“We feel that Mrs. Gillespie might have been a blackmailer,” said Hamish.
Mrs. Samson’s eyes gleamed with malice. A spurt of flame rose from the smoking fire and shone red on the thick lenses of her glasses. “So she might have killed him, after all.”
“Who?”
“Her man, Bernie Fleming. Why would a fit man like that fall down the stairs? He wasn’t fond of a dram, either.”
Hamish was beginning to hate her, but gossip was invaluable.
“Were they a happy couple?”
“Not a bit of it. I could hear them fighting.”
“What? From a villa next door?”
“In their garden in the summer when I was taking the air, I heard them. She screamed that she was sick of cleaning and polishing and that he never took her anywhere. Soon as he was dead, she sold all his stuff, all the furniture, and got all modern put in.”
“I noticed the stairs,” said Hamish. “They’re steep and of polished wood. A man could easily slip.”
Mrs. Samson snorted. “In his day they were thick carpet, top to bottom.”
“How do you know? Had you been in their house?”
“No, but Mrs. Gillespie told me.”
“Did she now? Friendly with her, were you?”
“Herself would drop in now and then for a wee bittie o’ a chat. Not many’ll spend time with an auld woman.”
“Did she say anything to lead you to believe that Mrs. Fleming might have murdered her husband?”
“No, but I have my suspicions.”
“Did she talk about her other clients?” Hamish consulted his list. “Professor Sander, Mrs. Styles, Mrs. Wellington, and Mrs. Barret-Wilkinson?”
“Och, just a few wee remarks, like Mrs. Wellington was a slave-driver and Mrs. Styles wasn’t as saintly as she liked to make out. Never said anything about the other two.”
Hamish suddenly longed to get out of the smoky room. He got to his feet. “I’ll be off, then. I may want another word with you. I think Mrs. Gillespie may have been blackmailing her employers.” He turned in the doorway. “Did Mrs. Gillespie have any friends?”
“I think she sometimes talked to Mrs. Queenie Hendry, her what has the bakery in the main street.”
♦
Hamish’s mobile phone rang as he was leaving the house. It was Jimmy. “Blair says you’re to get over to the daughter’s. No one’s broken the news to her yet.”
“What’s up with her father? Surely he’ll have phoned her by now.”
“We’ve just left Mr. Gillespie. He says it would sound better coming from the police, don’t ask me why. Here’s her address. The Nest, Shore Road, one of those bungalows. You’d think people like that lived in mansions the way they won’t give a street number. How’re you doing?”
“Got a lot, but I’ll tell you in private this evening. I don’t want Blair crashing around at this point.”
As Hamish drove along the shore road, the wind screamed and buffeted at his vehicle, and ahead he could see the first waves crashing onto the road. The Nest had a sign in pokerwork outside the gate, which swung and creaked in the wind on two thin iron chains. He wondered whether Heather Gillespie would be out at work, if she did work, but as he opened the gate, he saw a slim figure heaving sandbags in front of the door.
“Miss Gillespie?” Hamish suddenly wondered whether Heather Gillespie was married.
She turned around. Her eyes sharpened in alarm when she saw his uniform.
“May we go inside?” asked Hamish, holding on to his cap against the screeching wind. She silently led the way.
Another living room, this one sparsely furnished in assemble-it-yourself table and chairs. Hamish recognised them, having seen them offered in a DIY shop in Inverness. The room was very cold. The fireplace had been sealed off. An unlit two-bar electric heater stood in front of it.
Heather Gillespie was very thin but with a large heavy head covered in a shock of ginger hair. Her eyes were her finest feature, being large and silvery grey. The colour of Elspeth’s eyes, thought Hamish, and suddenly wondered whether she had arrived yet.
“I have bad news,” said Hamish. “I am afraid Mrs. Gillespie is dead.”
“A stroke?” demanded Heather.
“No, I am afraid herself was murdered.”
She turned very pale. “Can I get you something?” asked Hamish.
“No, no. It’s the shock. How? When? Where is my father?”
“Mrs. Gillespie was murdered this morning outside the home of Professor Sander. Someone struck her down. Your father has been told the sad news. For some reason, he thought the news would sound better coming from the police.”
“Dad’s not a well man. I can understand that. I’d better go to him.”
“Do you know of anyone who would wish your mother harm?”
“Just about everyone.”
“Miss Gillespie…it is Miss Gillespie?”
“It is now. I was married, but after the divorce, I reverted to my maiden name.”
“May I sit down for a minute?”
She indicated the table at the window, and both of them sat down. Beyond the window, the sea tumbled and roared with increasing frequency.
Hamish took out his notebook. “What was the name of your ex?”
“Tom Morrison.”
“Where can I find him?”
“In Braikie. He runs the local garage.”
“Any children?”
“No. Look, what’s this got to do with my mother’s murder?”
“I wass chust wondering,” said Hamish, the sibilance of his accent showing he was becoming nervous, “whether your mother had anything to do with the break-up of your marriage.”
A fat tear ran down Heather’s cheek, followed by another and another until she was sobbing helplessly. Hamish saw a box of tissues on the coffee table. He fetched it and put it down beside her.
She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Then she said in a low voice, “Ma told me that Tom was having an affair with Bertha Maclean, the local tart. I challenged him, and he said Ma was a nasty auld liar. I followed him one night and saw him go up the stairs to her flat. That was enough for me, and I filed for divorce. After the divorce, I met Bertha in the street and had a go at her. She said she had breast cancer and a few of the villagers had been helping her out. Tom had called round to fix a few things in the flat for her.
“I asked Tom about it, and he said Bertha at first didn’t want anyone to know she had cancer and had sworn the few people helping her to secrecy. I shouted at him that he could have told me. He said he was sick of living with a woman who was so much under her nasty mother’s thumb and he could kill the old bitch. He said Ma had told him that I was sick of being married to him. Of course, I denied it, but the damage had been done. I’ve barely spoken to my mother since.”
“But she isn’t really your mother, is she?”
“No, but my own mother died when I was three years old, and I got in the way of calling her Ma.”
Hamish reflected that Mrs. Gillespie must have been an evil influence, although Tom and Heather certainly did not seem to have trusted each other very much.
“I’d better go and see Dad,” said Heather.
“I’ll help you with the sandbags first,” said Hamish.
She looked at her watch. “It’ll be all right now. The tide’s on the turn.”
♦
Elspeth Grant had unpacked her suitcase and was looking out of the window of the Tommel Castle Hotel down to where the little whitewashed houses of Lochdubh fronted the sea loch. She opened the window and breathed in a great gulp of pine-scented air.
It was great to be back. There was a knock at her door. She opened it. Bessie, one of the maids, stood there, holding clean towels. “Welcome back, Miss Grant,” she said. “You’ll be up here reporting the murder?”