Death of a Nag Read online

  After a substantial breakfast the following morning, he set out for Cheltenham Spa. When he got to Cheltenham, he became lost, as so many do in the one-way traffic system, and wished he had parked the car and walked. Eventually he found his way into a parking lot and asked directions to the terrace in which Mrs. Agnew lived. The Regency spa of Cheltenham had the air almost of a seaside town. He almost expected to come to the end of a street and see the sea.

  Andover Terrace was in a network of streets behind where Miss Gunnery lived. He knocked at the door of a small Georgian house wedged in between two antique shops. After some moments, the door was opened by a muscular middle-aged lady.

  "Mrs. Agnew?"

  "Yes, but if you're selling anything, go away."

  "I have come with a message from Miss Gunnery."

  "Oh, come in, come in. What a terrible thing to happen to her. She was looking forward to a quiet holiday, too."

  Hamish followed her upstairs and into a small dark living-room. Heavy carved fruitwood furniture upholstered in red plush, the type imported from Amsterdam, was set about the room. There was a photograph of Miss Gunnery and Mrs. Agnew, taken some years before. They were in tennis whites and clutching tennis rackets. Hamish nodded in the direction of the photograph. "Are you both tennis players?"

  "Were ... were. We were both terribly keen. We both taught at the same school and played every day after school was over. So how is Felicity?"

  "I think Miss Gunnery is feeling the strain. There has been another murder, you know."

  "Yes, terrible, terrible. Are you a friend?"

  "Of short duration. We met at the boarding-house. My name is Hamish Macbeth. I am a police constable."

  Her face hardened. "If there is anything you want to know about Miss Gunnery, then I suggest you ask her. I have nothing to tell you."

  "I am here as a friend," said Hamish patiently. "She simply wanted me to tell you that she was as well as could be expected in the circumstances. I had certain things to do in Worcester and she knew Cheltenham was close. She wass verra kind to me when my dog died." Hamish wondered whether he would always have this stab of grief when he thought of his lost pet.

  "She would be. She's very sentimental about animals."

  "Miss Gunnery has a cat, I believe," said Hamish, looking about with affected vagueness.

  Mrs. Agnew's eyes crinkled up in amusement. "I know why you're here. She wanted you to check up on her cat. Joey!"

  A small black-and-white cat crawled round from behind a chair. It yawned and stretched. "There you are," said Mrs. Agnew. "Fit and well and full of food. Tell her to look after herself and not worry about anything else. Goodness knows, the poor creature has enough to worry about." She looked at Hamish with sad eyes.

  "The murders?"

  "What else?" she demanded sharply.

  Hamish refused an offer of tea and said he'd better be heading north.

  On the long road home, he tried to think about the case, but everything seemed muddled in his head. It was only when he was crossing the border into Scotland that he realized that he had not once thought of Priscilla, that she was in the Cotswolds quite near Evesham and that he could have easily visited her. Then thoughts about Doris Harris took over. She had lied by omission, as had Andrew. They had definitely known each other before and Andrew had followed her to Scotland.

  Wearily giving his report to a gratified Deacon, Hamish wondered why he felt like a traitor. He handed over the waiter's statement along with the photographs.

  "I don't know how you did it, laddie," said Deacon for the second time. "How you managed to find one restaurant where they had been seen together out o' all the restaurants around is beyond me."

  "Intuition," said Hamish and stifled a yawn. "I'm awfy tired and would like some sleep."

  "Aye, off wi' ye. We'll have that pair along here in the morning. Like to sit in on the questioning?"

  Hamish hesitated, then reminded himself he was a policeman, and nodded.

  He drove home, glad to see all the lights were out in the boarding-house. He fervently hoped that Miss Gunnery was not awake and waiting for him.

  He gently unlocked the door—they had all been supplied with keys—and eased himself into the hall. A light immediately clicked on in the lounge. He could see a strip of light under the door, hear Miss Gunnery's voice calling anxiously, "Is that you, Hamish?"

