Death of a Chimney Sweep - M. C. Beaton [17]
Thomas Bromley shivered as he looked down to the long black finger of the loch and the steep, threatening black mountains that guarded it. “At least the hotel’s civilised. We’ll say something nice to Milly and get going.”
“What about our money?” demanded Ferdinand.
“We’ll wait a day. Call tomorrow and chat. Suggest she honours her husband’s debts.”
News presenter Elspeth Grant was seated in the conference room at the television studios in Glasgow. The head of news and current affairs, Sean Gibb, said, “We’re going to launch this new programme we’ve been discussing called Pandora’s Box. It’s a sort of cold-case files. For the first programme, we want you to take some time up in the Highlands and see what you can dig up about those murders in Drim.”
“It’s not very cold yet,” said Elspeth. “And who does my job of news presenting while I’m away?”
“Dottie McDougal.”
“But Dottie’s only a research assistant!”
“We’ve tried her out and she’ll do great. She’ll only be filling in until you see if you can make something of this idea. It’s prime time, Elspeth.”
Elspeth felt very low. Dottie had blonde hair and cleavage. Dottie giggled and swayed her saucy little bum up and down the corridors. Whoever believed that news presenters weren’t chosen for their appearance? she thought dismally.
“Why call it Pandora’s Box?” she asked.
“Well, the last thing out of the box after all the horrors once Pandora had opened it was Hope. Get it? Captain Davenport’s poor wifie wants closure, and that’s the hope we’re going to give her.”
Elspeth gamely made one last try. “But I’m not a detective.”
“Look at all the cases you’ve been involved in up there. What’s the name of that copper?”
“Hamish Macbeth,” said Elspeth bleakly.
“That’s the fellow. Get alongside him.”
Elspeth repressed a sigh. The last time she saw Hamish was when he had tried to speak to her in Glasgow after she had fled their holiday in Corsica, convinced that he had proposed marriage to the love of his life, Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, whose father owned the Tommel Castle Hotel—and all because she had followed him and heard him asking about engagement rings. But there had been no news of any engagement in the newspapers, and she often wondered if Hamish had meant to propose to her.
Hamish had already phoned the manager, Mr. Johnson, to see if he could beg a room to use for interviews. He was told he could use Colonel Halburton-Smythe’s study as the colonel was away, visiting friends.
He decided to bring the four men in together. They had already been interviewed separately in Surrey.
Hamish sat behind the colonel’s desk, and the four filed in and sat facing him. “I’ll start with you, Mr. Castle,” said Hamish in his lilting highland voice. “I suppose you all met up in the regiment.”
“Yes, we went through some rough times. We were all in the Falklands War, and all of us served in Northern Ireland.”
“And you were all close to Captain Davenport?”
“Yes,” said Charles. “Get on with it. We don’t want to sit here answering questions all night.”
“Ah, Mr. Prosser, what was your rank when you left the army.”
“Colonel.”
“Mr. Bromley?”
“Lieutenant-colonel.”
“Mr. Castle?”
“Major.”
“And Mr. Sanders?”
“Staff Sergeant.”
“Was Captain Davenport a good soldier?”
There was a chorus of agreement. “The best.” Bromley. “Fine fellow.” Castle. “Good fun.” Sanders. “Could always be relied on in a fix.” Prosser.
Hamish looked at them all thoughtfully. Then he said, “Oh, come off it. We have letters from your lawyers, as you know, wanting your money back. I think he fled up here to get away from all the people he had conned. Someone wanted revenge. So let’s get to the truth. Mr. Davenport left the army after long service with only the rank of captain. Why was that?”
John Sanders began to bluster. “Who can explain the ways of the army? I was only a sergeant, and—”
Charles Prosser cut in. “May as well tell him. Nothing was ever proved but it left a nasty smell. It was when we were billeted