Hamish Macbeth 04; Death of a Perfect Wife hm-4

by M C Beaton

  “She should be all right now,” said Hamish awkwardly.

  “Oh, no, Trixie’s memory must not die. Angela’s taken over the bird thing and the smoking thing and the clean up Lochdubh rubbish. Either I eat salads or eat out. She’s hard as nails.”

  “Shock, maybe. Look, women of your wife’s age don’t change for life. You’ll have her back soon. Just go along with it for a bit.”

  “She thinks I murdered Trixie.”

  “Don’t be daft.”

  “It’s a fact. I see her watching me with those hard, hard eyes. She’s moved her bed into the spare room. If you find out who did it, let me know first, Hamish. I want to shake that man by the hand.”

  “It might be a woman,” said Hamish.

  Dr Brodie leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. “It might at that,” he said slowly.

  Hamish had imagined his visit to Inverness would prove to be blessed with another sunny day. But to his annoyance, the weather had turned dark and rainy.

  He called on the dentist, a Mr Jones, who was justifiably annoyed at his call, having already been interviewed by the Inverness police. Hamish was not surprised. He knew Blair had sent him to Inverness to get him out of the way.

  “You are such an important witness, Mr Jones,” he said, “that I am afraid you have to be questioned all over again. I will not be taking up much of your time.”

  “Oh, well,” said the dentist, mollified. “There’s not much to tell. What a baby that man was. He had a bad toothache because one of his back teeth was rotten. The root was all right so I said I would drill it and put in a filling. He started to shake and tremble and begged me to pull it out. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. Insisted on having gas. When he came round, I showed him his X-rays and said he needed a lot of work done and then he really panicked. He staggered out of the chair and ran for the door. It’s a good thing I’d got his National Health number before I’d started or I would have ended up doing that extraction for free. He should have rested a bit till the effects of the gas wore off.”

  A bluebottle landed on the dentist’s white coat and he brushed it off with a shudder. “I’ve never seen so many flies as we’ve had this summer,” said Mr Jones. “But the air’s so warm and clammy, I can’t keep the windows closed.”

  Hamish put away his notebook and headed for the station. He would just be in time to meet Priscilla’s train.

  He put all thoughts of the case from his mind and concentrated on the simple pleasure of waiting for her to arrive. He found he was imagining sort of Brief Encounter situations. She would run towards him through the steam, her fair hair bobbing on her shoulders, and throw herself into his arms. But the days of steam trains were long over. He did not want to abandon one bit of his rosy fantasy. So the steam remained. Rain thudded down on the station roof and the restless seagulls of Inverness called overhead.

  Twelve-thirty came and went and there was no sign of the train. He went up to the information kiosk but there was no-one there. He went into the Travel Centre where he was told the train would be half an hour late due to signal failure. He returned to the platform and waited, and again in that dream Priscilla endlessly ran towards him.

  After three quarters of an hour, he returned to the Travel Centre. He was again told the story about signal failure and that the train should be in any minute. The loudspeaker in the station burst into song. It was one of those Scottish songs written to the beat of a Scottish waltz and sung through the nose.

  “Oh, there’s the purple o’ the heather, And the ships aboot the bay, And it’s there that I would wander, At the kelosing hoff the day,” sang the voice and the rain fell harder on the roof and the wheeling seagulls screamed louder as if to compete with the singer.

  Hamish went back to the Travel Centre with that feeling of impotence that assails the average Britisher in dealing with British Rail. A young man in a tartan jacket and with a sulky ‘get lost’ expression on his face eventually phoned the station manager’s office after Hamish had told him quietly what he would do to him if he didn’t look more willing. There was a broken rail outside Inverness, said the young man. But the train would be moving soon.

  Back again went Hamish. At two-fifteen, the train crawled into the platform.

  He waited by the barrier.

  He nearly missed her. She was walking with her head down, her hair covered by a depressing rain hat.

  “Priscilla!” he called.

  She swung round. “Oh, there you are,” she said coolly. “Rotten train. I’m starving. Where are we going?”

