the office, her face shining. “Where can we talk?”

“Television room,” said Hamish. “I don’t think there’s anyone in there.”

They walked in together. For once the television set was silent. “My agent says there’s a block-buster all right, but he doesn’t know who it’s from or what it’s worth, or what it’s about. But it might just have a Scottish background. He says he’ll ask around. I’ve to phone back in a couple of hours.”

Elated, Harriet gave Hamish a kiss, but he was too absorbed in this new information to take much notice of it.

The next two hours seemed to drag past. They sat and watched a rerun of a Lassie movie without either of them seeing much of it, Then Harriet rose and went to phone her agent again.

“Come with me, Hamish,” she said. “Let’s see what he has found out.”

Hamish waited, tense, while she spoke to her agent again. Finally she put down the phone and took a deep breath. “Oh, Hamish, he found out the publisher and editor responsible for this book, but in fairness he cannot be expected to be told the details of a book not yet published. Butget this! The word is that the advance was half a million dollars!”

Hamish performed a mad, erratic sort of Highland fling round the room while Harriet called the New York publisher and got through to the editor who was handling the book. Hamish stopped his cavorting and listened. He quickly gathered that the editor was amazed (hat a stranger should ask such questions about an unpublished book. He grabbed the phone and introduced himself. “I am a policeman investigating a death in Scotland,” he said. “The name of the dead woman is Heather Todd. Is that, by any chance, the name of the author?”

“No,” said the editor reluctantly.

“I can at least tell you that much. Heather Todd is not the name of the author.” Hamish thanked her nonetheless, and said he would be most grateful if he could call again. She agreed and he sadly put down the phone.

“Damn,” he said. “I’m now sure there’s something there. Damn. If only I could get to Glasgow.”

“We’re leaving tomorrow. We could go together,” said Harriet eagerly.

“I’ll need to find out if one of my relatives can put me up,” said Hamish cautiously. “My mother’s from Glasgow.”

“Be my guest,” said Harriet. “I’ll get us both hotel rooms.”

“But hotels are awfy expensive,” protested Hamish.

“Don’t worry. I’m enjoying this. Say yes, Hamish. You wouldn’t want the murderer to get away with it, now would you?”

“All right.” Hamish capitulated. “If you’re sure.”

♦

The guests assembled on the wind-swept jetty at dawn the following day. “Going to be a rough crossing,” volunteered John Wetherby, practically the first words he had said to anyone since lane’s outburst. Jane had run them all to the jetty in relays and had left without say ing goodbye to any of them.

Hamish saw Angus Macleod walking up the jetty and went to meet him. “I’ve been thinking,” said Hamish, “when you went to get Jessie Maclean, was mere any other passenger?”

“No, only herself,” said Angus.

“I don’t suppose you do these passenger trips often. I mean, the islanders will usually waft for the ferry.”

“Aye, that’s right. The only private passenger I’ve had was that sulky bitch o’ a maid from the hotel.”

“When was that?” asked Hamish sharply.

“Och, when I wass going to pkk up that Jessie female at Oban. The maid heard I wass going and asked me to take her across.”

“What did she look like?”

“Red hair and a fat face.”

Hamish walked back to join Harriet. “Do you remember the first time we went to the bar in Skulag?” he asked.

Harriet nodded.

“Do you remember that maid at the hotel? She was just about to come down the stairs when she saw us and darted back.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Get a good look at her?”

“Good enough. She was fet with red hair. Why?”

“I thought I was on to something for a moment. When Angus went over to pick up Jessie, he took that maid across to Oban. I was hoping for a moment it might have been Jessie herself, trying to fool us.”

“But it couldn’t have been Jessie, even a Jessie in disguise,” said Harriet.

“Why?”

“Because immediately after Heather was found dead, Diarmuid phoned Jessie in Glasgow.”

“Aye, I’m grasping at straws. Here comes the ferry.” Hamish pointed out to sea, where a small boat was bucketing through the waves.

“And here comes Jane,” cried Harriet.

The jeep drove onto the jetty and Jane climbed out. She was wearing a pair of jeans which looked as if they had been painted on, high-heeled sandals, and a low-necked blouse worn under a short blue jacket.

She approached the shivering group with hands outstretched. “My dear friends,” she cried, “I could not possibly let you go like this. I have been in communion with my inner being and found peace. I do not bear any resentments, even to you, Hamish Macbeth. Let us all shake hands and part friends.”