  He ran for the stairs and reached the corridor where his room was situated just as he heard the lounge door opening. He unlocked his bedroom door and plunged in, locked it behind him, and stood with his back against it, feeling like a hunted animal. He would have liked a bath, but that meant he might be waylaid on the road to the bathroom. Without putting on the light, he scrambled out of his clothes, into his pyjamas, and dived into bed just as he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. A moment later there was a quiet knock at his door and Miss Gunnery called, "Hamish, are you there?"

  He let out a very stagy snore, but after another moment he heard her sigh, heard her move away. But instead of plunging down into sleep, his mind stayed resolutely restless and awake. All the people involved in the murders circulated around his brain. He began to wonder what Doris was really like. He had taken her at face value: small, neat, withdrawn, almost prim at times, putting her reserve down to the result of years of bullying. She could have left Harris. There were no children to worry about. But perhaps she had been taken "hostage" by Harris, perhaps she had been kept down and bullied for too long to have a will or mind of her own. But what had happened to her when Andrew had entered her life? Yes, think about that, Hamish Macbeth. Andrew was gentle and mannered, the complete opposite of her boorish husband. There was the spice of secret meetings intensifying the romance. Then Harris would come back from his travels, nagging and yapping and criticizing. So what murderous thoughts began to burn in the quiet Doris's bosom? Would she not think day in and day out what her life might be if this husband were dead, and might she not discuss it with Andrew?

  Then what of the beleaguered Dermott Brett and his secret life? He had obviously been genuine when he believed his wife would never divorce him. Harris threatened his life with June and his children. Rogers was blackmailing him. Could it be that Jamie MacPherson had been blackmailing him as well? What a crowd! Two scrubbers from Glasgow with prison records, one illicit romance, Doris and Andrew, two illicit romances if you counted Dermott and June, one unmarried schoolteacher who was in love with him ... Hamish shuddered away from that last thought. He liked Miss Gunnery and did not want to hurt her. He twisted uneasily under the blankets and automatically leaned down to pat Towser and then remembered his dog was dead.

  The death of Towser had clouded all his thoughts, making him hate the boarding-house and hate Skag and see everyone he met as a potential murderer. It was time to get to know them all again. No matter what the provocation, normal people did not kill, he firmly believed that. Somewhere, in one of them, there was the capacity to kill. And what of Alice Brett, the legitimate wife? The more he thought of her, the more anxious he became. He should have delayed his journey north and gone to see her. He must call on Deacon in the morning and ask to see a transcript of the interview with her, how much time she had taken off from work and whether she could have travelled up to Skag in time to murder Harris. But why would she want to murder Harris? Say he had written to her, found out her address, and written to her about June and the children. No one liked the source of bad news, but not enough to kill the bearer.

  But wait a bit! He kept thinking of it as murder. The death of Harris could have been culpable homicide. Think of this. Alice goes to meet Harris. Say he suggested the jetty. He was a nasty bit of work. He would not be able to resist jeering at her. He had been drunk. Hamish could see him now, swaying slightly, his face flushed and his nag's voice going on and on. Alice seizes a piece of driftwood and whacks him on the head to shut him up. He sways and tumbles into the water. Terrified, she runs away. Then, say, Jamie MacPherson blackmails her. She has k
illed once, so it's easier to kill again.

  But how on earth would Jamie MacPherson have got hold of her address?

  Then there was that unknown quantity, Miss Gunnery. He should have dug deeper there. By saying she had slept with him, she had established a very good alibi for herself until he had broken it by telling the truth; or, to be honest, because he had been shopped by Maggie Donald. The fact was, thought Hamish ruefully, he hadn't worked hard enough.

  And as if the very idea of hard work exhausted him, he fell fast asleep.

  In the morning he put on his police uniform, which he had brought from Lochdubh, and made his way downstairs. Mrs. Rogers stopped in the hall at the sight of him, her face suddenly contorted with fury. "You bastard," she hissed. "You got my man in trouble."

  "He got himself in trouble." Hamish looked at her coolly. "He should ha' been more careful with a policeman in the house. He knew I wass a policeman because he searched my suitcase."

  "Havers," said Mrs. Rogers, moving away. "Who told you that?"

