“Is she in there?” cried Hamish, leaping down from the Land Rover.
“Can’t get near the place to find out,” said a fireman. “Stand back.”
Hamish made a run for the front door, but before he could reach it, the glass-paned door exploded and a great sheet of flame burst out, driving him back.
Blair arrived and demanded to know what was going on. Hamish told him that Mrs. Samson had collected a package from the solicitor that morning.
“So,” explained Hamish, “someone knew about that package, and someone must have been frightened that it contained blackmailing stuff. If she made one phone call, we can trace it.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Blair saw Shona arriving and said quickly, “You’d better get back round all the suspects again and find out where they were.”
Hamish took one last look at the blazing house before he turned away. Old Mrs. Samson could not possibly be alive in that inferno, and whatever papers she had received from the solicitor would have gone up in flames with her.
♦
Hamish decided to begin at the beginning and go back and see Mrs. Barret-Wilkinson. He was driving through Braikie’s main street when at first he thought he saw a ghost. The elderly figure of Mrs. Samson was looking in the window of the bakery. He screeched to a halt. Lugs let out a sharp bark of protest. Hamish jumped down from the Land Rover.
“Mrs. Samson,” he cried. “Do you know your house is on fire?”
“What!”
“It’s in flames. I’d better take you back there. The firemen think you’re still inside.”
She put her hand to her chest, and he supported her, frightened she would faint. Then he helped her up into the Land Rover. She huddled in the passenger seat, muttering, “Oh, my house.”
“Was it insured?” asked Hamish.
“Aye.” A little colour began to return to her cheeks. “I’ll maybe be able to get myself a nice wee bungalow, everything on the one floor.”
Hamish drove up to the burning villa. Elspeth saw him arrive and whipped out a camera and began to take photographs as Hamish helped the old lady out of the Land Rover.
Blair came hurrying up. “Who’s this? I told you to get out there and interview folks.”
“This is Mrs. Samson,” said Hamish. “She was fortunately out shopping when the fire started.” Hamish turned to the old lady. “Mrs. Samson, the solicitor gave you a packet of papers left you by Mrs. Gillespie. Do you by any chance have them with you?”
She shook her head. “I never even opened the packet. Mrs. Gillespie told that solicitor it was just old mementoes – photos and letters. I thought I’d give them to her stepdaughter, Heather.”
“And did you?”
“I hadn’t the time. I left them on the table in the hall.”
Hamish looked gloomily at the blazing house.
“You!” snapped Blair. “Stop standing there gawking like a loon. Get to work. We’ll look after Mrs. Samson.”
Behind Blair’s back, Jimmy mimed drinking motions which Hamish interpreted to mean that he would be over at Lochdubh at the end of the day.
♦
Most of the time, Hamish was used to the winds of Sutherland. But as he got out of the Land Rover in front of Mrs. Barret-Wilkinson’s house, he felt the increasing strength of a gale and sighed. Calm days were a brief respite from the yelling and screech of the Sutherland winds, and this one was already beginning to howl like a banshee.
He clutched at his cap as he rang the bell. He waited. No reply.
He retreated and drove down to Mrs. Beattie’s shop. “Have you seen Mrs. Barret-Wilkinson this morning?” he asked.
“No, it’s been right quiet. Awful that, about Mrs. Samson’s house.”
“How did you hear? Do you know Mrs. Samson?”
“Never heard of her, but my niece in Braikie called me a minute ago. Burnt to a crisp, the old lady was,” added Mrs. Beattie with gloomy relish.
“She’s fine. She was out when the fire started,” said Hamish.
“There’s a mercy. I see you looking at the sausage rolls. I just made them this morning.”
“I’ll take six,” said Hamish.
Outside, he let the dog and cat out for a run and then fed them two sausage rolls each. He put them back in the Land Rover, climbed in himself, and settled down to have a lunch of sausage rolls and coffee. He had filled up a thermos flask before he left that morning. Rain smeared the windscreen. Outside, the waves were rising – sea loch waves – angrily racing in rapidly one after the other, while out in the Atlantic, the gigantic ones pounded the cliffs.
He drove back to Mrs. Barret-Wilkinson’s house and waited. He was just about to give up when she arrived in a four-wheel-drive vehicle. She looked startled to see him and then angry.
“I have nothing more to say to you,” she shouted against the wind.
“I have something to say to you,” said Hamish. “We’d better go indoors.”
She reluctantly led the way.
“Now, what is it?” she demanded, one hand on the mantelpiece. She was wearing a fishing hat and a waxed coat – suitable clothes, and yet they looked somehow odd on her.
“Mrs. Samson’s house has been burnt down.”
“Who is Mrs. Samson?”
“A friend of the murdered Mrs. Gillespie. I am asking everyone she cleaned for where they were this morning.”
“I consider it an impertinence. Oh, very well, I was over in Strathbane, shopping.”
“Where?”
“Here and there.”
“Did you buy anything? Have you any receipts?”
“No, you tiresome man. I window-shopped. I did not see anything I liked.”
“Did anyone see you? Did you meet anyone you know?”
“No, no, and no! Now, leave me alone.”
Hamish turned in the doorway. “The one good thing about it is that Mrs. Samson is alive.”
The wind gave a sudden eldritch scream. Had she turned pale? It was hard to tell in the gloom of the room.
“Is she in the hospital?” she asked.
“No, she was out shopping when her house went up.”
“That’s good.” As Hamish left, he turned once and saw her sinking down into a chair, her hat and coat still on.
♦
Hamish decided he would need to visit that solicitor before interviewing anyone else. Someone knew very quickly that a package had been given to Mrs. Samson. He phoned Jimmy on his mobile and got the name and address of the solicitor.
He did a detour to Lochdubh and left his animals in the police station.
He negotiated the shore road into Braikie without any trouble because it was low tide.
The solicitor, James Bennet, had an office above a men’s outfitters in the main street.
Hamish climbed the stone stairs, opened a frosted-panelled glass door, and went inside. A small girl was typing busily at a computer.
“You’re to go right in,” she said without looking up.
Hamish walked into the inner office. James Bennet looked up in surprise. “I’m expecting a Mrs. Withers. Didn’t Eileen tell you?”
“If you mean the wee lassie outside, she didn’t even look up,” said Hamish. “But I’ve a few questions to ask you. If Mrs. Gillespie left a package in her will for Mrs. Samson, why did you let her have it before this murder case is solved?”
Mr. Bennet was a fairly young man with what Hamish’s mother would call ‘a nice wide-open face.’ He was wearing a well-tailored Harris tweed suit. His black hair was neatly barbered, and he was wearing spectacles.
Hamish wondered if the lenses were plain glass to give the young man an air of authority, because he could spot no magnification.
James Bennet sighed. “I did not give away anything mentioned in the will. I already told the police this. The morning she was found murdered, Mrs. Gillespie called and said she wanted me to give the package to Mrs. Samson. I told her to give it to the woman herself, but she said time was running out and she was rushed. I phoned Mrs. Samson and asked her whether I should put it in the post, but she said she would come round and collect it. She arrived the morning of the fire in a taxi, which she kept waiting, picked up the package, and went off again.”