Death of a Gentle Lady (5 page)

Andrew left and came back with an old-fashioned two-bar electric heater decorated with fake coals on the top and plugged it in.

“How is the rest of the place heated?” asked Hamish.

“Coal fires in the rooms,” said Andrew.

But not in Irena’s, thought Hamish.

Glaring at Hamish, Jimmy began the questioning. He already had in front of him a list of names, ages, and addresses. After the usual preliminaries for the tape recorder, he began. Where had Andrew been during the last week? Andrew said he had been at his office in the City of London.

“You visited your mother for a family reunion,” said Jimmy. “What was that all about?”

“She wanted to discuss her will. It was very straightforward: half to me and half to my sister, Sarah.”

“Was your mother afraid of anyone?”

“No.”

“Did you speak to the girl we now know as Irena when you were here?”

“Of course. She was the hired help. I’d ask her to fetch me a coffee, things like that.”

“What time did she get off ?”

“I don’t know. Sarah’ll probably know. She was staying here before Mother turfed her out.”

“When you were here, are you sure nothing was said to upset or frighten your mother in any way?”

“Not a thing,” said Andrew.

Lying, thought Hamish.

Jimmy persevered with a few more questions and then asked Andrew to send his wife in.

Kylie tottered in on her very high heels. She crossed her legs, letting her skirt ride up. The room was still cold, and her nipples stood out sharply against the thin fabric of her blouse.

No bra. Boob job, thought Hamish. Proud of it, too. Would rather die of cold than cover them up.

“Now, Mrs. Gentle . . .”

“Call me Kylie.”

“Your accent sounds local. Are you originally from around here?”

“I was brought up in South Uist.”

“And how did you meet your husband?”

“I got out of South Uist as soon as I could and got a job as an air hostess. I met Andrew when he was on a business flight to the States.”

“Think carefully, Kylie. Was there anything at the family reunion to upset Mrs. Gentle?”

“Get one thing straight. My mother-in-law specialised in upsetting people, not the other way round.”

“Did she upset anyone?”

“All of us. Let me see, her beloved Andrew was the only one who escaped. She constantly referred to me as the stick insect, she sneered at Sarah because Sarah hadn’t yet found a job and was desperate for money, she called my daughter, Twinkle, Twinkle Little Tart, she called my son a poofter, and she told Mark it was no use him hanging around, he wasn’t getting any money.”

“What about the girl, Irena?”

“Treated her like a slave. I don’t know why she put up with it. Quite a beauty. I think she was jealous of the girl. Margaret always was a jealous bitch. I hated her, but I didn’t murder her.”

“With all these insults flying around, surely someone threatened Mrs. Gentle.”

“Nobody dared. She didn’t tell us the terms of the will until we were all ready to go. Everyone was frightened of not getting a penny.”

“Why should the nephew, Mark Gentle, expect anything?”

“He’s Andrew’s brother’s boy. Couldn’t make him out. You’d better ask him.”

Hamish spoke up from his corner. “Who was Mrs. Gentle married to?”

“A financier, Byron Gentle.”

“When did he die?”

“Just after Sarah was born.”

Jimmy glared at Hamish but Hamish ignored him.

“What did he die of ?”

“A heart attack. That’s where Ma Gentle got all her money from.”

Jimmy interrupted. “Where were you during the past few days?”

“I was in London with my husband. We’ve got a live-in maid. You can ask her.”

“Thank you. Please send in Mark.”

When Kylie had left, Jimmy rounded on Hamish. “What was the point of your questions?”

“I just wondered if there was something in the family’s past that Irena had overheard, something that she thought she could blackmail someone with.”

Mark Gentle strolled in. He seemed very much at his ease.

“Were you invited to the family reunion?” asked Jimmy.

“Yes, I wouldn’t have come otherwise. Aunt Margaret always had a soft spot for me.”

“And yet she left you nothing in her will.”

“As a matter of fact, she did.”

“But we understand that she was leaving her money equally divided between her son and daughter.”

Mark gave a lazy smile. “That was her intention. But the old will still stands, and in it I get a whack of money.”

