him and then angry.
‘I have nothing more to say to you,’ she shouted against the wind.
‘I have something to say to you,’ said Hamish. ‘We’d better go indoors.’
She reluctantly led the way
‘Now, what is it?’ she demanded, one hand on the mantelpiece. She was wearing a fishing hat and a waxed coat – suitable clothes, and yet they looked somehow odd on her.
‘Mrs Samson’s house has been burnt down.’
‘Who is Mrs Samson?’
‘A friend of the murdered Mrs Gillespie. I am asking everyone she cleaned for where they were this morning.’
‘I consider it an impertinence. Oh, very well, I was over in Strathbane, shopping.’
‘Where?’
‘Here and there.’
‘Did you buy anything? Have you any receipts?’
‘No, you tiresome man. I window-shopped. I did not see anything I liked.’
‘Did anyone see you? Did you meet anyone you know?’
‘No, no, and no ! Now, leave me alone.’
Hamish turned in the doorway. ‘The one good thing about it is that Mrs Samson is alive.’
The wind gave a sudden eldritch scream. Had she turned pale? It was hard to tell in the gloom of the room.
‘Is she in the hospital?’
‘No, she was out shopping when her house went up.’
‘That’s good.’ As Hamish left, he turned once and saw her sinking down into a chair, her hat and coat still on.
Hamish decided he would need to visit that solicitor before interviewing anyone else. Someone knew very quickly that a package had been given to Mrs Samson. He phoned Jimmy on
his mobile and got the name and address of the solicitor.
He did a detour to Lochdubh and left his animals in the police station.
He negotiated the shore road into Braikie without any trouble because it was low tide.
The solicitor, James Bennet, had an office above a men’s outfitters in the main street.
Hamish climbed the stone stairs, opened a frosted-panelled glass door and went inside. A small girl was typing busily at a computer.
‘You’re to go right in,’ she said without looking up.
Hamish walked into the inner office. James Bennet looked up in surprise. ‘I’m expecting a Mrs Withers. Didn’t Eileen tell you?’
‘If you mean the wee lassie outside, she didn’t even look up,’ said Hamish. ‘But I’ve a few questions to ask you. If Mrs Gillespie left a package in her will for
Mrs Samson, why did you let her have it before this murder case is solved?’
Mr Bennet was a fairly young man with what Hamish’s mother would call ‘a nice wide-open face’. He was wearing a well-tailored Harris tweed suit. His black hair was neatly
barbered, and he was wearing spectacles. Hamish wondered if the lenses were plain glass to give the young man an air of authority, because he could spot no magnification.
James Bennet sighed. ‘I did not give away anything mentioned in the will. I already told the police this. The morning she was found murdered, Mrs Gillespie called and said she wanted me to
give the package to Mrs Samson. I told her to give it to the woman herself, but she said time was running out and she was rushed. I phoned Mrs Samson and asked her whether I should put it in the
post, but she said she would come round and collect it. She arrived the morning of the fire in a taxi, which she kept waiting, picked up the package, and went off again.’
Hamish sat down slowly in the visitor’s chair. ‘It seems to me,’ he said, ‘as if Mrs Gillespie thought her life might be in danger.’
‘Och, she was a weird woman, always hinting at things, the sort of “if you knew what I know” sort of thing without ever saying anything specific.’
Hamish suddenly struck his forehead. The young solicitor looked at him in surprise.
‘There wasnae a scrap of paper in her house,’ said Hamish, his accent thickening as it always did when he was angry or excited. ‘I mean, bank books, house deeds, bills, things
like that. Do you have them?’
James looked around his cluttered office. ‘Oh, yes, they’re all here
‘I have nothing more to say to you,’ she shouted against the wind.
‘I have something to say to you,’ said Hamish. ‘We’d better go indoors.’
She reluctantly led the way
‘Now, what is it?’ she demanded, one hand on the mantelpiece. She was wearing a fishing hat and a waxed coat – suitable clothes, and yet they looked somehow odd on her.
‘Mrs Samson’s house has been burnt down.’
‘Who is Mrs Samson?’
‘A friend of the murdered Mrs Gillespie. I am asking everyone she cleaned for where they were this morning.’
‘I consider it an impertinence. Oh, very well, I was over in Strathbane, shopping.’
‘Where?’
‘Here and there.’
‘Did you buy anything? Have you any receipts?’
‘No, you tiresome man. I window-shopped. I did not see anything I liked.’
‘Did anyone see you? Did you meet anyone you know?’
‘No, no, and no ! Now, leave me alone.’
Hamish turned in the doorway. ‘The one good thing about it is that Mrs Samson is alive.’
The wind gave a sudden eldritch scream. Had she turned pale? It was hard to tell in the gloom of the room.
‘Is she in the hospital?’
‘No, she was out shopping when her house went up.’
‘That’s good.’ As Hamish left, he turned once and saw her sinking down into a chair, her hat and coat still on.
Hamish decided he would need to visit that solicitor before interviewing anyone else. Someone knew very quickly that a package had been given to Mrs Samson. He phoned Jimmy on
his mobile and got the name and address of the solicitor.
He did a detour to Lochdubh and left his animals in the police station.
He negotiated the shore road into Braikie without any trouble because it was low tide.
The solicitor, James Bennet, had an office above a men’s outfitters in the main street.
Hamish climbed the stone stairs, opened a frosted-panelled glass door and went inside. A small girl was typing busily at a computer.
‘You’re to go right in,’ she said without looking up.
Hamish walked into the inner office. James Bennet looked up in surprise. ‘I’m expecting a Mrs Withers. Didn’t Eileen tell you?’
‘If you mean the wee lassie outside, she didn’t even look up,’ said Hamish. ‘But I’ve a few questions to ask you. If Mrs Gillespie left a package in her will for
Mrs Samson, why did you let her have it before this murder case is solved?’
Mr Bennet was a fairly young man with what Hamish’s mother would call ‘a nice wide-open face’. He was wearing a well-tailored Harris tweed suit. His black hair was neatly
barbered, and he was wearing spectacles. Hamish wondered if the lenses were plain glass to give the young man an air of authority, because he could spot no magnification.
James Bennet sighed. ‘I did not give away anything mentioned in the will. I already told the police this. The morning she was found murdered, Mrs Gillespie called and said she wanted me to
give the package to Mrs Samson. I told her to give it to the woman herself, but she said time was running out and she was rushed. I phoned Mrs Samson and asked her whether I should put it in the
post, but she said she would come round and collect it. She arrived the morning of the fire in a taxi, which she kept waiting, picked up the package, and went off again.’
Hamish sat down slowly in the visitor’s chair. ‘It seems to me,’ he said, ‘as if Mrs Gillespie thought her life might be in danger.’
‘Och, she was a weird woman, always hinting at things, the sort of “if you knew what I know” sort of thing without ever saying anything specific.’
Hamish suddenly struck his forehead. The young solicitor looked at him in surprise.
‘There wasnae a scrap of paper in her house,’ said Hamish, his accent thickening as it always did when he was angry or excited. ‘I mean, bank books, house deeds, bills, things
like that. Do you have them?’
James looked around his cluttered office. ‘Oh, yes, they’re all here
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