Death of a Gentle Lady by M. C. Beaton

of, “Splendid.”
    The bastard’s going to treat the whole thing as a joke, thought Hamish.
    Priscilla came out with the key. They walked together out of the hotel and round to the shed in back where the bikes were kept. Hamish examined the lock. “It hasn’t been forced, but it’s a simple lock, easily picked. Did Johnson say anything about anyone asking for a bike?”
    “Yes, just one. A Mrs. Fanshawe. But she’s so deadly respectable, it couldn’t be her.”
    “I’ve got to meet her.”
    Priscilla opened the door and they went into the dusty darkness of the shed. “Mr. Johnson said she borrowed the mountain bike. We’ve only two of them. The rest are pretty old.”
    “And shoogly,” said Hamish. “You’re right. Half of them look as if they would fall to bits.”
    “Yes, but the thing is, Hamish, I can’t remember us having a bicycle like the one in the river.”
    She went over to straighten a bike which had fallen, but Hamish said, “Don’t touch it. Might be an idea to get this place dusted for fingerprints. Let’s go back to the hotel. I’d like to meet this Mr. Fitzpatrick.”
    “He usually turns up about now for afternoon tea.”
    Hamish’s stomach rumbled. He had not yet had time to eat anything. “Is there any hope of tea for me?” he asked. “I’m awfy hungry.”
    “You don’t change,” laughed Priscilla. “All right. Mr. Fitzpatrick is a bit cheap. I’ll offer to pay for his tea and order one for you.”
    Patrick Fitzpatrick was delighted to accept Priscilla’s offer of afternoon tea. He was a slim, fit-looking man in his forties with a shock of ginger hair, a thin face, a small pursed mouth, and skin reddened by walking in the cold.
    Priscilla said, “Mr. Fitzpatrick—”
    “Patrick, please.”
    “Very well. Patrick. Hamish Macbeth here would like to ask you a few questions.”
    He paused, a scone dripping butter in his hand. “What could I possibly know that could help the police?” His Irish accent was light, and his voice unexpectedly high and reedy.
    Hamish gulped down a tea cake and asked, “You do a fair bit of walking. Have you seen a strange woman around? She’s tall, possibly wearing dark glasses, headscarf, breeches.”
    “Oh, her,” said Patrick, reaching out for another scone.
    “Where?” asked Hamish urgently. “Where did you see her and when?”
    “It must have been the day before yesterday. I was walking along the upper reaches of the river, must have been about two o’ clock. She was coming the other way. I shouted out, ‘Fine day,’ but she stared at me for a moment and the turned and hurried off up the brae. Then I heard the sound of a car starting up.”
    “Can you remember exactly at which point on the riverbank you saw her?”
    “It’s where the river makes a loop and there’s a stand of silver birch.”
    “I know it. I’d better go and have a look.” Hamish grabbed two tiny sandwiches and hurried off, eating them as he went. He realised he would need to go back at some point and ask Patrick what he did for a living and why he was at the hotel.
    He drove up into the hills and followed the narrow one-track road which ran along beside the River Anstey. He parked on the road above the bend in the stream described by Patrick and looked around. He searched the road, then went down and searched along the river. He had recently seen a detective series on television where the detective had found a book of matches with the name of a sinister nightclub. The only things he found were two rusty tin cans.
    The nights were drawing in. He looked at his watch. It was just coming up to five o’clock. He’d better get back to the station.
    He found not only Elspeth but also Jimmy waiting for him. “There’s no time to talk to your lady friend,” said Jimmy. “We’ve got to get down to headquarters. Some Russian detective’s come over.”
    “I didn’t think the death of a prostitute would rank high on their list of investigations.”
    “It’s