“Do the rest of the family know this?”

“I shouldn’t think so. Aunt Margaret confided in me a lot.”

“We’ll check with her lawyer,” said Jimmy. His foxy blue eyes narrowed. “You must have been right put out when you learned you were going to be cut out.”

He shrugged. “Didn’t bother me. I’ve always worked for my living.”

“As what?”

“Motor mechanic.”

“I gather that your late uncle, Byron Gentle, was extremely wealthy. Is your family wealthy also?”

“Dad’s dead. He ran a corner shop. When Byron died, he left everything to Aunt Margaret.”

“That must have caused a lot of bitterness.”

Again that shrug. “Mum was dead. Dad didn’t live long enough to get bitter. He got cancer shortly after Byron died. I sold the shop and set up my own garage doing car repairs.”

“Why do you think Mrs. Gentle changed her mind about leaving you any money?”

“Blessed if I know.”

“Were you fond of your aunt?”

“I admired her. She was very cunning. Do you know, she was a hatcheck girl in a London nightclub when Byron fell for her? She didn’t always have that lady-of-the-manor act.”

Jimmy looked down at his notes. Mark was forty-eight years old. He looked much younger.

“You look good for your age,” said Jimmy.

Mark smiled. “Clean living and early nights.”

“Where were you during the past five days?”

“At my work. I employ two men who can vouch for me, not to mention my customers.”

“And after work?”

“I was with my girlfriend, Sharon Bentley. You can check with her.”

Jimmy pushed forward a sheet of paper. “Write down her name and address.”

When Mark had jotted it down, Jimmy continued to question him, feeling all the time that he was being stonewalled. At last he told the man not to leave the country and dismissed him.

When the door had closed behind Mark, Jimmy said, “Now, that one really had a motive. He bumps the old girl off and Irena finds out about it and . . . No, that won’t do. Irena was dead before Mrs. Gentle was killed.”

A policeman put his head around the door. “The lawyer’s here.”

“Send him in.”

The lawyer introduced himself as Mr. Poindexter of Poindexter, Bravos and Dunstable. He said their offices were situated in Inverness. Mrs. Gentle had visited them a year previous to draw up her will.

“What were the conditions of the will?” asked Jimmy. “And how much was she worth?”

“With this building, stock and shares, and so on, close to twenty-five million pounds.”

And how was it to be left?”

“Fifty per cent to her son, Andrew Gentle, thirty per cent to her daughter, Sarah, and twenty per cent to her nephew, Mark.”

“Did you know she planned to make a new will, leaving her estate divided equally between her son and daughter?”

“No, this is the first I’ve heard of it. I learned from your superintendent that you would be wishing to see me, and so I came straight here. Perhaps I should take the opportunity to have a few words with the family if they are not too distressed.”

“I don’t think any of them are grieving at all,” said Jimmy.

“Where is Mr. Daviot?” asked Hamish when the door had closed behind the lawyer. “I thought he was taking over.”

“Our Supreme Being has decided that I should do the interviews first, then he’ll take over and interview them all again.”

Sounds of a screaming altercation faintly reached their ears. “Someone’s not enjoying the news about that will,” said Hamish. “You know what is puzzling me? Twenty-five million pounds is a great deal of money, yet if Byron Gentle was a top financier, it doesn’t seem much.”

“It was at the time he died,” said Jimmy. “Let’s have the daughter in.”

Sarah erupted into the room, wild-eyed with distress. “I want you to arrest Mark right away,” she howled. “He’s your murderer.”

“Have you any proof of that?” asked Andy MacNab, speaking for the first time.

“It stands to reason. She was going to change her will, and he would have got nothing.”

“Please sit down, Mrs. . . . is it Dewar?”

“Yes, I’m divorced.”

“Where were you during the past week?”

“I was down in Edinburgh looking for a job.”

“Do you have proof of that?”

“I stayed at a rotten little bed-and-breakfast, put my name down with Jipson’s employment agency in Leith Walk, and went for various interviews.”

