Death of a Valentine Part 25

Tom had been so busy since the honeymoon that he felt he had been neglecting her. He was disappointed that Josie did not seem to have made any friends amongst the women at the Perth meeting. But, he thought, it was early days. It took some people quite a long time to settle in.

Josie relaxed in Tom's BMW and looked out the window as the car smoothly moved over the humpbacked bridge and on to the waterfront.

But to her horror, there was the tall figure of Hamish Macbeth, standing in the middle of the road, holding up his hand. Tom slid to a stop and lowered his window. "What's up?" he asked.

"There's a great big hole in the road ahead. You'll need to turn round. Why, Josie? Is that you?"

"Yes," muttered Josie.

Tom looked at the tall policeman in surprise. "Are you Hamish Macbeth?"

"Yes, I am."

"Josie and I are married."

"Congratulations," said Hamish.

Tom made a three-point turn and drove off. So that was Hamish Macbeth. Josie had described him as quite old and with a sour face and little eyes. But the Hamish he had just met had been an attractive-looking man with fiery red hair and clear hazel eyes. He felt a pang of unease as he glanced at his sulky wife.

"Let's just go home," said Josie.

How she endured the rest of the weekend until Tom went back to work, Josie did not know. Every fibre in her body was screaming for a drink. Just one, she thought. Just one little drink.

When Tom went to work on Monday morning, Josie headed for the supermarket. She wandered down the aisle amongst the wines and liquors in a trance.

In his office, Tom phoned his AA sponsor. "I'm worried about Josie," he said.

"You should be," said his sponsor. "I tried to warn you. Josie hasn't hit bottom."

"But she hasn't had a drink!"

"She's white-knuckling it. That la.s.sie's on a dry drunk."

Josie had meant to buy a miniature but the supermarket only sold bottles. She got herself a bottle of whisky. She would just take one little drink and pour the rest down the sink.

She carried the bottle home, opened it, sat down at the kitchen table, and poured herself a small measure. As she drank it down, she felt her screaming nerves disappear. One more wouldn't do any harm. Those numpties at AA didn't know what they were missing, thought Josie, unaware that they all knew exactly what they were missing, and that's why they were there.

Jimmy Anderson called on Hamish a month later. "They're still trying to find a copper for you. But no one wants to move to this dead-and-alive hole."

"Suits me," said Hamish.

"Have you heard about Josie?"

"I saw her with her new husband a month ago. Seems to have landed on her feet."

"She's about to land in the divorce court, that's what."

"Was she unfaithful to him?"

"In a way. Turns out the love of her life is the bottle."

"That explains a lot," said Hamish. "Nothing dafter or more devious than an alcoholic."

"You said it, laddie. Got any whisky?"

After Jimmy had left, Hamish strolled out to the waterfront with his cat and dog at his heels.

Angela, coming out of Patel's grocery, saw him looking out at the loch and went to join him.

"Grand evening, Hamish. How are things?"

"Quiet. Just the way I like them."

"You've been living in a nightmare for quite a long time," said Angela sympathetically.

"Well, like I told you, it's thanks to you alerting Elspeth that I got off the hook."

"Have you still got any bad effects from the shooting?"

"When it's cold, my shoulder hurts a bit."

"I did think when you went off to Corsica with Elspeth that the pair of you might make a match of it."

Hamish forced a laugh. "It wouldnae work. It would mean I would have to move to Glasgow. I'm still enjoying having my bachelor life back."

Archie Maclean came up to join them. "Like to come out to the fishing tonight, Hamish?"

Hamish's face lit up. "I'd like that fine."

"Aye, see you at the harbour. Bring your beasties."

Hamish said goodbye to Angela and strolled off. She saw him stop and say to his cat, "Think o' it, Sonsie. Lots and lots o' fish."

Lugs put a paw on Hamish's knee and he laughed and picked up the dog and hugged him.

Angela walked away, shaking her head. You might think, she reflected, that Hamish Macbeth was married already.

Chapter One.

Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. -William Shakespeare -William Shakespeare The village of Drim in the county of Sutherland at the north-west of Scotland was rarely visited by outsiders. Not even the most romantic member of the lunatic tartan fringe of the lowland cities could claim it to be a place of either interest or beauty.

It was a small village situated at the end of the long arm of a sea loch where towering mountains dropped down sheer into the water so that the loch looked black and sinister even on a fine day. It consisted of a huddle of whitewashed cottages and one general store. There had been a murder committed there some time ago, temporally bringing in the outside world, but since then, it had settled back into its usual torpor.

The nearest policeman, Police Sergeant Hamish Macbeth, was some miles away across mountain and moorland in the village of Lochdubh and, although Drim, was on his beat, he rarely had any reason to visit the place.

There was, however, a temporary burst of excitement, when newcomers bought an old Georgian mansion up on the brae above the village. It had lain empty for some time, the previous owner having been an eccentric old lady. The house had been on the market for five years before it was bought by a Captain Henry Davenport and his wife, Milly.

