Death of a Gentle Lady - M. C. Beaton [64]
It couldn’t be Harold because he was a well-known author. Surely Harold had been properly checked into. Or had he?
The police, including himself, had not asked where he was on the days of the murders.
He decided to go to Strathbane in the morning and consult Jimmy. But Blair would be there, demanding to know what he was doing.
Was Harold one of those multi-talented people? He had acted like a true professional. What size were Harold’s feet? Surely not size seven. He was a tall man. He had been wearing a long gown covering his feet.
Hamish hurried back to the hall. He knew there was to be a buffet supper afterwards, the Italian restaurant having generously offered to contribute it.
The actors were still in costume. Harold had his wig on again and was in the middle of an admiring throng.
Willie Lamont was serving out plates of food. He hailed Hamish. ‘Wasn’t Harold a real Oliver?’
‘Olivier,’ corrected Hamish automatically.
‘Have some chicken and penne,’ urged Willie.
‘Not now,’ said Hamish. Willie looked at Hamish in surprise, wondering what was causing him to turn down a free meal.
If only I could see under Harold’s dress and get a look at his feet, thought Hamish.
He turned back. ‘Any wine, Willie?’
‘Aye, look, bottles of the stuff. Help yourself.’
Hamish poured himself a plastic cup of red wine and headed in Harold’s direction. Harold saw him approach and smiled, his eyes glittering in his stage make-up.
‘Here’s our local bobby,’ he said.
‘I thought you were chust grand,’ said Hamish. He stumbled, and his cup of wine shot over the skirt of Harold’s costume.
‘You clumsy oaf!’ yelled Harold.
‘Really, Hamish,’ complained Mrs Wellington. She took a paper napkin and began to dab at Harold’s long velvet skirt.
‘It’s all right,’ said Harold, rapidly recovering from his outburst. ‘Red skirt, red wine, no damage done.’
But that skirt still remained over his shoes.
‘I’m right sorry,’ said Hamish. He pulled his notebook out of his pocket. ‘I’d like it fine if you could give me an autograph.’
‘Certainly,’ said Harold.
Hamish dropped his notebook. He crouched down and stumbled forward, knocking Harold over.
People rushed to help Harold to his feet.
‘I’d better go,’ babbled Hamish. ‘I’m a menace.’
‘That you are,’ boomed Mrs Wellington.
Hamish fled the hall. His heart was beating hard. When Harold had tumbled over, it was revealed he was wearing a pair of women’s shoes with low heels – and Hamish was willing to bet they were size seven. One thing was for sure: Harold had small feet.
He went back to the police station, got into the Land Rover, and headed off through the night to Strathbane. Jimmy lived in a flat near the police headquarters.
Hamish mounted the stairs and rang the bell. Jimmy answered the door, his eyes bloodshot and a strong smell of whisky emanating from him.
‘Hamish! What’s up?’
‘Let me in, Jimmy, and I’ll tell you.’
Jimmy listened carefully and then said, ‘I’ll put some coffee on. I need a clear head.’
He went off to the kitchen and came back with two mugs of black coffee.
‘Now, let me get this straight,’ he said. ‘You see Harold Jury acting as Lady Macbeth. He’s got small feet. So you immediately decide that he might be a murderer. He’s a fairly well-known author, Hamish.’
‘Not that well known. He was only nominated for the Booker.’
‘What are you getting at? That he might not be Harold Jury? He was interviewed by Strathbane Television, and no one popped up to say that man is an impostor.’
‘Humour me, Jimmy. I daren’t go down to London again. Phone the Met in the morning without Blair hearing you and get someone to go round to his flat and check with the neighbours for a description.’
‘No need for that. There’s probably a photograph of him on the Internet.’
Jimmy switched on the computer. Hamish waited anxiously. ‘Here we are. It’s Harold all right.’
‘Let me see.’
‘There he is at the awards ceremony.’
‘It’s hard to tell from that photo,’ said Hamish. ‘Looks the same. Hey, look at his feet. Can you enlarge