Hamish Macbeth Omnibus

by M C Beaton

  ‘Whit!’ Blair’s piggy eyes gleamed.

  ‘So maybe I had better go along to the surgery and see him,’ said Hamish.

  ‘Listen, laddie, you jist go aboot your rural duties,’ said Blair with a fat grin. ‘But I tell ye what – I’ll let ye in on the case. Go down to Inverness tomorrow and interview that dentist Paul Thomas went to see.’

  ‘One phone call to Inverness police could get that done now,’ said Hamish with surprise.

  ‘Do as you’re told,’ snapped Blair. He marched off, a squat figure, sweating in a heavy tweed suit, and followed by his two detectives.

  Hamish sighed. He may as well just look forward to a pleasant day in Inverness. Let Blair solve this one. He did not care very much who had murdered Trixie.

  But as he looked along the road, he could see the slumped figure of Paul Thomas, sitting on his garden wall. Calling to Towser, Hamish went along to talk to him.

  But before he could reach him, he was waylaid by the Glasgow woman, Mrs Kennedy. ‘How long are we going to have to stay here?’ she complained. ‘I want tae get the wee yins back to Glasgow.’

  ‘Should be a few more days,’ said Hamish.

  ‘But this wis supposed to be a holiday and I’m having to dae all the cooking, and buy the food, for the polis took everything out of the kitchen. I telt Mr Thomas he wasnae getting any money from me.’ She was a fat, sloppy woman wearing a print apron over a mud-coloured dress and carpet slippers on her swollen feet. The children all looked about six years old, but they could hardly all be the same age. They had white pinched faces and old, old eyes: three boys called Elvis, Clarke and Gregory and a girl called Susan.

  Hamish promised to see what he could do about letting them go and then went on to speak to Paul. Paul looked at him with dull eyes.

  ‘Terrible business,’ said Hamish gently.

  Paul’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Who could have done such a thing? Everybody loved her.’

  ‘This is a small village and we’ll soon find out who did it,’ said Hamish soothingly.

  Paul put his hands on Hamish’s shoulders. ‘You find out,’ he said. ‘Don’t leave it to that fool, Blair.’

  ‘I promise,’ said Hamish gently. ‘Is anyone with you?’

  ‘People have been very kind.’ Tears ran down Paul’s cheeks and he wiped them away with his sleeve.

  ‘I met Mrs Kennedy, but where’s your other boarder?’

  ‘Oh, him? He’s about somewhere.’

  ‘Staying a long time, isn’t he? What does he do for a living.’

  ‘He’s a writer. Hammering at that typewriter of his day and night.’

  ‘What’s his name? I’ve forgotten.’

  ‘John Parker.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Maybe I’ll have a word with him. Hadn’t you better go and lie down? You look awful.’

  ‘I can’t lie down.’ Paul’s face twisted with distress. ‘Every time I close my eyes, I see her dead face.’

  ‘Well, maybe you’d better tire yourself out. You still doing the garden?’

  ‘I was, but Trixie took over and she seemed to be better at it than me and so . . .’

  ‘Well, let’s go around and have a look,’ said Hamish.

  The two men walked around to the back garden. ‘Hasn’t been touched for a bit,’ said Hamish. ‘Look at the weeds. Why don’t you get started again?’

  Paul nodded dumbly and started to weed between the rows of vegetables.

  Hamish heard a car arriving and left him and walked around the front. John Parker, the writer, was just getting out.

  ‘Bad business,’ he said when he saw Hamish.

  ‘Has the CID asked you about your movements on the day of the murder yet?’ asked Hamish.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘They’ll be along shortly. So you’re a writer, are you? I’m trying to remember if I’ve seen the name John Parker on the bookshelves.’

  ‘Well, you won’t. I write under the name of Brett Saddler.’

  ‘You’re Brett Saddler? The man who writes the Westerns?’

  ‘That’s me,’ said John with a faint smile.

  ‘I always thought Brett Saddler was an American.’

  ‘I’ve always liked Westerns,’ said John. ‘Must have seen about every Western movie ever made. I give them the good old-fashioned stuff. As a matter of fact, Westerns have made a come-back. I sold the film rights of my last one, which is why I’m able to take this long holiday.’

  ‘My! You must be a millionaire.’