  "He did," lied Hamish blandly.

  She gave him a shifty look and backed towards the dining-room door. "Oh, well, we have tae check up on folks." She went inside the dining-room and slammed the door.

  Hamish grinned to himself. Only a tiny part of the mystery solved, but a satisfactory one.

  PC Crick came in, saw Hamish and said, "I'm here to collect Mrs. Harris and Mr. Biggar. You're tae come as well."

  "I'll go ahead and see them at the station," said Hamish, feeling squeamish at the thought of a journey with Doris and Andrew.

  It was one of those still, grey days, reminding him of when he had first arrived in Skag. The sea was flat and a thin mist lay over everything.

  He felt hungry but had not wanted to risk breakfast with Miss Gunnery, whose gaze on him appeared to be becoming more intense. When he arrived at the police station, Maggie was talking to Deacon in the entrance hall. "Ah, here's Macbeth," said Deacon. "Get us some coffees, Maggie." A spark of malice glinted in Hamish's hazel eyes. "Just the thing," he said amiably, "and since I havenae had any breakfast, a few doughnuts would be welcome."

  "I do have police work to do," said Maggie tartly.

  "Hop to it, Constable," snapped Deacon. "Come along, Macbeth."

  The detective, Johnny Clay, was already in the interviewing room.

  "Sit ower there, Macbeth," said Deacon, indicating a chair in the corner.

  Hamish took off his peaked cap, put it under his chair, and drew out his notebook and a stub of pencil.

  "What are the reports on Alice Brett?" he asked. "I was thinking about her. I mean, is she as hysterical as Dermott made her sound? He seemed to think she might kill herself if he asked for a divorce."

  "She's here."

  "What? In Skag?"

  "We brought her up for questioning. If you want a wee look at her, we'll hae her in after we've spoken tae these two."

  The door opened. Maggie Donald put a tray with paper-cups of coffee and a plate of jam doughnuts on the table. Hamish rose and helped himself, ignoring a fulminating glare from Maggie. He knew the fact that he was being allowed to sit in on the interviewing when he was only an ordinary police constable like herself had infuriated her more than being ordered to fetch doughnuts.

  But when she had left, he couldn't help asking mildly, "Doesn't it ever get up Maggie's nose, being treated like a skivvy? I mean, what about equal opportunities and no sex discrimination?"

  "When that one stops trying to get favours by batting her eyelids and wiggling her bum, we'll maybe take her a bit more seriously," said Deacon. "And address me as 'sir' when you talk to me, Macbeth."

  "Yes, sir."

  The door opened again and Doris and Andrew were ushered in. Andrew's face appeared strained and Doris looked even more buttoned down than ever, mouth tucked in at the corners, hair rigidly set, neat little blouse and straight skirt and low-heeled shoes.

  "You cannot keep questioning and questioning us like this," protested Andrew. "We've told you all we know."

  Clay switched on the tape. "Beginning interview with Mrs. Doris Harris and Mr. Andrew Biggar," he intoned. "Nine-fifteen, July thirtieth. Interview by Detective Chief Inspector Deacon. Also present, Detective Sergeant Clay and Constable Hamish Macbeth."

  Andrew threw Hamish a look of reproach.

  "Now," began Deacon, "we would like to know why the pair of you omitted the fact that you both knew each other before you came up here."

  "But that's not true," wailed Doris.

  "Stop lying," snapped Deacon. "Look, we've gone easy on you, Mrs. Harris, because of your being newly widowed and all. We have here a statement from a waiter who works in a Chinese restaurant in Evesham. He identified you from your photographs. Your fault, for being such a generous tipper, Mr. Biggar. He remembered you all right. And the pair of you were seen there on two occasions. What have you to say about it?"

  Doris began to cry quietly. Deacon glared at her impatiently. Andrew took Doris's hand.

  "We did not lie to you," he said quietly. "The fact that we had met before had nothing to do with the murder investigation."

  "It seems to me it might have quite a lot to do with it," said Deacon.

