“Elspeth, you know the ropes. You’ll both need to go to Strathbane and get the official statement. I cannae tell you anything other than the fact that, yes, she was murdered when she was leaving Professor Sander’s house in Braikie. I found the body.”
“Why were you there?” asked Elspeth.
“Chust happened to be passing.”
“You’re lying, Hamish.” Elspeth’s silver eyes were fixed on his face. “We’ve been to view the scene of the crime. The prof’s house is at the end of a cul-de-sac. Bessie, the maid at the hotel, told me you’d won the services of Mrs. Gillespie in a raffle. You went to see her. What about? There’s a rumour flying around that she might have been a blackmailer. Did she ferret among the police papers?”
“That’s enough,” said Hamish sharply. “Look, Elspeth, I’ll do a deal wi’ ye. Go to police headquarters. Get a statement from them. Do it by the book. But there’s one thing I’ll tell you: if she was a blackmailer, I can’t find a letter or even bills in her house – not a bit of paper. She may have hidden them somewhere. You find out where, and I’ll give you what I’ve got.”
“You’re on. Not like you not to offer us some refreshment, Hamish.”
“I’m tired, and Jimmy’s drunk all the whisky. Off with the pair of you.”
♦
Outside the police station, Luke said, “That policeman’s keen on you. And what about you? Why did you let him think we were an item?”
“Stop asking questions. There’s a good restaurant along here. I’m hungry.”
Elspeth stalked off. Luke watched her, amused, and then followed after her.
∨ Death of a Maid ∧
4
Everyone lives by selling something.
—Robert Louis Stevenson
Before visiting Mrs. Styles the following morning, Hamish decided to call in at the bakery in Braikie to have a talk with Mrs. Gillespie’s friend Queenie Hendry. He remembered Queenie as soon as he set eyes on her. He had interviewed her once before when he was tracking down a murderer. She was a pleasant-looking middle-aged woman with neat grey hair and a rosy-cheeked face. He found it hard to believe that she should have had anything in common with the late Mrs. Gillespie.
“Can I be having a word with you?” he asked.
“It’ll be about Mavis,” she said. She turned to her assistant. “Alice, mind the counter.”
Queenie raised the counter flap and walked through. “It’s a terrible business,” she said. “Poor Mavis.”
“I gather you were a friend of Mrs. Gillespie.”
“Yes, we often had a chat together after I’d closed up the shop. My, the poor woman did love cream cakes.”
“Did you ever get the impression – now, think carefully – that she might be a blackmailer?”
She turned a little pale.
“Look,” urged Hamish. “She’s dead. If you know anything at all, please tell me.”
“If I tell you, you’ll report me to the council,” she whispered.
“Come outside,” said Hamish. “We need a private chat.”
They walked together outside the shop. The wind had died down, and the day was warm and sunny.
“I’ll do you a deal,” said Hamish. “Whatever you tell me, I won’t report you to the council.”
She hugged herself with strong arms across her white-aproned chest.
“It’s like this. I had this plague o’ mice. Had a job getting rid o’ the things. The shop was quiet, and I happened to tell Mavis about it. ‘Let me see,’ she said. ‘I’ve a fair way with the mice.’
“I led her through to the back. I switched on the light, and there they were, mice scampering all over the place. To my horror, she took out a wee camera and started snapping off pictures. Then she said, ‘Now, Queenie, I think the health and safety people at the council would be interested in these photos.’ I told her the exterminator was coming in the morning, but I know there’s this bastard on the council who loves making life a misery for shopkeepers. She said she wouldn’t do anything about it as long as she could have a box of cream cakes every day.
That wasn’t enough. She insisted she was my friend and kept dropping in for a chat. She frightened me.”
“You should have come to me,” said Hamish. “I’d soon have shut her up. I’ll need to ask you what you were doing yesterday morning.”
“I was in the shop all morning. I can tell you which customers came in, and Alice was with me the whole time.”
“Did it never dawn on you that if she was blackmailing you, she could have been blackmailing others?”
“No. She never asked for money. Just cream cakes.”
Hamish thanked her and told her if she could think of anything else or had any idea who else Mrs. Gillespie might have been blackmailing, to let him know.
As he drove off to interview Mrs. Styles, he glanced in his rear-view mirror and noticed a small car following him with Shona Fraser at the wheel. He stopped, got out as she parked behind him, and went to speak to her.
“You should be with the detective chief inspector,” he said.
“He does nothing but shout at people. I thought I’d catch up with you. I’m sure you’re the better story.”
Hamish leered down at her. “Aye, that would be grand. I can chust see myself on the telly. Which would you say wass my best side?”
“Forget about that. Where are you going?”
“I’m going up to the Gordons’ farm to check their sheep papers are in order. Checking sheep papers is a right important thing.”
“But what about the murder!”
“The sheep papers may not be important to you,” said Hamish, whose face reflected nothing more than amiable stupidity, “but they’re life and death to some folk. Now, let me tell you all about sheep. I haff the rare knowledge of the sheep.”
“Got to go,” said Shona hurriedly.
Hamish watched, amused, as she drove off. Then the smile left his face as he continued to drive towards the home of Mrs. Styles. The fact that Mrs. Gillespie could go to such lengths to blackmail Mrs. Hendry – and for cream cakes! Gluttony, malice, control, and bullying. No wonder someone murdered her!
Mrs. Styles lived in a bungalow on the outskirts of the town. He cursed Blair as he walked up to the door. Blair would have left Mrs. Styles with a dislike and distrust of the police.
♦
Luke Teviot felt awash with tea. He found Elspeth’s idea of reporting in the Highlands very odd. Instead of going to interview the people for whom Mrs. Gillespie had cleaned, she had called on various homes between Lochdubh and Braikie, being welcomed by people she had known, drinking tea, and gossiping. But he soon began to see that she was eliciting quite a bit of information about the late Mrs. Gillespie.
At last, Elspeth said, “We’re going to see a Mrs. Samson. She lived next door to Mrs. Fleming and seems to have been a friend of Mrs. Gillespie as well as being a nasty gossip.”
“All right,” said Luke, sending a lazy spiral of cigarette smoke up into the clear air. “But if I have to drink another cup of tea or eat another scone, I’ll scream.”
Soon they were sitting in the smoky cavern of Mrs. Samson’s living room. “Do you mind if I smoke?” asked Luke.
“Yes, I do,” snapped Mrs. Samson. “Do you know what that stuff does to your lungs?”
The fire belched out another cloud of grey coal smoke.
“As I was saying,” pursued Elspeth, “we are planning to write a nice obituary about your friend.”
Those eyes magnified by the thick glasses seemed to grow even larger as Mrs. Samson gave a dry chuckle. Then she said, “You’ll have a hard time, lassie. Nobody liked her.”
“But you were her friend.”