  ‘Far from it,’ said John. ‘I got twenty-five thousand dollars, and by the time you take agent’s fees off that, and British tax, there isn’t all that much left. If you want to know where I was when Trixie died, I was off driving up in the hills. I like it up there. So quiet.’

  ‘Anyone see you?’

  ‘No, I didn’t meet a soul,’ he said cheerfully.

  ‘Do you know if anyone else had any of that curry she had been eating?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. She must have had it for lunch. The Kennedys had sandwiches and Mrs Kennedy is of the opinion that curry is foreign muck. I wasn’t here and Paul was in Inverness.’

  ‘Did the forensic boys find any pot that had been used to cook the curry?’

  ‘No, everything in the kitchen had been scrubbed clean. Trixie was the perfect housewife.’

  ‘Did you know her before?’

  ‘No. Now I’ve got to get back to my writing.’ He gave a lethargic wave of his hand and went into the house.

  Hamish then thought of Archie Maclean, who had been seen holding hands with Trixie. It had been all over Lochdubh. Had Mrs Maclean known?

  He was walking back along the waterfront when he saw Priscilla’s Volvo approaching at a slow pace. He felt in his bones that for some reason she was going to drive right past him so he stood in the middle of the road and held up his hand.

  ‘What is it, copper?’ asked Priscilla. ‘You can hardly accuse me of speeding.’

  ‘Just wanted a chat.’

  ‘I’m a bit busy.’

  ‘Now, now, what iss the matter? You have eyes like the North Sea.’

  Priscilla stared straight ahead, her hands resting on the wheel. She was angry with Hamish over Trixie’s tale about that sweater. Although she knew Trixie must have been lying, she could not help remembering old stories about Hamish’s various flirtations. Priscilla was completely unaware that Hamish Macbeth was attracted to her. She knew he liked her but thought he looked on her sometimes as being rather young and silly.

  When Priscilla did not reply, Hamish said, ‘Someone has been saying something to put your back up. It cannot be your father, for he’s said about everything there is to say. So who could it be?’

  ‘I feel you made a bit of a fool of yourself over Trixie.’

  ‘And me the only person in Lochdubh who couldn’t stand the female,’ said Hamish, ‘apart from Brodie, that is.’

  ‘I met her wearing one of your old sweaters,’ said Priscilla. ‘She said you gave it to her and made a pass at her or something.’

  ‘I neffer gave her anything,’ said Hamish in amazement. He frowned and then said, ‘I have it. She went out driving with your father and your father must have told her about his worries that you might run off with the local bobby. She came round to me and said she was going to the toilet and she was away for a long time and then she left by the front. She must have picked up my sweater just to annoy you.’ He leaned on the car. ‘I am very flattered it did annoy you.’

  ‘It only annoyed me because I would not like to see any friend of mine making a fool of himself over such a woman,’ said Priscilla. ‘I’ve got to go, Hamish. I’m expected at home.’

  ‘What about dropping in tomorrow for a chat?’ asked Hamish.

  ‘I can’t. I’m taking this car over to Golspie for its annual Ministry of Transport check tomorrow – I don’t trust any other garage – and then taking the train to Inverness to do some shopping for mother.’

  ‘I’m going
to Inverness myself,’ said Hamish. ‘What time will your train get in?’

  ‘Twelve-thirty.’

  ‘What if I meet you at the station and then we can go for lunch and I’ll drive you back.’ Hamish waited anxiously.

  ‘All right,’ said Priscilla. ‘Now do get out of the way.’

  Hamish stood back and watched her go with a grin on his face.

  Then he decided to go and call on Mrs Maclean. Mrs Maclean had not been one of the women at the bat demonstration. Trixie’s hold had been on the middle-class and lower-middle-class women who had kitchens full of labour-saving devices and therefore more time on their hands.

  Mrs Maclean was down on her knees, scrubbing her stone-flagged kitchen floor with ammonia. Not for her the easy way with mop and up-to-date cleanser.

  The radio was blaring out Scottish country dance music. He called to her, but she didn’t hear him so he switched off the radio and she looked up.

  ‘What do you want, you glaiket loon?’ she said, wringing the floor cloth savagely and throwing it into the bucket.

