Death of a Gentle Lady - M. C. Beaton [19]
‘So how far have they got?’
‘Still too early. Dr Forsythe is checking the toxicology. She thinks a big strong lassie like that might have to be drugged first.’
‘I thought of that myself. But maybe if she was hit hard on the head with a hammer or something, she wouldn’t need to be drugged.’
‘Right. But there were no drag marks on the stairs. I know it looked as if the cellar had been recently cleaned, but something would have shown up if she’d been hit on the head and pulled down the stairs. Even cleaned-up blood shows up under those blue lights they were flashing around. So it stands to reason it was someone she knew. Two glasses on the table, one bottle, no prints. A full bottle of Amontillado. Say someone said, “I’ve got a good bottle of wine in the cellar. Come down and we’ll drink to your wedding. You’ve got time.”’
‘Mrs Gentle said she went out for a walk.’
‘Mrs Gentle could have been in on the murder.’
‘I forgot to tell you. I’ve got witnesses to that phone call from the box,’ said Hamish. ‘I sent a report over.’ He described the woman.
‘I’ll phone headquarters and get them on to it right away,’ said Jimmy, going through to the office. ‘They can start with that bike,’ he called over his shoulder.
When he came back, he rubbed his hand over his bristly chin and yawned. ‘I’ll stay here the night, Hamish.’
‘That’s another pair of my underpants, not to mention another clean shirt,’ complained Hamish. ‘Want a drink?’
‘I don’t. Blair’s alcoholism has given me a real scare.’
Harold Jury knocked on Archie Maclean’s door the following morning. ‘Your local policeman suggested I call on you,’ said Harold, looking down at the small fisherman. Archie was not what he had expected. He had fondly pictured a tall, burly son of the sea, not this small man in a cloth cap and a tight suit.
‘Come ben,’ said Archie. ‘Oh, wait a minute.’ He reached behind the door, picked up a fir branch, and struck Harold across the face with it. He chanted something in Gaelic, then said, ‘Now you can come in.’
The blow had been a light one, but Harold still felt shocked. He followed Archie into the kitchen. The floor was covered in newspapers. ‘The wifie’s house-proud,’ said Archie. ‘Don’t want to get dirty marks on the floor.’
He placed a bowl of rock salt on the table and said, ‘Eat up. Welcome to ma house.’
‘Can I have some water with this?’ asked Harold.
‘No, the traditional highland welcome says you hae to eat it straight.’
Harold gulped and swallowed. His mouth felt as if it were on fire. At last he finished the small bowl of salt. ‘What now?’ he asked.
‘This,’ said Archie. He picked up the fir branch and struck Harold again. ‘Welcome and goodbye.’
‘That’s it?’ Harold rose from his chair at the kitchen table.
‘Aye, that’s it.’
Harold went straight across the road to the bar on the harbour, where he ordered a pint of beer and gulped it down his throat. He was beginning to feel obscurely that there was something too odd about the whole business. He ordered another pint and turned away from the bar, looking for a place to sit down. He noticed that the bar seemed to have filled up, and a group of men were looking at him with covert amusement. An awful suspicion began to grow in his mind. He left his pint untouched and drove back to the Tommel Castle Hotel, where he confronted the manager and demanded to know if what he had experienced was a highland welcome. When he had finished laughing, Mr Johnson asked, ‘Where did you get such a silly idea from?’
Furiously Harold described how Hamish Macbeth had sent him to see Archie Maclean. ‘Do you mean it was all a joke?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘I shall report that policeman to his superiors. I shall phone the local newspaper.’
‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you. You’ll look a right fool.’
Harold realized the truth of it. ‘I’m getting out of here,’ he yelled. ‘Get