It was a square three-storeyed building in red sandstone, as unprepossessing and as grim as the village. It would have commanded a good view of the surrounding landscape had not the house been surrounded by laurels, Douglas firs, stands of birch on one giant monkey puzzle.

A few of the villagers had called when the English couple had first moved in four months ago with presents of cake but were repelled by the pompous manner of the captain and the faded timidity of his wife. They drove down to the nearest town, Strathbane, to do all their shopping and so Milly Davenport did not even visit the local store. There was no longer a resident minister although the church was served every three Sundays by a visiting preacher. The old manse stood empty and no one showed any signs of buying it. Furthermore, it was said to be haunted because the last minister had hanged himself after his wife had run off and left him.

Captain Henry Davenport had retired from the army, slightly bitter at not having risen higher in the ranks, but determined to be still addressed by his military t.i.tle. Nowhere else in the country could he have afforded to buy such a large house and it suited his grandiose ideas.

Milly, his wife, also English, still showed signs of having once been pretty. She would have liked to employ one of the women in the village to help her with the cleaning, but her husband said acidly that she had nothing else to do with her time and it would be a waste of money.

The captain had discovered that a peat bank belonged to the house and so he employed a local man, Hugh Mackenzie, to keep him supplied with peat. But the fire smoked dreadfully. One evening, the captain received a rare phone call. He came back from the phone which was still located in the draughty hall where it had stood since the days when it was first installed, his face flushed and worried.

"Who was on the phone, dear?" asked Milly.

"Just an old army friend. Look, do something useful. I'm going out for a walk tomorrow. Get some exercise. Get the sweep in and get the d.a.m.ned chimney cleaned! If anyone calls, tell them I've gone abroad."

In less remote parts of Scotland, people had their chimneys vacuum cleaned. But in Drim, villagers relied on the services of the itinerate sweep, Peter Ray, with his old-fashioned brushes.

Chimney sweeps are still regarded as lucky at weddings, especially if they kiss the bride. Pete made extra money from being hired to kiss brides even though people swore he had only two baths a year: one at Christmas and the other at Easter. Mostly he was as black as the soot he took from the chimneys. He lived in a hut high up on the moors between Lochdubh and Drim. He drove an old-fashioned motorcycle with a sidecar to carry his brushes.

Milly obtained his phone number by calling the local store. Just before he arrived, the captain said mysteriously that he planned to be out for some time and repeated that if anyone asked for him, to say he had gone abroad.

The sweep arrived just after he had left. Milly took one look at his soot-covered appearance, gave him a mug of tea, and then rushed to spread newspapers and old sheets over the drawing room carpet. She then said she was going to walk down to the village to get some groceries. She asked Pete how much it would cost and then gave him the money, saying if she was not back by the time he had finished, to leave by the kitchen door, lock the door behind him and put the key through the letterbox. She had a spare key. Milly was determined to be out of the house for as long as possible in case whoever it was her husband wanted to avoid should come calling. Milly knew herself to be incapable of lying without giving herself away.

Also, she had had little chance of meeting any of the women from the village and was longing to talk to someone, anyone, who was not her husband. She spent very little in the local shop, knowing that her husband took a malicious delight in not giving the locals any custom, but she chatted to several of the women and a Mrs. Mackay invited her back for tea.

Happy for the first time in ages, Milly returned home after several hours. She was annoyed to find the kitchen door standing open, and then a.s.sumed that either the sweep had forgotten to lock it or that her husband had come back. Milly picked up the sheets from the floor and put them in the laundry room. There were still crumpled newspapers in the hearth where she had left them to catch any fall of soot. Milly decided to have a gla.s.s of whisky before she did any more cleaning. She took one of her husband's precious bottles of malt whisky from the sideboard and poured herself a generous measure. Her husband would not approve, but he was often so drunk in the evenings that she was sure he would a.s.sume he had drunk the whisky himself.

She sat down in the drawing room, sipping her drink and staring at the large stone fireplace. She had enjoyed her little bit of freedom. If only her husband would go away more often! "If only," whispered a nasty little voice in her head, "he were dead."

Feeling guilty, Milly took another sip of her drink, listening all the while for her husband's return. The wind had got up and was blowing around the house.

Plop! Plop! Plop! Milly stiffened. What was that noise? A leaky tap in the kitchen? No, the noise seemed to be coming from the fireplace. Darkness was falling. She got up and switched on all the lights.

Plop!

The noise was coming from the fireplace. She walked over to it and stared. Something dark was falling in drips onto the paper. The chimney was old. If you bent down and looked up it you could see the sky. Perhaps it was rain.

She caught a drop on the back of her hand and then held her hand under a lamp on a table by the fireside.

Milly let out a whimper of fear. Blood!

By the time Police Sergeant Hamish Macbeth arrived from Lochdubh, Milly had shut herself in the kitchen. "It's blood dripping down the chimney," she cried when she opened the door to the tall policeman.

"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 spa.r.s.ely furnished with the type of Swedish a.s.semble-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."