  Clay leaned forward. "So you knew each other before. So you knew, Mr. Biggar, that Mr. and Mrs. Harris were to be here on holiday and you came along as well. Why? To put it bluntly, you could hardly have expected any romantic interludes with her husband around." His voice hardened. "Could it be that you came up with murder in mind?"

  "I just wanted to be near her, that's all," mumbled Andrew, looking the picture of gentlemanly embarrassment.

  "We'll start again," said Deacon. "Were you having an affair?"

  "No," said Doris. "Never!"

  Deacon gave them both a look of patent disbelief but he said in a milder tone to Andrew, "How did you first meet?"

  "I was judging a dog show," said Andrew. "Afterwards I went to the refreshment tent to get a beer. When I started to leave, it was coming down in buckets. Doris was standing at the entrance to the tent. She didn't have a coat. She said something about having to wait or she would get soaked trying to reach the car-park. My judging was over, so I suggested we have another drink and see if the rain eased off. We began to talk. I found her very easy to talk to."

  "Have you ever been married, Mr. Biggar?" Hamish's quiet Highland lilt came from the corner of the room.

  "Yes, I was married over ten years ago. She left me when I was posted to Northern Ireland. She is married again. Her married name is Hester Glad-Jones. She now lives in Cambridge. She will testify that I was never violent or abusive to her. I am not the sort to murder."

  "But you were a professional soldier until recently. You must have known how to kill men."

  "Yes, but not by hitting them on the head and pushing them in the water and leaving them to die."

  "So when did you first meet Mrs. Harris?"

  "I told you ... at the dog show."

  "Yes, I know, but I want month and year."

  "It was two years ago, in August."

  "And you have been seeing each other ever since?"

  "Yes, on and off. Just the occasional drink or meal. We enjoyed each other's company. There seemed no harm in it. We did not fall in love until recently."

  "You seem a sensible man to me," said Deacon. "Okay, I can understand you not wanting us to know that you and Mrs. Harris had been seeing each other before you came up here. But for heaven's sake, man, what did you think you were doing coming up to a seedy boarding-house to watch the woman you loved being bullied by her husband? What did you think when you heard him going on at her? It drove Macbeth over there to punch Harris on the nose, although he will insist it was self-defence."

  Andrew said evenly, "The reason I stayed was to try to persuade her to leave with me, just leave him."

  Deacon transferred his attention to Doris. "And why didn't you?" he asked.

  "I was afraid Bob would kill me."

  "But
if you just went off with him, how could he find you?"

  She shivered and hugged herself. "He would have found us. I just hadn't the strength."

  Again the voice of Hamish Macbeth. "You live with your mother, Mr. Biggar. Did she know about Mrs. Harris?"

  He hesitated and then gave a curt "Yes."

  "And what did she think about it? I know you are a middle-aged man, but to mothers, sons never grow up. Had she met Mrs. Harris?"

  "No."

  "But she knew. What did she think?"

  "I do not know. I refused to discuss the matter with her."

  "You must have seen an end to this. What did you envisage?"

  Andrew sighed. "I lived from day to day. I hoped Doris would sooner or later get up the courage to leave him."

  The questioning continued. Where had they gone, apart from the Chinese restaurant, and when? At last, they were released. Maggie came in to clear away the empty cups as Deacon said to Hamish, "Well, I think they're both mad. Why didn't they just hop into bed and have a fling?"

  "You're looking at two old-fashioned people," said Hamish. "It struck me for the first time looking at them both that they love with the intensity of a Romeo and Juliet. They had everything against them: disapproving mother, bullying husband. But this is the real thing, this is the stuff the poets wrote about, and that's why Andrew Biggar followed her up here."

  "Havers. You're a romantic."

  "I am the realist. Some surprising people are capable of the finer feelings," said Hamish huffily.

  Maggie went out with the tray. Could Hamish Macbeth love like that? Was he right? Did that sort of love still exist when everything these days was sex, sex, sex? Perhaps she would see if he was free for dinner. That new short black skirt with the slit up the side hadn't been worn yet.

  She hung about outside the interviewing room.

  But Hamish was waiting inside to see Alice Brett.

  9

  Love's like the measles—all the worse when it comes late in life.