Free Death of a Gentle Lady by M. C. Beaton

evenings.”
    John bent over the paper and began to write slowly. Hamish studied him curiously. When the family had first arrived, John had looked frightened. Not any more. He was almost too calm.
    When he had finished, Hamish asked, “Have you taken tranquillisers?”
    “Oh, yes. Lots. My nerves are delicate, you know.”
    The questions continued, and John answered them all in the same dreamy manner.
    He was finally dismissed and told to send his sister in.
    What a name to be cursed with, thought Jimmy, when you’re a stocky, tough-looking girl. Her large, almost swollen lips were somehow unnerving.
    Twinkle answered all the questions he had already put to the others with a sort of brisk efficiency. She was a computer expert and worked for a merchant bank in the City. They could check that she was at her desk the day her mother was murdered.
    When she had gone, Jimmy said, “What a mouth!”
    “Trout pout,” said Hamish. “Collagen.”
    “How do you know these things?”
    “I observe,” said Hamish.
    “Well, observe this. We seem to have at least two motives if we can break their alibis—Sarah and Mark.”
    “If it was one of the family, they’d need to have had an accomplice,” said Hamish. “The woman who made that phone call was tall and slim.”
    Jimmy’s phone rang. He listened carefully and then rang off. “Dr. Forsythe’s done the toxicology report. Date-rape drug in the sherry. She must have felt herself blacking out and tried to vomit the drug up. It was the blow on the head that killed her. Only one of the wineglasses had been used. The other one was clean.”
    “I feel if we could solve the murder of Irena, then we could find out who murdered Mrs. Gentle,” said Hamish. “Anything about her from the Russians?”
    “Not yet. They should come up with something, however. It’s not as if it’s political.”
    “Unless her protector, Grigori, is in the mafia and the Russian mafia has links to politics,” said Hamish.
    “I tell you what, Hamish. Get back down to Lochdubh and see if you can find that woman or at least the bike. I’m going to have them in again.”
    Chapter Five
    Like the dew on the mountain,Like the foam on the river,Like the bubble on the fountain,Thou are gone, and forever!
    —Sir Walter Scott
    Hamish parked at the police station, fed his hens, gave his sheep their winter fodder, and cooked up lunch for his dog and cat, all the while wondering about that bicycle.
    He remembered that the hotel had some bicycles which they allowed their guests to use. He decided to go there but felt forced to leave his pets behind. The press lurking outside the police station, he was sure, would snap photos of his wild cat and a debate would start whether it was right for a police officer to have such a “dangerous animal.”
    But instead of driving straight to the hotel, he parked up on the moors above Lochdubh. He needed peace and quiet to think.
    How was it that he who had always considered himself to be a shrewd judge of character should have been taken in by Irena? At first, he had been sure her distress was genuine. Add to that her beauty, and so he was taken in. Had she been on the streets of Moscow before finding her protector? He guessed that the life she had led had made her hard and tough. Men were creatures to be used. Maybe she had not intended to use him, and then on reflection she discovered she had hit on a soft target. It would mean more than a passport to her to become a married woman. It would mean respectability. Yes, he decided, she would ruthlessly use every weapon she could find to make sure it happened. She would accept Mrs. Gentle’s offer of money and a reception—first, surely, because she knew something about her, and second because after her treatment, she felt a desire to make the woman pay.
    His thoughts turned to the mysterious phone caller. By car, she could have made the journey to the castle in about twenty minutes. By bike, very much longer. So it stood