Read Online Dandy Gilver and an Unsuitable Day for a Murder by Catriona McPherson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Catriona McPherson
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said Alec, ‘but she wasn’t nearly as . . . visceral about it all. Ruefully amused, I’d say rather, as though the whole thing was a bit of a joke.’
‘A bit of a joke . . .’ I repeated, feeling a memory stir. ‘Ha-hah! That’s it. I remember. I remember why Jack Aitken was sent to close the doors. Mrs . . . I can’t recall her name, but she’s a senior member of staff at the Emporium . . . said she thought there had been an entente cordiale – except she made it sound fruit-flavoured – thought, and I quote, “them down by” were coming to the jubilee. Said it was just the sort of thing they might do and think it a great wheeze.’
‘What are you talking about, Dandy?’
‘Mrs Somebody who is a manager at Aitkens’ said that the girls in the Household Department had reported seeing Mr Hepburn in the store.’
Alec stared.
‘And where is the Household Department?’ he said.
‘It’s split into two, but at least some of it’s on the top floor.’
‘The top floor,’ Alec repeated. ‘Close to the attics in other words then.’
‘But Mr Hepburn was at home, Alec. You were there with him.’
‘I was with a Mr Hepburn,’ Alec said. ‘There is young Mr Dugald Hepburn to be accounted for as well. And I was there briefly. Ten minutes at most.’
‘We’re getting carried away,’ I said. ‘Yes, people were running around the store like mice and perhaps one of the girls did see an unexpected visitor, but Abigail Aitken killed her daughter. She had a smoking gun in her hand, almost literally. And she confessed. There’s no reason to doubt what I saw.’ On the last of these points, however, I was wrong.
Alec and I lingered over our coffee and then with no particular enthusiasm I stirred myself to go to the police station, find out whatever news I could and bear it back to the Aitkens. I hoped I could somehow soften the blow for them, I suppose, or at least tell them of Abigail’s demeanour and pass on my heartfelt belief that she had lost her mind that afternoon and was more to be pitied than reviled. Just as we reached the police station, however, we almost had our heels clipped by a small black motorcar emerging from a side lane at some speed and roaring off along the Maygate.
‘That was Abigail Aitken in the back seat,’ I said, stepping out into the middle of the road and staring after it. It was setting a tremendous pace for a narrow street in a busy town.
‘And it was definitely a bobby driving,’ said Alec. ‘Are you all right, Dandy? Did it brush you?’ I shook my head.
‘I wonder where they’re taking her?’ I said. ‘Good God, surely a hospital. Surely. Not a prison. Is there a women’s prison anywhere near here?’
‘Let’s go in and ask the sarge,’ said Alec. ‘I should think you can claim to be a representative of the family, don’t you?’
The front office of the station was fairly buzzing with news; clumps of constables standing around with their uniform jackets off and their hats on the back of their heads, reliving their uncommon afternoon. It was with some difficulty that they managed to stop gossiping when Alec and I appeared amongst them.
‘The sarge’ however was immovable. I petitioned as a witness, as a family friend, as a prominent member of society who could command an audience with the Chief Constable at a click of the fingers, as a licensed private detective (the licence was fantasy, of course; if such things exist I certainly did not possess one) and finally as a subject of His Majesty and citizen of what I believed to be a free democracy and not the kind of totalitarian state where he would clearly be more at home, but there was no budging him. I was just gathering myself to deliver a farewell tirade which I hoped would spoil his dinner and his night’s sleep even if it got me nothing much, when Alec cleared his throat and tapped the side of my shoe with the side of his. I turned. Someone was signalling to me from the street
‘A bit of a joke . . .’ I repeated, feeling a memory stir. ‘Ha-hah! That’s it. I remember. I remember why Jack Aitken was sent to close the doors. Mrs . . . I can’t recall her name, but she’s a senior member of staff at the Emporium . . . said she thought there had been an entente cordiale – except she made it sound fruit-flavoured – thought, and I quote, “them down by” were coming to the jubilee. Said it was just the sort of thing they might do and think it a great wheeze.’
‘What are you talking about, Dandy?’
‘Mrs Somebody who is a manager at Aitkens’ said that the girls in the Household Department had reported seeing Mr Hepburn in the store.’
Alec stared.
‘And where is the Household Department?’ he said.
‘It’s split into two, but at least some of it’s on the top floor.’
‘The top floor,’ Alec repeated. ‘Close to the attics in other words then.’
‘But Mr Hepburn was at home, Alec. You were there with him.’
‘I was with a Mr Hepburn,’ Alec said. ‘There is young Mr Dugald Hepburn to be accounted for as well. And I was there briefly. Ten minutes at most.’
‘We’re getting carried away,’ I said. ‘Yes, people were running around the store like mice and perhaps one of the girls did see an unexpected visitor, but Abigail Aitken killed her daughter. She had a smoking gun in her hand, almost literally. And she confessed. There’s no reason to doubt what I saw.’ On the last of these points, however, I was wrong.
Alec and I lingered over our coffee and then with no particular enthusiasm I stirred myself to go to the police station, find out whatever news I could and bear it back to the Aitkens. I hoped I could somehow soften the blow for them, I suppose, or at least tell them of Abigail’s demeanour and pass on my heartfelt belief that she had lost her mind that afternoon and was more to be pitied than reviled. Just as we reached the police station, however, we almost had our heels clipped by a small black motorcar emerging from a side lane at some speed and roaring off along the Maygate.
‘That was Abigail Aitken in the back seat,’ I said, stepping out into the middle of the road and staring after it. It was setting a tremendous pace for a narrow street in a busy town.
‘And it was definitely a bobby driving,’ said Alec. ‘Are you all right, Dandy? Did it brush you?’ I shook my head.
‘I wonder where they’re taking her?’ I said. ‘Good God, surely a hospital. Surely. Not a prison. Is there a women’s prison anywhere near here?’
‘Let’s go in and ask the sarge,’ said Alec. ‘I should think you can claim to be a representative of the family, don’t you?’
The front office of the station was fairly buzzing with news; clumps of constables standing around with their uniform jackets off and their hats on the back of their heads, reliving their uncommon afternoon. It was with some difficulty that they managed to stop gossiping when Alec and I appeared amongst them.
‘The sarge’ however was immovable. I petitioned as a witness, as a family friend, as a prominent member of society who could command an audience with the Chief Constable at a click of the fingers, as a licensed private detective (the licence was fantasy, of course; if such things exist I certainly did not possess one) and finally as a subject of His Majesty and citizen of what I believed to be a free democracy and not the kind of totalitarian state where he would clearly be more at home, but there was no budging him. I was just gathering myself to deliver a farewell tirade which I hoped would spoil his dinner and his night’s sleep even if it got me nothing much, when Alec cleared his throat and tapped the side of my shoe with the side of his. I turned. Someone was signalling to me from the street
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