Jimmy gave her a sheet of paper and a pen. “Just write down where you are staying in Edinburgh and the exact address of the agency.”

Hamish spoke up from his corner. “You must have been very angry when your mother threw you out.”

“What are you talking about? Mother was devoted to me. But I wanted my independence.”

“I overheard her telling you to get out,” said Hamish. “It was on the day I called on your mother.”

Sarah glared at him, finished writing, and then said defiantly, “Well, no one wants to admit to having been sent away.”

“It would be as well to stick to the truth,” said Jimmy harshly. “You were suddenly forced into finding work. What had you done before by way of employment?”

“I married young but got divorced two years ago.”

Again Hamish’s voice. “And you blamed your mother for the divorce. What happened?”

All the truculence and defiance left Sarah, and she seemed to crumple. “I had an affair, just a brief fling. I don’t know how Mother got to know of it but she told Allan, my husband. I hadn’t ever worked so I told her she owed me and she could keep me.”

“That seems a good reason for murder,” said Jimmy.

“My own mother! Don’t be stupid.”

“Now, about the maid, who we now know was called Irena. Was there anything that happened at the family party that she might have overheard and used to blackmail someone?”

“No, but she caused a lot of trouble. Mark was flirting with her and so was Andrew.”

More questioning, and then she was allowed to leave.

“Now what?” asked Jimmy. “The children, I suppose. Neither of them married. We’ll have John in first.”

John Gentle drifted in and sat down opposite Jimmy.

He seemed to be thinking of something other than the interview. He gazed dreamily at the ceiling while Jimmy restarted the tape recorder and read out his name, age, and address.

“Where were you during the last five days?” asked Jimmy.

John studied his nails. Then he said, “In my studio in London.”

“You are an artist?”

“Yes.”

“Have you witnesses?”

“My friend, Robbie. He lives with me.”

“I want you to write down his full name and also where you were in the evenings.”

John bent over the paper and began to write slowly. Hamish studied him curiously. When the family had first arrived, John had looked frightened. Not any more. He was almost too calm.

When he had finished, Hamish asked, “Have you taken tranquillisers?”

“Oh, yes. Lots. My nerves are delicate, you know.”

The questions continued, and John answered them all in the same dreamy manner.

He was finally dismissed and told to send his sister in.

What a name to be cursed with, thought Jimmy, when you’re a stocky, tough-looking girl. Her large, almost swollen lips were somehow unnerving.

Twinkle answered all the questions he had already put to the others with a sort of brisk efficiency. She was a computer expert and worked for a merchant bank in the City. They could check that she was at her desk the day her mother was murdered.

When she had gone, Jimmy said, “What a mouth!”

“Trout pout,” said Hamish. “Collagen.”

“How do you know these things?”

“I observe,” said Hamish.

“Well, observe this. We seem to have at least two motives if we can break their alibis—Sarah and Mark.”

“If it was one of the family, they’d need to have had an accomplice,” said Hamish. “The woman who made that phone call was tall and slim.”

Jimmy’s phone rang. He listened carefully and then rang off. “Dr. Forsythe’s done the toxicology report. Date-rape drug in the sherry. She must have felt herself blacking out and tried to vomit the drug up. It was the blow on the head that killed her. Only one of the wineglasses had been used. The other one was clean.”

“I feel if we could solve the murder of Irena, then we could find out who murdered Mrs. Gentle,” said Hamish. “Anything about her from the Russians?”

“Not yet. They should come up with something, however. It’s not as if it’s political.”

“Unless her protector, Grigori, is in the mafia and the Russian mafia has links to politics,” said Hamish.

“I tell you what, Hamish. Get back down to Lochdubh and see if you can find that woman or at least the bike. I’m going to have them in again.”

Chapter Five

Like the dew on the mountain,Like the foam on the river,Like the bubble on the fountain,Thou are gone, and forever!

—Sir Walter Scott

Hamish parked at the police station, fed his hens, gave his sheep their winter fodder, and cooked up lunch for his dog and cat, all the while wondering about that bicycle.

