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

by M C Beaton

  “Yet each man kills the thing he loves”, quoted Angela drearily.

  He looked at her oddly. “You’re really in a bad way. Home and bed for you.”

  “But there’s a meeting of the bird society tonight. Lord Glenbader, the Duke of Anstey’s son, is bringing over some specimens from the castle collection!”

  “I’ll see to it myself.”

  Hamish rose and snapped his fingers and Towser leapt into the back. He helped Angela into the Land Rover. He ran back up the hillside and collected his jersey and cap. Clouds were covering the sky and the wind had a chill edge to it now. He took a flare gun out of the back of the Land Rover and fired it into the sky and watched for a moment while one green star hung against the tumbling black clouds to tell the searchers below that Angela Brodie had been found.

  Mrs Wellington and two of the village women arrived at Dr Brodie’s and silently began to clean up the shattered mess of the kitchen, sweeping up shards of crockery and glass, wiping up the mess of flour and coffee grounds and broken jars of jam from the floor.

  Hamish helped them, putting the broken glass and china into cartons, taping it up and driving it off to the council tip. When he returned, Mrs Wellington was taking mugs out of a box and hanging them up on the hooks. “Poor Mrs Brodie didn’t leave anything to drink out of,” she said, “and I had these put by for the church sale. Put on the kettle, Mr Macbeth, and we’ll have a cup of tea.”

  “Is it just the kitchen she wrecked?” asked Hamish. He opened a cupboard and took out a can of cat food and two cans of dog food to feed the family pets.

  “No, come and look in the living room.”

  Hamish put down the can opener and followed her into the other room. The mirror above the fireplace had been smashed.

  “Couldnae stand the sight of herself,” he said mournfully.

  “Havers,” said the minister’s wife, who had no time for psychology, “she was probably drunk.”

  They returned to the kitchen. Hamish fed the spaniels and the cat and put the kettle on. Dr Brodie came downstairs from the bedroom. “How is she?” asked Hamish.

  “Sleeping,” he said wearily. “Will this misery never end?”

  “Be very kind to her when she wakes,” said Hamish anxiously. “If she’s still in a bad way, you might consider taking her down to Strathbane for some therapy or something like that.”

  “I don’t believe in all that rubbish. If everyone just pulled themselves together and got on with life, there would be no time for crackpot psychiatrists.”

  “For a village doctor, you’re a walking disaster,” said Hamish crossly. “I am glad I am never ill. What would you prescribe? Eye of newt?”

  “Leave the doctor alone,” ordered Mrs Wellington. “Have you no feelings?”

  Hamish went out and left them to it. He headed for the police station, dying for sleep. Then he saw the press standing outside it, interviewing Blair.

  He swore under his breath and drove straight past. Blair saw him and shouted something but Hamish was too tired to care. He drove up to Tommel Castle. As he swung in at the gates, he saw one of the gamekeepers and stopped and rolled down the window. “Colonel at home?” he asked.

  “No,” said the gamekeeper. “Himself and the wife has gone to Inverness.”

  “Good,” said Hamish and drove on to the castle entrance.

  Jenkins would dearly have loved to tell him that Priscilla was not at home but the young lady had given him such a ribbing about lying to Hamish that he did not dare. Priscilla came running down the stairs and stopped short at the sight of Hamish. “You look awful,” she said. “What’s happened to you?”

  “It’s Angela Brodie,” said Hamish, stifling a yawn. “She’s cracked. But she’s back home in bed now.”

  “Oh, you found her. I heard she had gone missing. How is she?”

  “Physically, she’s all right. I hope her mind’s in better shape when she wakes up. I need sleep, Priscilla, and Blair’s at the police station. Can you spare me a bed for an hour?”

  “Yes, I’ll take you up to one of the guest rooms. Where’s Towser?”

  “In the car.”

  “Wait here. I’ll fetch him.”

  Soon Towser came lolloping in at her heels. She led master and dog up the shadowy staircase and into a guest room and turned down the blankets. “There’s a bathroom through there, Hamish, and you’ll find disposable razors in the cabinet. There are clean towels and everything. John was hoping to fly up. He’s got his own helicopter now. But he couldn’t make it. Put your shirt and underwear outside the door and I’ll have them washed for you. When do you want up?”

