Death of a Chimney Sweep - M. C. Beaton [27]
“What will my husband say?”
“I’ll talk to him. Have you any money left?”
“Yes.”
“So take my advice and get some of the village women in to clean your house. I’m sure Dr. Brodie doesn’t notice much but he’ll be in a better mood wi’ a bit o’ home comfort.”
Betty wearily trudged back to the beach. She had tried to call her colleagues but could not pick up a signal on her phone. As she neared the beach, though, her phone worked at last and she phoned Phil Green. His voice crackled back over a bad line. “I looked for you, Betty. Thon policeman sent you off on a wild goose chase. He says you planted a recorder in the police office. We’ve been told to go back and join Elspeth immediately. You’re to make your own way back.”
“How?” screamed Betty, looking wildly around.
“Taxi.”
“Here?”
“Not my problem.” Phil rang off.
Dr. Brodie was bewildered as Hamish explained the situation. When Hamish had finished, he asked plaintively, “What’s up with being just a housewife? The village is full of them.”
In a shaky voice, Angela explained how much it had meant to her to be a published writer.
“It’s all beyond me, Angela,” he said at last. “But you’ve been awfully secretive. Did you think I’d want your money?”
“No, no. It’s just I’ve never had any money of my own. It felt great.”
Dr. Brodie shook his head wearily. “Och, do what you have to do.”
Betty arrived back the following day. She had stayed overnight at Balankiel, taken a bus to Lochinver, and from there travelled by taxi to Lochdubh. A curt message from the television station was waiting for her telling her to return immediately to Glasgow.
Elspeth, completely recovered, was down in Lochdubh, filming Angela who was seated at her computer at a newly scrubbed and cleared kitchen table. After the filming was over, Hamish said urgently, “Now, remember, Elspeth, I don’t know anything about this.”
As Hamish walked back to his station, he suddenly stood stock-still. He had been focussing on the four men. What if Angela turned out not to be the only local who had parted with money? He had to see Milly again. He walked to the offices of the Highland Times and told Matthew Campbell, the editor, to get down to Strathbane because he’d just heard a rumour that Angela Brodie had been arrested. Then he went back to the police station to wait through the long day for the evening news.
At six o’clock, he switched on the Scottish television news. Floods here, road accidents there, murder in Glasgow. “Come on,” he muttered.
And suddenly there was Angela outside Strathbane police headquarters, her eyes red with crying. Blair had been at his worst until Elspeth had demanded a lawyer for her.
Then it switched to Angela in her kitchen telling her sad story to Elspeth. Hamish breathed a sigh of relief. She came over very well. Angela exuded goodness.
Henry Satherwaite ran a small publishing firm in Edinburgh called simply Scottish Literature. He published new authors and had built up a surprisingly successful business with steady sales. He had read Angela’s first book and had thought it very good. He promptly packed an overnight bag, got his car out of the garage, and headed for the Highlands.
Jimmy Anderson called on Hamish that evening. “Come ben,” said Hamish, eyeing him warily, hoping the foxy detective had not jumped to the same miserable conclusion as he had himself—that there might be more conned villagers in the neighbourhood.
“So your friend has got herself in hot water wi’ Blair,” said Jimmy. He raised the glass of whisky Hamish had poured him and said, “Rummel, rummel roon the gums, look out stomach here it comes. Ah, that’s better.”
“It’s your liver, not your stomach you should be worried about.”
“Oh, I’m fine. But have you thought?”
“Thought what?”
“These con artists just keep on going. They jist can’t keep their paws off other people’s money. Your friend Angela Brodie might not be the only one.”
“Maybe,” said Hamish.
“Aye, I should guess definitely, which widens the investigation.”
“Have you suggested this to Blair?”
“Not