"It's funny. I remembered during the night." Alison blushed furiously. Hamish's eyes sharpened. Alison was wearing a soft green silk blouse tucked into one of her old skirts but with a broad green leather belt with a gold clasp at her waist. She was also wearing sheer tights and high heels. She had put on eye make-up and lipstick and Hamish couldn't flatter himself all this effort was for him. So Peter Jenkins managed to score, he thought privately.

"I just remembered all at once," said Alison. "It was Glenys Evans."

"And where did she live?"

Alison shook her head.

"Anyway, I might be able to find her. Now the sooner this murderer, or would-be murderer, is caught, the better for you, Alison. I am sure all these men are rushing around you hoping to marry your fortune."

"Some of them may just like me," said Alison sharply.

"Aye, but you could talk to them and find out if any of them bore a grudge against Maggie." For the first time Hamish turned the full force of his charm on Alison. "It would be our secret."

"Oh, yes," said Alison, forgetting Peter for one glorious moment.

Hamish phoned Donati and gave him Glenys's name. But later on, his Highland curiosity got the better of him: He had an urge to talk to this woman himself. He went straight down to the post office and demanded the London telephone books. There seemed to be a great number of Evanses. He slid his thumb down the list and then stopped in surprise. For there it was in clear type, Glenys Evans, Harold Mews, London W. I.

He went back to the police station and put through a call. An autocratic voice answered the telephone and identified itself as Glenys Evans.

"It is Hamish Macbeth from Lochdubh police in Sutherland," began Hamish.

"Then you can stop right there," said Glenys. "I've already had some pig of a detective around here this morning with a most offensive manner."

Of course, thought Hamish quickly, Donati would telephone the Yard and they would have a man on the job first thing.

"I'm very sorry a lady like yourself had such a nasty experience," said Hamish. "But you see, I hae a personal interest in the matter. I wa.s.s very fond o' Mrs. Baird and I would like to get my hands on the villain who tried to murder her."

"What! That clodhopper said she'd died of a heart attack."

"A heart attack induced by someone rigging up her car so that it burst into flames when she turned the key in the ignition. She had four guests at the house, Crispin Witherington, James Frame, Peter Jenkins, and Steel Ironside at the time, and her niece, Alison."

"I didn't know she had any relatives." There was a long silence. "All right," said Glenys at last. "If you come down here, I'll see what I can do to help."

"I don't know if that is possible," said Hamish cautiously.

"In that case, forget it."

"I'll come," said Hamish quickly. "I'll get the sleeper down tonight and be with you in the morning."

She gave him directions to her address and rang off.

If Blair had been on the case, thought Hamish, then he would just have disappeared off to London without saying anything. But Donati was a different matter.

Donati was staying at the Lochdubh Hotel. Hamish made his way there.

The detective listened to him in silence and then said colourlessly, "You stepped out of line. It is certainly unfortunate the Yard sent along someone tactless who put her back up. Do not take such actions again without my permission, do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, sir." Hamish looked down at Donati, who was sitting in an armchair in the hotel lounge, with a tinge of surprise. "Now I suppose you'd better go. We must put personalities aside and if this woman can give you anything useful, it will be worth your fare. You may go."

And Hamish left. Blair never would have given him permission to go. Blair would have practically foamed at the mouth.

So why was it that he suddenly missed Blair?

Alison set about helping Hamish Macbeth. She felt she had everything in the world she had ever wanted except security. While the criminal remained at large, there was no peace, and every evening shadow held menace and every footstep on the stairs was that of an a.s.sailant. Unlike most bungalows, this one had most of the bedrooms on an upper floor with dormer windows. Peter Jenkins, Mrs. Todd, and James Frame slept on the same floor as Alison, with Steel Ironside and Crispin Witherington in bedrooms off one of the two corridors that ran off the large sitting room. The dining room which adjoined the sitting room was little-used since Maggie's death, the guests preferring to eat their meals in the more cheerful kitchen. Another incentive to help was that despite her blossoming love for Peter Jenkins, Alison felt restless and wanted something to do to occupy her time. The efficient Mrs. Todd had made all the arrangements for Maggie's funeral and Alison had weakly left it all to her.

Alison had replied to P. C. Graham's questions about where she had been that morning by saying evasively that she had felt upset and so had gone for a little drive. Mary told her sharply not to leave the house again without saying where she was going, leaving Alison feeling more like the hired help than the lady of the house. Mrs. Todd added her own admonitions. Alison resented Mrs. Todd all over again and kept away from her as much as possible, unfairly blaming her for Mary's high and mighty manner.

Alison took pencil and paper into the dining room to start making notes on what she already had gleaned about the men's relationships with Maggie. There was a better chance of being undisturbed in the dining room than in the study.

But no sooner had she started than Steel walked in.

"Feel like getting out of this place and going somewhere?" he asked.

Alison looked at him and thought he might still be quite presentable if he shaved and wore ordinary clothes. His shirts were always open to the waist showing that repulsive mat of hair.

"Where did you think of going?" she asked.

"Up the hill at the back. Get some fresh air."

