Part 9 (2/2)
”Don't you tell me what I'm thinking or no' thinking,” sneered Blair, ”and remember you're addressing a senior officer. Accident, Macbeth. That's all. Anyway, you got a tasty piece there tae keep ye warm.”
”Don't dare speak to me of Harriet Shaw in those terms,” shouted Hamish.
”Ach, dinnae be daft. I'm no' speakin' about the auld bird what writes cookery books. Jane Wetherby. Yum, yum.” And with a heavy wink, Blair got into a battered rented car. Jimmy Anderson, at the wheel, threw Hamish a sympathetic look before driving off.
Hamish went back indoors to hear Diarmuid say pathetically that he would like to stay on for a couple of days to recover before going to Strathbane to make arrangements for the body to be taken down to Glasgow for burial. Jessie, he said, was in the office making all the necessary phone calls.
Harriet looked at Hamish sympathetically. ”Care to go out?” she asked.
Hamish looked at her, at her clear eyes, crisp hair and firm figure and felt all his anger and irritation melt away.
”What had ye in mind?” he asked.
”A late working lunch, copper. We've had nothing to eat. Get some paper and we'll go down to the hotel and try to work out who did it.”
”So you think it might be murder as well?”
”Not exactly. But I think we ought to be sure. Blair's the sort of man who makes one want to prove him wrong.”
They walked briskly towards Skulag. The day was crisp and clear, and for once, windless. The sea shone with a dull grey light on their left. Hamish was surprised not to see Geordie's truck. Geordie, it appeared, plied his way regularly between the west coast and the village of Skulag, bringing lobsters and fish over, to be loaded onto the ferry when it arrived for delivery to the mainland, or, in summer, put in a large refrigerator shed behind the jetty to await the arrival of the next ferry. In winter, it was always cold enough to store the seafood on the jetty. He also collected goods brought over by ferry or fis.h.i.+ng boat and delivered mem to various croft houses dotted over the island. He had been working over Christmas, so it was possible he had finally decided to take a rest. The islanders were mainly Presbyterian and a lot of them would think Christmas, despite its name, a pagan festival. Hogmanay-New Year's Eve-was the real celebration.
The owner of The Highland Comfort, who acted as barman and, it appeared, just about everything else, informed mem sourly that the dining-room was closed in the winter but that they could have a meal in the bar. When they were seated, he handed them two greasy menus and left diem to make up their minds.
”So much for Highland delicacies,” mourned Harriet. ”Chips with everything. Hamburger and chips, lasagne and chips, pie and chips, sausage and chips, and ham, egg and chips.”
”I'll have the ham, egg and chips,” said Hamish, ”and a half pint of beer.”
Harriet settled for the same. The landlord wrote their order down carefully. ”I shouldnae hae tae do this mysel',” he complained. ”But I cannae get staff. There wa.s.s wan girl left and herself walked out on me.”
He slouched off.
”Since it'll probably take him about an hour to fry an egg,” said Hamish, ”let's get started.” He opened out a folded pad of paper and took out a pen. ”Jane Wetherby first. Any views?”
”I keep thinking about that coat,” said Harriet eagerly. ”Look, while Jane was away, we watched an Agatha Christie play on television. A woman calls in Poirot to protect her against somebody who has already tried to murder her. She invites her cousin to stay a few days with her. The cousin puts on the woman's highly coloured wrap and is killed by mistake. But it turned out that the cousin was the intended victim all along. The woman had manufactured attempts on her life to hide that fact. Jane wasn't with us. But she could have watched the show on television at her friend Priscilla's hotel.”
Priscilla. Hamish looked startled. He hadn't phoned to wish anyone a happy Christmas. They would not know what he was up to, because there would only be about two lines in the newspapers describing the accidental death of a tourist on Eileencraig. Harriet was still talking.
”So you see, Hamish, we have something of the same scenario here. Jane told you of attempts on her life. And it was Jane who told Heather to take her coat. Jane could easily have lied about that headache and slipped out of the house by the back way. The question is...why?”
”That brings us to Diarmuid,” said Hamish. ”Heather was older, a bore and a sn.o.b. He married her for her money and that money is gone. Did he have someone else ready to be Mrs. Tbdd Number Two? His business is so bad, he closed down for the whole of December and a bit of January. He could have run after Heather when he was out of sight of the rest of you, stalked her over to the west coast, waited until she climbed up on that crag, and then struck her on the side of the neck with a sharp rock. All he had to do then was hurl the rock in the sea. As I told you, I saw Jane slipping him a note. Jane is a very wealthy woman with a good business. She's also got looks, and Heather had none. Worth killing for, don't you think? Diarmuid is incredibly vain, and vain men are dangerous.”
