M.C. Beaton
Death of a Maid
Hamish Macbeth #23
2007, EN
∨ Death of a Maid ∧
1
I would any day as soon kill a pig as write a letter.
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson
The letter lay on the doormat just inside the kitchen door of the police station in Lochdubh.
Police Constable Hamish Macbeth picked it up and turned it over. From the address on the back, he saw it was from Elspeth Grant. Elspeth worked as a reporter on a Glasgow newspaper, and he had once considered proposing marriage to her but had dithered and left it too late.
He carried the letter into the kitchen and sat down at the table. His cat, Sonsie, stared at him curiously, and his dog, Lugs, put his paw on his master’s knee and looked up at him with his odd blue eyes.
“What’s she writing to me about?” wondered Hamish aloud. Personal letters were rare and curious things nowadays when most people used e·mails or text messages. He opened it reluctantly. Elspeth always made him feel guilty. She had once jeered at him that he was married to his dog and cat.
“Dear Hamish,” he read, “I have a few weeks holiday owing and would like to come back to Lochdubh. As I can now afford it, I shall be staying at the Tommel Castle Hotel. Knowing your vanity, I am sure you will think that I am pursuing you. That is not the case. I am not interested in you or your weird animals any more. This letter is just to clear matters up. Yours, Elspeth.”
“Now, there wass no need to write such a thing,” said Hamish, scratching his fiery hair. “No need at all.” The sibilance of his accent showed he was upset. “Herself can chust keep out of my way, and that’ll suit me chust fine.”
But he was hurt and he felt guilty. He had treated her badly, blowing hot and cold, and the last frost had been caused by the news that his ex-fiancee, Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, was returning to work at the Tommel Castle Hotel, owned by her parents. He could never quite rid himself of the attraction Priscilla held for him. But she had come, seen him infrequently, and then after a month had left again for London. He crumpled up the letter and left it on the table just as someone knocked at the door.
When he opened it, he looked down at the squat figure of Mrs. Mavis Gillespie. Mrs. Gillespie was a charwoman, although in these politically correct days, she was referred to as ‘my maid.’ She was considered an amazingly good cleaner. Hamish remembered with a sinking feeling that he had won her services in a church raffle.
She bustled past him into the kitchen and took off her coat. Mrs. Gillespie was a round little woman in her fifties with rigidly permed grey hair, ruddy cheeks, and a long mean mouth. She was carrying a metal bucket and an old·fashioned mop.
Hamish did not like her. “I’ve decided you don’t need to do anything,” he said. “The place is clean enough.”
“Don’t be daft.” She glared around. “This place needs a good scrub, and what would Mrs. Wellington say?”
Mrs. Wellington was the formidable wife of the minister.
“All right,” said Hamish. “I’ll be off for a walk.”
“And take your beasties wi’ you,” she called to his retreating back. “They fair gie me the creeps.”
♦
“Women!” muttered Hamish as he strolled along the waterfront, followed by his dog and cat. He knew that the households Mrs. Gillespie worked for probably all had buckets and mops, but she carried her own around with her like weapons. He had once called on Mrs. Wellington when Mrs. Gillespie was cleaning and had winced at the clatter and banging as she slammed her bucket against the furniture and knocked out cables from the back of the television set with her mop.
Why the redoubtable Mrs. Wellington should put up with such behaviour was beyond him. Then he realised that he himself had shown cowardice.
He knew Mrs. Gillespie to be a gossip. Everyone in the north of Scotland gossiped, but Mrs. Gillespie was malicious. If there was anything bad to say about anyone, she would say it. He felt he should go back and order her out, but as he gazed out over the still sea loch to the forest on the other side, a feeling of tranquillity overcame him. He watched seagulls squabbling over the harbour.
Behind him, peat smoke rose lazily from the chimneys of the little whitewashed cottages along the waterfront.
Lugs lay across his boots, and Sonsie leaned against his uniformed trouser leg.
The great thing about the peace of Lochdubh, thought Hamish dreamily, was that it acted like a balm on the soul. The guilt and worry about that letter from Elspeth faded away. As for Mrs. Gillespie, let her get on with it. There wasn’t much at the police station that she could break.
It was autumn in the Highlands of Scotland, and the rowan trees were heavy with scarlet berries. The locals still planted rowan trees outside their houses to keep the witches and goblins at bay. People said, as they said every year, that the berries were a sign of a hard winter to come, and therefore they occasionally got it right.
Pale sunlight glinted on the water of the loch. A seal surfaced and swam lazily past.
Hamish felt suddenly hungry. He decided to put his animals in the police Land Rover and motor up to the Tommel Castle Hotel to see if he could cadge a sandwich from the kitchen.
♦
Hamish was met in the foyer of the hotel by the manager, Mr. Johnson. “What brings you?” asked Mr. Johnson. “The only murders here now are the fake ones on these murder weekends where everyone gets to play Poirot.”
Hamish did not want to say outright that he would like something to eat, so he asked instead for news of Priscilla.
“Still down in London.” Mr. Johnson eyed the tall, gangly figure of the red-haired policeman suspiciously. “I suppose you want a cup of coffee.”
“Aye, that would be grand,” said Hamish, “and maybe a wee something to go with it.”
“Like a dram?”
“Like a sandwich.”
“You’re a terrible moocher, Hamish, but come into my office and I’ll send for something.”
Soon Hamish was happily demolishing a plate of ham sandwiches while surreptitiously feeding some of them to his dog and cat.
“Did you come up here for a free feed?” asked the manager.
“I’ve been driven out of my station,” said Hamish. “I won the services of that Gillespie woman in a raffle.”
“Oh, my. Couldn’t you get rid of her?”
“Too scared,” mumbled Hamish through a sandwich.
“The trouble is,” said Mr. Johnson, “that nobody wants to go out cleaning these days. Now that the big new supermarkets have opened in Strathbane, they prefer to work there. The staff here has mostly changed. Most of them are from eastern Europe. Mind you, they’re good. But those names! All consonants.”
“Who does the Gillespie woman work for these days?”
“Let me see, there’s old Professor Sander at Braikie. Also in Braikie, Mrs. Fleming and Mrs. Styles, then Mrs. Wellington here, and a Mrs. Barret-Wilkinson at Styre.”
Styre was a village to the south of Lochdubh. “I havenae been in Styre in ages,” said Hamish.
“Why not? It’s on your beat.”
“I’m thinking the whole of damned Sutherland is on my beat these days. Besides, there’s never any crime in Styre.”
“By the way,” said the manager, looking slyly at Hamish, “we’ve a booking for Miss Grant.”
Hamish pretended indifference, although he could feel his tranquillity seeping away. “Herself must be earning a fair whack to be staying here,” he said.
The Tommel Castle Hotel had once been the private residence of Colonel Halburton-Smythe, but faced with bankruptcy, the colonel had turned his home into a hotel because of Hamish’s suggestion, although he still claimed the bright idea had been all his own. The hotel was one of those pseudo-Gothic castles built in the nineteenth century when Queen Victoria had made living in Scotland fashionable.