He remembered that the hotel had some bicycles which they allowed their guests to use. He decided to go there but felt forced to leave his pets behind. The press lurking outside the police station, he was sure, would snap photos of his wild cat and a debate would start whether it was right for a police officer to have such a “dangerous animal.”

But instead of driving straight to the hotel, he parked up on the moors above Lochdubh. He needed peace and quiet to think.

How was it that he who had always considered himself to be a shrewd judge of character should have been taken in by Irena? At first, he had been sure her distress was genuine. Add to that her beauty, and so he was taken in. Had she been on the streets of Moscow before finding her protector? He guessed that the life she had led had made her hard and tough. Men were creatures to be used. Maybe she had not intended to use him, and then on reflection she discovered she had hit on a soft target. It would mean more than a passport to her to become a married woman. It would mean respectability. Yes, he decided, she would ruthlessly use every weapon she could find to make sure it happened. She would accept Mrs. Gentle’s offer of money and a reception—first, surely, because she knew something about her, and second because after her treatment, she felt a desire to make the woman pay.

His thoughts turned to the mysterious phone caller. By car, she could have made the journey to the castle in about twenty minutes. By bike, very much longer. So it stood to reason that she had quickly ditched the bike somewhere outside Lochdubh, got into a car, and driven off.

So where would a stranger dump a bike on the road out of the village? She might heave it over the bridge and into the river. She wouldn’t want to use a mobile phone—that could be traced. She maybe wouldn’t want to drive into the village in case someone noticed the make of car and the registration number.

He drove back down to the humpbacked bridge over the River Anstey, got out, and scrambled down beside the bridge to the river.

In spring when the snow melted, the Anstey would become a raging torrent. But now it was peaceful, the golden peaty water chuckling over the rocks. And there, lying in the water, was a bicycle. He could see that the old-fashioned wicker basket on the front, described by the Currie sisters, had come partially loose and was swaying in the stream.

He telephoned Jimmy and told him of the find. Jimmy told him to guard it until the crime operatives and the forensic boys arrived.

“Is this how you go about your detecting, Hamish?” asked a cool voice from above him on the bridge. He looked up. Hair shining in the sunlight, there stood Priscilla.

His heart gave a great leap and then he reminded himself of their romance, failed because of Priscilla’s coldness. How could he still hanker after a woman whose idea of lovemaking was to just lie there, supine, and suffer?

“Don’t come down,” he called. He climbed up to join her. Doomed as their romance had been, there was still this warmth and trust between them. “I’ve just found a bike that’s part of the murder investigation.”

“You’d better get some tape,” said Priscilla. “There’s still a bunch of press outside the station, and they’ll soon be along here trampling over everything.”

Hamish got police tape out of the Land Rover and with Priscilla’s help began to cordon off the area.

When it was finished, Priscilla looked at him with cool blue eyes. “Hamish, what on earth possessed you to get engaged to a tart?”

“She was beautiful, she needed rescuing, and”—added Hamish harshly—“nobody else wanted me and I was tired of being single.”

“
You
broke off our engagement, not me,” said Priscilla. “And I wouldn’t go so far as to say nobody wants you.”

“What?”

“Here they come, cameras waving. And Elspeth is at the fore.”

“Look, duck under the tape and come down to the riverbank,” said Hamish.

“Won’t we be messing up a crime scene?”

“From the state of that bike, it was chucked over. Come on. I’ll tell you all about it.”

Elspeth, penned behind the tape with the rest of the press, called down to Hamish, but he affected not to hear.

He began at the beginning, telling Priscilla everything he knew, including the destroyed passport. He had always told her everything, knowing she was trustworthy and a very good listener.

When he had finished, she said, “How awful it all must have been for you.”

He looked at her with gratitude. No one else had thought of how he must feel.

He heard sirens in the distance. “Are there any odd strangers up at the hotel apart from Harold Jury?”

“I’ll double-check,” said Priscilla. “I don’t think so. Apart from the press, there are a few die-hard fishermen.”

