Death of a Valentine - M. C. Beaton [47]
But as she talked, Josie’s imagination, fuelled by a generous glass of whisky, began to make her lies become reality. Acute jealousy made her think of Priscilla as a rival, although she did not tell her mother that Hamish had gone off with Priscilla and had not returned until the following day.
Then Flora said, “I’ve been meaning to throw a lot of old stuff out of the attic. It’s been up there for years and years. Some of it’s even your Great-Great Aunt Polly’s belongings. I know they’re a part of family history but I thought some of the old clothes could go to the local dramatic society.”
“I’ll have a look tomorrow,” said Josie.
On the following morning, Josie, nursing a hangover, climbed up to the attic, a small room at the top of the Victorian house which had once been used by a maid. Her mother followed her. “Look at all this stuff,” said Flora. “What I want you to do, pet, is take a look through it and see if there’s anything you want. I phoned the dramatic society and a couple are coming around this afternoon. I’ll leave you to it.”
Josie sat down and gloomily surveyed the jumble piled up around the room. Her mother had already labelled several of the old steamer trunks CLOTHES, PHOTOGRAPHS, and SHOES.
Feeling she could not really be bothered and wondering whether her mother had any Alka-Seltzer in the house, Josie decided to sit as long as she could, nursing her hangover, and then say there was nothing she wanted. She had no interest in family history. There were plenty of photographs downstairs of her late father whom she dimly remembered from her childhood as being an angry violent man, particularly on Friday evenings when he came back from the pub.
Her eyes fell on an old desk in the corner. It had a square wooden box on the top. Josie rose to her feet. Her mother had not said anything about jewellery. But perhaps there might be something valuable in there.
She opened the lid. It was full of old bottles of medicine and pillboxes. She was about to close the lid again when she noticed that one dark green bottle with a stoppered top had fallen on its side. It was labelled LAUDANUM. She lifted it out. It was full. She remembered reading in historical romances that laudanum was tincture of opium. She looked down into the jumble of medicines and found another bottle, also full.
After her failure to drug Hamish, she had vowed she would never, ever do anything so crazy again. But…maybe she would take them. You never knew…
Hamish meanwhile had set out to interview all the women in the case again. He was having a hard time with Cora Baxter, who seemed to think it the height of impertinence that a lowly police sergeant should dare to question a councillor’s wife. Hamish first asked her if she had visited the town hall on the evening Mark Lussie was murdered and then asked her if she had, or if she knew anyone who had, a knowledge of chemistry.
Her formidable bosom heaved. “Are you daring to suggest that I had anything to do with Annie’s murder? I shall report you to your superiors.”
“By all means,” said Hamish, hoping she would do so and that his sergeant’s stripes would be removed along with Josie. “I am simply—”
The door to the living room crashed open and Jamie Baxter strode in. “What’s going on here?”
“Oh, Jamie,” wailed Cora. “This terrible man is accusing me of murder!”
“This is too much, Macbeth,” said Jamie. “Get out of here this minute and don’t ever bother my poor wife again.”
Hamish tried to protest that he was only doing his duty but he was firmly shown the door.
He trudged along to Mrs. McGirty’s. As the frail old lady answered his knock, Hamish realised that she was the last person in the world to make a letter bomb, but maybe she heard useful gossip.
“Come in,” said Mrs. McGirty. “I’ll