“Tell you tonight,” said Hamish, and rang off.
♦
Nessie Currie had given him a slip of paper with the addresses of both Mrs. Fleming and Mrs. Styles. He noticed that Mrs. Fleming lived very near Professor Sander.
As he drove along the shore road to Braikie, he saw that the heaving Atlantic had turned a dirty grey-black in colour, although the sky above was still blue. “Storm coming,” he muttered to himself. “I hope I get back before this road gets flooded.”
There was no doubt in his mind that the sea had risen in past years. Now the trim bungalows that stood on the other side of the road were frequently deluged. A great buffet of wind suddenly shook the Land Rover, and he was glad to get into the shelter of the main street and then turn off the road which led to the villas.
Like Professor Sander, Mrs. Fleming lived in a Victorian villa with a short drive.
Here there were no flowers or trees in the garden: simply a flat expanse of lawn. He pressed the doorbell, which chimed out the strains of ‘Roamin’ in the Gloamin’.
The door was eventually opened by a small woman. Dainty was the word to describe her, thought Hamish.
She had a small round face, like a doll’s face, with wide blue eyes and a little rosebud of a mouth. Her blonde hair was artfully arranged in glossy curls. She was wearing the sort of Laura Ashley fashion which had been popular in the eighties: a long flowery dress with a square neckline edged in lace.
She looked up at Hamish and put her hand to her throat. “My boys!” she gasped.
“Nothing like that,” said Hamish soothingly. “May I come in?”
“Of course.” She backed away and allowed him to walk past her into the hall before shutting the door behind him.
“This way.” She opened a door off the hall and ushered him into a large living room. Hamish blinked in surprise. Everything seemed to be white: white leather sofa and two white leather armchairs, white coffee table, white curtains at the windows, and white-painted bookshelves. A white china vase held white chrysanthemums. Even the carpet was white.
Mrs. Fleming looked down at a little patch of mud from Hamish’s boots and said, “I should have asked you to take off your boots. I never allow my boys to wear footwear in the house.”
“I’ll take them off now,” said Hamish.
“The damage has been done. Sit down.” For such a small woman, she had a commanding presence.
Hamish took off his cap and sat down on one of the armchairs, which let out a rude noise like a fart. He found to his irritation that he was blushing. “These leather chairs do make awfy rude noises,” he said.
“Really?” She sat down in the armchair opposite him. It did not make a single sound. “Now, why are you here?”
“Mrs. Gillespie has been murdered,” he said.
What was flickering through those china-blue eyes of hers? Relief as well as shock?
“But that’s terrible,” she said. “How? Where?”
“Professor Sander’s house. She was found lying at that old water pump at the gate. I believe someone struck her down with her bucket.”
“Who did it?”
“We’re trying to find out. Where were you this morning, Mrs. Fleming?”
“Surely you don’t think…Oh, of course. You’re just asking everyone who knew her. Let me see, I drove the boys to school and then I came back here.”
“Did anyone see you?”
“I don’t think so. You can ask Mrs. Samson next door. She watches from her window all day long.”
“What did you think of Mrs. Gillespie?”
“A rough diamond. Salt of the earth.”
In other words, a walking cliché, thought Hamish cynically. “Were you afraid of her?”
“Of course not. She was just the cleaning woman. She came twice a week.”
Hamish’s hazel eyes roamed round the room. He noticed a thin film of dust on the bookshelves. “When was she here last?”
“That would be yesterday morning.”
“You’ve got dusty bookshelves.”
“Do I? Well, I left her to get on with it, you know.” Her little white hands plucked nervously at her gown. “I had enough of cleaning when my husband was alive.”
“Was she blackmailing you?” asked Hamish abruptly.
“No! Why do you ask such a dreadful thing? My life is an open book.”
“We think that might be the motive for her death.”
“I have nothing to hide.”
“Not even your relationship with Dr. Renfrew?”
Her face was suddenly contorted with fury. “Get out!” she screamed. “And you can speak to me through my lawyer in future.”
Hamish rose to his feet, and the armchair gave a farewell parp. “I will shortly be replaced by a detective, Mrs. Reining, and if you refuse to answer questions, you will be taken to Strathbane headquarters for interrogation.”
“Out! Out! Out!” she screamed. She picked up the white china vase with white chrysanthemums and hurled it at his head. He dodged it, and the vase hit the wall and shattered.
“I could charge you for assaulting a police officer,” said Hamish severely. “I’ll be back.”
“Bugger off, Arnold Schwarzenegger,” she screamed.
♦
Hamish stood outside her gate and thought hard. He could not get over the fact that there had been no incriminating papers or letters in Mrs. Gillespie’s home. If she had been blackmailing her clients, surely she would have kept letters or something. But where?
He looked thoughtfully at the villa next door to the right. A lace curtain twitched.
He walked up to the door of the villa. There was no bell. He rapped with the old·fashioned brass ring set into the oak panels and waited. Shuffling feet approached the door on the other side, and then it was swung open.
“Mrs. Samson?” asked Hamish.
“Aye, come ben. You’re here about the murder. Wipe your feet.”
Mrs. Flora Samson was old and stooped. Pink scalp shone through her wisps of grey hair. Her elderly face was set in wrinkles of discontent. She wore very thick glasses, which magnified her eyes so that they looked like the eyes of an old witch asking the children if they would like some gingerbread.
Her living room was crammed with photos in frames. They seemed to be everywhere. The furniture was Victorian and draped with yellowing lace antimacassars. A stuffed owl on a bamboo table stared out of its glass case with baleful eyes. In another glass case mounted on the wall, a stuffed salmon swam endlessly against a badly painted backdrop of reeds and river. A coal fire was smouldering in the fireplace, occasionally sending out puffs of grey smoke. The room smelled strongly of lavender air freshener, which did not quite cover up the underlying smell of urine and unwashed armpits.
“You’ve come about the murder. Sit down,” said Mrs. Samson.
“How did you hear about it?”
“It was on the telly a quarter of an hour ago. The telly’s in the kitchen. I don’t often watch it, mind, but I keep it on for the sound.” The faint noises of laughter and cheering filtered through from the kitchen. A game show, guessed Hamish.
“I have been interviewing Mrs. Fleming,” said Hamish. “I have to establish alibis for this morning for everyone Mrs. Gillespie cleaned for. Did you see Mrs. Fleming go out this morning?”
“Aye, she took her lads to school, then herself came back. Poke the fire, laddie. It’s right cold in here.”
Hamish picked up a brass poker by the hearth and poked the fire and then backed off as smoke poured up into his face.
“Och,” he said crossly, “you need your chimney swept.”
“Sit down and mind your own business.”
“Did she go out again?” asked Hamish.
Mrs. Samson’s face seemed to swim through the layers of smoke. “She might ha’ done. I had to go to the you know what. It’s up the stairs and man, at my age, it’s like climbing Everest. It’s the arthuritis. Takes me ages.”