But on opening it he found two envelopes. One was addressed to himself.
He opened it.
“Dear Hamish Macbeth,” he read, “In the event of anyone being falsely accused for the murders, I have written this confession of what I have done.”
He had a feeling of relief as he read on. The murder of Harris had been on impulse. Miss Gunnery had come across him that day in Skag. She had pleaded with him to give Doris her freedom. She had told him she knew what it was like to be in love. He had made several crude remarks about her lack of any attraction, called her a warped little spinster, and turned away. She had picked up the driftwood and hit him with it as he stood at the edge of the jetty. When he had fallen in the water, she had been about to run for help. But then she had thought of Doris and Andrew. She, Miss Gunnery, did not believe in God or divine retribution. As far as she was concerned, she was soon to die, and that would be the end of everything. So why not just let Harris die? Furthermore, she herself might be sent to prison for assault and she had no intention of spending her remaining days behind bars. So she had left him and then had done her clumsy best to see that no one else should suffer. Then MacPherson had approached her, said he had seen her and demanded money. She told him she would pay him. But, she had written in that old–fashioned italic writing so rarely seen these days, she felt that he did not deserve to live either. So she had gone quietly into his shed when he was working at his desk, seized up the scissors and driven them into his neck. The scissors were wrapped in a plastic bag and buried under the lilac tree in the garden of the boarding-house at the back. Her fingerprints would be found on them. “I did not lie about sleeping with you to give myself an alibi, Hamish,” she ended, “but to give you one because I love you.”
Hamish put it down on the floor and opened the other envelope. It contained a will form. Miss Gunnery had left everything she owned to Tracey.
∨ Death of a Nag ∧
11
What beck’ning ghost along the moon-light shade
Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?
—Alexander Pope
The following morning, Hamish sat for the last time in the interview room with Deacon. Clay had been sent out.
“Now,” began Deacon, “take me over it again. Why did you suddenly come to the conclusion that a woman like Miss Gunnery had committed two murders?”
“I had been feeling uneasy about her for some time,” said Hamish, “but I thought that was because she was falling in love wi’ me. It stopped me from thinking about her too much. And she seemed so kind. Kind to me over the death of my dog, kind to the Brett children, kind to Tracey. You could say that it was that kindness that killed Harris. She thought she was giving Doris all the love and new life that she had been cheated of herself.”
“I told you – a repressed spinster,” said Deacon.
“I still don’t agree wi’ ye. There’s folks these days won’t even use the word ‘spinster’, it’s become such an insult. What woman these days is even still a virgin at her age?”
“She was,” said Deacon with satisfaction. “Preliminary pathologist’s report.”
“Oh, well,” said Hamish huffily, “if ye knew all about it, why didn’t you suspect her yourself?”
“Now, now, I’m not saying you haven’t been clever. But what made you think of her?”
“It was when I learned she had made Heather tell that lie. I was uneasy about Cheryl’s supposed confession. I realized I hadn’t been thinking clearly about her. There were all sorts of little things: lying about having been in bed with me; telling me to look up her friend in Cheltenham and ask about her cat and then not showing any interest in the animal when I came back; her friend implying that she was worried about something other than the murders; and then there was a photograph of her and her friend in their tennis whites. I remembered seeing Miss Gunnery in her swimsuit and noticing she had very strong forearms, although it didn’t register at the time. I realized that, desperate and strong enough, she could have stabbed MacPherson with the necessary force. You found the scissors?”
“Aye, right where she said they would be. We’ve sent them off to be checked for fingerprints. But what could you have done had she stuck to her original story, said she was innocent?”
“I would ha’ got you to pull Doris in and then tell Miss Gunnery she had been charged with the murder and, worn down with brutal police questioning, she had confessed and was talking about taking her own life.”
“You’re a ruthless man, Macbeth. Wouldnae think it to look at you.”
“I can’t be doin’ wi’ murder,” said Hamish severely. “Mind you, I’m feeling rather stupid. There I was having dinner and making friends with a woman who must have been as mad as a hatter and I didnae suspect a thing.”
“Well, you got a result anyway.” Deacon picked up a paper-knife and twisted it this way and that. “You’ll be off to Lochdubh today.”
“I suppose so.”
“When?”
“I don’t know when,” said Hamish testily. “Does it matter?”
Clay put his head round the door. “The press are arriving.”
Hamish leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Giving a press conference, sir?”
“Aye, well, I called one,” said Deacon gruffly. “If you’d like to give me a list of your expenses, I’ll see they go through.”
“I have them right here,” said Hamish, handing them over.
“Goodbye then,” Deacon stood up.
Hamish remained sitting. “Och, I think I might as well stay for that press conference of yours.”
“Off with you, Clay,” snapped Deacon. Clay withdrew his head and closed the door.
Deacon sat down again and pulled open a desk drawer and took out an envelope. “Since your holiday was spoiled working for me, Macbeth, I thought the enclosed might compensate you.”
Hamish opened the envelope. Inside it were four fifty-pound bank notes. How dare you bribe a police officer? was his first thought, followed by the more pragmatic one that a bribe from a superior to an inferior could really hardly be called a bribe…could it?
He stuffed the envelope in his trousers pocket and stood up. “I’ll be off then, sir.”
Deacon smiled his relief.
“Call in and see us any time, Macbeth.”
When Hamish had left, Deacon went to a small mirror in the corner, carefully brushed his hair, straightened his tie, and then went off to tell the press how he had solved the murders.
♦
Hamish returned to the boarding-house. They were gathered in the lounge. Andrew appeared to be advising Tracey on how to go about claiming her legacy. Tracey looked elated. The others appeared relaxed and relieved. Poor Miss Gunnery! No one to mourn her, thought Hamish, and then wondered why he should even think such a thing. Miss Gunnery had taken two lives, and had escaped both a lingering death and the full weight of the law.
“I suppose we’re all going home,” said Hamish.
“Oh, yes,” began Doris eagerly.
“Don’t interrupt me, Doris,” said Andrew severely. “I have just been telling Tracey here it is important that she does not tell either Cheryl or her family of her legacy. Doris and I will take her south with us to Cheltenham and find her a lawyer. You may repay us when you get your legacy, Tracey. Just write to your family saying we have invited you to go with us on an extended holiday.”
“Oh, aye, Ah’ll do that,” said Tracey eagerly.
Hamish looked curiously at Doris’s face, which when Andrew had admonished her had momentarily had that closed look it had worn when her late husband had been nagging her.