Angus’s pale grey eyes fastened on Anna. “He will be the bachelor until the end of his days.”
“This old fool knows more than he is telling,” said Anna wrathfully, and they left the cottage. “Let’s get him into an interview room and get it out of him.”
“We don’t use the rubber truncheons up here,” said Hamish. “Angus was aye a good guesser.”
As they walked back down the hill, Hamish looked fondly down at the village, his village, lying placidly in the sunlight, and wished with all his heart he could get rid of Anna. Her foreignness, her very ruthlessness, was upsetting him.
∨ Death of a Gentle Lady ∧
7
What bloody man is that?
—William Shakespeare
Back at the castle, Anna met the members of the family. Andrew Gentle was furious. “We have been questioned and questioned. I do not feel like going over it again.”
The drawing room in which the members of the family were gathered was cold. Outside the narrow windows, the sun shone bravely down, but not a ray of it penetrated into the gloom.
Jimmy Anderson said, “We are going to question you all separately again, and not because of the presence of this Russian police inspector, but because of a new development in the case. We will use the study again. Mr. Andrew Gentle, you first.”
Hamish caught Jimmy by the sleeve. “I’d be better off trying to find out something else.”
“Don’t you want to see how they react to the possibility that their mother might have killed Irena?” muttered Jimmy.
“There are enough of you,” said Hamish. “I’ll be off.”
Outside, he took great gulps of fresh air. Anna’s treatment of Blair still upset him.
He decided to go to the hotel and interview the Irishman again. It was nearly lunchtime. His stomach rumbled.
At the hotel, he went round to the kitchen door. Clarry, the chef, hailed him with delight. Like Willie Lamont, Clarry had worked for Hamish during one of the brief times when Hamish had been elevated to sergeant. If he were ever to be given help again, Hamish wondered if that newcomer would also suddenly discover a yen for the catering trade.
“Any hope of a bite to eat?” asked Hamish.
“Sit yourself down, man, at that wee table by the door and keep out o’ the way. I’ve the lunches to get ready. Soup and a sandwich do ye?”
“That would be grand.”
Clarry had three new Polish girls working for him. He complained that the trouble about Poles was that they took any job going, perfected their English, and then moved up the job ladder as quickly as possible – which meant right out of his kitchen.
The soup was cock-a-leekie, warm and nourishing. Hamish turned over the idea of Mrs. Gentle being a murderer in his head. She had very much wanted to appear a grand and charitable lady. He was sure her image had meant a lot to her. He would need to forget about his newfound dislike of Anna and ask her to contact Scotland Yard to get someone to dig into Mrs. Gentle’s background. He thought the Yard might be more likely to want to please her than Strathbane police headquarters.
When he had finished the plate of egg salad sandwiches which had been served with the soup, he thanked Clarry and went into the dining room in search of Patrick Fitzpatrick.
He noticed that Priscilla and Harold were dining together. They seemed to be getting along very well, and that surprised him. He had found Harold a pompous bore, but the man seemed to be entertaining Priscilla nicely.
He realised the other diners were all staring at him as he stood in the doorway. There was no sign of Patrick. He retreated and asked at the desk if Patrick was in the hotel; he was told that the man had taken a packed lunch and gone out walking.
And then he turned and saw Elspeth. She was wearing an Aran sweater and jeans, with her frizzy hair screwed up in a knot on top of her head.
“Get onto those caterers, did you?” he asked her.
“Let’s go outside,” said Elspeth. “It’s a grand day.”
They stood together in the forecourt. “I think they told us pretty much what they had told you,” said Elspeth, “but it was certainly enough to make a story. Most of the other press have left, but I’m sure my story will bring them running back.”
“If she killed Irena,” said Hamish, “it must have been because Irena had found out something that Mrs. Gentle did not want known. I wonder if her husband really did die of a heart attack.”
“I researched that. Seems to have been okay. He was being treated for heart disease. Due for a bypass operation just before he died.”
“Before she met him, she was a hatcheck girl. Find anything about that in your research?”
“No, because she married Byron Gentle before he made his millions. He was a grammar school boy who got a scholarship to Oxford. After leaving Oxford, he passed his stockbroker exams and started work in the City. He seems to have been very gifted. He married her while he was still studying for his exams. Where’s the Russian?”
“Up at the castle wi’ Jimmy, grilling the folks. I’m right off her.”
“Why?”
“Blair got on the wrong side of her, so she took him into the bar here and plied him with so much vodka that he got another attack of alcohol poisoning. She could have killed him.”
“Wouldn’t be any great loss if she had,” said Elspeth. “Lochdubh’s abuzz with another murder.”
“What?”
“The production of Macbeth. They’ve all gone stage-mad. Matthew has even volunteered to play Banquo’s ghost. Of course, there aren’t many parts for women – only the three witches and Lady Macbeth.”
“Angela’s playing Lady Macbeth, I know that. Which ones are playing the three witches?”
“The Currie sisters and Mrs. Wellington.”
“Good casting.”
“You know,” said Elspeth, “it would be interesting to know what the Gentle family talks about when they’re on their own.”
“That’s something we can’t find out.”
“If you get me into the castle, I could hide a tape recorder somewhere.”
“Not on your life. This is becoming a police state. We’ve got more CCTV cameras in Britain than any other country in the world. I think Lochdubh must be one o’ the last places without one.”
“I bet you wish they did have one,” said Elspeth. “Then you might have seen who made that phone call, the one you’ve been asking everyone about.”
“Here’s Mr. Fitzpatrick,” said Hamish as the tall Irishman limped into the forecourt. “I’ve got to ask him a few questions.”
“You again!” said Patrick. “What’s up? I’ve walked too far and want to get these boots off.”
“Just a few more questions. Thanks, Elspeth. I’ll talk to you later. What do you do for a living, Mr. Fitzpatrick?”
“I own a bookshop in Dublin.”
“And you are able to take a holiday from the shop?”
“I left my partner in charge.”
“On the day of the first murder, that would be September twenty-fifth, where were you?”
“I wrote it in my diary. I’ve got it here.” He pulled a fat little leather-bound book out of his anorak pocket and thumbed the pages. “Here we are.”
Went up into the foothills in the morning with my binoculars. Saw a capercailzie. Took a photograph. Ate lunch. Walked further but back downhill and round to the forest opposite the village. Very boring, nothing but miles of evergreens. Walked back to the hotel for tea. Fell asleep in the lounge. Woke up with the noise of the press arriving. Showered and changed. Ate dinner. Watched television. Went to bed.
“There you are.”