Death of a Maid by MC Beaton

at home. He decided to go to the hospital and talk to Dr Renfrew. Perhaps Mrs Gillespie had been blackmailing him
over his alleged affair with Mrs Fleming.
    He had to wait an hour before Dr Renfrew appeared. Hamish looked at him in surprise. He had expected someone handsome. But Dr Renfrew was small and tubby with thinning hair, gold-rimmed
spectacles, podgy hands, and an arrogant manner.
    ‘I hope you have a very good reason for disturbing me, Officer,’ he said.
    ‘Are you having an affair with Mrs Fiona Fleming?’ asked Hamish bluntly.
    ‘This is outrageous. You come in here and –’
    Hamish interrupted. ‘Just answer the question.’
    ‘Of course not. I have a good mind to sue you for slander.’
    ‘Then you’d better sue most of Braikie as well,’ said Hamish. ‘The reason I am asking is because the late Mrs Gillespie appears to have been a blackmailer. Did she come
after you?’
    ‘I have nothing to hide. I lead a blameless life. Good day, Officer!’
    Hamish drove out of Braikie and up into the hills. He parked the Land Rover and let the dog and cat out into the heather for a run. He found a flat rock jutting out of the
heather and sat down on it and stared out over Braikie. So many suspects. His thoughts were being hampered by a reluctant appreciation of the murderer. Mrs Gillespie had been a vile woman. Still,
murder was murder. He wondered whether Mrs Samson was still at risk. He phoned Jimmy and asked if anyone was checking on her.
    ‘There’s a police guard on her,’ said Jimmy. ‘What are you doing now?’
    ‘I think I’ll go to Strathbane University and see if I can dig up anything on the professor’s past. See if there’s anyone there old enough to remember him. Don’t
tell Blair.’
    Strathbane University was a dismal Stalinist sort of building, put up in the fifties when most architects seem to have been in love with concrete. White-faced,
unhealthy-looking students roamed its corridors. Hamish found his way to the bursar’s office. The bursar, Mrs Pilkington, was an efficient-looking grey-haired woman. ‘I’ll check
the records,’ she said in answer to Hamish’s request. She switched on a computer on her desk. At last, she said, ‘Professor Sander came here from Glasgow University in 1992. He
retired from here five years ago.’
    ‘Why did he leave a big university like Glasgow to come here?’
    ‘That I do not know.’
    ‘Is there anyone who might remember him? Someone he might have been friendly with?’
    ‘I’m new to the job here. You could ask my predecessor, Mrs Black. I’ll give you her address.’
    Mrs Black lived in a croft house outside Strathbane on the Ullapool road.
    When Hamish explained the reason for his visit, she invited him in. Like most croft houses, hers was very small, with a stone-flagged living room. Mrs Black was an energetic, white-haired woman
with a shrewd, intelligent face.
    ‘I’ll make us some tea,’ she said. ‘Sit down by the fire.’
    Hamish looked around as she hurried off to the kitchen counter at the opposite side of the room. There was one good landscape painting over the fireplace and bookshelves crammed into every
available space.
    ‘Do you have sheep?’ he asked.
    ‘Yes, I do have sheep, and I’m going to sell the lot at the next sheep sales in Lairg. I’d only played at it before, helping out crofter friends. It’s more bother than
it’s all worth.’
    She brought over two mugs of tea and set them on a coffee table in front of the fire and then sat down opposite Hamish.
    ‘So what do you want to know about Professor Sander?’
    ‘Could anyone have been blackmailing him?’
    ‘I shouldn’t think so. Fussy little man. Always complaining about something or another. How things were better at Glasgow University and so on until one day I shouted at him,
“Why don’t you go back there?” He didn’t bother me much after that.’
    ‘Not attracted to any of the students?’
    ‘Nothing like that. I don’t