Superintendent Daviot’s head appeared over the parapet. “Come up here, Macbeth, and let the men do their work. Oh, Miss Halburton-Smythe, how nice to see you.”

Priscilla and Hamish climbed up the bank. “I’d better be off,” said Priscilla.

“Can we meet for dinner?” asked Hamish.

“I’ll phone you.”

Elspeth watched them and then saw the way Hamish looked after Priscilla as she got into her car and drove off.

She edged her way back through the press and walked round to where the police Land Rover was parked on the bridge. Elspeth opened the passenger door, got in, and crouched down.

Daviot said to Hamish, “That was good work.”

“I’m going to check at the hotel,” said Hamish. “They’ve got bikes they let their guests use.”

He walked to the Land Rover, seemingly deaf to the cries of the journalists demanding to know the significance of the bicycle.

Hamish switched on the engine and then glanced down to his left and stiffened. “Chust what do you think you are doing, Elspeth?” he demanded.

“I’m a reporter, remember? I want something to report.”

“Tell you what, if you go to the station and take Lugs and Sonsie for a walk and feed them, I’ll give you something to report.”

“Like when?”

“Say five o’clock.”

“You’re on, copper. What did your hooker think of the possibility of sharing a home with your two other wives— Sonsie and Lugs?”

“Get out!”

“I’m going.”

Hamish drove off, feeling highly irritated. He regretted telling Elspeth he would see her later. She had jeered at him in the past over his devotion to his pets.

When he walked into the hotel, he glanced in the bar and then walked through to the lounge not just to see if he could find any odd-looking guests, but also to see if he could meet Priscilla again.

Apart from Harold Jury and his laptop, there were no other guests in the lounge. But the surprise was that Harold appeared to be entertaining Mrs. Wellington and the Currie sisters. Hamish ambled over to join them despite a ferocious keep-out-of-this look on Mrs. Wellington’s face.

Harold wanted to berate Hamish over the trick he had played on him, but bit his lip when he realised how silly it would make him sound.

Nessie Currie said, “If you behave yourself, Hamish, there might even be a part for you.”

“A part in what?” Hamish asked curiously.

“The Mothers’ Union is going to put on a production of
Macbeth
and we are here to ask this distinguished author to help us.”

“Has Mr. Jury any knowledge of the theatre?”

“He is a cultured man, cultured man,” said Jessie. “Which is mair than what you are. Go and find your murderers, murderers.”

Harold had been about to refuse, but the thought of becoming a presence in the village would wipe out his humiliation. From the look on the constable’s face, it would irritate him no end.

Hamish walked back to the reception area. Priscilla was just coming out of the manager’s office.

“Hullo again,” she said. “You look upset.”

Hamish told her of the offer to Harold. “It’s not fitting. The man could be a murderer.”

“Hamish, he is a famous author. That was a dirty trick you played on him. Fortunately I was able to soothe him by telling him you were by way of being the village clown.”

“Priscilla! That’s an awfy harsh thing to say.”

“I had to do something. The press will soon leave, and the hotel needs all the guests it can get. Having someone of Jury’s stature here is good for business.”

“Why? Is business that bad?”

“The European Union’s lousy economy and the weak dollar are killing off the tourists. In the grouse season, we used to get the French, and Americans in the fishing season. Now most of our guests, such as we have, are homegrown. We swore that next time the press arrived in Lochdubh, we would turn them away, but we can’t do that because we need the business.”

“What about the Irish? They’ve done well out of the Union.”

“We got one Irishman here, but he’s only interested in hill walking.”

“What’s his name? You didn’t tell me about him.”

“It slipped my mind. Patrick Fitzpatrick.”

“What’s he like?”

“Tall beanpole of a fellow. Very quiet. Courteous. Quite good looking.”

“I’d like to look at the shed where you keep the bikes.”

“Most of them are falling to bits. Any keen cyclist usually stays at a youth hostel. The ones we get either drive or walk. I’ll get the key.”

Hamish waited. Mrs. Wellington’s voice suddenly boomed from the lounge, “All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.”

And Harold’s amused cry of, “Splendid.”