  “Give me two hours,” said Hamish. “Oh, Priscilla, there’s that damn bird society tonight. I told Mrs Brodie I’d run it for her, Lord Glenbader’s coming to give a talk.”

  “You amaze me, Hamish. He doesn’t preserve birds except under aspic.”

  “I know, he’s a pill. But I have a feeling there won’t be much of an audience. People are losing interest in all these societies and committees. Could you round up a few people?”

  “Certainly. I’ll get on the phone right away. Now, go to bed.”

  She went out and closed the door. Hamish removed his clothes and put his underwear and shirt outside the door and then climbed into bed. Towser leapt on the bed and stretched out across his feet. “Get down,” ordered Hamish sleepily. Towser rolled his eyes and stayed where he was.

  Two hours later, Priscilla came in carrying his clean clothes over her arm. Constable Hamish Macbeth was lying fast asleep, his ridiculously long eyelashes fanned out over his thin cheeks. Towser opened one eye and lazily wagged his tail.

  The bedclothes were down around Hamish’s waist. It was amazing how muscular Hamish was, thought Priscilla, looking at his naked chest and arms. His red hair flamed against the whiteness of the pillowcases and he looked young and vulnerable in sleep.

  He opened his hazel eyes suddenly and looked straight at her. A look of pure happiness shone in his eyes and then it slowly died, like a light being turned down.

  “Two hours up already,” groaned Hamish. “I could have slept all day.”

  “Here are your clothes,” said Priscilla briskly, “and I’ve got some people to go to the bird meeting. Come downstairs when you’re ready and we’ll have tea.”

  It was a black day in the life of Jenkins, the butler. To have to serve Hamish Macbeth tea in the drawing-room hurt his very soul.

  When Hamish returned to the police station it was to find the detective, Jimmy Anderson, waiting for him.

  “So you’re back,” said Anderson. “I’ve been left here to give you a row for sloping off.”

  “I see you’ve made yourself at home,” said Hamish. Anderson was sitting in the police station office with his feet on the desk and a glass of whisky in his hand.

  “Aye, thanks. Blair’s right sore at ye for finding that Brodie woman. Daviot turned up to see how the search was going on and Blair told the super that it was thanks to his brilliant detective work that Mrs Brodie had been found. He was well launched on his story when my friend and colleague, Detective MacNab, who had been insulted earlier by Blair pipes up and says, “Oh, but it was Macbeth what found her. Brought her down from the hill himself. We was all looking in the wrong direction.” Blair looks fit to kill. The super accuses him of trying to take credit away from you, and Blair says he was simply describing how the operation had worked, and that he had sent you up the mountain himself. “That cannae be true,” says MacNab, “Weren’t you just saying you hadn’t seen Macbeth?” You should hae seen Blair’s face. I couldnae bear it any longer and walked away, but it wouldnae surprise me if Blair doesn’t get MacNab back walking the beat before a month is up. Blair’s gone off to grill Parker again, just for the hell o’ it.”

  “How did you get on with Halburton-Smythe?” asked Hamish.

  Anderson groaned. “Whit a bad-tempered wee man! How dare you waste my time when you could be out looking for the murderer.
That sort o’ thing. Asked him what Mrs Thomas had taken from the cottage and he looked sulky and said it was some old china and glass and bits of furniture and odds and ends in a box. She was a sterling woman, according to his nibs. She certainly seemed to have a way with her. Was she all that attractive?”

  “Not strictly speaking,” said Hamish. “But she had a very forceful personality. Type of person you love or loathe.”

  “Well, I’d better be toddling along,” said Anderson. “Consider yourself reprimanded. What are ye going to do now?”

  “I think I’ll jist go along to The Laurels and see how Paul Thomas is getting on,” said Hamish. “I like that man. I think when he gets over his wife’s death, he’ll settle down here all right.”

  Paul Thomas was sawing up a dead tree at the back of the house.

  “Feeling better?” asked Hamish.

  “Still a bit shattered,” said Paul. “But I find work helps. I’ll be glad to see the back of that Kennedy woman and her rotten kids. Trixie could cope with that sort of person and pointed out we had to take anyone while we were getting started, but she whines the whole time and the only reason she stayed on was because I couldn’t bring myself to charge her rent, because that would have meant shopping for her and cooking for her.”