  Hamish blinked at her. He had been dreaming so long of that passionate arrival that he had forgotten to think about where to take her.

  “We could try the Caledonian Hotel,” he said.

  They walked in silence along to the hotel that overlooks the River Ness to find that it stopped serving lunches at two. Hamish found a phone box and tried several other places to find they had stopped serving lunch at two as well.

  “Hamish, let’s just pick somewhere cheap and easy,” said Priscilla. Water was dripping from the brim of her hat on to her nose.

  Hamish’ looked around desperately. There was a cheap-looking restaurant called the Admiral’s Nook. The bow window was festooned with fishing nets.

  “This’ll do,” he said.

  They went inside and sat at a crumby table.

  Hamish looked at the menu. There was a wide choice. Waitresses were standing in a group at the back of the restaurant, talking. He waved his hand. Several blank stares were directed towards him and then they all went on talking again.

  “Pick out what you want,” said Hamish.

  “What about spaghetti bolognaise?” said Priscilla. “These places usually have a Scottish-Italian cook.”

  “All right.” Hamish approached the waitresses. “Two plates of spaghetti bolognaise,” he ordered. They all looked at him as if he had said several obscene words and then one peeled off from the group and headed for the kitchen.

  Hamish returned to the table. He wondered if Priscilla was thinking of that John Burlington, who would probably have organized things better.

  The waitress approached with two plates piled high with spaghetti and topped with a sort of grey sludge. Her hands were covered in scabs.

  “Where’s the parmesan cheese?” asked Hamish, faint but pursuing.

  “Whit?”

  “Parmesan cheese,” said Priscilla in icy tones.

  “We dinnae hae any o’ that,” said the waitress triumphantly.

  “Well, brush the crumbs off the table,” said Hamish crossly. She slouched off and did not return.

  “This smells like feet,” said Priscilla. “I daren’t eat it.”

  “Come away,” said Hamish, putting down his fork. “This damn place reeks of salmonella. No, I’m not calling for the bill, nor am I going to protest. It would take all day.” He checked the menu for the price and left several Scottish pound notes on the table and marched Priscilla outside.

  “Where now?” asked Priscilla bleakly.

  “Follow me,” said Hamish grimly. He led her to where his Land Rover was parked. “Stay there,” he said, holding open the door for her.

  He came back after some time carrying two packets of fish and chips, a bottle of wine, a bottle of mineral water, two glasses, and a corkscrew.

  “This wine’s for you,” he said, uncorking it.

  “Food at last,” said Priscilla.

  They ate in a contented silence. “Sorry I was so grumpy,” said Priscilla. “How did you get on?”

  “Oh, Thomas was at that dentist all right.”

  “But it doesn’t mean he didn’t do it,” said Priscilla.

  “Why?”

  “He could have put the arsenic in something he knew she would eat before he left.”

  “They’ve got everything out of the kitchen and there’s not a smell of arsenic anywhere. Except the curry. Can’t find any of that.”

  “Curry? Oh, I know about the curry,”
said Priscilla. “She made some for herself and gave the rest to Mrs Wellington for the minister’s supper.”

  Hamish realized he was looking at her with mouth open. “Better get back,” he said. “If she hasn’t eaten it, it might still be in her fridge. No better still, wait here and I’ll phone.”

  He returned after ten minutes, his face triumphant. “She didn’t touch the curry. Trixie took some for herself out of the pot and gave the rest in the pot to Mrs Wellington. She’s still got it. I’ve phoned Blair.”

  “I’d better do that shopping for mother,” said Priscilla. “Do you want to wait here?”

  “Yes, how long will you be?”

  “About an hour.”

  Hamish sat in the station car park and thought about the case. But after almost an hour was up, he kept glancing in his rearview mirror to see if there was any sign of Priscilla coming back.

  And that was when he saw a car just leaving the car park. On the roof rack was a chair covered in transparent plastic sheeting. He was sure he recognized that chair. He started up the engine, swung the Land Rover around, and started off in pursuit.

