Death of a Gentle Lady by M. C. Beaton Page A

an inspector called Anna Krokovsky. She’s been visiting the Met in London to study British police methods. She read about our case in the newspapers and asked to be sent north. You’re to come with me to headquarters.”
    “I’m sorry, Elspeth,” said Hamish. “I’d better go. But you’ve got a wee bit of a story.” He turned to Jimmy. “I don’t suppose there’ll be anything wrong in Elspeth writing about her visit?”
    “Shouldn’t think so, Hamish. Come on.”
    “I’ll lock up when I go,” said Elspeth. Her laptop was on the kitchen table.
    “Right. Put the key back up on the gutter. What’s this Russian woman like?”
    “Don’t know. Haven’t met her yet. I only just got the summons.”
    Does anyone still drink sherry? wondered Hamish as Helen, Daviot’s secretary, tried to whip a tray of glasses past him so that he couldn’t have any—without success, as Hamish had long arms. But then, the murderer had tempted Irena with Amontillado.
    Daviot was beaming. He was at his most avuncular. “This pretty lady has come to watch our methods. Inspector Krokovsky, may I present the detective at the moment leading the investigation with my help—Detective Inspector Jimmy Anderson. Then there is Detective Sergeant Andy MacNab and now our local constable, Hamish Macbeth.”
    Anna Krokovsky nodded and sipped her glass of sherry. She was of medium height with a face that somehow reminded Hamish of Putin. Her grey eyes were watchful and her trim body, in a well-tailored uniform, slight but muscular. Her hair was her one beauty, being very thick, wavy, and dark brown.
    “Perhaps,” said Daviot, “you would like to say a few words, Miss Krokovsky.”
    “It’s Inspector Krokovsky,” she said. “I took this opportunity to investigate policing in the provinces, particularly as the investigation concerns one of our nationals.” Her English was obviously fluent and carried faint tones of an American accent.
    Hamish’s highland curiosity overcame him. “Is that an American accent, ma’am?” he asked.
    “I studied at Harvard Business School before I entered the force,” she said.
    “So what can you tell us about Irena?” pursued Hamish.
    “Irena ran away from an orphanage in Moscow and lived on the streets. She was subsequently employed in a brothel, a top-class brothel, which is where she met her protector, Grigori Antonov. She travelled with him on business and, as you now know, stole a passport while they were in Istanbul and escaped.
    “You are Hamish Macbeth. You were engaged to be married to her. I would like to speak to you as soon as possible. Where is your office? Here?”
    “No, ma’am. In Lochdubh, a village about half an hour from here.”
    “Is that near this castle?”
    “Yes.”
    “Yes what, Hamish,” barked Daviot.
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “Then I would like to make a start. You will take me to your police station and we will talk on the road.”
    “It’s getting late, Inspector,” said Daviot. “Would you not like to wait until the morning?” He cast his eye over the trays of canapés. Helen would just need to parcel them up, and he could take them home.
    “I would like to go now.”
    Hamish fumbled for the key in the gutter, hoping that Elspeth had left, and heaved a sigh of relief when his fingers closed on it. Anna, who had driven in her own car, stood behind him and remarked, “You are not very security-conscious.”
    “Oh, no one steals anything here,” said Hamish.
    He ushered her in. The kitchen was warm. Elspeth had lit the stove. Lugs and Sonsie came running to greet him.
    “That is an odd cat, like a lynx,” said Anna. “Is it safe?”
    “Yes.”
    She took off her huge peaked cap and placed it on the table.
    “Before we begin, ma’am . . .”
    “You may call me Anna when we are not officially on duty.”
    “Very well, Anna. I am very hungry and I’m sure you haven’t had time to eat anything. There is a very good restaurant here. Please let me take you