Death of a Sweep - M. C. Beaton [12]
‘Tam certainly hasn’t. Philomena might have been up here.’
‘I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to get her and ask her.’
‘But she’s gone to bed! And she’ll be so angry at being woken up.’
‘Just show me her bedroom door and I’ll do the rest.’
Philomena was furiously haughty in her denials. Was she not going to be allowed to sleep?
Hamish carefully examined the front door and kitchen door but could see no signs of any type of break-in. But perhaps the captain had his house keys on his dead body and the killer had taken them away.
‘I’ll get a locksmith along in the morning to change the locks,’ he said, ‘and get a deadbolt put on the kitchen door. I’ll give you a receipt for these letters and then get over to Strathbane and hand them in as evidence.’
In his Land Rover, he switched on the overhead light and, taking out his notebook, made a careful note of the lawyers’ names and addresses and the names of their clients. They were all down in Surrey. He wished he could go there himself. It would mean he would not have to wait until a report came back from the Surrey police. But one of them might have come north and stayed locally before contacting the captain.
He studied the clients’ names: Ferdinand Castle, Thomas Bromley, John Sanders, and Charles Prosser. Then he set off for Strathbane.
He preferred to deal with Jimmy, but Jimmy had gone home. He telephoned him. Jimmy groaned and said he’d be back at the office in a few moments.
When he arrived, he exclaimed over the letters, ‘Now we might get somewhere. A secret drawer! It’s like something out o’ Enid Blyton.’
‘It’s like something out o’ the Antiques Roadshow,’ said Hamish. ‘I mind being amazed at the number of old pieces o’ furniture wi’ secret drawers. But forensics had better go back and have a go at that attic. Someone’s been in there, and I would think that someone was there after the village women did a’ the cleaning.’
Jimmy leaned back in his chair, yawned, and put his battered brogues up on the desk. ‘Don’t you think sweet little Milly or that great bullying sister-in-law might have found something they’re not telling us about?’
‘I hope not,’ said Hamish. ‘Surely neither woman would want to go after a ruthless killer on her own.’
Philomena arrived in the bar of the Dancing Scotsman Hotel on the banks of the River Ness at one o’clock the following day. Her heart was beating hard. For one little moment, a grain of common sense was telling her that she was putting herself at risk. But she banished it. She would show them that she was sharper and brighter than anyone in the police force, particularly Hamish Macbeth. And the bar was crowded. She had nothing to fear.
By quarter past one, she was beginning to feel like a fool. Of course the murderer would not come. But he might be waiting outside to follow her and accost her on a quiet stretch of the road home.
With a sinking heart, Philomena realized that, for her own safety, she would need to go straight to Inverness police. What could she say that would not make her look like the dangerous idiot she now felt?
A woman sat down opposite her. ‘Do you mind?’ she asked. ‘All the other seats seem to be full.’
‘I’m waiting for someone,’ said Philomena harshly. But the woman was middle-aged and respectable, plump and motherly and wearing a large hat. ‘Oh, well, just until my companion turns up.’ Philomena decided to give it another fifteen minutes. She could not bear to fail.
‘Aren’t the shops busy,’ said the woman. ‘I remember when Inverness was just a quiet country town.’
The woman ordered a vodka and Red Bull when the waiter came up. ‘You haven’t touched yours, dear,’ she said to Philomena.
‘Oh, I don’t feel like drinking.’
Philomena’s bag was open on the seat beside her. ‘Look at that man!’ said her companion suddenly. ‘What is he doing?’
Looking out the window, all Philomena could see were innocent-looking passers-by. She did not see the woman reach