Hamish moved away. Shona followed him. She looked up at him suspiciously. “I’m still waiting for signs of the great detective from Mr. Blair.”
“Oh, hang in there. He’s deep. Verra deep. You would-nae think it, but the wheels of his brain are turning.”
Hamish saw Jimmy and hailed him. He handed Jimmy the bank statements and told him about his suspicions of blackmail.
“You’d better start interviewing them,” said Jimmy. “I’ll tackle the professor.”
“I’ve been told by the old sod to get back to the police station.”
Jimmy took out a list of names. “Tell you what, go over and see this Mrs. Barret-Wilkinson at Styre, and I’ll clear it with Blair.” His blue eyes in his foxy face narrowed as he saw Shona talking to Blair. “What’s the wee lassie doing?”
“Strathbane Television wants to do a documentary on Blair, the great detective. She’s a researcher.”
“Let’s hope she finds some intelligence in that whisky-soaked brain. Talking of which – have you any whisky at that station of yours?”
“About half a bottle.”
“That’ll do. I’ll call on you this evening.” Unlike his superior, Detective Inspector Jimmy Anderson had a great respect for Hamish’s police work.
♦
Hamish drove back to Lochdubh and collected his pets and put them in the police Land Rover and then took the road to Styre. Styre was more of a hamlet than a village, consisting of only a few fishermen’s cottages, three villas, and a small general store.
It lay on the small sea loch of Styre which formed a sort of bay, affording little protection from the might of the Atlantic, lying just outside.
Hamish’s stomach gave a rumble, reminding himself he hadn’t eaten. He parked in front of the general store, owned, as he remembered, by a Mrs. Beattie. Mrs. Beattie, a small, fussy woman, was behind the counter. The shop was dark, the shelves crowded with very old-looking tins of stuff, sacks of feed, coils of rope, and lobster pots.
“It’s Mr. Macbeth!” exclaimed Mrs. Beattie. “You havenae been around here this age.”
“I’m looking for something to eat,” said Hamish, “and some tins for my dog and cat.”
“The dog and cat food’s ower to your left. I’ll go and make you a sandwich. Spam all right?”
“Spam’s fine.”
Hamish collected a tin of cat food for Sonsie and a tin of dog food for Lugs. He knew his spoilt pets preferred people food but decided they’d need to rough it for once. If he could be content with a Spam sandwich, then they could put up with commercial pet food.
After a short time, Mrs. Beattie returned and handed him a thick sandwich wrapped in greaseproof paper. Hamish added a bottle of mineral water to his purchases. “How much for the sandwich?”
“Have it from me. What brings you?”
“Mrs. Gillespie, herself what cleaned for Mrs. Barret-Wilkinson, has been found murdered.”
“Michty me! Mind you, I thought she was a nasty woman, but Mrs. Barret-Wilkinson swore she was the best cleaner ever. When I had the flu last winter, I got her to clean for me. She nearly gave me a relapse, bang-bang-banging with that bucket of hers and looking into drawers where she had no right to look. Where was she murdered?”
“Outside Professor Sander’s place.”
“How?”
“It looks as if someone brained her with her bucket. What’s Mrs. Barret-Wilkinson like?”
“Verra much the lady. Verra proper. English, of course.”
“What’s herself doing up here?”
“Quality of life.”
“Oh, that. Did she find it?”
“Says she does.”
“I’ll be off then. Where’s her house?”
“It’s that big villa, just up on the rise above the village. There’s a monkey puzzle tree at the gate.”
Hamish went out to the Land Rover and collected two bowls and a can opener from the back. He filled the bowls and let the dog and cat out. They both sniffed the food and then looked up at him with accusing eyes.
“Eat it,” ordered Hamish. “Nothing else for you pair until this evening.”
♦
He ate his sandwich and drank water and looked out over the sea loch. The wind was beginning to come in great gusts. He finished his sandwich, put the dog and cat back in the car, carried their empty bowls down to the water and rinsed them out, before returning to his vehicle and driving off. The light drizzle was turning to heavy rain.
He drove up to the villa and then up the short curving drive. As well as the tall monkey puzzle at the gate, the garden was crammed with laurel bushes and rhododendrons. The wind was cut off by the high stone wall which surrounded the garden. Rain plopped from the leaves of the bushes.
Hamish rang the bell and waited. The door was answered by a tall woman. She was dressed in a well-tailored tweed suit. The tweed was not new – such as Mrs. Barret-Wilkinson, Hamish guessed, would be too sophisticated to be caught wearing brand-new tweed – and yet the clothes sat oddly on her as if her normal style might be something more towny.
“Mrs. Barret-Wilkinson?”
“Yes. It is I.”
He judged her to be somewhere in her middle forties. She had thick brown hair pulled back into a knot, a long nose, and small, intelligent eyes. She looked something like a collie.
Hamish removed his cap. “I am Police Constable Hamish Macbeth. May I come in? I have some bad news.”
Most people would have blurted out, Is it my son? My daughter? Or some close relative. But she merely nodded and turned away.
He followed her into a dark hall and then into a large sitting room on the ground floor. It was decorated like a scaled-down version of the drawing room of a stately home. The sofa and chairs were upholstered in striped silk. The curtains at the windows were of heavier silk. Over the fireplace was a portrait of Mrs. Barret-Wilkinson – apparently an oil portrait – but Hamish’s sharp eyes registered that it was a photograph, cleverly treated to look like an oil painting. A log fire crackled on the hearth of a marble fireplace.
She sat down and gestured to him to do the same. Her stockings were thick, and her feet were encased in sensible brogues.
“So tell me your bad news,” she said calmly. Her voice was English upper class.
“I’m afraid your cleaner, Mrs. Gillespie, has been found murdered.”
“Good heavens! That’s a blow. Now where am I going to get another maid?”
She surveyed him quietly. Why didn’t she ask how Mrs. Gillespie was murdered and where? wondered Hamish.
“Tell me about Mrs. Gillespie,” said Hamish. “Was she a threat to anyone? Did anyone dislike her enough to kill her?”
She gave a little laugh. “My dear man, I was not on familiar terms with the home help. I haven’t the faintest idea. Might be the husband. It usually is.”
“The husband has an alibi. Where were you this morning, between, say, the hours of ten and eleven?”
Her face hardened. “You surely have not the impertinence to think that I would have anything to do with it?”
“I must eliminate everyone from my enquiries.”
“Well, I was here.”
“Any witnesses?”
“I am a bit isolated from the village. I don’t know if anyone saw me.”
“Mrs. Gillespie had an unexpectedly large amount of money in her bank account. We feel she may have been indulging in blackmail.”
“That’s ridiculous. She probably won the lottery.”
“The lottery would have meant a cheque. All the money was paid in cash.”
“I am beginning to find your insinuations a little bit impertinent. Please leave. If you persist in bothering me, I shall complain about you to your superiors.”
Hamish stood up. “I must warn you, this is just a preliminary investigation. You can expect a further visit from a detective.”