Priscilla left and shut the door behind her. For the first time she thought that she did not really know Hamish.
She saw that bright little picture in her mind again – Hamish in his best suit talking intently to a woman as if she were the only thing that mattered in his world.
∨ Death of a Gentle Lady ∧
6
“Reeling and Writhing, of course, to begin with,” the Mock Turtle replied, “and the different branches of Arithmetic – Ambition, Distraction, Unification and Derision.”
—Lewis Carroll
Hamish received a phone call from Jimmy early next morning, asking him to bring Anna to the castle.
“Daviot was worried when she didn’t turn up at her hotel in Strathbane last night, but then she phoned and said she was staying with you. Our boss hopes you’re not carrying any detente further than it should go.”
“I’ve been sleeping in the cell,” grumbled Hamish. “I’ve got to get her to the Tommel Castle Hotel this morning, somehow, and then I’ll bring her over.”
He heard a loud scream from the bedroom and a shout of “Get off!”
“What are you up to?” asked Jimmy.
“Nothing. She’s probably found the cat in her bed.”
This turned out to be the case. Anna had awakened with the feel of a warm body stretched out next to her own.
When she was up and dressed and in her uniform, Hamish told her, “I’ve taken the liberty of booking a room at the Tommel Castle Hotel. There are three people there who might interest you – Harold Jury, an author; Patrick Fitzpatrick, an Irishman; and a Mrs. Fanshawe, who borrowed one of the bikes. I’ve yet to speak to her.”
Anna agreed. Hamish’s pets had made the novelty of a stay in a highland police station quickly wear off.
♦
“There might be some press still here,” said Hamish as he walked into the hotel with Anna, carrying her two large suitcases, “but you’ll need to face them sooner or later. While you get settled in, I’ll see if I can find this Mrs. Fanshawe.”
Mrs. Fanshawe was having breakfast. She was a small, round, middle-aged woman with rosy cheeks and grey hair. She certainly could not have been the woman at the phone box.
In answer to his questions, she said she had borrowed a mountain bike. “I wanted to get some of the weight off,” she said with a jolly laugh. “One trip out was enough for me so I said to myself, Sadie, the Good Lord obviously meant you to be fat.”
She had not seen any mysterious woman. Anna walked into the dining room; at the sight of her uniform, several reporters and cameramen sprang to their feet, and soon she was surrounded. Hamish was about to interfere until he saw she was handling all questions coolly and efficiently.
When she finally said “That’s enough!” and joined Hamish, he said, “You’ve only had toast for breakfast. Would you like something here?”
“No, I would like to get started.”
They met Priscilla as they were leaving the hotel. Priscilla had seen Anna only very briefly. “Were you in the restaurant last night?” she asked Hamish when the introductions were over.
“Yes, we were going through the case.”
Priscilla smiled. Anna, with her Putin-like features, was hardly the beauty she had imagined the night before.
“Inspector Krokovsky is staying here,” said Hamish.
“Then we will do everything we can to make your stay pleasant,” said Priscilla.
When they were both in the Land Rover, before driving off, Hamish phoned his friend Angela Brodie, the doctor’s wife. “Angela, I’m going to be out most of the day. Do you think you could look after Sonsie and Lugs?”
“Hamish, you’ll need to find someone to regularly take care of your pets. You’re always asking me.”
“Just this once,” pleaded Hamish.
“You always say that. Oh, all right, but I’ve got to rehearse my part.”
“What part?”
“I rather got bullied into playing Lady Macbeth.”
“When did this happen?”
“That author held a meeting in the village hall last night. I rather got coerced into it.”
“Mrs. Wellington thought she was up for the part.”
“She changed her mind.”
“Who’s playing Macbeth?”
“Geordie Sinclair, the gamekeeper.”
Anna was drumming her fingers impatiently on the dashboard. “Got to go,” said Hamish quickly.
“Are our investigations always to be delayed while you search for a sitter for your animals?” demanded Anna.
“Och, no,” said Hamish. “All settled now.”
“Is Lady Macbeth anything to do with you?”
“It’s Shakespeare. Amateur production.”
Anna settled back in the passenger seat with a sigh. In Moscow, she would have considered it well beneath her dignity to be escorted by a mere constable. She hoped the file she had read on Hamish Macbeth had not been mistaken. There was no time or place in a murder enquiry for eccentrics. And yet she had to admit to herself that there was something likeable about the man with his flaming red hair, gangly figure, and gentle hazel eyes.
“Is this a real castle?” she asked as Hamish drove up the drive.
“It’s what we call a folly.”
“Does it have a name?”
“I think when it was first built, it was called Braikie Castle, but for years now it’s only been known as The Folly. You can see why. It’s ower-small for a castle, like a stone box with towers stuck on.”
Hamish’s heart sank when he walked into the hall and saw the burly figure of Detective Chief Inspector Blair. The man must have a cast-iron liver, he thought. He introduced Anna.
“Well, Anna,” said Blair with a leer. “What’s a pretty lady like you doing up in peasantville?”
“My name is Inspector Krokovsky,” said Annie coldly, “but you may address me as ma’am.”
Blair scowled. “You, Macbeth, get back to your sheep. There are enough of us here.”
Anna’s voice was like ice. “Constable Macbeth is driving me. He will stay.”
Blair’s temper flared up. “May I remind you I am the senior officer here?”
Daviot loomed in the background. “A word with you, Mr. Blair, if you please.”
Jimmy came to join them. He said to Anna, “The family are gathered in the drawing room. Would you like to meet them?”
“I would like to see where Irena’s body was found first of all. Constable Macbeth can show me.”
“Is the cellar locked?” asked Hamish.
“No,” said Jimmy.
Hamish led the way. He switched on the light at the top of the stairs, and they both walked down.
“Irena’s body was found in the trunk here,” said Hamish, pointing.
“And she died from a blow to the head?”
“I think it was one sharp blow. I think it was delivered by someone she knew, someone she was not afraid of.”
“That would mean a member of this family.”
“Perhaps. Unless it was someone from the time she was working in London. The castle door, as I remember, often stood open.” Hamish struck his head. “I’m an idiot.”
“Why?”
“On the day of the wedding, Mrs. Gentle was catering for the reception. There were the usual fiddly bits on trays and a bar. Knowing what I do of the late Mrs. Gentle, she would not intend to pass the food round herself or serve the drinks. She must have employed a catering company.
No, wait a minute. If, as I believe, she was being blackmailed into holding the reception, she would want it done as cheaply as possible. I’d better get into Braikie and interview Bessie Hunter, one of the women who was cleaning up afterwards. She might know.”