Death of a Gentle Lady

forgot to ask you last time,’ said Hamish, ‘but I’m trying to find a stranger who might have been staying here or in the area. She’s tall with a mole on her chin. Maybe wearing a red-and-gold headscarf and dark glasses. Dressed in a tweed jacket, shooting breeches, and brogues.’
    The chefs looked at each other and then shook their heads. ‘Haven’t seen anyone like that, not even amongst the dinner crowd,’ said Fiona.
    ‘You hadn’t met any of the Gentle family before?’
    Alison giggled. ‘No, and we’re too busy to murder anyone.’
    Hamish thanked them and left, spending what remained of the day calling at every bed-and-breakfast he could think of without success.
    As he wearily crawled into bed that night, he found himself almost hoping that the murderer would make an attempt on his life. Anything to give him just one clue.

Chapter Nine

    The tragedy of love is indifference.
– Somerset Maugham

    Hamish, in the following days, was anxious to talk over the murder cases with Priscilla. But every time he called at the hotel, it was to be told she was either out walking with Patrick Fitzpatrick, having dinner with Patrick, or rehearsing her part with Harold.
    Why Patrick? he wondered. There had been nothing very interesting about the man that he could remember. He was tall and slim, ginger hair, pursed little mouth, and reddish skin. Hardly an Adonis.
    He would not admit to jealousy, but thought bitterly that for auld lang syne Priscilla should at least have made herself available to act as his Watson.
    He called on Angela Brodie instead. To his amazement, the usually messy and unhygienic kitchen was clean, the many cats confined to the garden.
    ‘What happened?’ he asked, looking around. ‘Expecting a visit from the health inspector?’
    ‘Don’t be nasty, Hamish. I’ve been reading a self-help book. It says, in effect, that if you are not getting on with your work, it could be because of the mess at home, or because you are working in a dirty office. Would you like a coffee?’
    ‘Fine.’ Hamish quite often shied away from Angela’s offers of coffee, expecting to find some awful cat hairs sticking to his mug, because the cats too often roamed the kitchen table, licking the butter and drinking out of the milk jug. ‘It’ll save you a lot of vet’s fees,’ he added, removing his peaked cap and sitting down. Only two weeks before, one of the cats had ended up with its head stuck firmly in the milk jug.
    ‘It hasn’t helped a bit with the writing,’ said Angela. ‘Instead of being compulsive about finishing this latest book, I’ve become compulsive about cleaning.’
    A dismal yowling started up outside.
    ‘That’s it!’ Angela turned to open the kitchen door. ‘Poor beasties. I can’t bear it any longer. I’m going to let them in.’
    ‘Could you wait till we’ve had coffee?’ pleaded Hamish. ‘I’ll need to talk to someone.’
    ‘What about? The fact that Irena told you something mysterious?’
    ‘I made that up, hoping our murderer might have a go at me.’
    ‘But you got your man. I haven’t been reading the newspapers. Has something else happened?’
    Hamish told her about the wire across the stairs and the female footprints.
    ‘A woman? Who on earth could that be?’
    ‘Probably someone who’s long gone. No, wait a bit. She might just still be around the area. Jimmy told me he’d put extra men on the job, going all over the place, interviewing any visitors. Where could she be staying?’
    ‘A tent up on the hills somewhere?’
    ‘That’s an idea. I’d better get off and tour around again.’
    Angela put a mug of coffee down in front of him. ‘Have your coffee first. What’s happened to that Russian policewoman?’
    ‘Gone back to London, thank goodness. She fair gave me the creeps.’
    ‘Have you seen much of Priscilla?’
    ‘I have not,’ said Hamish huffily. ‘Herself is either walking the hills with an Irishman who’s staying at the hotel or rehearsing her part with Harold Jury.’
    ‘I might call on Harold Jury again,’ said Angela. ‘I only met him briefly when he suggested I might like to play Lady Macbeth. It would be nice to discuss writing with another author.’
    ‘He’s an odd character,’ said Hamish. ‘I put him down as dead arrogant and yet when I went to one of the rehearsals, I must say I was surprised at his patience.’
    ‘Have you read his latest book?’
    ‘No. Any good?’
    ‘I found it a bit dull but maybe