”What about John Wetherby?” asked Harriet. ”You know, Hamish, for all his sour manner, I think he's still in love with Jane. What if something made him go mad with jealousy? What if he went over the edge and struck down Heather when we were searching for her, seeing only that yellow oilskin and thinking it was Jane?”
Hamish wrote busily. ”We'd better check into John Wetherby's business affairs and find out if Jane still has a will in his favour, that is, if she ever had one. What about the Carpenters? Is there something there?”
”I don't think so,” said Harriet roundly, ”and neither do you. But I suppose they'll have to be checked into as well. But how can you do it, not being officially on the case?”
”Wonder o' wonders,” said Hamish, ”here comes our food and beer.”
As they munched their way through greasy chips, salty, fatty ham and watery eggs, and drank their flat beer, Hamish kept looking down at his notes. ”I think I should find out what was in that note Jane slipped to Diarmuid,” he said. ”But then, we should concentrate more on Heather's character. See what you can get out of that secretary. Make a friend of her.”
Harriet grinned. ”Right you are, Sherlock.”
When they returned to the health farm, it was to find Diarmuid had retreated to his room again. The rest, including Jessie, were watching television.
Harriet asked. Jessie if she would like to take a walk and get a bit of fresh air. Jessie agreed and the pair walked outside.
Harriet studied her companion as they both strolled along the beach. Jessie was attired in a chain store's contribution to 'power dressing'. She had on a pin-striped suit, the jacket having very large square shoulder pads, and a short tailored skirt. With it, she wore a high-necked white blouse and black court shoes with low heels.
After some general conversation on the tragedy, Harriet asked curiously, ”But what about you? What will you do now? I mean, I gather Diarmuid's business was pretty much finished.”
”Oh, there'll be a lot of winding-up of affairs,” said Jessie. ”I'll be kept busy. Then I might go away somewhere. Try going to another country.”
”But you've had a month off.”
”And glad of it, too,” said Jessie waspishly. ”The Tbdds were a couple of slave-drivers.”
”How can that be, if the business wasn't doing at all well? I mean, what was there to do?”
Jessie stopped and looked at Harriet suspiciously and then shrugged. ”It was her that was the problem. I don't believe that woman even knew how to wipe her own backside.” The crudity sounded odd, spoken as it was in Jessie's prim, Scottish-accented, carefully etecuted vowels. ”Who do you think did all the work, setting up her 'little parties'? Who typed her d.a.m.n letters to this and that? Me. Even if the business hadn't collapsed, I meant to leave anyway.”
”Did she entertain much?” Harriet watched fcssie closely, thinking what a moody, rather spiteful girl she appeared. ”Oh, lots. It was all supposed to help the business. Invite the 'right' people in the hope they would become clients, lavish drink and concert tickets on them. And a useless lot they were, too. Occasionally she'd net a celebrity, by playing one celebrity off against the other, you know-'Mr. Bloggs is coming, Mr. Biggs', and Mr. Biggs is rea.s.sured that mere is to be another eminent celebrity, as is Mr. Bloggs when he is phoned and told that Mr. Biggs is coming. Old trick, but a surprising lot fell for it. I think Mr. Todd will find he hasn't a friend in the world when it gets about he hasn't any money.” This was said with a peculiar relish.
”Heather told me some very colourful stories about her upbringing in the Gorbals when it was one of the worst s.h.i.+ms in Glasgow,” said Harriet, ”so how did she have so much money?”
Jessie sniffed. ”That was one of her lies to make her a genuine member of the left. She was brought up as an only child in a large house in Billhead, which, in case you dont know, is a posh suburb near the university. She became left-wing to get an entree into a society which would otherwise have rejected her-you know, theatre, writing, me arts.”
”Was Diamond a good boss?”
”Yes, he'd have been all right on his own, but he expected me to work for his wife as well.”
”So why didn't you leave? How long were you with them?”
”Six years. Look, they paid well, I'll say that for them. I've always wanted to-live in Spain and I've kept that as my goal. Now, I'm cold. Run off and tell that copper boyfriend of yours everything I've said because that's the only reason you're marching me along this cold beach.”
And Harriet Shaw had the grace to blush.
SIX.
...the motive-hunting of motiveless malignity- ...the motive-hunting of motiveless malignity- how awful it is how awful it is -SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE -SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE Hamish returned to the village alone and ran Angus Macleod to earth. After lecturing the unrepentant fisherman on his disgraceful behaviour, pus.h.i.+ng Jane into the pillbox, Hamish asked him about that phone call from Diarmuid, requesting him to pick Jessie up at Oban.
”Oh, aye, he phoned in the middle o' the evening in a rare state,” said Angus, ”Asked me to take the boat out and go tae Oban. I telt him tae get lost, but he offered me a lot and the wind was dying, so ower I went.”
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