  Hamish sighed. The trouble with being a policeman in a small, normally law-abiding village was that you did not strike fear or terror into the heart of anyone.

  ‘I’m making enquiries into the death of Trixie Thomas,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’ Mrs Maclean sat back on her heels. ‘That wumman’s better off dead.’

  ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘But since yourself had no reason to like her, you are one of my suspects.’ He looked at her sternly, but she gave a contemptuous snort.

  ‘She made a fool o’ that silly man o’ mine. He thought she fancied him when all that moocher wanted was a bit o’ free fish. Take the sugar out o’ your tea, that one would. It’s my opinion the Thomases had money enough, but they was always talking about being hard up and scrounging everything they could get. The minister’s wife goes around saying Mrs Thomas was the perfect housewife. She was perfect when it came to getting other people to do the work for her. Thae women like Mrs Wellington and that Mrs Brodie haven’t enough to do. Microwaves and washing machines. A disgrace I call it.’

  A strong smell of bleach rose from a huge copper pot of sheets on the wood burning stove. Mrs Maclean was famous for her ‘whites’, boiling everything and hanging it over the bushes in the garden to bleach further on a sunny day. Perhaps that was why Archie’s Maclean’s clothes always looked too tight for him, reflected Hamish. She probably boiled his suits.

  ‘Well, you’ll have the detectives around soon asking you questions as well,’ said Hamish. ‘They’ll want to know where you were when she was murdered.’

  Mrs Maclean picked up the scrubbing brush again and scrubbed an area of already clean floor. ‘They can ask away,’ she said, ‘for I was right here all day, and my neighbours all saw me coming and going between the house and the garden.’

  ‘And Archie?’

  ‘Himself was down at the nets.’

  Hamish all at once remembered Dr Brodie singing about Trixie being dead and felt cold. That was something he should have told Blair as well. Damn Blair.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Mrs Maclean, picking out the floor cloth and wringing it out and wiping the wet floor, ‘you’ll probably find it was that husband o’ hers what did it.’

  ‘He was in Inverness at the dentist.’

  Mrs Maclean sniffed. ‘So he says.’

  When Hamish left by the garden gate, he heard a burst of music. Mrs Maclean had turned on the radio again.

  He remembered his promise to Paul. Somewhere in Lochdubh, there was a murderer. But it was hard to think such a thing had happened. The sun beat down on a perfect scene. The eighteenth-century cottages along the waterfront gleamed white. Roses scented the air and the still waters of the loch reflected the hills and woods and the gaily painted hulls of the fishing boats.

  Trixie had gone and something nasty in the atmosphere had gone with her. And yet she had not been an evil woman. And the women of Lochdubh would have got wise to her in time.

  He saw Blair and his two detectives driving out of the village and made his way to the doctor’s surgery.

  Dr Brodie said he would see Hamish. ‘Quiet day,’ he said when Hamish walked into the consulting room. ‘Monday’s the busy day when they all come in with their bad backs. It’s the Highland disease. Every Monday morning, a bad back strikes them and they want a line so they do not have to go to work.’

  ‘How did you get on with Blair?’ asked Hamish.

  ‘He tried to bully me. Threatened to arrest me. You told him about me diagnosing a heart attack.’

  ‘I had to,’ said Hamish quietly. ‘Why did you do that?’

  ‘As I told that fat lump, it looked like a heart attack to me.’

  ‘Oh, come on, John,’ said Hamish, exasperated. ‘It looked like nothing o’ the kind. Spit out the truth, man. It looked bad. You had been drunk out your skull the night before and singing about how you had killed Trixie. Did you know her real name was Alexandra?’

  ‘Yes. But she’s the sort of woman – she was the sort of woman – who would think a name like Trixie cute. Well, Hamish, I’ll tell you but don’t tell Blair unless you think it necessary. I knew she had been poisoned. You had told me Paul Thomas was in Inverness but it went right out of my head. I thought maybe he had done it. I was glad she was dead. I didn’t want anyone to get the blame. I lost my head. Can you blame me? My wife’s a changed woman. I can’t remember the last time I saw her in a skirt and heels. I’ve been living with a carbon copy of Trixie – smocks and jeans and those bloody sneakers squeaking over the floorboards.’

  ‘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 of 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 a 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 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?’