Death of a Gentle Lady

Carmen . Too ambitious, thought Hamish.
    At last, they screeched off into silence and the curtains parted. The Currie sisters and Mrs Wellington, barely recognizable in their costumes and make-up as the three witches, began, ‘When shall we three meet again/In thunder lightning or in rain? Or in rain?’
    ‘That’s our Jessie,’ murmured a woman in front of Hamish.
    The play proceeded, the lines of Shakespeare sounding odd. Hamish wondered idly whether he had wanted his characters to speak in Scottish accents.
    It was amateur, very amateur. Macbeth stumbled over his lines. Matthew, playing Banquo, made a wild gesture and his kilt fell off, revealing a natty pair of boxer shorts decorated with red hearts. The audience cheered. Just when it looked as if the production would degenerate into farce, Lady Macbeth made her entrance.
    Hamish sat up straight and peered over the heads of the villagers in front of him. She was tall with long red hair. She began to speak. It was a deep husky voice, mesmerizing, her lines spoken with passion. The effect on the audience was electric.
    It was only after half an hour that Hamish realized that Lady Macbeth was not being played by a woman but by Harold Jury himself.
    No one bothered about the stumbling actors surrounding Harold. He held the audience from beginning to end, and when he walked forward to take his curtain call and whipped off his wig, there were cries of amazement followed by resounding cheers.
    Hamish slid out of the hall and returned to the police station. He needed to think. They had been looking for a woman. What if the murderer had been someone dressed up as a woman?
    It couldn’t be Harold because he was a well-known author. Surely Harold had been properly checked into. Or had he?
    The police, including himself, had not asked where he was on the days of the murders.
    He decided to go to Strathbane in the morning and consult Jimmy. But Blair would be there, demanding to know what he was doing.
    Was Harold one of those multi-talented people? He had acted like a true professional. What size were Harold’s feet? Surely not size seven. He was a tall man. He had been wearing a long gown covering his feet.
    Hamish hurried back to the hall. He knew there was to be a buffet supper afterwards, the Italian restaurant having generously offered to contribute it.
    The actors were still in costume. Harold had his wig on again and was in the middle of an admiring throng.
    Willie Lamont was serving out plates of food. He hailed Hamish. ‘Wasn’t Harold a real Oliver?’
    ‘ Olivier ,’ corrected Hamish automatically.
    ‘Have some chicken and penne,’ urged Willie.
    ‘Not now,’ said Hamish. Willie looked at Hamish in surprise, wondering what was causing him to turn down a free meal.
    If only I could see under Harold’s dress and get a look at his feet, thought Hamish.
    He turned back. ‘Any wine, Willie?’
    ‘Aye, look, bottles of the stuff. Help yourself.’
    Hamish poured himself a plastic cup of red wine and headed in Harold’s direction. Harold saw him approach and smiled, his eyes glittering in his stage make-up.
    ‘Here’s our local bobby,’ he said.
    ‘I thought you were chust grand,’ said Hamish. He stumbled, and his cup of wine shot over the skirt of Harold’s costume.
    ‘You clumsy oaf!’ yelled Harold.
    ‘Really, Hamish,’ complained Mrs Wellington. She took a paper napkin and began to dab at Harold’s long velvet skirt.
    ‘It’s all right,’ said Harold, rapidly recovering from his outburst. ‘Red skirt, red wine, no damage done.’
    But that skirt still remained over his shoes.
    ‘I’m right sorry,’ said Hamish. He pulled his notebook out of his pocket. ‘I’d like it fine if you could give me an autograph.’
    ‘Certainly,’ said Harold.
    Hamish dropped his notebook. He crouched down and stumbled forward, knocking Harold over.
    People rushed to help Harold to his feet.
    ‘I’d better go,’ babbled Hamish. ‘I’m a menace.’
    ‘That you are,’ boomed Mrs Wellington.
    Hamish fled the hall. His heart was beating hard. When Harold had tumbled over, it was revealed he was wearing a pair of women’s shoes with low heels – and Hamish was willing to bet they were size seven. One thing was for sure: Harold had small feet.
    He went back to the police station, got into the Land Rover, and headed off through the night to Strathbane. Jimmy lived in a flat near the police headquarters.
    Hamish mounted the stairs and rang the