  The car in front was travelling very fast. It went around the roundabout and headed out on the A9 towards Perth. Hamish put on the siren but the car in front only seemed to go faster.

  He caught up with it twenty miles out on the Perth road and signalled to the driver to halt. The driver, a small, ferrety, red-haired man rolled down the window and the reason why he had not heard the police siren became apparent as a blast of sound from his tape deck struck Hamish like a blow.

  “What is it?” said the man crossly.

  “You were doing over the limit for a start,” said Hamish. “Where did you get that chair?”

  “At the auction rooms in Inverness. I’m a dealer.” He handed over a grimy business card.

  “Get out and let’s have a look at it and I’ll maybe forget about the speeding.”

  “I’ll just lift up a corner of the sheeting,” said the dealer, whose name was Henderson. “Don’t want it to get wet.”

  Hamish peered under the plastic. It was the Brodies’ chair that he had last seen when Trixie had been carrying it along the road.

  “How much did you pay for it?” asked Hamish.

  “A hundred and fifty.”

  Hamish whistled. “And where are you taking it?”

  “Down to London eventually. I’ve got several more auctions to go to. Get a better price for it there. It’s a Victorian nursing chair. Good condition. Look at the bead work.”

  “Do you know where it came from?”

  “Auctioneer said some knocker from the north brought it in.”

  “Knocker?”

  “One of those women that goes around houses spotting antiques where the owners don’t know the value. Usually offers them a fiver for something worth a few hundred.”

  “Or gets it for nothing,” said Hamish, half to himself. Aloud he said, “I won’t be booking you this time, Mr Henderson, but go carefully. I might be getting in touch with you.”

  “It isn’t stolen, is it?” asked the dealer anxiously.

  “No, but don’t sell it for another week. It may be connected with a murder.”

  Hamish drove back. The rain was coming down heavier than ever. He remembered Priscilla and put his foot down on the accelerator.

  She was not in the car park. He went into the station and looked around. No Priscilla. He looked at the indicator board and saw a train for the north was just leaving. He ran to the platform in time to see the back of it disappearing around the curve of the track.

  So much for Brief Encounter, he thought miserably.

  He drove to the auction rooms and found that Trixie had put the chair in for sale along with some other pieces of furniture and china ornaments.

  “We had an auction last evening,” said the auctioneer. “I was about to send Mrs Thomas her cheque.”

  “How much?”

  “Nearly a thousand pounds. She could have got a lot more in London but I wasn’t about to tell her that.”

  Hamish told him to hold the cheque until they found out if Trixie had left a will.

  He drove through the slashing rain and winding roads until he reached the police station at Lochdubh.

  He phoned Tommel Castle and asked for Priscilla without remembering to disguise his voice.

  “Miss Halburton-Smythe is not here,” said Jenkins.

  Hamish wondered whether she was still waiting in Inverness.

  He phoned the castle again and, disguising his voice, stated he was John Burlington. This time Priscilla answered the phone.

  “Oh, it’s you, Hamish,” she said in a flat voice.

  “I’m awfully sorry, Priscilla,” said Hamish. He told her about the chair.

  “That’s all right,” said Priscilla, although her voice sounded distant. “There’s a little bit of information that might interest you. Jessie, the maid, says she saw Trixie going over to the seer’s at Coyle. You could ask him what he told her.”

  When Hamish put down the phone, he thought about going over to the seer’s that evening, but decided to leave it till the morning. Angus Macdonald, the seer, had built up a reputation for being able to predict the future. Hamish thought he was an old fraud, but the local people were proud of him and believed every word he said. On the other hand, it would be unlike Trixie to go alone. She probably had taken some of her acolytes with her. He asked Angela Brodie, Mrs Wellington, and several others but they knew nothing about it. He asked Mrs Kennedy and the boarder, John Parker, and then Paul, without success.

