Death of a Gentle Lady by MC Beaton Read Free Book Online Page A

know. The beasties have to be kept warm. Hamish, they are animals. They come supplied by the good Lord with coats. Go and turn that damn engine off.’
    Hamish stalked out and returned shortly. ‘You’re a hard man,’ he said, picking up his cup of coffee.
    ‘And you’re a softie. I’ve got news for you.’
    ‘About the murders?’
    ‘Not them. Wait a bit, murders ? I thought there was only the one.’
    ‘My fiancée who turns out to have been a Russian has been found in the cellar of the castle in a trunk with her head bashed.’
    ‘I am so sorry. You must be feeling awful. Did you love her very much?’
    ‘Something like that,’ said Hamish hurriedly. ‘What news?’
    ‘Priscilla phoned to say she’s coming up, and your friend Elspeth Grant has booked a room. She’s lucky we had one left. The press are booking in as hard as they can.’
    ‘It’ll be grand to see them,’ lied Hamish, who did not wish any more complications in his already complicated life. It would soon come out that Irena had been a hooker, and he knew that would shock the villagers.
    ‘I thought your fiancée was Turkish.’
    ‘So did I,’ said Hamish. ‘I’m afraid she tricked me.’
    ‘You can’t have been very close then. You’re usually awfully sharp.’
    ‘There was the rush getting the necessary permission to marry her,’ said Hamish.
    ‘I saw her,’ said Mr Johnson. ‘She was stunning. I can’t blame you for being swept off your feet.’
    ‘It seems that all she wanted was British nationality.’
    ‘So that’s why you don’t seem to be grieving.’
    Hamish finished his coffee. ‘I’d better start with the guests.’
    ‘The trouble is,’ said the manager, ‘a lot of them have left. The press are apt to get very drunk and noisy. There are a couple of hotels up Braikie way, as you know, and plenty of bed-and-breakfasts, but the press always want to choose the most expensive hotel.’
    ‘Any of them seem suspicious? I mean, the guests?’
    ‘No, all very quiet and respectable. Mostly fishing types. We’ve got a writer. Harold Jury. Quite well known. His last book, Depths of Darkness , was nominated for the Booker Prize.’
    ‘I’d like to start with him. Writers are supposed to observe life more than ordinary people.’
    ‘Maybe. But this one’s head is so far up his own arse, he could clean his teeth from the inside.’
    ‘I’ll try him anyway. Where is he at the moment?’
    ‘He’s probably in the lounge. He sits there with his laptop, showing off.’

    Hamish strolled into the lounge. A man sat staring at a laptop. On a small table beside him was a pile of books.
    ‘Mr Jury?’
    Harold Jury held up one hand for silence and continued to type. ‘I’ll sign a copy of my book for you in a minute,’ he said. He was tall and pale-faced, probably in his late fifties, and wearing a grey shirt with grey trousers. He had thick brown hair and small brown eyes.
    ‘This is police business,’ said Hamish loudly, ‘so switch off your computer and pay attention.’
    Harold glared at him but did as he was told. He looked up angrily at the tall policeman with the hazel eyes and flaming red hair.
    Hamish pulled up a chair and sat facing him. ‘I am investigating two murders,’ he began.
    ‘What on earth has that got to do with me?’ asked Harold.
    Hamish noticed that he did not ask which murders – and the murder of Irena had not yet reached the newspapers. Of course, the press in the hotel might have got wind of it already and told him.
    ‘Were you in the village yesterday morning around eleven o’clock?’
    ‘Yes, I took a walk. I bought some postcards.’
    ‘Did you see anyone in the phone box?’
    ‘I don’t even remember seeing a phone box.’
    ‘What brought you up to the Highlands?’
    ‘I am writing a novel about the forgotten primitive people of the British Isles.’
    ‘And do the forgotten primitive people usually run five-star hotels?’
    ‘I must confess I am disappointed. But I shall