Death of a Valentine - M. C. Beaton [83]
“Now, then,” said Hamish soothingly. “It’s may be a bird or animal stuck up there.”
“But the sweep was here and cleaned the chimney.”
“When was that?”
“This morning.”
“And where is your husband?”
“He went out for a walk. He’s not back yet.”
“In the drawing room, you said?”
“Yes, let me show you.” Milly led the way. The drawing room was sparsely furnished with the type of Swedish assemble-it-yourself furniture, unsuited to what had once been an elegant room.
Hamish took out a powerful torch and crouched down and shone it up the chimney. The torchlight fell on a dangling pair of highly polished brogues.
He sat back on his heels. “I’m afraid there’s a body stuck in the chimney.”
“Oh, that poor sweep!” gasped Milly.
Hamish did not like to tell her that Pete had never worn anything on his feet but dirty cracked old boots. He telephoned police headquarters and demanded the lot– ambulance, fire department, Scenes of Crimes Operatives and police.
He turned to Milly and said gently, “Chust you be going ben to the kitchen. This iss not the place for you.”
While he waited, Hamish fretted. What if the man up the chimney was not dead? But if he pulled the body down, he would be accused of having ruined a possible crime scene.
To his relief, he heard the wail of sirens approaching. Hamish stood back to let the white suited SOCO men into the room first and then went into the kitchen to join Detective Chief Inspector Blair, a thickset Glaswegian who hated him, and Blair’s sidekick, Jimmy Anderson.
Hamish reported what he had found. “I think it’s Captain Davenport,” he said. “And we’d better find that sweep.”
“Then get to it,” snapped Blair, “and leave this to the experts.”
There was a short drive at the front of the house, shadowed by trees and bushes. Tyre marks at the side in the gravel showed that the sweep had ridden round to the kitchen door at the side.
Hamish went to the general stores first where Jock Kennedy and his wife, Ailsa, served behind the counter. He told them what had happened and then appealed to Ailsa, “I think Mrs. Davenport could do wi’ a bit of female company.”
“I’ll get up there right away,” said Ailsa.
Hamish then headed up over the moors to the hut in which Pete Ray lived. He knocked but there was no reply. He walked around the hut amongst bits of old rusting machinery but could not see the motorbike. He tried the door handle of the hut and found the door was not locked. He entered flashing his torch this way and that because he knew the hut did not have any electricity. It consisted of one room with a calor gas stove in one corner, a dirty unmade bed against one wall, an old iron stove and a jumble of magazines heaped on the floor beside the bed. A curtained recess contained one good suit and lying underneath the suit on the floor, a heap of underwear and dirty sweaters.
He went back outside, experiencing a feeling of dread. He could not see Pete committing such a pointless and elaborate murder. Hamish took out his phone and called Jimmy Anderson. “Can’t see Pete anywhere,” he said.
“Blair’s got an all-points out on Pete Ray,” said Jimmy, “although I don’t see how a sweep on an old- fashioned bike should suddenly become invisible.”
“I can,” said Hamish gloomily.
“What?”
“What if the murderer was interrupted by the sweep, killed him, drove his bike off to the nearest peat bog and made the lot disappear?”
“Trust you to go complicating things.”
But the next day, Pete was found dead up on the moors. It appeared his motorcycle had struck a hollow hidden in the heather and had catapulted him onto a sharp rock. His neck was broken. He was clutching a tyre iron matted with hair and blood. In the sidecar were found silver candlesticks, the captain’s wallet and Milly’s jewellery. Case closed. Pete had been caught by the captain and had killed him.
The following evening when Jimmy called at the police station in Lochdubh, he found Hamish Macbeth in a truculent mood.
“I dinnae believe it,” exclaimed Hamish. “Not Pete. He was a gentle