  “How do you get on with Parker, now that you know he’s her ex?”

  “We’ve become pretty friendly. In fact, he’s been a great help. I want to talk about her, you know, and he’s prepared to listen.”

  “You know we found Mrs Brodie?”

  “Yes, it was all over the village.”

  “I’m running that bird society for her tonight. Want to come?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll stay here and get on with my work. Truth is, I don’t know anything about birds.”

  He should have come, thought Hamish that evening as Lord Glenbader started his lecture. It would have made two of them. Lord Glenbader obviously didn’t know much about birds either. He was also very drunk. The coloured slides of birds had got mixed up with his recent holiday in India, a fact of which he seemed quite unaware since he talked down his nose and with his eyes closed.

  “And this,” he said, operating the switch, “is a great barn owl.” His audience solemnly studied a slide of his lordship on an elephant.

  “Wrong slide,” said Hamish.

  His lordship raised his heavy eyelids. “Is it? Dear me. Find the right one, constable. There’s a good chap.”

  Hamish looked despairingly at the great pile of slides. “It would take all night to look through these,” he complained.

  “Then stop interrupting.” Lord Glenbader’s eyelids drooped again. “And this ish a houshe martin,” he slurred. A smiling Indian beggar appeared, holding out a hand for baksheesh.

  Priscilla came in carrying a pot of coffee, poured a cup of it, and handed it to Lord Glenbader. “Thanks,” he said. “And here’s a lot of tits.” He peered down Priscilla’s low-necked blouse and Hamish sniggered. But the slide did show three blue tits and two coal tits. It was hit and miss from then on, Lord Glenbader only occasionally describing the right slide. The audience sat, numb with boredom.

  Priscilla steadily poured coffee. Lord Glenbader’s lids gradually rose. “What a bore all this is,” he said crossly after the hundredth slide. “What I need is a good drink.”

  “What are all these plastic bags?” asked Priscilla.

  “Oh, them. They’re Victorian specimens of stuffed birds from my great grandfather’s collection. I’ll pass them round. Don’t take them out of the bags. Just peer inside. You’ll get arsenic poisoning if you handle them.”

  “Why arsenic?” asked Hamish sharply.

  “That’s the way the Victorians kept the bugs at bay,” said Lord Glenbader. “It was their sort of DDT. The fellow who arranged these things in the glass cases ten years ago got a chesty cough and running at the eyes and jelly limbs. Brodie diagnosed flu. Went to hospital in Strathbane, not believing Brodie and found he’d got arsenic poisoning from handling the birds. Brodie’s a fool.”

  The Highland audience of men, women, and children politely peered inside the bags and then showed the first signs of interest that evening as Priscilla started laying out plates of cakes and biscuits beside an enormous pot of tea. “Least I could do,” whispered Priscilla to Hamish. “Rodney Glenbader is a crashing bore.”

  Lord Glenbader was now obviously in a very bad mood indeed, made worse by the fact that there was nothing stronger to drink than tea and by the knowledge that he was not being paid for his services. There is nothing more outraged than a British aristocrat who finds he has performed a service for nothing. Lord Glenbader came from a long line of grasping ancestors. He snatched up his birds and stuffed them in a sack and went out, slamming the door behind him.

  “Help me with the tea, Hamish,” said Priscilla. “You’re off in a dream. What are you thinking of?”

  “I’m thinking of arsenic,” said Hamish. He joined her nonetheless and took the heavy teapot from her hands.

  Mr Daviot, the police superintendent, came in. “I’m going back to Strathbane,” he said to Hamish. “Congratulations on finding Mrs Brodie.”

  “I had luck on my side,” said Hamish.

  “We could do with a few able men like you on the force in Strathbane,” said Mr Daviot.

  Hamish opened his mouth but Priscilla said eagerly, “You couldn’t have a better man, Mr Daviot. He’s a genius at solving crime.”

  “Well, I wish he would solve this one,” said Mr Daviot. He waved his hand in farewell.

  “I wish you wouldn’t speak for me, Priscilla,” said Hamish crossly. “I have no mind to leave Lochdubh.”

