As Blair marched off, Jimmy whispered, “Don’t worry, Hamish, I’ll drop over tomorrow if I can manage and give you a full report of what Roberts said. And by the time that lassie of yours has finished her reports for the papers, everyone will know it was you and not Blair who solved the mystery.”
The night had turned chilly. Hamish waited patiently until the lifeless body of Mary Roberts was brought up from the quarry.
Then he wearily went back to join Elspeth, who was sitting in her car with the engine on and the heater blasting.
“Get me to the office,” she urged Hamish when he told her Mary Roberts was dead. “I’ve got to send a lot of stories over to the nationals and the agencies.”
“Won’t it be locked?”
“Sam gave me a set of keys.”
“How are you feeling?”
“A bit sick. I was very frightened.”
Hamish hugged her and then, involuntarily, he kissed her full on the lips. He emerged from the kiss with his pulse racing. “Sorry about that,” he said hurriedly.
“For what?” demanded Elspeth crossly, and set off down the track.
♦
Before he went to bed, Hamish sat down at his computer and filed his report. He felt bone weary. He carefully skirted around his visits to Perth. After he had finished, he sat and scowled at the screen. The one piece of the jigsaw that was missing was why the Robertses had sent that video of the murder of Miss Beattie to the community centre film show. It just didn’t make sense. The trouble with dealing with amateurs, he thought, it was like dealing with madmen. It made them so hard to catch. He yawned and stretched. He wished now he hadn’t kissed Elspeth. It was time he had another girlfriend, but preferably someone outside the village, away from the gossiping tongues of Lochdubh.
♦
Jenny recovered quickly from her ordeal and, despite protests from hospital staff, insisted the press be allowed to interview her.
And so, although Elspeth had gamely sent out stories praising the acumen of Hamish Macbeth in solving the mystery, all that went by the board as far as the press were concerned. Jenny with her black curls and big brown eyes claimed to have worked out who the murderers were all by herself.
She only felt a little pang of conscience as she described how by sheer female intuition she had arrived at the solution and then followed that up with a colourful description of her ordeal. She did not mention Elspeth’s ‘haunting.’ Jenny had learned from the minister’s wife, Mrs. Wellington, who had called to visit her, that Pat Mallone had simply taken off, even though he knew she was missing. So, feeling rebuffed and diminished, she had decided to get as much glory out of her kidnapping as possible.
One reporter, less seduced by Jenny’s attractions than the rest, asked her, “Is it true that you were listening at the police station door whilst Hamish Macbeth was discussing the case and that’s how you found out about the Robertses?”
Jenny blushed but said, “I went to see Hamish, yes, but all I heard was someone with him, so I went away. You see, I had already worked things out for myself and I had been going to tell him. But when I heard he had someone with him, I decided to investigate for myself.” She fluttered her eyelashes at the reporter. “It was silly of me, I know, but at that time it was just an idea.”
∨ Death of a Poison Pen ∧
CHAPTER ELEVEN
In winter, when the dismal rain
Came down in slanting lines,
And Wind, that grand old harper, smote
His thunder-harp of pines.
—Alexander Smith
The following day, Hamish received a phone call from Priscilla. “What’s all this?” asked Priscilla. “Jenny’s over the front page of every newspaper saying she solved the murders.”
“She was listening at the kitchen door when I was discussing the case with Elspeth. That’s how she found out.”
“Elspeth? Oh, that little reporter. That your latest squeeze?”
“Elspeth Grant is a friend of mine and has been a great help to me.”
There was a silence and then Priscilla said, “So can’t Elspeth put the papers right?”
“The papers have got their heroine and they are not going to change their story and say it was some boring Highland copper. Are you coming up soon?”
“I thought of flying up to see Jenny, but I am too cross with her to bother now. She shouldn’t have snatched the glory from you.”
“Well, the lassie’s probably done me a favour. Anytime I have even a wee bit of success, Peter Daviot starts mumbling about moving me to Strathbane.”
“But he surely knows it was you who solved the murders?”
“Aye, but he’s driven by the press. What gets in the press is only what interests Daviot. Another thing: I am perfectly sure Blair backed up Jenny’s story so that I would get as little credit as possible.”
“Jenny’s parents phoned me today,” said Priscilla. “They are now speeding north to take their daughter home, so she’ll soon be out of your hair.”
Hamish wanted to ask her how her love life was getting on and whether she was about to get married soon, but he dreaded what the answer might be. So instead, he talked about the locals, about how he had to woo back his dog’s affections because Lugs had spent so much time with Angela that he seemed to prefer going there, and how pleasant it was to settle back down to a less demanding life.
“Why did the Robertses do it?” asked Priscilla.
“Because their child wasn’t their own.”
“I know that. But to commit two murders!”
“I’ll find out and let you know,” said Hamish. “Jimmy Anderson is going to call and let me see a transcript of the interview.”
When she rang off, Hamish went out to feed his hens and check on his sheep. The air was cold and damp and the wind had shifted round to the northeast. The long Highland winter was howling on the threshold.
♦
By faking references, Pat Mallone had managed to get a job on the Dublin Mercury as a junior reporter. On his way to work, he stopped by a shop to buy cigarettes, a habit he had taken up after his flight from the Highlands. Although he was perfectly sure the Scottish police would not go to the trouble to extradite anyone on such a minor charge, he still felt uneasy. The shop sold the British newspapers, and there was Jenny’s face smiling up at him from the front pages. He bought several and then, after buying his cigarettes as well, stood on Grafton Street and read the stories.
If only he had stayed, he thought bitterly, he could have basked in some reflected glory. Of course, none of what had happened to him was really his fault. It had all been just bad luck.
♦
After another two days, Hamish was just beginning to think that Jimmy had forgotten about him when the man himself appeared in the evening, carrying a bottle of whisky.
“Come ben,” said Hamish. “It is not like you to be providing the whisky.”
“I feel you deserve it, laddie. I was getting damn sick o’ Braikie. How you can bear living up here fair beats me.” As if in answer to him, the wind howled around the police station like an Irish banshee.
“Sit yourself down,” said Hamish, putting two glasses on the kitchen table. “Did Cyril Roberts confess?”
“Aye,” said Jimmy, pouring a large whisky for himself and a small one for Hamish. He tugged several pieces of paper out of his jacket pocket. “Read that.”
Hamish spread the papers on the table and began to read.
“Amy Beattie,” Cyril Roberts had written, “came to us as a cleaner sixteen years ago. My wife, Mary, found her crying in the kitchen one day and asked her what was troubling her. Amy said she was pregnant. She said she would have to have the child and then give it up for adoption. Now, Mary and I couldn’t have children. We’d always longed for one. We’d thought of adoption, but the adoption societies are so difficult. So when Mary told me, we hit upon a plan. We’ve got a holiday cottage over in Caithness, just north of Helmsdale. Amy would go and live there when her time was near. Meanwhile, Mary would tell everyone she was pregnant. Then when Amy was due, we’d go over there. Mary used to be a nurse so she would deliver the baby. She would come back with it as our own.