Death of a Chimney Sweep - M. C. Beaton [15]
“Fix yourself a drink, darling,” called the woman who had helped to kidnap Philomena. “I must get this stuff off.” She went into the bathroom. She removed pads from her cheeks and layers of foam rubber which had given her a plump figure. She would have removed them immediately after Philomena had gone to her death but he had said to wait until they were back in Edinburgh. It had made her uneasy, because they must have some sort of description of her by now. She was revealed as a slim woman in her forties.
Her flat was in the Royal Mile, in a tall tenement in the Canongate. She reappeared from the bathroom, wrapped in a dressing gown. “It’s hot in here,” she said. “You didn’t need to light a fire.”
She flung up the sash window and took a great gulp of fresh air. He seized her by the ankles and thrust her through the window. With a long wailing scream, she fell to her death below. He raked red-hot coals out from the fire and piled newspapers on top then fled the flat, easing into the crowds going up and down the Royal Mile, forcing himself to walk at a leisurely pace. At the North Bridge, he hailed a taxi to where he had parked the four-wheel drive. He had already removed the false number plates. He drove out to a small, old cottage he had rented, miles out into the countryside, and there he started to work to restore his appearance to normal, tearing off a false moustache and beard. He would let things all go quiet for a few months and then see about getting back that money Captain Henry Davenport had conned him out of.
At first, with so many clues, it seemed only a matter of time until the killer was found. But the police came up against dead end after dead end. No one connected the death of a high-class prostitute and a fire in an apartment in the Royal Mile with the Sutherland murders.
Surrey police had interviewed the four lawyers’ clients: Ferdinand Castle, Thomas Bromley, John Sanders, and Charles Prosser. The captain had fired them up with a get-rich-quick idea. He said that mining for gold was about to start over at Ben Nevis. He produced geological surveys. He said he needed more money to invest to get them all in on the ground floor, but to secure the deal it would need to be in cash. The four had loaned him close to 750,000 pounds. After some time, they began to become suspicious and demanded the money back. The captain had blustered and said they would be paid in full. The lawyers’ letters had been sent to his home in Guildford. Shortly after that, he had sold his house, quietly—no estate agent’s board outside—and disappeared.
The four men all had cast-iron alibis. Not one of them had been out of Guildford for months. They swore they thought that Captain Davenport was a sound man and had been a brave soldier.
Hamish Macbeth felt like tearing his red hair out in frustration. Captain Davenport and Philomena Davenport were buried on the same day, in a little cemetery above Drim where seagulls screamed overhead. The sweep, poor Peter Ray, had already been buried in the churchyard at Lochdubh, his funeral being paid for by the locals.
Hamish attended the funeral, his eyes searching the small crowd of press and villagers for strangers, but he could see no one who looked suspicious or out of place. Strathbane police had vetted every member of the press. Milly was being supported by Ailsa. She seemed on the point of collapse.
Was she really so innocent? wondered Hamish. Did her sister-in-law simply leave saying she was going to Inverness and that was all? But Milly had been seen in the village all day when her sister had gone over the Struie Pass. The autopsy on what was left of Philomena’s charred body had found traces of LSD, and so her death had been classed as murder.
He had a feeling that the murderer had not come all the way up from the south but was in Scotland somewhere. And he was sure it was someone who knew the Highlands well. Whoever had attacked the captain had somehow managed to get him to walk out and