  “But you must have, Hamish. You can’t want to remain an ordinary copper for the rest of your life.”

  Hamish sighed. “When will you get it through your head that it’s not clod-hopping stupidity or shyness that keeps me here. I love Lochdubh, I like the people, I’m happy. Why should I go and get a rank and money to please society’s accepted idea of success? I am successful, Priscilla. Very few folk are contented these days.”

  “I made a mistake about that Macbeth fellow,” said Mr Daviot as he undressed for bed that night. “I think he’s very bright.”

  “Are you sure?” His wife adjusted a hair net over her rollers. “The colonel and Mrs Halburton-Smythe didn’t seem to like him at all.”

  “But the daughter does, and I think there might be a marriage in the offing.”

  “Oh.” His wife digested this piece of intelligence. “Wheh don’t we esk them for dinner?”

  “Wait till this case is solved, if it ever is solved,” said her husband, climbing into bed.

  Hamish went to The Laurels after the meeting was over. Paul Thomas answered the door himself. “Come in,” he said. “I was watching television.”

  Hamish went in to the sitting-room. The Kennedy family were lined up in front of the set. In front of them was a coffee table with a plate of sticky cakes. From the electric light above their heads, a fly paper hung, brown and flyless.

  From upstairs sounded the busy rattle of John Parker’s typewriter.

  “What can I do for vou?” asked Paul, nicking uo a cake and stuffing it whole into his mouth. His eyes were fixed on the television screen. LA Law was showing.

  “Wondered if there was anything I could do for you?” said Hamish.

  Paul did not reply. He picked up another cake and sat down on a chair beside the Kennedys, his eyes still on the screen.

  Hamish decided if the man was that interested in watching television, he must have made a good recovery from his breakdown at the funeral.

  No-one in the room noticed Hamish leaving.

  ♦

  Hamish drove over to inspect the ruin on Iain Gunn’s farm. Three quarters of the building had collapsed, leaving one end standing up, the two floors still showing scraps of coloured wallpaper on the cracked plaster.

  He puttered among the ruins, shining his torch. If there was any proof t
hat Iain had done the job himself then that proof was buried under the rubble.

  And then he heard a faint squeak. He shone his torch up to the rafters of the bit of the house which was still left standing. Small furry bodies hung in rows upside down.

  Bats.

  He heard the noise of an engine and switched off his torch and walked outside on to the field.

  Iain Gunn was approaching in a bulldozer.

  ∨ Death of a Perfect Wife ∧

  8

  But! I have done a thousand dreadful things.

  As willingly as one would kill a fly.

  —Shakespeare.

  Hamish felt irritated. Iain had no right to attempt to bulldoze the building until he got the all clear. As he walked forward and held up his hand, he was vividly reminded of that day when the women had mounted their protest. He could still see Trixie, the leader of the women – leader of the Amazons? – her eyes glowing with excitement and hear that cockneyfied voice of hers.

  The bulldozer ground to a halt.

  “You can’t go on with it, Iain,” called Hamish. “You’ve still got bats in the bit that’s left and anyway, you shouldn’t have attempted to knock it down until you got the OK.”

  Iain looked at him, a blind, flat look. He started up the bulldozer again.

  “Stop!” shouted Hamish, standing in front of it.

  The bulldozer moved steadily towards him.

  Hamish swore and leapt to one side and as the bulldozer came alongside, he jumped on it and ripped the keys from the ignition.

  Iain Gunn punched him on the face and sent him flying.

  Hamish scrambled up from the ground and leapt back on the bulldozer and seized the farmer by his jacket and dragged him out so that he fell face down on the ground. He knelt on his back and handcuffed him, deaf to the stream of abuse that was pouring from the farmer’s mouth.

  “Now, on your feet,” said Hamish grimly.

  Iain staggered to his feet and stood, head down.

  “Leave me alone, Hamish,” he said wearily. “I’m sorry I hit you, but don’t you understand what a load o’ rubbish this all is? Here’s a man who needs more land and there’s a bloody stupid law that says he can’t do it because o’ a lot o’ flying vermin. It’s my land and I should be able to do what I like with it. Damn that Thomas woman for an interfering bitch!”