The bastard’s going to treat the whole thing as a joke, thought Hamish.

Priscilla came out with the key. They walked together out of the hotel and round to the shed in back where the bikes were kept. Hamish examined the lock. “It hasn’t been forced, but it’s a simple lock, easily picked. Did Johnson say anything about anyone asking for a bike?”

“Yes, just one. A Mrs. Fanshawe. But she’s so deadly respectable, it couldn’t be her.”

“I’ve got to meet her.”

Priscilla opened the door and they went into the dusty darkness of the shed. “Mr. Johnson said she borrowed the mountain bike. We’ve only two of them. The rest are pretty old.”

“And shoogly,” said Hamish. “You’re right. Half of them look as if they would fall to bits.”

“Yes, but the thing is, Hamish, I can’t remember us having a bicycle like the one in the river.”

She went over to straighten a bike which had fallen, but Hamish said, “Don’t touch it. Might be an idea to get this place dusted for fingerprints. Let’s go back to the hotel. I’d like to meet this Mr. Fitzpatrick.”

“He usually turns up about now for afternoon tea.”

Hamish’s stomach rumbled. He had not yet had time to eat anything. “Is there any hope of tea for me?” he asked. “I’m awfy hungry.”

“You don’t change,” laughed Priscilla. “All right. Mr. Fitzpatrick is a bit cheap. I’ll offer to pay for his tea and order one for you.”

Patrick Fitzpatrick was delighted to accept Priscilla’s offer of afternoon tea. He was a slim, fit-looking man in his forties with a shock of ginger hair, a thin face, a small pursed mouth, and skin reddened by walking in the cold.

Priscilla said, “Mr. Fitzpatrick—”

“Patrick, please.”

“Very well. Patrick. Hamish Macbeth here would like to ask you a few questions.”

He paused, a scone dripping butter in his hand. “What could I possibly know that could help the police?” His Irish accent was light, and his voice unexpectedly high and reedy.

Hamish gulped down a tea cake and asked, “You do a fair bit of walking. Have you seen a strange woman around? She’s tall, possibly wearing dark glasses, headscarf, breeches.”

“Oh, her,” said Patrick, reaching out for another scone.

“Where?” asked Hamish urgently. “Where did you see her and when?”

“It must have been the day before yesterday. I was walking along the upper reaches of the river, must have been about two o’ clock. She was coming the other way. I shouted out, ‘Fine day,’ but she stared at me for a moment and the turned and hurried off up the brae. Then I heard the sound of a car starting up.”

“Can you remember exactly at which point on the riverbank you saw her?”

“It’s where the river makes a loop and there’s a stand of silver birch.”

“I know it. I’d better go and have a look.” Hamish grabbed two tiny sandwiches and hurried off, eating them as he went. He realised he would need to go back at some point and ask Patrick what he did for a living and why he was at the hotel.

He drove up into the hills and followed the narrow one-track road which ran along beside the River Anstey. He parked on the road above the bend in the stream described by Patrick and looked around. He searched the road, then went down and searched along the river. He had recently seen a detective series on television where the detective had found a book of matches with the name of a sinister nightclub. The only things he found were two rusty tin cans.

The nights were drawing in. He looked at his watch. It was just coming up to five o’clock. He’d better get back to the station.

He found not only Elspeth but also Jimmy waiting for him. “There’s no time to talk to your lady friend,” said Jimmy. “We’ve got to get down to headquarters. Some Russian detective’s come over.”

“I didn’t think the death of a prostitute would rank high on their list of investigations.”

“It’s an inspector called Anna Krokovsky. She’s been visiting the Met in London to study British police methods. She read about our case in the newspapers and asked to be sent north. You’re to come with me to headquarters.”

“I’m sorry, Elspeth,” said Hamish. “I’d better go. But you’ve got a wee bit of a story.” He turned to Jimmy. “I don’t suppose there’ll be anything wrong in Elspeth writing about her visit?”

“Shouldn’t think so, Hamish. Come on.”

“I’ll lock up when I go,” said Elspeth. Her laptop was on the kitchen table.