Death of a Sweep - M. C. Beaton [22]
Betty Close saw her chance. She would see what information she could get out of Hamish Macbeth and send a preliminary report to Glasgow. And perhaps it was one of the locals who had committed the murders.
She decided to walk down to the village. If she told George or Phil what she was up to, they might tell Elspeth. Not that anyone was allowed in her room except Dr Brodie, who said he was sure he was immune to germs by now. But they could slip notes to her under the door. They had both done that already, wishing her a speedy recovery.
She met the manager, Mr Johnson, on her way out. ‘And where are you off to?’ he asked.
‘Just going for a walk. I’ll maybe pick up some background for Elspeth.’
‘I should think Miss Grant knows all the village background, but you could try the seer, Angus Macdonald. He picks up a lot of gossip.’ He gave her directions. ‘Oh, you’d best drop by at Patel’s grocery store and take him a present. He aye expects something.’
Betty walked out into the clear swimming light of a late-spring morning. What a peculiar place to live, she thought as she walked down to the village, stopping briefly on the humpbacked bridge over the River Anstey. The peaty river was swollen with the melting snow from the mountains above. The loch was very still and clear away from the place where the river waters tumbled into it. The village had been built as a result of the highland clearances when the crofters had been driven off their land to make way for vast herds of sheep. Apart from a few Victorian villas and some council houses, the rest of the buildings were Georgian cottages, whitewashed and pretty. By the harbour was a large crumbling building which had once been a hotel. No one wanted to buy it so it lay abandoned, its empty windows staring out over the sea loch.
Betty walked into the grocery store. There were several women gossiping at the counter with the owner, but they fell silent when she entered. A large tweedy woman stepped forward. ‘I am Mrs Wellington, the minister’s wife.’
‘Betty Close,’ said Betty. ‘I’m here with Elspeth Grant.’
‘How is poor Miss Grant?’
‘Still quite ill.’
‘You must let us know when she is well enough to receive visitors. May we expect to see you at church this Sunday?’
‘Sure,’ said Betty, who had no intention of going.
Two small women looking exactly alike, from their rigidly permed white hair to their thick spectacles and camelhair coats, stepped forward. ‘We are the Misses Currie,’ said Nessie. ‘Do you need anything?’
‘Need anything?’ echoed the Greek chorus that was her sister, Jessie.
‘As Miss Grant is unwell,’ said Betty importantly, ‘and we are here to research the murders, I am taking over. Do you think the murderer could be local?’
Frosty eyes looked at her, and the women turned away.
Betty shrugged and looked through the items in the small supermarket until she found a discounted box of biscuits. When she went back to the counter, the women had gone. She paid for the biscuits, walked out of the shop, and set off in the direction of Angus Macdonald’s cottage.
She felt tired when she finally got there. It had been a long walk from the hotel, and Angus’s cottage was perched on top of a steep brae.
She knocked at the door. A tall old man with a long grey beard opened the door and stared down at her. ‘Come ben,’ he said abruptly. ‘You will be thon lassie who is a sidekick to our Elspeth.’
‘I’m in charge now,’ said Betty importantly. She looked around curiously, at the peat fire in the hearth with a blackened kettle on a chain hung over it, at the Orkney chairs on one side of the hearth and the battered wing chair on the other.
She handed Angus the box of biscuits. ‘Cut price at Patel’s,’ he said. ‘I thocht you lot would have had better expenses.’
Betty’s sallow face coloured up in embarrassment. ‘Sit down,’ commanded Angus.
Betty made to sit down in the wing chair but