  Then he remembered that Colonel Halburton-Smythe had said he was going to take Trixie over to Mrs Haggerty’s old cottage. He looked at his watch. They would be finishing dinner at the castle and so the colonel could not accuse him of scrounging and perhaps he could talk to Priscilla and apologize again for having left her in Inverness.

  But the colonel was determined Hamish was not going to be allowed anywhere near his daughter.

  He told Hamish curtly that Trixie had taken several bits and pieces of old furniture.

  “I’d better go and look at the place,” said Hamish, “if that’s all right with you.”

  “I suppose I’d better let you have the key,” said the colonel, “but I can’t see what it’s got to do with a murder investigation.”

  “I’ll look anyway,” said Hamish. “She sold some of that furniture and a chair that Angela Brodie gave her for nearly a thousand pounds at the auction in Inverness.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” blustered the colonel. “Fine woman, she was. Very womanly, if you know what I mean. That lout of a husband probably sold the stuff when he was down at the dentist’s. She would not have tricked me.”

  “Maybe. Let me have the key anyway. Did she say anything about going over to Angus Macdonald?”

  “Not that I remember. I hope that’s an end to your questions, Macbeth. If I thought for one moment you suspected me of this murder, I would report you to your superiors.”

  Hamish sadly left the castle. Priscilla must know he had been visiting for the servants would have told her. But there was no sign of her. The castle door slammed behind him, a bleak finality in the sound. He was disgusted with himself. He thought of his fevered fantasies at the station, of the way that kiss had started him dreaming again, and put Priscilla Halburton-Smythe firmly from his mind.

  But there seemed to be a great black emptiness there for she had occupied his thoughts for so long.

  ∨ Death of a Perfect Wife ∧

  5

  I know of no way of judging the future but by the past.

  —Patrick Henry.

  Hamish was just moving out of the police station in the Land Rover in the morning when Blair appeared, holding up a beefy hand.

  “I hear ye’re going to consult the oracle,” he said with a grin.

  “Meaning what?”

  “It’s all over the village that Angus Macdonald is going tae solve the case
by looking at his crystal balls.”

  “Want to go yourself?” asked Hamish.

  “I’ve got mair to dae with ma time. Typed out your report frae the dentist?”

  “Why bother?” said Hamish laconically. “It’s the same stuff you got from the police in Inverness. But there’s something you should know.” He told Blair about the dealer.

  “Bugger it,” said Blair. That complicates things.

  “She’d probably made off with someone’s family heirloom.”

  “You should ask Halburton-Smythe,” said Hamish maliciously. “He was driving her around while she looked for antiques.”

  Blair’s face darkened. The Daviots had been bragging about their dinner at the castle and he had no desire to run foul of the new super by putting the colonel’s back up. “Aye, well, I might send Anderson up. This is the devil of a case. There was nae arsenic in that curry. Must hae been in something else.”

  Towser, who was sitting beside Hamish, growled softly.

  “You look right daft with that mongrel beside you,” sneered Blair.

  “This is a highly trained police dog,” said Hamish, “and I’ve already been offered five hundred pounds for him.”

  Blair’s mouth dropped in surprise as Hamish drove off.

  “It wasn’t really a lie,” Hamish told Towser. “If they had any sense in this place, I’m sure they would have given me an offer for you.” Towser lolled his tongue and put a large affectionate paw on Hamish’s knee.

  “Should be a woman’s hand on my knee,” said Hamish, “and not a mangy dog like yourself.”

  The seer lived in a small white-washed cottage on the top of a round green hill with a winding path leading up to it. It looked like a child’s drawing. Hamish parked his vehicle at the foot of the path and began to walk up. Black storm clouds rolled across the heavens and the wind roared through a pylon overhead with a dismal shriek. At least the wind is keeping away the flies and midges, thought Hamish, leaning against its force as he walked towards the cottage. A thin column of grey smoke from one of the cottage’s chimneys was being whipped and shredded by the wind.

  Angus Macdonald was a tall, thin man in his sixties. He had a thick head of white hair and a craggy face with an enormous beak of a nose. His eyes were very pale grey.