Death of a Valentine - M. C. Beaton [60]
She realised for the first time that if she appeared cold and detached, Hamish would drop his guard.
So she said casually, “I’ll think about it. I’ll be on my way, sir.”
She’s turning out all right after all, thought Hamish.
Josie drove up to the Tommel Castle Hotel and asked if Elspeth was still there.
“She’s hiding in her room,” said Mr. Johnson. “She’s leaving in the morning.”
“May I have a word with her?” asked Josie.
The manager looked at her doubtfully. “Is it police business?”
“No, just a wee chat.”
“I’ll phone her.”
He rang Elspeth’s room and said, “Policewoman McSween is downstairs and wants a word with you. No, it’s not police business.”
He put down the phone and said, “You can go up. Room twenty-one.”
Elspeth answered the door and looked curiously at Josie. “What is it?” she asked. “Is Hamish all right?”
“I just wanted to ask your advice.”
“Come in.”
Josie sat down on the bed and looked up earnestly with her big brown eyes at Elspeth.
“You are a woman of the world,” began Josie.
A line from a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta flashed into Elspeth’s brain: “Uttering platitudes / In stained glass attitudes.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” she asked.
“I’m old-fashioned,” said Josie piously. “Not like you. If a man sleeps with me, do you think he ought to marry me?”
“Are we talking about Hamish?” asked Elspeth.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Well, these days, women must take responsibility as well as men. Unless you’ve been raped, you haven’t a hope in hell if it was only a one-night stand.” Elspeth’s face hardened. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have packing to do. I suggest you consult a professional.”
She went and held open the door.
Josie left, burning up with fury. What did she know about anything? But Josie hoped that Elspeth would think that she had meant Hamish.
Hamish lay in bed that night, reading a detective story. He sighed as he finally put the book down. Fictional detectives never seemed to be hit with long days and weeks of not having a clue. “I’d give anything for even a red herring,” he said to his pets before he switched out the light. His last gloomy thought before he went to sleep was that Blair would hound and hound until he found any suspect.
Josie craved a drink. She had been frightened to hide any more in her room in case Mrs. Wellington found the bottles. Without a drink, she felt she could not go through with the plan of trapping Hamish.
She had a bottle of vodka hidden under the roots of a rowan tree in the garden. Josie waited and waited until she was sure her hosts would be safely asleep. She crept along the corridors. So many rooms and the Wellingtons childless! The manse had been built in the days of enormous families. Down the stairs, treading carefully over the second one from the bottom that creaked, out into the blustery cold, taking out a pencil torch and heading rapidly for the rowan went Josie. She scrabbled in the roots of the tree until her fingers closed over the vodka bottle.
Holding it to her chest, she scurried back to the manse. As she got to the foot of the stairs, she noticed that the light was on in the landing. Glad she was still in uniform, she stuffed the bottle into an inside pocket of her coat. Mrs. Wellington was coming out of the bathroom. “I forgot to take my sleeping pill,” she said. “Goodness, you’re late.”
“I went for coffee with some people after the meeting,” said Josie.
“Oh, good girl! Night, night.”
“Good night,” said Josie, scuttling down the corridor to her room.
She was just about to unscrew the top of the bottle when she heard footsteps approaching along the corridor outside. Josie thrust the bottle under the mattress, whipped off her coat, and began to pull her regulation sweater over her head as the door opened.
“Oh, sorry,” said Mrs. Wellington. “I just came to ask you if you’d like a hot-water bag.”