Death of a Gentle Lady

cock-a-leekie, warm and nourishing. Hamish turned over the idea of Mrs Gentle being a murderer in his head. She had very much wanted to appear a grand and charitable lady. He was sure her image had meant a lot to her. He would need to forget about his newfound dislike of Anna and ask her to contact Scotland Yard to get someone to dig into Mrs Gentle’s background. He thought the Yard might be more likely to want to please her than Strathbane police headquarters.
    When he had finished the plate of egg salad sandwiches which had been served with the soup, he thanked Clarry and went into the dining room in search of Patrick Fitzpartrick.
    He noticed that Priscilla and Harold were dining together. They seemed to be getting along very well, and that surprised him. He had found Harold a pompous bore, but the man seemed to be entertaining Priscilla nicely.
    He realized the other diners were all staring at him as he stood in the doorway. There was no sign of Patrick. He retreated and asked at the desk if Patrick was in the hotel; he was told that the man had taken a packed lunch and gone out walking.
    And then he turned and saw Elspeth. She was wearing an Aran sweater and jeans, with her frizzy hair screwed up in a knot on top of her head.
    ‘Get on to those caterers, did you?’ he asked her.
    ‘Let’s go outside,’ said Elspeth. ‘It’s a grand day.’
    They stood together in the forecourt. ‘I think they told us pretty much what they had told you,’ said Elspeth, ‘but it was certainly enough to make a story. Most of the other press have left, but I’m sure my story will bring them running back.’
    ‘If she killed Irena,’ said Hamish, ‘it must have been because Irena had found out something that Mrs Gentle did not want known. I wonder if her husband really did die of a heart attack.’
    ‘I researched that. Seems to have been okay. He was being treated for heart disease. Due for a bypass operation just before he died.’
    ‘Before she met him, she was a cloakroom girl. Find anything about that in your research?’
    ‘No, because she married Byron Gentle before he made his millions. He was a grammar school boy who got a scholarship to Oxford. After leaving Oxford, he passed his stockbroker exams and started work in the City. He seems to have been very gifted. He married her while he was still studying for his exams. Where’s the Russian?’
    ‘Up at the castle wi’ Jimmy, grilling the folks. I’m right off her.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Blair got on the wrong side of her, so she took him into the bar here and plied him with so much vodka that he got another attack of alcohol poisoning. She could have killed him.’
    ‘Wouldn’t be any great loss if she had,’ said Elspeth. ‘Lochdubh’s abuzz with another murder.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘The production of Macbeth . They’ve all gone stage-mad. Matthew has even volunteered to play Banquo’s ghost. Of course, there aren’t many parts for women – only the three witches and Lady Macbeth.’
    ‘Angela’s playing Lady Macbeth, I know that. Which ones are playing the three witches?’
    ‘The Currie sisters and Mrs Wellington.’
    ‘Good casting.’
    ‘You know,’ said Elspeth, ‘it would be interesting to know what the Gentle family talks about when they’re on their own.’
    ‘That’s something we can’t find out.’
    ‘If you get me into the castle, I could hide a tape recorder somewhere.’
    ‘Not on your life. This is becoming a police state. We’ve got more CCTV cameras in Britain than any other country in the world. I think Lochdubh must be one o’ the last places without one.’
    ‘I bet you wish they did have one,’ said Elspeth. ‘Then you might have seen who made that phone call, the one you’ve been asking everyone about.’
    ‘Here’s Mr Fitzpatrick,’ said Hamish as the tall Irishman limped into the forecourt. ‘I’ve got to ask him a few questions.’
    ‘You again!’ said Patrick. ‘What’s up? I’ve walked too far and want to get these boots off.’
    ‘Just a few more questions. Thanks, Elspeth. I’ll talk to you later. What do you do for a living, Mr Fitzpatrick?’
    ‘I own a bookshop in Dublin.’
    ‘And you are able to take a holiday from the shop?’
    ‘I left my partner in charge.’
    ‘On the day of the first murder, that would be September twenty-fifth, where were you?’
    ‘I wrote it in my diary. I’ve got it here.’ He pulled a fat little leather-bound book out of his anorak pocket and thumbed