Hamish stared at her, his mouth open. Then he said, “Where did she play bingo?”
“At the Catholic church hall in Braikie on Thursday nights.”
Hamish groaned. “I’d better get over there. Who runs it?”
“Ask the priest, Father McNulty.”
“I’m off. Damn! If it turns out the woman was chust lucky at the bingo, that blows the whole motive and a raft o’ suspects clear out o’ the water.”
Hamish went back to the police station. Terry was still working busily. “It’ll take a wee bit of time,” he called.
“Stick with it,” said Hamish. “I’ve got to go to Braikie.”
He whistled for his dog and cat and put them in the Land Rover and set off for Braikie.
♦
The Catholic church, St. Mary’s, was situated up a side street off the main street. It was a modest, unassuming building, flanked on one side by the church hall and by the priest’s home on the other.
He went up to the priest’s house and knocked on the door. Father McNulty himself answered. He was a small, bespectacled man with a perpetually worried look.
“It’s about the bingo,” said Hamish.
“Oh, not again,” groaned the priest. “The Free Presbyterians are aye whining about gambling.”
“No, it’s something else.”
“Come in. I was just about to have a cup of tea.”
Hamish followed him into a gloomy living-room-cum study. A large desk was heaped with papers, and the walls were lined with bookshelves. A card table was set up in front of the fire with a squat teapot and one cup and saucer.
“I’ll get another cup,” said Father McNulty.
Hamish waited impatiently until he returned. “Pull a chair over to the table,” said the priest, “and help yourself. Now, what do you want to know about the bingo?”
“Did the late Mrs. Gillespie win much at bingo?”
“The poor woman that was murdered? Yes, she did from time to time. She was lucky.”
“How much are the prizes?”
“We have a good attendance. Not big prizes, but often three or four hundred pounds.”
“Was she a member of your congregation?”
“No, not many of them who come to the bingo are.”
Hamish sipped his tea and winced. It was very strong. “The thing is,” he said, “she had more in the bank account than she should have. I assumed she had been blackmailing people. So if the money came from lucky wins on bingo, that puts paid to that idea. Did you pay cash?”
“Yes. But if that were the case, why was her friend Mrs. Samson killed?”
“We don’t know yet if she was killed. It looked like a heart attack. But you’re right! Her room was ransacked, and she had retrieved a package of something from Mrs. Gillespie on the morning after Mrs. Gillespie was murdered. Someone obviously wanted what was in that package very badly.”
The priest had a mild, gentle look. “Perhaps what she wanted was power.”
“Explain.”
“Perhaps money wasn’t the main motive. Mrs. Gillespie had been a cleaner for a long time. Then she starts to snoop around. Imagine what it would mean to her to suddenly have her employers – her rich employers – dancing to her tune. Maybe a bit of money here and there, yes, but irritating other things. Maybe she wants a run down to Inverness, and one of them has to drop everything and take her. Maybe she sees an ornament and knows it’s a prized possession and demands it. Things like that. Mrs. Gillespie, you see, was not liked.”
Hamish suddenly remembered Queenie Hendry. All Mrs. Gillespie had demanded was cream cakes. He realised it should have struck him as surprising at the time that she had not demanded more.
“Do you know anyone she worked for who might have moved out of the area?”
“There was a Mrs. Forest. She left to live in Cnothan.”
Hamish had a sudden idea. “Who runs the bingo? You?”
“No, one of my parishioners, Miss Greedy.”
“I would like a word with her.”
“She works in the gift shop in the main street. Why do you want to see her?”
“Is there any way the bingo could be rigged?”
“My dear man! Miss Creedy is a decent woman.”
“It’s amazing what decent women will do if they’re being blackmailed.”
♦
The gift shop was called the Treasure Box. The window held a display of tartan dishcloths, tartan tea cosies, paperweights, and a jumble of other touristy items. Hamish wondered how the shop survived. Braikie had few tourists. The postcards in the rack beside the door were bleached by the weather.
Hamish opened the door and went in. There were no customers. “Miss Creedy?” he asked the woman behind the counter.
“Yes. What is it, Officer?”
Miss Creedy was very thin. She was wearing two sweaters and a tweed skirt. The shop was cold. She had a long, indeterminate sort of face and anxious brown eyes. Her hair was dyed an improbable shade of gold.
Hamish plunged right in. “The late Mrs. Gillespie was very lucky at the bingo.”
“Yes, very lucky.”
“Did it not strike you as unusual that someone should win so often?”
“Not at all. Some people are just lucky.”
“Was she blackmailing you?”
Miss Creedy took a step back behind the counter. “That’s ridiculous,” she said shrilly.
Hamish sighed. “We believe Mrs. Gillespie was a blackmailer. If she had anything on you, I will find it out. It would be better to tell me now.”
“I have led a blameless life,” she shrieked. “How dare you even suggest such a thing?”
“Calm down. Now, tell me how the numbers are drawn. Is there a spinning ball with wee balls with numbers inside it?”
“No, the numbers are folded up in slips of paper by Father McNulty and then put into a large box. I just pull out the slips of paper and read the numbers.”
“How many games a night?”
“Six. We break for refreshments in the middle of the evening.”
“So six boxes of numbers.”
“No, just the one. After each game, I give the box a good shake.”
“I’ll be talking to you again,” said Hamish.
♦
It could be done, he thought as he drove back. Miss Creedy could give Mrs. Gillespie a bingo card before the game. She could have two boxes. In the first might be just the numbers on Mrs. Gillespie’s card. After that, the box with all the numbers would be produced.
His stomach gave a rumble, and he had a sudden longing for decent food. He called at the police station. “Won’t be long,” said Terry. “Nearly there.”
“I’m going to the Italian place for some food. Want to come?”
“I’d rather keep on with this. You go yourself, and I’ll be finished by the time you get back.”
When Hamish walked into the restaurant followed by his dog and cat, the first thing he saw was Elspeth and Luke, sitting at the table at the window.
Sonsie and Lugs slouched off to the kitchen, where they knew, from previous visits, that the Italian chef would spoil them.
Hamish felt he was being childish in not stopping at Elspeth’s table to say hullo. He sat down at a table near the kitchen and as far away from them as possible. Elspeth waved to him, but he pretended not to notice.
“Your boyfriend’s snubbing you,” remarked Luke.
“He’s not my boyfriend!”
Luke took her hand. “Then he’s a silly man. What about marrying me, Elspeth?”
“Oh, sure.”
“I mean it. Why not? We’re both reporters. We both get on well. What about it?”
Elspeth looked amused. “How old·fashioned of you. I thought these days couples had affairs lasting, say, ten years and then decided to get married.”
Elspeth glanced across at Hamish. Some imp prompted her to say, “Maybe. I’ll think about it.”
“‘Maybe’ demands a celebration. Willie!”