"All right," said Alison.

To P. C. Graham's sharp question, Alison told the policewoman where they were going.

The couple walked past the garage and through a little gate in the garden fence and up a winding path that led to the top of a heathery hill behind the house. A stiff breeze had sprung up blowing warm air in from the Gulf Stream. They paused at the top of the hill and looked at the view. Great clouds were rolling in from the Atlantic and down below, the restless sea was green with flying black shadows as the clouds pa.s.sed overhead.

"Can you lend me any money?" asked Steel abruptly.

"I'll need to consult my lawyers. I don't have the money yet."

"They'll advance it to you if you ask," said Steel crossly. "You've already got enough for that car of yours."

"Well, it is my my money now." money now."

"Look," wheedled Steel, "I've got this great song. I need money to launch it. I could pay you back with interest."

"Let me think about it," said Alison. "Isn't the view pretty?"

"b.u.g.g.e.r the view," he said morosely.

"You must still be very upset by Maggie's death," said Alison, seizing on what she hoped was the one subject that would divert his mind from money.

"I was shocked, but not particularly upset," he said. "She'd changed. Used to be all fun and games. G.o.d! The amount of money that harpy took from me, now I think of it. At least you could say she did something for it. It's just fallen into your lap and all you do is screw around with Jenkins."

"That's not true," said Alison, her face flaming.

"Aw come on on, you could hear the pair of you all over the house."

Alison rounded on him. "You can't have any money, not ever," she shouted.

As she ran down the hill, his jeering voice followed her, "Just mind how you go, sweetie. With you out of the way, there wouldn't be any trouble in us getting our hands on it."

Alison walked into the house. Donati was in the kitchen, telling off P. C. Graham. He had just been reminding her it was her duty to keep a watch on Alison and not to sit drinking coffee.

He subjected Alison to another long interview before taking his leave.

Alison went into the sitting room and James Frame rose at her approach. "Where's Peter?" asked Alison.

"Gone down to the village for cigarettes, I think," said James. "I've been wanting to have a talk with you."

"What about?" asked Alison, although she was sure she knew what was coming.

"Fact is, I need a bit of financial help and wondered if you could let me have a few thou'."

"No," said Alison. "Why should I? "

"Because I think you should pay me back some of the money Maggie got out of me in the past. She was insatiable. The things I had to do to find money to keep her." His voice took on a faintly c.o.c.kney whine. "Come on, darling, you wouldn't miss it."

"I don't know," said Alison desperately. "Leave me alone for just now. In fact, now I think of it, I think you should all leave after the funeral. It's my my house and I can turn you all out when I want to." house and I can turn you all out when I want to."

"Well, that's downright inconsiderate. I took leave and I need a holiday."

"I shouldn't think you would want to stay under the circ.u.mstances."

"I've got a strong stomach."

"I'm telling you now," said Alison as Crispin Witherington walked in. "You've all got to leave right after the funeral and that's that."

She walked back to the dining room and stood there, feeling strangely exhilarated. She couldn't remember standing up for herself before.

Then she sensed someone standing behind her and swung round. Crispin Witherington was there, a little smile curving his mouth though his eyes were hard.

"So the chips are down, are they?" he said. "No money for any of us, except perhaps what Jenkins gets for laying you. Do you know why we all rushed up here? Money. Maggie's money. Do you really think one of us gave a d.a.m.n for that tart after all those years? She cheated us and conned us rotten and we all wanted some of our money back. It makes me sick to think of a wimp like you with your prissy ways walking off with that old tart's fortune. If I were you, I wouldn't walk along any dark roads for some time to come."

"Mrs. Todd!" screamed Alison.

Both Mrs. Todd and Mary Graham erupted into the room as if they had been listening outside the door.

"He threatened me," said Alison shakily. "Oh, Mrs. Todd, you've got to tell them all to go home after the funeral." And with that, Alison burst into tears, while P. C. Graham took out her notebook to question Crispin, and Mrs. Todd moved quickly forward, saying, "Come along, now. You'd best go up to your room and leave us to sort matters out here."

Alison stumbled out.

But she did not go to her room. She went out to the garage and wrenched open the doors. Driving, that was it, her only solace, her only comfort.

She roared off down the precipitous cliff road, her eyes blurred with tears. The road ran along the edge of the cliff and as Alison raced along, she realised dimly that she was going too fast to take the hairpin bends and pressed on the footbrake. Nothing happened. A corner hurtled towards her and she screeched round it and down the next stretch, her hands sweating on the wheel. Another corner was looming up. She screamed, wrenched into a low gear, and seized the handbrake and pulled with all her might. The car skidded off the road and slithered to a stop, the little front wheels of the mini hanging over the cliff edge.

Alison sat there, numb with shock. Below her the sea heaved and sucked at the base of the cliffs. She gave a whimpering sound and released her seat belt. Although she moved only slightly, the car gave a creak and seemed to dip. She twisted her neck. It was a two-door car and so she could not climb into the back seat and escape that way. It was out of the question to try to struggle through one of the back windows for they were too small and any effort to escape that way might overset the car.

