Death of a Hussy by M. C. Beaton

Author:M. C. Beaton
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Mystery, Traditional British, Fiction, Crime & mystery, Mystery & Detective
ISBN: 9780553409673
Publisher: Bantam
Published: 1996-03-01T03:53:05.408000+00:00

FIVE

O Death, where is thy sting-a-ling-a-ling

O Grave, thy victoree?

The bells of Hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling,

For you but not for me.

—BRITISH ARMY SONG

Alison had often had that very common nightmare where one opens one’s mouth to scream and no sound comes out. But the scream that was wrenched from her filled the air with dreadful sound, rushing away to the high hills, sending a taunting far-off mockery of a scream echoing back.

Peter Jenkins came running out in his dressing gown and slippers to where Alison stood with scream after scream pouring from her contorted face. He ran to the blazing car, flapping his hands ineffectually.

Steel Ironside erupted onto the scene with the kitchen fire extinguisher which he directed at the blazing car. “Help me, you faggot!” he shouted at Peter Jenkins. He ran to the car door and wrenched it open, cursing as he did so.

He grabbed Maggie and dragged her out onto the garage floor, beating at the flames on her clothes, panting and sobbing.

Mrs. Todd drove up. Her face was as white as paper as she ran for the house. She seized the phone in the kitchen and dialled 999 and demanded the fire brigade, the ambulance, and the police,

Then she went out and struck the still-screaming Alison across the face. Alison hiccupped and then ran to Peter Jenkins who gathered her into his arms.

Mrs. Todd then crouched down by Maggie. “She’s dead,” said Steel in a flat voice. “Her clothes had just started to catch fire when I pulled her out. She must have had a heart attack. She killed herself. I’ve never known anyone to mangle a car the way she did.”

Crispin and James arrived on the scene, both in pyjamas.

While Peter Jenkins, still holding Alison, explained in a hushed voice what had happened, Steel said, half to himself, “It’ll take hours for anything to reach us in this wilderness.” The wind of Sutherland howled across the sudden hush but far away came the sound of a siren.

It came nearer, ever nearer, until the Lochdubh Volunteer Fire Brigade rolled into the drive. Close behind came Hamish Macbeth.

“Nothing for us to do now,” said the fire chief, taking off his helmet and revealing himself to be Mr. Johnson, the hotel manager. He looked at the car. Smoke was still rising from the bonnet. The front of the car was burnt black.

“Don’t touch anything,” said Hamish Macbeth sharply. “A forensic team will have to look at that car.”

“No need for that,” said Crispin, marching up in all the glory of primrose-yellow silk pyjamas. “We all know Maggie wrecked that car. Something’s gone in the engine and it burst into flames and gave her a heart attack. She could have got clear if she hadn’t had an attack. The doors weren’t locked. You policemen always complicate matters.”

“Indeed? Then I’m going to complicate them further,” said Hamish quietly. “The minute the ambulance has been and gone, I’ll start taking statements.”

Hostile eyes looked at him. Even Alison, despite her distress, thought he was being overofficious.

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