There was a typewriter open on the writing desk with a pile of hotel writing paper beside it. He diligently searched the top of the desk and drawers. There was not a single piece of paper with any writing on it whatsoever. Perhaps Blair had taken away what there was.
He turned his attention to the bedroom. He slid open drawers of frivolous underwear – Lady Jane’s taste in that direction was rather startling – and rummaged underneath. Nothing. If she had had a handbag, then Blair must have taken it away. Two suitcases lay on a luggage rack at the foot of the bed. Locked.
He took a large ring of keys out of his tunic pocket and got to work, listening all the while in case Blair should choose that moment to return for another search. At last the first case sprang open. There was a lavender sachet, two detective stories, a box of heated rollers, and a hair dryer. No paper of any kind. The next suitcase was completely empty.
He looked under the bed, under the mattress, down the sides of the chairs, even in the toilet tank and the bathroom cupboard, but not one scrap of paper did he find.
The manager had left the keys in the door. Hamish carefully locked the room and deposited the keys in the manager’s office.
He decided to go back to the Marag to see if the field was clear. But as he was making his way out of the hotel, he heard voices from the interviewing room and noticed Alice sitting nervously in the lounge outside.
“He’s got Jeremy in there,” said Alice. “Will this never end? He’s going to see me next and then call in the others one by one. I told Jeremy about that court thing and he didn’t mind, so you were wrong.”
“Is that a fact?” said Hamish, looking down at her curiously.
Alice jerked her head to one side to avoid the policeman’s gaze. Jeremy had been offhand all day, to say the least.
Hamish left quickly, deciding to try to find out a bit about the background of the others. He had in his tunic a list of the names and addresses of the members of the school. Perhaps he should start by trying to find out something about the Roths. But he could not use the telephone at the police station because Blair had set up headquarters there, and although he was busy interviewing Jeremy, no doubt his team of officers would be in the office.
Hamish’s car was parked outside his house. He decided to take a run up to the Halburton-Smythes. The rain had stopped falling and a light breeze had sprung up. But everything was wet and sodden and grey. Mist shrouded the mountains, and wet, long-haired sheep scampered across the road in front of the car on their spindly black legs like startled fur-coated schoolmarms.
He swung off the main road and up the narrower one which led through acres of grouse moor to the Halburton-Smythes’ home. Home was a mock castle, built by a beer baron in the nineteenth century when Queen Victoria made the Highlands fashionable. It had pinnacles, turrets and battlements and a multitude of small, cold, dark rooms.
Hamish pushed open the massive, brass-studded front door and walked into the stone-flagged gloom of the hall. He made his way through to the estate office, expecting to find Mr Halburton-Smythe’s secretary, Lucy Hanson, there, but the room was deserted and the bright red telephone sitting on the polished mahogany desk seemed to beg Hamish to reach out and use it.
He sat down beside the desk and after some thought phoned Rory Grant at the Daily Recorder in Fleet Street. Rory sounded exasperated when he came on the line. “What’s the use of having a bobby for a relative if I can’t get an exclusive on a nice juicy murder? I had my bags packed and was going to set out on the road north when the Libyans decided to put a bomb in Selfridges and some Jack the Ripper started cutting up brass nails in Brixton, so I’m kept here. No one cares about your bloody murder now, but you might have given me a buzz. I called the police station several times, and some copper told me each time to piss off.”
“It would still be news if I found the murderer, Rory,” cajoled Hamish. “You know the people who are at the fishing school. The names have been in all the papers. See if you can find out a bit more about them than has appeared. Oh, and while I’m on the phone, if I wanted to find out about someone from New York who might have been in trouble, or someone from Augusta, Georgia, what would I do?”
“You phone the FBI, don’t you, you great Highland berk.”
“I think Detective Chief Inspector Blair will have done that and I would not want to go treading on any toes.”
“You can phone the newspapers, then, but you’ll need to wait until I go and get names from the foreign desk. You are a pest, Hamish.”
Hamish held the line patiently until Rory returned with the information.
He thanked the reporter and, after listening to the silence of the castle for a few moments, dialled New York. He was in luck. The reporter Rory had recommended said cheerfully it was a slack day and did Hamish want him to call back. “No, I will chust wait,” said Hamish, comfortably aware that he was not paying for the call.
After some time the reporter came back with the information on Marvin Roth. “All old history,” he said cheerfully. “Seems that back around 1970, he was in trouble over running sweatshops in the garment district. Employing illegal aliens and paying them peanuts. Big stink. Never got to trial. Bribed his way out of it. Wants to go into politics. Big man in town now. Donates to charities, fashionable pinko, ban the bomb and clean up the environment. No one’s going to rake up his past. Got a nasty way of hitting back. Knows all the big names and he’s a buddy of my editor’s, so don’t say where you got the information from, for Chrissake.”
“Do you mean to tell me that you cannot print the facts?”
“Absolutely.”
“It is all very strange,” said Hamish, shaking his head. “I have never been to New York. What is the weather like at the moment?”
They chatted amiably for five more minutes at Mr Halburton-Smythe’s expense before Hamish remembered the BUY BRIT – on the section of photograph. It seemed that it must be Buy British, but could it perhaps be an American advertisement?
“Never heard of anything like it,” said the American reporter cheerfully, “but I’ll ask around.” Hamish gave him the Halburton-Smythes’ phone number and told the reporter to give any information to Priscilla.
Then he phoned Augusta, Georgia. Here he was unlucky. The reporter sounded cross and harried. No, he didn’t know anything about Amy Roth, nee Blanchard, off the top of his head. Yes, he would phone back, but he couldn’t promise.
Hamish put down the telephone and sighed.
He heard the sound of heavy footsteps in the corridor and jumped to his feet. Colonel Halburton-Smythe erupted into the room. He was a small, thin, choleric man in his late fifties. Hamish marvelled anew that the fair Priscilla could have such an awful father.
“What are you doing here, Officer?” barked the colonel, looking suspiciously at the phone.
“I was waiting for your good self,” said Hamish. “Miss Halburton-Smythe told me you were still having trouble with the poachers.”
“I’ve just been down to your wretched station. Fat chappie told me he was in the middle of a murder investigation. Told him one of my deer had been shot in the leg last night. Gave me a wall-eyed stare. Useless, the lot of you. What are you going to do about it?”
“I will look into the matter,” said Hamish soothingly.