She sat there for what seemed like ages while the screaming seagulls wheeled overhead. The wind was rising, she realised numbly. If she sat there much longer, one good gust would tip the little car into the sea.

Praying loudly, she grasped the door handle and pressed it down. The door swung open. Immediately below her was the sea and just behind, springy turf.

With a yell, she flung herself out of the car, twisting sideways, her fingers scrabbling at the springy turf. She lay face down, her legs dangling over the edge of the cliff. Beside her, with a sad little creak, the mini slowly slid over the edge of the cliff and plunged down into the sea.

Sobbing and grasping gra.s.s roots, Alison pulled herself forward on her belly. She heard a car drive up and a car door slam, but still she continued to ease forward until she was well clear of the cliff edge. Then she looked up.

Peter Jenkins was standing there, his hands on his hips, looking down at her.

"Whatever are you doing?" he asked. "Playing games?"

Hamish Macbeth could never understand why mews cottages, those old converted carriage houses, should be considered chic. They had been built for carriages and coachmen out of the poorest of brick and usually faced north. The cobbled way outside mews cottages always seemed to be a magnet for dog owners who allowed their pets to use it as a lavatory.

The cottage owned by Glenys Evans was painted white and bedecked on the outside with honeysuckle and roses in tubs. Inside it was decorated in neo-Georgian with hunting prints on the walls, fake Chippendale furniture, and a 'Persian' rug made in Belgium on the floor.

Hamish Macbeth was not a sentimental man and did not believe in the fiction of the tart with a heart and Glenys was not of the breed to prove him wrong. She was a thin, stringy woman dressed in tweed skirt, twinset, and pearls. The tarts who squandered their money went down to the gutter and the ones who invested became middle cla.s.s, thought Hamish, if Glenys and Maggie were anything to go by.

Charm was not going to work with this one and so he did not waste any time in conversation but got down to the interview, asking her respectful questions and calling her ma'am.

Glenys visibly thawed before all this correct courtesy and began to talk about the old days. It was rather like listening to an opera star reminiscing about her heyday, thought Hamish. She talked of the casinos, the private planes, the best hotels, the best restaurants, her eyes filled with happy dreams. Hamish gently steered the conversation round to the four men he was interested in.

"It's all so long ago," sighed Glenys. "Let me see, Crispin Witherington." Her face darkened. "I remember him. Maggie and I were sharing a flat at the time. He had the nerve to say it was his flat and tried to turn us out. There was ever such a scene. But the deeds to the flat were in Maggie's name whether he paid for it or not. He was only sore because she'd ditched him for that little pipsqueak, James Frame. Now what she ever saw in him, I don't know. Anyway, I remember, she was just getting tired of him when he disappeared from the country. He wrote to say he was bankrupt, I remember. What a laugh we had about that. As Maggie said, it was nothing to do with her. He would have gone bankrupt anyway. Then Steel Ironside. I don't know that much about him. I was living in Cannes with Lord Berringsford at that time, but she was always in the papers. Said they were going to get married. Not her type. But I suppose she enjoyed all the fuss. Peter Jenkins was soppy about her. Wrote her poetry and turned white when she came into the room. She liked that. We used to have such a giggle. 'Here comes love's young dream, rsquo; I used to say. But this Arab sheik came on the scene and Maggie flipped off with him. She said he was a beast, the sheik, I mean, and she didn't get as much out of him as she had hoped."

"Wait a minute. I might have some photographs."

Hamish waited patiently while she disappeared upstairs. So much for the fallen woman of Victorian novels, he thought. Glenys showed no signs of being racked with guilt about her past. In fact, she seemed proud of it and obviously thought she had had a successful life which, indeed, in material terms, she had obviously achieved.

She came back downstairs, carrying a box of photographs which she proceeded to rummage through. "There we both are with Crispin," she said at last.

Hamish looked at the photograph. Crispin had been a fairly good-looking young man. He was standing with Maggie and Glenys beside a white Rolls Royce. Maggie was slim and blonde and Glenys a sultry brunette. They must have been a formidable pair, thought Hamish. There was a press photograph of Maggie leaving a pop concert with Steel Ironside, a thinner, younger Steel without the beard.

"What happened to her husbands?" asked Hamish suddenly.

"Baird died not long after she married him. He was a stockbroker. Taught her all about the market."

"What did he die of?"

"Heart attack. He was a lot older than her. The other one, let me see, Balfour, was a bit of a crook. Got done for doing a bank and went inside. Maggie divorced him."

"What is Balfour's first name and where did he live?", "His name was Jimmy and he lived in Elvaston Place in Kensington, but I can't remember the number. It wouldn't help you anyway, because he rented the flat and that was years ago."

"And when did you last see Mrs. Baird?'"

"The last time I saw her was about a year ago. We didn't part friends. In fact, I gave her a lecture. Letting herself go like that and all over some two-bit waiter. 'Get on a diet,' I said. 'You look a fright, you do.'" Glenys patted her bony hips complacently. "'You should be like me,' I said. 'You've forgotten that men are only good for one thing.'"