“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Heath calmly. “I felt like murdering him myself.”
“Does he have a family? Where does the money come from?”
“The parents are both dead. The fees were paid by a family trust. He has a sister, an elder sister. She used to come on parents’ day. Now what was her name? Beth, that was it, Beth Hynd. She may have married by now. Lived in Richmond. Peter spent his school holidays with her. I am afraid I cannot remember the address.”
As he left, Hamish groaned inwardly. Back to London and then Richmond. He had meant to stay and look around Cambridge, but the desire to prove to himself that he was not on a wild-goose chase, that he had not wasted his holidays, drove him on. He was fortunate in catching a fast train and an hour later was back in London and on the tube to Richmond.
Richmond, which he had not visited before, was much larger and sprawling than he had expected. He did not want to enlist the help of the local police and so draw attention to himself. But where to start? He went into the nearest post office and asked for the telephone directory. Women no longer prefixed their names in the phone books with ‘Miss’ or ‘Mrs.’ for fear of getting obscene calls. Her first name would be Elizabeth, he thought, turning the pages, so it would probably be under E. Hynd. There were several E. Hynds in the Richmond area, so he bought a phone card and went out to the box and began to phone each one.
At the third call, just when he was beginning to think she might have an ex-directory number, Beth Hynd answered the phone. She listened to him carefully and then said cautiously that he could call on her but to have his identification ready and to tell her before he arrived a number in Sutherland she could call to confirm he was who he said he was. Hamish gave her Jimmy Anderson’s name and the Strathbane number. He rang off, put the card back in the slot, and dialled Strathbane police headquarters. To his infinite relief, Jimmy Anderson was there. The detective listened while Hamish briefly outlined the reason for his visit south. “Nobody’s going to love ye if this turns out tae be murder,” said Anderson. “Daviot’ll consider you’ve made a fool o’ the lot of us.”
“Don’t care,” said Hamish. “Chust tell this woman I am who I am.”
“Right you are, Popeye.”
Hamish left the box, realizing he had not asked Beth for directions. He went into a newsagent’s and consulted a street directory and found that the street in which she lived was not very far away.
Although Beth Hynd was in her late thirties – Hamish judged her to be about ten years older than her brother – mere was a strong family likeness. She also reminded him forcibly of someone he had met recently. She invited him into the living-room of her home. It was a pleasant-enough room, well-ordered, but lit with a 40-watt bulb behind one of those old–fashioned glass shades, which gave the place the air of the type of waiting-room one waits in before some humiliation – dentist, gynaecologist, headmaster – or the lounge of an old folks’ home where the elderly sit and play Scrabble and wait for death’s bright angel to pop his head round the door and say, “Come in, Number Six, your time’s up.” An old–fashioned gas fire hissed and popped.
“I trust Peter has come to no harm,” she said.
Hamish had no intention of scaring her with a belief that Peter Hynd might have been murdered. “I am investigating a death in the village of Drim,” he said, “where your brother lived.”
“Lived? You mean he is not still there?”
“No, he left a few weeks ago. I judged him to be a clever young man who might have seen something that the locals missed. Do you know where he is?”
She shook her head.
“He usually turns up here sooner or later. I will tell him to phone you immediately when he arrives.”
“Does he work at anything?”
“He took various jobs, but as he has a private income he does not need to work and so he never really stuck at anything for very long.”
“Any romantic entanglements?”
Her eyes were suddenly sharp. “Why? Why do you ask? What has that got to do with anything?”
Hamish’s voice was soothing. “Och, I just thought that if he had a lassie, then she might know where he is.”
Her face cleared. “Of course. But I am afraid I know nothing of Peter’s love life.”
“Where does he live when he’s in the south? His house is let.”
“Here. He stays here.”
“Are you very close?”
A guarded look and then: “Of course. He is my brother.”
Hamish stared at her in frustration but he realized there was nothing further to be got out of her. And the room was depressing him. It must be awful, he thought, to have enough private income to knock any idea of getting a job out of one’s head.
“What do you do?” he asked.
“Do? I am on the board of a couple of charities. Then there are people to visit. Believe me, there are not enough hours in the day.” The sudden loneliness looking out of her eyes belied the statement Hamish glanced around the room. Books in serried ranks, dark-green house plants, but not even a cat for company.
He found it a relief to be back out in the streets of Richmond, where the air smelled of crisp autumn. He found a cheap restaurant and ate a hamburger and drank Coke with a pleased feeling that Priscilla would disapprove of such junk food.
He would need to get back to the source, he thought, and I that was Drim. He felt in his bones that young Heather was right. Peter Hynd was as dead as a doornail, and instead of wasting time in the south, he should be back in the north, asking question after question until a clearer picture appeared. He looked at his watch. If he hurried, he could get back to Rory’s, pack up, and catch the night train to Inverness. He always felt like a fish out of water investigating things on foreign territory anyway.
As it was, he only managed to leap on the train as it was pulling out. Most of the train consisted of sleeping cars, so he was lucky to find an empty seat in the few carriages allotted to upright passengers.
As he fell asleep, the faces of the women of Drim danced before his eyes. And yet, would it not be more likely that one of the men was the murderer? Murder, murder, murder, sang the wheels as the train ploughed north through the darkness, leaving London and the south behind.
♦
“You want what?!” Jock Kennedy leaned on the counter of his shop and looked in amazement at Hamish Macbeth. “I want a room,” said Hamish patiently.
“Why? You live ower at Lochdubh.”
“I’m on my holidays.”
“Seems daft tae me. Try Edie Aubrey. She lets out a room tae the tourists.”
“Fine.”
As Hamish walked to Edie Aubrey’s home, he noticed that the community hall now stood silent. He glanced in the window of the hairdresser’s as he passed. Alice MacQueen was sitting in a chair by the window, doing her nails. Not a customer in sight. Two women passed him on their way to the store wearing the inevitable uniform of anorak and ski trousers stretched over massive thighs, lank hair, and no make-up.
Nothing anymore to dress up for.
Edie Aubrey looked flustered when he asked for a room.
“The season’s over,” she said nervously. “I haven’t aired the room.”
“I’m sure it’ll do fine,” said Hamish.
“Well, it’s just bed and breakfast. I don’t do any other meals.”
“I’ll manage.”
“Oh, I suppose. You’re not here officially then?”
“No, chust wanted to get out of Lochdubh. A policeman’s neffer off duty so long as Strathbane knows where he is. Want to get a bit of fishing.”
“Follow me,” said Edie, apparently making up her mind. The house was one of those many Victorian villas which were built for holidaying English families after Queen Victoria had made the Highlands fashionable. It was small but well-carpeted and well-fired. The bedroom allotted to him contained a large double bed covered in a shiny pink satin quilt. There was one of those old–fashioned basket chairs in a corner, green shot with gold, which held a doll in a frilly dress. Its eyes stared at Hamish as empty of expression as the dead eyes of Betty Baxter. A large wardrobe dominated one wall, built for the heavier, larger clothes of Victorians. He opened it up. There were shelves on one side for shirts and little drawers for collar studs and dress studs. Over the bed was a picture of two Edwardian girls chasing a small white dog across a field of poppies.