“Why’s that?”
“I saw her in the distance late last night. She was leaving the police station and she got straight into her car and drove off.”
Hamish stood staring down at her, deaf to Mrs. Wellington’s lecture about the seduction of innocent maids from London. Elspeth thought she had heard something. What if Jenny had been listening to their conversation? What if Jenny had decided to go and see the Robertses?
He should phone Blair. But Blair would go crashing around to the Roberts house and they would deny it and that would be that.
Hamish jumped into the Land Rover and sped off back in the direction of Braikie.
♦
Jenny recovered consciousness. She was bound and gagged. She felt terribly sick and was terrified of vomiting into the gag and choking. All around was blackness. Where was she?
Memory came flooding back. She had been talking to the Robertses and then she had received a blow on the head. She kicked out with her feet, which met a wooden door. She kicked again.
Cyril Roberts’s voice came from the other side, low and menacing. “I’ve a shotgun here. If you make a sound, I’ll blast you through the door.”
Jenny slumped back in terror.
Then she heard Mary Roberts’s voice. “We cannae keep her in that cupboard forever. When are you getting rid o’ her?”
“When it’s dark.”
“Why didnae ye just shove her over the cliff in her car?”
“I don’t know. I don’t want another killing.”
“Too late for that,” came Mary’s grim voice.
“Well, it was your idea to get rid of the car. You said you’d see to her.”
Their grumbling voices faded away.
Jenny began to pray. If only God would get her out of this, she vowed, she would go back to the safety of London, work hard at her job, and forget about men.
♦
Pat Mallone arrived at the office, late as usual. The phone on his desk was ringing. He picked up the receiver. “Jack Pelting here,” said a voice at the other end. “I’m the news editor of the Bugle. Can you come down to London for an interview?”
Pat’s heart beat hard with excitement. “Yes, I could,” he said eagerly. “In fact, if I leave now, I could put up somewhere in London overnight and be ready for an interview in the morning.”
“We’ll book you in at the Jessop Hotel near St. Katherine’s Dock. Know it?”
“I’ll find it.”
“Right. I’ll see you tomorrow at eleven in the morning.”
Pat thanked him and rang off. He punched the air. Sam came in and glared at him. “Get yourself over to Braikie. Jenny Ogilvie’s car has been found at the bottom of a cliff and she may have drowned.”
Pat hesitated for only a moment. Jenny could take care of herself if she was alive, and if she was dead, there was nothing he could do about it.
“Right,” he said cheerfully. “On my way.”
He went straight to his digs and packed up. He left a note for his landlady to say he would not be back, packed a suitcase, slung it in his car, and drove off whistling, taking the long road south.
∨ Death of a Poison Pen ∧
10
I passed through the lonely street.
The wind did sing and blow;
I could hear the policeman’s feet
Clapping to and fro.
—William Makepeace Thackeray
Hamish parked outside the Roberts house. What had seemed so clear-cut now began to seem like nonsense. They were a respectable couple who doted on their daughter. They were not serial killers. And how should he approach the subject? But concern for Jenny gnawed at him. He climbed down from the Land Rover, went up to the front door, squared his shoulders, and rang the bell.
Mary Roberts answered the door. “Oh, it’s you,” she said. “We were just going out.”
“Husband not working?”
“He had time owing, so he’s having a bit of a holiday.”
“May I come in?”
She looked reluctant. “I haven’t got round to cleaning up. Oh, well, just for a minute.”
Hamish followed her into the living room. Cyril Roberts rose to meet him, putting down the morning paper as he did so. “What brings you here, Officer?”
“Jenny Ogilvie’s gone missing and her car’s been found at the foot of the cliffs.”
“That’s terrible,” said Cyril. “Was the poor lassie drowned?”
“We’re still searching. The passenger window of the car was open and she might have escaped that way and the body taken out to sea. Have you seen her recently?”
Upstairs in her cupboard prison on the landing, Jenny heard the sound of voices. She tried to summon up courage to scream, but she was feeling weak and sick. And what if whoever was visiting the Robertses was in on the plot?
“No, we haven’t seen her since she was last here with you,” Cyril was saying. “Do you need any help in the search?”
“No, we have enough men on it. Where is Penny?”
“Half-term. She’s over at my sister’s in Lochinver,” Mary said.
“When Miss Beattie first came to Braikie, she did house cleaning. Did she clean for you?”
“Yes, she did, for a bit, and then she found they needed a postmistress and took the exams and got the job. She was lucky, although, mind you, no one in Braikie wanted the job and folks from Strathbane usually don’t want to live anywhere so remote.”
Hamish’s confidence in his theory was ebbing by the minute. They both seemed so relaxed.
“Did you hear a car round about midnight last night?”
“Not a sound,” said Mary.
Hamish gave up. “Well, if you hear anything, let me know.”
Mary Roberts showed him to the door.
Upstairs, Jenny slumped in the cupboard, weak tears running down her face.
♦
Hamish called at the villas next door and asked if they had heard a car around midnight. But no one seemed to have heard anything. Yes, said one, he might have heard a car, but he took no notice of cars passing on the road.
Hamish leant against the Land Rover and thought hard. Surely, the Robertses could not be guilty. It would be a mad risk to drive Jenny’s car off when any of the neighbours might just have been looking out of the window. But the neighbours were all elderly and could be guaranteed to go to bed early.
And yet he had a feeling that the murders had been committed by rank amateurs, and amateurs with an amazing amount of luck; amateurs who barely stopped to think what they were doing. And Jenny had last been seen hurrying away from the police station. If she had heard what he was discussing with Elspeth, then maybe she had decided to play detective herself.
♦
“What’s he doing?” hissed Cyril Roberts. Mary turned away from the window where she had been keeping watch. “He’s just standing there.”
“I don’t like it.”
“They’ve got no proof.”
“Och, why didnae ye just have the girl in the car when you pushed it over the cliff?”
“Stop saying that. You were the one who told me to get rid of the car. You were the one who said you would see to her.”
“He cannae stand there all day,” said Mary. “He’s been to the neighbours and thank God they don’t seem to have seen anything. We’d best get her out and kill her and that way there’ll be no danger of her making a noise in case Macbeth or anyone else calls.”
“Is there any way we can get out of this without killing her?”
“Don’t be daft. Are you going soft?”
“It’s getting like a nightmare. I can’t just go up there and kill her in cold blood. If I shoot her with the shotgun, the police will call in every registered shotgun in Braikie. I can’t thole the idea of bashing in her head in cold blood. You do it.”